Reply To: berngard3@yahoo.com
Title:  All Too Strange and Strong (5/5
Author: C and Me

***

6.  Justin
Kate

I just wanted to go to the bank.  

The day's receipts blossomed and $4,000 in cash was too much to
carry around with me for the holiday weekend.  Mulder had been
out of town on a case for the past week.  Although he called
several times, we both wanted to see the other.  We've reached
the point in this thing we loosely refer to as a 'relationship'
where we call or see each other daily.  After almost two years,
it's about time.  He got back today, and after depositing his
bags at his apartment he came in search of me at my office.  By
5:00 we were on our way to a nice dinner, the first in about a
month.

But first, I had to stop by the bank.

Years in this field of criminal law left me standing around the
courthouses with too much time on my hands.  Like my fellow
attorneys in the defense bar, I try to cultivate the friendship
of the police officers I run into frequently, or whom my clients
run into literally.  I know most of the officers on the Arlington
County force.  They in turn keep me apprised of the local crime
scene.  You know, where *not* to drive at night, what bank *not*
to frequent, the location of speed traps.  

Over the years as a result of the information gleaned from these
officers, I changed my practices and now make sure to go to the
regional headquarters of my bank, and always before six in the
evening.  It is the least robbed.  With an armed guard in the
front lobby, who would be stupid enough to hold up this bank?

Today, after picking me up and quite literally pulling me out the
office door, Mulder drove to the bank on our way in search of
food.  I made him wait in the car.  Standing in the short line
awaiting my turn at the tellers' windows, I recognized the tall,
lanky man in front of me.

"Justin?"  Yep, just as I suspected:  Justin McCrae, Arlington
police officer for. . .how long?  Eight years?  Still looked as
if he stepped off the high school track yesterday.  Justin worked
in public relations after spending five years on the street. 
Hence today, no uniform, just a dark suit, white oxford shirt and
conservative tie.  Unlike many of his fellow officers, the street
did not seem to harden or age Justin.  He was friendly and
affable still.  I doubt many of the other patrons in the bank
knew he was a policeman.

"Hey, Kate.  What are you doing here?"  He flashed me his winning
smile as he turned in response to my call.

I didn't answer; my mission was too obvious.  But craning my neck
at the slips of paper in his hand, I joked, "What?  Arlington
County actually pays you for something?"

He laughed, "Yeah, chicken feed.  They think we work for free."

I smiled back.  Neither of us noticed Mulder as he followed two
older teenagers into the bank lobby.

After another brief moment of banter, I saw Justin's eyes focus
on something behind my back as they grew large with trepidation. 
Of what, I did not know then.  I saw him drop his papers and
reach for the weapon holstered under his jacket on his right hip.


Everything seemed to occur in slow motion, the brief thought
flitting through my brain that Justin had mistakenly dropped his
deposit slip and check.  As I bent down to retrieve the papers
for him, I heard the first snaps, like a popcorn popper on high
fracturing the delicious kernels.  But these pops were muffled,
as if underwater.

And then the world seemed to explode around me.  A cacophony of
sound hit my ears all at once:  women screaming, male voices
reverberating a bass tremor, someone calling my name, the hiss of
rushing wind, and the continual popping.  

As the noise reached me and melded into my brain, I realized the
panicked confusion overtaking my fellow occupants of the bank.  I
saw Justin slump and fall in slow motion to the floor next to me,
my hand still on his bank papers. 

Someplace in the back of my mind, I heard Mulder's voice yelling,
but could not decipher his words, my brain still wrapped on the
idea of Justin lying on the ground at my feet.

I focus now on my friend the police officer whom I've known for
years.  He is splayed in front of me, his long legs awkwardly
folded beneath and around him.  The expression on his face is one
of surprise and pain.  I watch mesmerized as a bright red blossom
leaches from his white shirt on the right side of his chest.

With the next intake of breath my mind starts to function once
more.  "JUSTIN!"  My scream is vain and marries with the noise
around me, receiving no response.  I fall to my knees and press
my hands over the red spot as it enlarges and suffuses the crisp
whiteness of his shirt.  I know instinctively it is blood,
Justin's life force.  I have yet to conclude what causes it to
rush out so.

In the distance I hear Mulder call my name again.  As I look up,
my field of vision sees only blackness rushing toward me,
flapping as a crow its wings to the side.  I lower my head,
intent on protecting my glasses and eyes from whatever is coming
forth.  I am hit by the force of dark, a strong tug around my
arms drawing me backward.  I feel my hands slipping from Justin's
chest and grab hard at his shirt and arm, pulling him in my
direction wherever that may lead us.

It is but a moment before the blackness lifts and I see Mulder's
coat, then shirt and tie as he pulls away.  The popping continues
its staccato beat, and the screams do not die.  As soon as I am
released from Mulder's protective shoulder, I pull Justin's limp
form further into my lap, hoping his too-exposed legs will
follow.  White tufts of marble dust erupt from the ground like
miniature geysers on some thermal valley floor.

I look down at my charge.  His mouth is open as he gasps for
breath.  The red gurgles through my fingers in imitation of my
bubble bath.  My mind recalls the first aid course I took almost
twenty years ago in college.  I conclude Justin's lung is
punctured, and quickly roll him onto his right side, as I press
more firmly into the red mass of what used to be his shirt.

"Justin," I lean into his ear and quietly intone.  "You've
punctured your lung.  This should help you breathe better."

The glint of gold from his finger catches my eye.  His wedding
ring.  Of course, now I recall.  He has at least one child also. 
My lips hurry back to his ear, entreating, "Justin, hang on. 
Your family needs you.  Don't. . . .  They need their daddy."

His left hand curls around my wrist where I press it to his
chest.  I see his lips move, his eyes focused on mine, but I hear
no sound.  Moving my ear to his face, I smile at his wit.  "Nag,
nag, nag," he gasps at me, his smile tugging his lips despite the
pain and fear now tracing his eyes.  I brush my lips tenderly
across his temple, my tears commence their slow trickle down my
cheeks.  He tightens his grip on my wrist in silent reply.

My mind processes Justin has been shot, this must be a bank
robbery.  Botched or fulfilled?  I do not know.  I do not
correlate the crackling to guns firing; they're supposed to be
louder, aren't they?

As quickly as it started, the popping stops.  I look up to see
Mulder's face watching me, his back braced against a wooden
planter with fake silk shrubbery tumbling down its side.  Our
eyes lock for a brief instant.  I want to ask him what happened,
where the noise came from, what the popping was, what happened to
Justin, but my mouth refuses to work except to draw hitched
breaths through my tears becoming sobs.  Mulder's face fades in
and out of focus as my eyes are overcome by the moisture they
shed.
                                                                 
My glimpse of him is brief, as is the silence which surrounds us.
The whine of sirens, their continual screech, descends upon our
quick respite, as do the shrieks of fellow citizens.  Mulder
turns his attention to the business of law enforcement, rising
and walking past me, but first brushing a hand along my shoulder.
I hear him say, "I'll be right back," his tone comforting and
low, and he is gone.

My attention returns to the man in my arms.  His body has gone
completely limp, but his eyes remain open, slowly blinking up at
me.  He is attempting to concentrate on breathing, each
inhalation too shallow and labored.  I do not know how long we
watch each other.  I am transfixed on his face as he is on mine. 
I am searching for reassurance he will be all right; he is
seeking affirmation help will come quickly and the pain will
wither.

Strong arms pull me back, away from Justin's reposed form.  I
hear myself scream for him, but the arms are relentless.  My body
is twisted and turned from the scene on the floor as I am being
forced to stand.  As I crane my neck to look back, I cannot see
Justin any longer.  He is surrounded by others in white and light
blue shirts, the uniform of his fellow officers and paramedics. 
I still scream for him, trying to tell the person who now holds
me Justin is hurt and needs my help, begging to return to him. 
My pleas go unheeded and my body is forced to walk away.

I look up, recognizing Speedy is the one who has me strongly by
the waist.  Speedy.  I still do not know his first name.  In all
the years we have appeared together in court, he is still known
to me only as Sergeant Speedy Gonzalez.  Motorcycle cop.  Veteran
of the force.

"Speedy," I croak out from a throat made raw by unheard shouts. 
"Justin. . .Justin's hurt.  He needs help, Speedy.  Please take
care of Justin."  I try to wrench myself out of his grasp so he
may return to our friend, but Speedy holds me more tightly.

He is saying something as he walks me away. . .something about
being 'okay'.  I do not believe him.  My legs are stiff and begin
to feel too weak to carry my body.  I stumble once, catch myself
as I see Jim approach, then stumble again until I collapse into
Jim's strong arms.  He guides me carefully to the ground and I
weep into his shoulder.

Jim and I started our careers together, he on the police force,
me a novice attorney.  We still reminisce about our first case,
wherein my client accused him of police brutality during her
arrest for Disorderly Conduct.   I know he could have made
charges of Assault on a Police Officer stick, as she had kneed
his partner in the balls and viciously fought him and her
restraints.  She sued Jim in federal court.  I am glad Jim won;
he deserved to.  The suit was frivolous beyond description.

Jim is now in charge of Public Relations for the Arlington Police
Department.  He is still by far one of the most handsome men on
the force, the years not aging him as they have me.  He is my
friend and Justin's boss.  Jim holds me firmly, not willing to
let me go until I am ready.  He offers a tender word, but more
importantly his strength and shoulder.

I calm.  It takes a few moments, but I calm enough to extricate
myself from Jim's grasp.  He keeps his hands on my arms just in
case, studying my face to make sure my tears and tremors have
ceased.  I look back to where Justin once lay, and realize
instead I am outside the bank building.  I am disoriented until I
see the ambulance doors shut and it moves from the crowd of
police gathered at its rear.

Jim stands, helping me to my feet as well.  I quickly scan the
crowd, looking for Mulder, but do not find him.  More than
anything I want his comforting arms and quiet voice right now,
but I know this is not to be.  As the first federal agent on the
scene and one of the primary shooters, he is busy with duties
elsewhere.  I should not wish to disrupt him in the performance
of his job for nothing more than my sniveling, cloying
indulgence.  I steel myself against the assailing emotions
tearing me apart.

"I'm sorry," I murmur to Jim, seeing the blood I have smeared on
his shirt and jacket.  My dress is ruined, soaked with Justin's
blood.  My hands are still red.  Justin is my friend; I do not
wish to rid myself of the evidence of him.  

Jim looks down at his shirt.  "It's okay, Kate.  I'm going to
check on Justin and. . .I have work to do.  You be okay?"  After
I nod, he walks off into the crowd of police gathered at the
front door of the bank.

I feel out of place here.  I have no advice or words to offer,
only curiosity at the events and Justin's fate.  I will learn
nothing here and am but an intruder.  My time being taken by
Justin, I do not even have observations of the scene or shooting
to add to the eye witness accounts.  

Slowly in a daze I walk to the main road, seeking to return to my
office and my car, and thereby, my home.  Mulder will find me if
and when he wishes.  I am not sure the person he will find will
be the one who left him sitting in the car barely forty-five
minutes ago.  

I feel my heart begin a slow fracture, knowing when I get home I
will collapse in tears for what has occurred in my presence this
evening.  I wish that time to come quickly, my feet carrying me
at a halting and snail's pace away from the arena of confusion
and bloodshed.  I know persons lay dead behind me.  Who and how
many I do not know and do not wish to investigate. This is
information I will garner over the coming days from the press, my
fellow attorneys, police and court personnel.  News of this type
spreads like wildfire through the legal community.

As I reach the edge of the parking lot and the corner of the
street, I feel a strong hand on my shoulder.  "Katie?"  It is
Mulder's soft voice, full of concern.  I hitch a breath and stop,
my eyes filling with tears as he turns me gently around.  I can
not face him.  I am an intrusion in his life right now.

"Kate, where are you going?"  His voice conveys he is not
attempting to stop my wanderings, but rather is curious as if he
wishes to follow along.

My brow furrows considering the question, my lip quivering as I
try to stem the tears rushing to the corners of my eyes.   His
hands travel from my shoulders down my arms to grasp my hands in
his.  He raises my left arm, studying the blood on my hand.  It
has not dried as the rest into a brownish stain.  It is still
fresh and flowing freely, drop by errant drop appearing at my
wrist and falling onto the ground below.

"Kate?"  Mulder's word comes out harshly, a hint of panic.  He
raises my suit jacket, folding the left lapel and shoulder down
tenderly to expose the flesh at my neck.  Reaching into the
collar of my dress, he runs his hand along my shoulder until I
hiss in pain.  There is a searing heat at the top of my clavicle.
Mulder withdraws his hand, his fingers freshly painted with
blood.  "Katie?" he expels in a whisper, turning his fingers so I
may see the moisture on their tips.

My hand flies to my shoulder, and I immediately extract it when
the pain once again flares there.  My hand like his is covered in
blood, fresh and sticky.  Suddenly I am breathing too rapidly. 
Mulder grabs me around the waist before my legs give out, and
scoops me into his arms.  He carries me quickly back toward the
bank, barking orders that I need a paramedic.

I too have been shot.

My wound is superficial, grazing the top of my shoulder,
indenting the skin and tissue there.  The paramedics cut the
shoulder of my dress and bra strap away, and apply a thick gauze
bandage as Mulder watches intently.  It stings, but the blood
flow is stemmed quickly.

When they are finished, he places his overcoat around my
shoulders.  "I'll see if I can find someone to take you home."

Speedy overhears him and offers to complete the mission.  I am
placed gingerly into the passenger seat of a patrol car.  

Mulder crouches down at the door, laying a hand on my leg. 
"Katie, I've got to stay here for a while.  It'll  probably be
several hours before I can leave.  I'll come find you when I'm
done.  Go home and rest.  Your body's had a shock, and you need
to rest.  I'll be there as soon as I can."  

I do not acknowledge his statement with a nod or words of my own,
only continue to hold his gaze as he stands and shuts the door.  
I don't want him to leave me now, but know I have no choice.  If
I am stupid enough to voice my wishes, it will only drive him
away.

Once at home I shed my clothes and put them in a bag for the
trash.  I shower, scrubbing my arms and hands vigorously with a
brush trying to shed any evidence of the blood left there.  In
doing so, my thoughts go back to Justin.  As soon as I am
finished dressing in an overly large shirt and rolling up the
sleeve, I call the hospital, asking one of the officers I know
who is keeping vigil over Justin to advise me of his progress
once his surgery is complete.  He is still alive, his only injury
the collapsed lung and loss of blood.  He will live.  I am more
than thankful.

I sit in the dark on my sofa in the front room, the volume on my
stereo turned up to a classic rock station.  Loud, so I can't
hear the beat of my heart or my thoughts.  I don't come in here
often except when I want a fire.  Tonight I light a fire in the
hearth, watching the flames dance wildly, mesmerized and lost in
the music.  I sit here for I don't know how long.  I cannot erase
the events of the night from my mind.  I wonder if I have
previously represented the two kids who came into the bank with
guns.   Did I further their legal -- or rather, illegal --
careers?  How many others have I represented over the years who
have gone on to injure innocent victims such as the bank's
patrons tonight?  I cannot reconcile my work with this episode. 

I clutch a pillow tightly to my stomach as I hunch over. . .and
wait.  I'll  wait for him all night if I have to.  I do not feel
like sleeping.  The flames are my only companions.

* * *
Mulder

I am finally back in D.C. and ready to see Kate.  I've missed
her.  

Kate and I have a strange relationship.  At this point, after
knowing her for almost two years, I would have to say she is my
steady girlfriend.  That term is so high school.  But unlike high
school, Kate and I have not slept together.  No sex.  No kisses
even, except the once a year buzz on New Years Eve or a
comforting brush on the brow.  Rather bizarre for a man pushing
forty.

I think I treat Kate with the kid gloves of respect I utilized
for Scully.  Not that Kate does not deserve that, for she does. 
But unlike Scully, there are no unwritten rules of decorum in the
office place to keep Kate and me apart.  The rules are of our own
making.

That is not to malign Scully.  I love her.  I always well.  My
life was a hellish nightmare until Dana Katherine Scully stepped
into it.  Scully taught me I *could* give my complete trust to
one person, and in doing so, I could thereafter love someone
deeply and have that person love me.  She showed me what real
love is and that I was worthy of the same.   Without these
lessons, I would have been unable to go forward after her death. 
Without learning what she taught, I would have been incapable of
opening up to others and there never would have been a Kate.  

And it is not that I don't have strong feelings for Kate, because
I most certainly do.  I would like to escalate the kisses to
something much more frequent and passionate.  I think I am ready.
I also believe she may be as well.  Maybe tonight. . . .

I have worked hard cultivating this friendship with Katie.  I do
not want to blow it over mindless sex.  We both deserve better. 
But she certainly is 'steady', and the only woman in whom I've
had *any* interest since Dana died.  I never thought I could love
another after Scully, but Kate has proved me wrong.  I do love
Kate.  Just differently than I love Scully.  Mrs. Scully says
that's good, and right, and that it's high time I do something
about it.  Like tell Kate.  Yeah, well, I'm not very good at
that.  Not even good at telling myself.

And I most certainly have missed her.  Kate and I have suffered
some long separations engendered by our work.  Three weeks here,
a month there.  There was even a time Kate took a two month
sabbatical and moved to southwestern Colorado.  For the life of
me I could not find an X-File anywhere within a two hundred mile
radius, so I gave up and we used the phone and e-mail to
communicate.  Not the same.  I really, really missed her then,
and was bouncing off the walls when she finally returned to her
home in Alexandria.  But still no kisses.  Just lots and lots of
hugs and hand holding.  I do *not* want to go through that again.

So tonight, when I finally return from my case, I am on edge to
see her.  We are actually going to have a 'date'.  You know, with
dinner and a movie, whether that flick is at home on her couch or
in the theater I don't care.  We don't 'date' much.  Usually it's
just takeout one of us brings to the other's home, or meeting in
the park, or a quick bite we grab on the way to doing something
else.  Seldom linen tablecloths and tuxedoed waiters.  But
tonight. . .tonight we have decided we deserve this.

I pick her up at her office at 5:00.  Still no kisses, but a long
and lingering hug.  Kate smells as if she just stepped out of the
shower.  I don't know how she does this after working for ten
hours; maybe tonight I'll find out her secret.  That one and a
few more.

She wants to go to the bank to make a deposit.  I have learned
most criminal attorneys are paid in cash and always 'up front',
so it is not unusual for Kate to be making a deposit of four or
five thousand dollars.  She says the tellers know her well.  It's
routine for her, so I choose to wait in the car.

There are some times I both like and loath what I do as a law
enforcement officer.  This afternoon is just one of those times. 
As Kate disappears inside the bank, my attention is focused on
the two kids I see lingering outside the framing shop next door. 
They are young, maybe only seventeen or eighteen, and they have
coats and baseball caps on.  I do not really worry about their
attire as much as their demeanor.  They seem nervous, as if
waiting for something. . .not good.  Yes, something is definitely
up.

When I see one of the teens pull a gun, I groan inwardly.  I know
immediately by the way they have been eyeing the bank's door,
they are going to attempt a robbery.  Pulling my cell phone out
of my pocket I quickly dial 911.  

I identify myself and my location, and have the most inane
conversation with the airhead on the other end, until I demand to
speak to her watch commander.  Reporting to him my observations,
I refuse to hang on and wait for units to arrive.  Kate's inside
that bank, goddamn it.  And now the kids are too.

I fly out of the car and press my back to the wall near the
bank's entrance, weapon drawn and pointing downward.  Chancing a
quick glance through the window to my side, I see the kids
mulling around in the lobby, pretending to fill out a deposit or
withdrawal slip.  

They are so young.  I know when I pull my weapon it is likely
someone is going to get hurt, most probably one or both of them. 
Hopefully not an innocent bystander.  Hopefully not Katie. . .or
me.   I send a silent prayer to Scully that she guide these kids
away from this foolishness, or in the alternative, that she
protect the rest of us.  I pray a lot to Scully nowadays.

Shifting my gun into my right hand and hiding it behind my leg
and the folds of my overcoat, I pull open the bank door and step
inside quietly.  What happens next sickens me.

One of the kids, the one closest to the teller windows, pulls out
a gun and aims it at the back of Kate's head.  Just as he pulls
the trigger, she bends down to pick something off the floor, and
the gun discharges into the man in front of her.

Chaos breaks out in the bank lobby.  People screaming, the teens
yelling for everyone to get down.

I aim my weapon and yell my identification at the kids and the
armed security guard in the lobby.  When the boy with the gun
turns it on me, I fire and he goes down clutching his shoulder as
the gun flies away from him.  All the while I yell at Kate to get
down, to take cover.  She's just standing there, looking at the
man laying at her feet.

My vision shifts to the other kid, who now has a weapon pulled
and is moving it onto Kate as a target.  I look back and see Kate
has fallen to her knees and is attempting to put pressure on the
man's chest wound.  I yell at her again but she does not respond.


I shoot in the direction of the second youth and make a running
leap toward Kate, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her
back behind the planter which houses fake flowers.  She drags the
man with her.  I sigh in relief as she seems unharmed.

From my position behind the planter, I see the first kid, the one
whom I brought down, has his gun again and is firing away at
anything and everything indiscriminately.  I hear the beat of a
weapon discharging to my left and look over to see the security
guard, his gun trained at the two youths, he in a crouched
position with a wound to his hand.  We exchange gunfire with the
would-be robbers, until both kids are brought down and unmoving. 
Everything is silent and the security guard nods at me,
acknowledging our handiwork and our duties.

I turn and slump back against the planter.  Kate is in front of
me, bent over the man and brushing a kiss along his temple as she
continues to press into the right side of his chest.  Her hands,
neck and dress are covered with blood.  I do not know her
relationship with this man, but the kiss leads me to believe she
must know him. . .either that or she's more compassionate to
strangers than I ever guessed.

She looks up at me as tears drop down her cheeks.  Her eyes are
haunted questions of the last few minutes.  I see uncertainty and
fear there, and a tremendous need of assurance.   Oh, Katie. 
Would I could give you all that you need.  But I know this
business -- *this* side of our business -- far too well.  You may
be unharmed and the good folk patronizing this bank may go from
this building physically unscathed, but there will be further
crimes in your world and my world will have to respond, sometimes
with death.

I stand and squeeze her shoulder.  I have to retrieve the
weapons, check on the other people in the lobby, see what first
aid I can render and await the calvary.  I hear their sirens in
the distance.

Have no fear, Kate.  I shall return.

Being the only federal officer on sight, I have to wait for the
Treasury agents to show and decide if they want to handle this
case federally or turn it over to the locals.  Also because I was
a primary shooter this afternoon, I have to give my statement to
the local authorities and my own boss as quickly as possible,
turn over my weapon for inspection, and write my report.  This
will take hours.  No dinner for Kate and me tonight.

Both of the boys are still alive, but one is in critical
condition and I doubt he will live through the evening.  The
security guard and one teller corroborate my story that suspect A
turned his gun on me after I identified myself.  It was a clean
shoot and I am quickly exonerated.

As I stand and talk to the lieutenant from the Arlington County 
Police, I see Kate being led from the bank by another uniformed
officer.  She is close to collapsing.  In fact, as I watch, a
second man in a suit comes up and lowers her to the ground.  She
presses her head into his shoulder and I see her back hitch.  I
know she is crying.  God, I wish I could be there for her right
now.  My attention is diverted back to questions from the senior
officer on the scene.    

Treasury quickly dispatches two agents and it is determined in a
huddle they would not take jurisdiction because the attempted
robbery was unsuccessful.  Besides, these two kids are not known
to have pulled an equally dumb stunt elsewhere.   Skinner arrives
as we conclude our talk, and I fill him in on the situation.  He
walks off to introduce himself to the lieutenant and I am left
alone for a moment.

Kate.  I scan the crowd but do not see her.  Then out of the
corner of my eye I spot a single person walking away toward the
main street corner.  It is Kate and I run over to her, turning
her around to face me.

Her face is pale and I know she is in shock, so disoriented she
does not know what she is doing.  She is wearing only her dress
and suit jacket, even though it is mid-January and darkness has
descended and it is cold outside.  Her coat is still in my car. 
I take her hands to guide her back to the vehicle, but then
notice one of her fists drips blood.  Bright red, *fresh* blood.
. .oozing down her arm under her jacket.  I pry the garment away
from her shoulder and slip my fingers tenderly under her dress. 
As soon as I feel the moisture, I withdraw them, knowing they too
will be bright red, which they are.  

I recognize this instantly.  Kate's been shot.  An errant bullet.
Or one meant for her.  I don't know. 

When she sees the blood on my fingers her legs give out and she
collapses into my arms.  I carry her back swiftly to the
paramedics still on the scene, demanding her treatment.  They
bring a gurney out from the vehicle and I set her gingerly upon
it.  She is a china doll, chipped and scratched and so, so
fragile.  

The wound is not large or severe.  In fact, it looks nothing more
than a deep gouge in the skin on top of her shoulder.  The
paramedics tell her she needs to have it looked at by a doctor
and she may need stitches.  But Kate shakes her head and asks to
be taken home.  

I bundle her off to a waiting patrol car, and tell her to go home
and rest, that I will be there as quickly as I can.  She does not
respond, but her eyes are soulful and sorrowed.  She needs me. .
.right now.  She needs me to be with her.  God, I wish I could
comply.  I shut the door and stand with my hands in my pockets as
I watch the cruiser drive out of sight.

The thought lifts to my conscious mind:  Kate is not strong like
Scully when it comes to firefights and injury.  I am angry with
myself as soon as my internal voice enunciates this.  I should
not expect Kate to be like Scully.  Kate is not trained law
enforcement.  She does not deal with this side of criminal
matters *ever*, nor should she have to.  She is one of the
innocent victims here today.  She probably has never heard a
weapon discharge before, much less four in close proximity.  Nor
has she ever administered aid to a gun shot wound, or seen a
friend fall or been shot herself.  (I have been told the man in
the bank was an off-duty Arlington cop; it is likely Kate knows
him from her work).  

Kate does not know my job.  

Scully did, because she lived it.  Kate lives in the normal
world.  I depended upon Scully to watch my back and protect me
from what I have seen today.  Kate depends upon me.  I need her
for other things, not for physical protection of this type.

I recall how and when Kate and I first met.  I do not know her
job, either.

Standing here I realize there is a wide gulf between us. 
Although we may have tried to bridge it over the past several
years, the gulf still exists.  Today we fell into its cavernous
mouth.  My chest aches.  I hope Katie and I are strong enough to
pull ourselves out of this beast and back onto the bridge.  Maybe
we will recognize the passage for its frailties and make it
stronger, its system more extensive so there are less maws into
which to tumble.

Maybe not.  Maybe Kate will recognize I am incapable of
sheltering her from this type of harm.  Maybe she will come to
her  senses and abandon me to my desolate job.  Maybe she will
not be strong enough to travel this road with me. . .or maybe it
is strength which will pull her away.  I do not know.  I just
know we are at a proverbial crossroad, thrown there by two stupid
kids and the need to make a bank deposit.  Neither of us was
ready to face this issue.  Now we have no choice.

I will go to her tonight, find her wherever her psyche takes her
and pull her back to me. . .if for no other reason than so we may
assess where we are.  Scully, tell her not to give up too
quickly; there is something worthwhile here to salvage.

It is past ten when I finally make it to her door.  I am
exhausted. . .and anxious about what awaits me inside.  Slipping
my key into her lock, I walk into the living room.  Immediately I
am assaulted by a smoky smell.  The fireplace, of course.  Embers
still glow in the grate, and I see Kate lying on the sofa in
front of the hearth.  

Her eyes are closed, mouth drawn into a tight frown.  I cannot
tell if she is asleep or just resting.

I quickly shed my suit jacket and toss it on an adjoining chair. 
Kneeling in front of her so as not to block the little light
coming from the fireplace, I stroke an errant lock of hair out of
her face and tuck it behind her ear.

She stirs at my touch.  Her eyes fly open in fear, then relax as
she recognizes me.

"Hey," I offer quietly.  

"Hey, yourself."  Her voice is raw from sleep, trembling slightly
on the last syllable as I can tell she recalls the evening.  Her
hand comes up to mine, holding my palm against her cheek.  It is
sticky with dried tears.

I look at her a moment longer, considering my course of action. 
"Mind if I stoke the fire?"  I ask, having decided to stay right
here with her.

She shakes her head, drawing her legs off the couch and sitting
up.  A pillow is clutched to her chest. 

I turn and add wood to the grate, along with a little kindling
and paper I find in the stack next to the mantle skirt.  Flames
leap languidly.  Once the larger pieces catch, I stand and light
a few candles on the mantle.  Only then do I turn back to Kate,
joining her on the sofa and drawing her into my arms.  She comes
willingly and we sit quietly watching the fire for a few minutes.

"How's your shoulder?"  I ask to break the silence and ease into
conversation.

"Fine.  I put a couple butterflies there and retaped it."

I nod.  "If it's still bleeding in the morning, we need to take
you to the hospital and have them take a look."

She nods in response.  I'm not sure she agrees, just that she's
understood my statement.

After a few more minutes of silence, she drops her head to my
shoulder, pressing her face to my neck.  I feel the moisture of
her tears, but her breathing does not change.  These are quiet
tears.  Not sobs.  I tighten my hold on her, entwining my fingers
through her hair.

Oh, Katie. . . .  What can I do to help you through this?  To
assure you're okay?   I turn my head slightly and plant a kiss on
her head, laying my cheek there as my lids slide shut.  

Maybe brutal honesty.  "I was so scared, Kate.  Scared for you. 
That you were going to die.  I saw that kid lower his gun toward
you."   I relive the scene in my mind.  One millisecond more. .
.Kate standing upright instead of bending down to retrieve
something from the floor. . .my delaying the shot. . .the
subject's gun tilted downward. . .so many 'what ifs'.  

Kate balls up part of my shirt in her fist.  "Will Justin be
okay?"  She asks, her voice muffled in my chest.  I think her
tears have ceased.

"I hope so."  Not much comfort in that answer, but I was unable
to glean any further information before I left the police station
tonight.  

Kate will have to go up to Arlington tomorrow to give her own
statement of the incident.  I think she knows the detective
investigating the matter; at least he seemed to know her.  One of
the subjects died tonight in surgery, the first one shot.  The
other survived surgery, but the doctors still did not provide us
a complete prognosis.  He is only seventeen; his accomplice was
nineteen.  When this one recovers, the police will want to take
his statement before deciding how to proceed.  He could be
charged with felony murder since his buddy died in the commission
of a robbery.  He'll escape capital murder charges and the death
penalty, but only because Justin and Kate did not. . .die.  I
have to force myself to calm when I think again of the
possibilities.  None of the other people in the bank were shot;
the security guard cut himself on the sharp edge of a planter.

I choose not to share any of these thoughts with the woman in my
arms.  She still is too fragile to have to face this information.


"Do you do this often?"  Her question is hushed and shaky.  I
know exactly what she is asking.

"Not often.  Maybe once or twice a year does someone get shot." 
I want to tell her it has always been the bad guys, the monsters
we have to face, but I am not sure Kate would make the
distinction right now.  To her, at least in this frame of mind, a
person is a person.  I also opt not to tell her of the real
monsters, the inhuman kind Scully and I were forced to face and
bring down.  I've alluded to them in the past.  One day soon I'll
have to tell Kate this side of my job also.  One day when I know
she will be open to the. . .*wierdness* of the information I'll
impart.

"Have you ever been. . .shot?"

Oh god, don't do this Katie.  Don't do this to yourself.  Please.

"A couple times,"  I respond equally as quiet to her query.  "One
doesn't count.  It was from Scully and only because I was out of
my mind and she was trying to protect me."  

I feel Kate tremble in my arms.  "And the other time?"

"In the leg.  But Scully was there and gave me emergency
treatment.  She was a doctor.  Always able to take care of me
when I needed it."  I am not sure these additional facts will
help Kate accept my injuries any better, but she needs to know I
am pretty careful in the field.  Most agents go through their
entire careers without having to fire their weapons, many not
having to pull them even.  I seem to have become engaged in
firefights too frequently.  Each time I have extensive paperwork
to complete, my weapon seized for inspection before I am cleared.
Since Scully's death, I have tried to be even more cautious.  
Telling Kate of the increased frequency of my drawing on someone
will not help her tonight.

She snakes her arm up around my neck.  "Will you start wearing a
vest?"

Oh, Kate, I wish I could.  I do when I know I'll be engaged with
a potential shooter, but that situation is too rare in my line of
work.   I elect not to respond to her plea.

I pull her face away from my shoulder, cupping it as I wipe her
tears with my thumbs.  She leans her forehead against mine.  I
lean in, brushing her lips softly with my own.  The kiss is a
reaffirmation of our survival.   She sighs into my mouth, opening
hers to my further exploration.

Oh, Kate.  My lovely, lovely Kate.  

For a first kiss, this is. . .complete.  Not hot and passionate. 
Not leading to something more.  But. . .fulfilling. . .speaking
of promises yet to come.  Not tonight.  But. . .soon.

She sighs and relaxes back into my arms.  "Will you stay tonight?
 Not for. . .sex. Not tonight.  But just. . .because. . . ."  She
lets the offer hang, dangling on the end of her need.

I kiss her forehead.  "Of course."  No expectations.  Just. .
.companionship.

We watch the fire burn down to coals again.  

At length Kate stretches and stands.   She offers me her hand,
which I take tenderly in mine, and leads me upstairs.  Still no
lights on, only the peace of darkness, the full moon spreading
its tendrils of light on the bare floor of her bedroom.  

* * *
7.  Mrs. Scully
Mulder
5 A.D.
Eight months later

Damn, I'm running late.  Par for the course, as they say.  My
usual life story.

The phone rings and I grab it as I try to stuff papers back into
the file in front of me.  "Mulder."  My bark sounds irritated,
but I'm not.  Really.  Well, maybe at myself and the intrusion
into my concentrated efforts to get everything done and out of
here on time.

Security on the other end of the line tells me Kate's upstairs in
the lobby.  I plead with Steve to escort her down to my hovel. 
Security is not supposed to do this, but Steve and I get along
well.  We're both senior in our fields.  He likes the Nicks too,
and we jaw a while when I pass by in my daily routine.  He'll do
me this one small favor.  I'll add it to the pile of chits I owe
him.  Maybe one day -- that ubiquitous future for which we all
hope where I have time to complete everything I want to do --
I'll take him for a brew and we'll kick back and watch the game
on the boob tube at a local sports bar.  Yeah.  Sounds good to
me.

I finish picking up some of my mess.  No need for Kate to see my
office as it typically is.  I mean, I'd like to leave a
*favorable* impression.

As I straighten my desk, the thought suddenly strikes me.  Like,
duh.  Today's a day of several 'firsts' for Kate.  First time in
the bowels of the Hoover Building, I think.  First time at my
office.  First time to see me in 'my element'.  First lunch with
me downtown.  And last but not least, and certainly the most
important, first time to meet Scully's mom, Maggie.

That's right; I'm taking the two most important women in my life
to lunch:  Kate and Mrs. Scully.  I really want them to meet each
other.  More than anything,  I want them to *like* each other,
like I do.  So I picked a neutral venue and invited Mrs. Scully
to the big city.

I've told Kate only I want her to meet someone.  She's going to
kill me when she finds out whom.  I've asked her to come to my
office early so I can try to explain.  But I'm not quite sure how
this will go over.

The rap comes on my door and I nearly drop the files I'm
juggling. "Come in," I yell as I try to stuff the folders into
the file drawer.  I know Scully believed there was no rhyme or
reason to my file system, but there is.  There *really* is. .
.sort of.

* * *
Kate

When Mulder asked me to meet him for lunch today, I knew
something was up.  First he gets this shit-eating grin on his
face like he's trying to hide something.  Mulder hides nothing
well, at least not from me.  He reminds me of a child at
Christmas, ready to blurt out to the family what gifts he's
purchased for everyone.  His eyes twinkle and he nervously hops
around.  He did this three days ago in my kitchen, causing me to
bump into him every few minutes as I tried to prepare dinner. 
Finally off my scowl he asked if there was a time soon when I
could join him downtown for lunch.  There was someone he wanted
me to meet.  Only after I acquiesced did he leave the kitchen for
the den and flop down on the sofa exhausted but triumphant.  

I was down here today anyway to meet with a couple people at
Justice.  I have yet to discern why they call it the 'Justice
Department', when I suspect they are more attune to perpetrating
*injustice* on my clients.  At least that's what my clients say.

So meeting over I crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and walked into the
Hoover Building.  I've been here once before, when I was in
college on a student tour.  It was so long ago I recall almost
nothing, except the answer to my stupid and naive question about
why agents won't try to wound a suspect rather than shooting him
center mass.  I watched too much television in my youth.  Police
were supposed to wing a guy in the leg, bring him down, then beat
a confession out of him in interrogation.  I guess one out of
three isn't bad, unless you're the recipient of the beating.

After placing a call to Mulder, the security guard asks for my
driver's license and escorts me to the elevator.  He must think I
will not go any place without my license.  He doesn't know the
majority of my clients drive without one, or possess fake IDs. 
Unless you work in the criminal field, you do not appreciate the
gullibility of the average American and their system of paper
rules.   I'm surprised. . .Steve -- by the look of his name tag
-- still thinks driver's licenses mean something.

We descend into the building as I recall some distant memory of
Mulder telling me his office is in the basement.  I'm used to
basements -- y'know, overhead lights in drop ceilings, linoleum
tiled floors separated by partition walls -- but the Hoover
basement is a surprise.  Dark, dank, silent.  No hint *anyone
else* has their office down here.  My curiosity is piqued.  I
almost imagine an errant Fox Mulder being relegated to the
basement as punishment for some hotheaded, immature indiscretion
necessitating his isolation.  Something like telling his boss
graphically where to stuff it.  I nod to myself.  It suits him.

Knocking on the door, Steve opens it upon command, and now I
know:  this is *so Mulder*.  His office, his sanctuary, his inner
sanctum.  This is so *him*.   Piles of files everywhere, books on
their side and askew in the bookshelf, trophies of youthful
accomplishments, lights dimmed and punctuated by the light in the
bookcase, a desk lamp and under-shelf light in the rear. 

"Hey," he greets as he comes forward, still wearing that grin. 
He signs off on Steve's clipboard.  Package delivered without
going astray.  The enemy has breached the fortress and must be
closely watched.  After Steve beats a hasty departure, Mulder
closes the door, and with a gentle prod on my back, invites me
forward to inspect and sit.  

"Thanks for coming, Kate.  How was your meeting?"

"Boring," I answer, still glancing around the room at various
objects.  An 'I Want to Believe' flying saucer poster, jeez! 
Basketball on top the file cabinet.  Hoop hanging over the door. 


Mulder stands silently as I scrutinize the room.  I spy four
pictures, one on the desk and three on a shelf in the bookcase. 
Carefully separated from clutter and papers these three stand in
small, tasteful and expensive frames.   The first is of a girl
with dark hair in braids standing in front of a taller boy, arms
crossed defiantly across his chest. 

I arch a brow at Mulder, who explains, "My sister, Samantha."

I study the second picture.  A thinner Mulder, looking tired and
weary, lines around his eyes, his arm around an older woman who
herself looks almost deflated.  Both smile, but I wonder if it's
genuine.  The sea rolls in the background as they stand on the
beach.  

"Me and Mrs. Scully, Dana's mom," he says quietly.  I wonder if
the photograph was taken around the time of his partner's death. 
He told me he was with her when she died, took care of her in her
final weeks.  

The third picture startles me to silence.   It is of Mulder in
the same sweatshirt as picture number two, on the beach, a
redheaded woman sitting between his legs and leaning back into
his chest, embraced by his arms.   They both are displaying full,
definitely sincere, adoring smiles.  Although thin, she is
strikingly beautiful.  He is relaxed, his delight in being able
to hold her quite evident on his face.  These two people love
each other, I tell myself.  I feel my breathing stop as tears
begin to sting the corners of my eyes.

"She's very pretty," I offer faintly.

He takes the frame from the shelf, his face becoming clouded.  He
stares at the picture as silent moments pass.  Mulder's mouth
works, soundlessly forming the shape of the word, 'Dana.'  

"She was my partner," he explains, his eyes still on the picture,
becoming misty.  "We were. . .very close."  He runs an errant
thumb over the face in the frame.

I now have an answer to my question.  This must have been taken
within the weeks preceding her death.  He keeps it because it
shows the two of them together in a lighter and affectionate
moment, away from work and as removed from her illness as they
can get.  Because it shows her true spirit and his true devotion.

Oh god!  I think I'm going to dissolve into a lump right here on
the floor, shrivel up and die.  I know, I KNOW.  I've been
telling myself for several years he still loves her and always
well.  He's told me so himself.  And I accepted this would be the
case.  I was supposed to say those platitudes and defend his
right to still have feelings for her.  I was supposed to believe
he could love another -- love *me* -- when he still had these
feelings for her.  But now. . .NOW.

Oh god!  It hurts; I hurt.  I'm not sure I can handle this, his
feelings and rejection of me.  Not now.  

I want to run, bolt right out of here and go hide.  Someplace
where I can cry. . .where I can be alone. . .where he can find me
and it will be just the two of us and I won't feel Dana Scully
between us any longer.  

I bite my lower lip, disgusted at my faux pas.  "I'm  sorry," I
apologize quietly.  "I didn't mean to intrude."  

Instead of running, I do the next best thing.  I hyperventilate
and sink into the chair nearest me.  I'm unaware of Mulder, his
presence, expression or thoughts, as I concentrate on the hot
flashes I'm feeling and fighting to keep my tears at bay.  She
was so beautiful, and he loved her. . .*loves* her. .
.unreservedly.  This is great.  This does *so much* for my self
esteem.  I can't even compete with a dead girl for his
affections.  

I fight valiantly, if not a little vainly, for control of my
emotions.  I can't let him see how affected I am by what I have
seen today.  I can't.  

Seeing me sit heavily on the chair, my breathing erratic, Mulder
-- ever the gentleman -- goes to the small refrigerator he keeps
in the back room and returns with a small bottled water.  I take
a few tentative sips, while averting my gaze from him to the file
cabinets, the poster, anywhere but on him or the pictures on the
bookshelf.  

In this furtive flight my eyes take around his office, they skim
his desk and stop.  A picture of me is staring back.  There on
his desk, near his phone sits a framed picture of me and him. 
He's standing behind me, his arms holding me from behind to his
chest, his cheek laying wistfully against my hair.  We are both
smiling -- not posed grins, but candid smiles as if we're
laughing at an inside joke.  Boats and masts appear distant in
the background, along with a body of water.  I honestly do not
recall when this picture was taken.

I return my gaze to him, and cock my head at the photograph.  

Mulder laughs, "It's pretty good, isn't it?  Bob sent it to me. 
You remember. . .Bob. . .and Jeanne. . .about a year ago over at
St. Michaels?"

Now I do.  A young couple, mid-thirties maybe, whom we seemed to
dog as we walked through the small shops in the village bordering
the Chesapeake Bay on a Saturday when Mulder insisted on getting
away from D.C.  They asked  me to take their picture.  Never one
able to focus a camera, I handed it to Mulder to snap their
photo.  They then insisted I and my 'husband' have our picture
taken.  Mulder eagerly obliged, wrapping his arms around me and
whispering some off color joke into my ear.  I burst out laughing
and couldn't stop.  We ended up having lunch with Bob and Jeanne
from Vermont.  I think Mulder continues to correspond by e-mail
with Bob.  I remember Jeanne telling me in confidence my
'husband' was a real catch, so pleasant and obviously infatuated
with me.  I was silently shocked, wondering what she had divined
which I had not.

"Kate?"  Mulder calls me back from my musings.  "Is that okay? 
That I have your picture?"

I want to ask him why, but I can't seem to talk.  My mouth just
hangs open.

"I have a copy I take on the road with me," he says, standing and
walking over to his suit jacket hanging on the coat rack by the
door.  He extracts his wallet and flips through as he returns to
me.  Crouching again in front of the chair he shows me the
duplicate photo.  It looks dog-eared and at a loss for wear.  He
tucks it into the wallet and turns his attentions back to me.

"Katie, what's wrong?"  I see the shadow of doubt descend across
his eyes.

I'm not sure how to react.  This man who has Dana Scully's
photograph prominently displayed, chose instead to have mine on
his desk closer to his work area.  He still loves her, but I'm
the one he keeps near.  It is my picture in his wallet, which, by
the looks of it, he has viewed often.  I close my eyes to block
out his visage.  This is all too confusing for me.  I'm trying to
come to grips with the fact I have drawn the wrong conclusions
here.

Mulder covers the hands in my lap with one of his, the other
coming up to lightly caress my cheek.  "Katie," he sighs quietly.
"Katie, are you okay?"

I just nod.

After a moment I open my eyes.  "You said you wanted me to meet
someone?"  Changing the topic is always a good way for me to
refocus my attention elsewhere.

It's Mulder's turn to nod.  He looks uncomfortable as the hand
against my cheek drops to my lap, his eyes following.  "There's
a. . .lady. . .I want you to meet.  She's. . .family.  It's
Scully's mom.  I'm like a son to her and she's been there for me.
. . ."

Mulder continues to explain but my mind no longer follows. 
Scully's mom?  He wants me to meet Scully's mom?  His partner's.
. .his *dead* partner's *mother*?!  Why!?!  What more torture? 
What more is he going to ask of me?  Doesn't he know how hard
this is?  Coming to the office they shared, walking the halls she
walked, seeing her picture and the fondness in his eyes as he
held her, the love in her for him. . .doesn't he know this is
unbearable?!  How clueless is this man?

I can't. . .I can't do this.  Mulder, I just can't.  Please don't
ask me. . . .

When I think about meeting a man's family -- a man in whom I'm
interested -- I think of meeting *his* mother, being placed in
the ring for inspection and ridicule.  He seeking approval of his
choice in a mate.  I don't think of meeting the mother of his
past girl friends, fiances, lovers.   His dead partner.

I know Mulder's mother is deceased, having past away early in our
relationship, committing suicide as a disfiguring disease ate
away at her body.  I remember how devastating that time was for
her son, although I did not know him well then and he did not
come to me for comfort.  But. . .this!?!

". . .and we've grown really close in the past few years." 
Mulder has been talking this whole time.  I'm sure somewhere in
there he gave a reason for this request -- this *peculiar*
request -- but I confess I was not listening.

I'm never good at escaping eventual collisions.  It's time to
take this bull by the horns.  I set my jaw, my eyes locked on
his, my glare steely at its best.  He better get comfortable;
this could take a long time, and I do not care if someone is
waiting for us at some nearby restaurant.  She can wait until we
address this issue.

I remain silent for a few moments longer.  While my jaw remains
rigid, my toes begin to flex in my shoe, a rhythmic beat to ward
off the tension and nerves.  Tucked as they are under the chair,
I doubt Mulder even notices the slight movement.  But the
exercise does a lot for me, calming me, helping me think more
clearly and less emotionally.

"You want me to meet the mother of Agent Scully?"

He nods, still not getting it.

"And what do you hope this will accomplish, Mulder?  Are you
looking for her approval?  Her blessing?  Her criticism?  What?"

I see him shudder.  He is not as good at this stoic game as I. 
This little tidbit surprises me, he being a trained senior agent
of the FBI, he having conducted numerous interrogations and
intimidations over the years.  I believe he has let his mask fall
today. . .or with me. . .whatever.  

"I. . .I just want her to meet you," he stumbles, his voice
betraying his uncertainty in the direction of this questioning.

But the answer tells me a lot. He does not want *me* to meet
*her*, but rather wants *her* to meet *me*.  I conclude this is
an indication of the importance of these two people in his life,
and their relative hierarchy.  It puts me at the bottom, the
lesser.  Not a position I relish and one from which I usually
fight.

My heart is breaking, but I'll be damned if I'll let there be any
physical manifestation of my discomfort.  I know my eyes narrow,
challenging him for a further explanation.  I hear him falter as
he becomes exasperated.  

"You want her to meet me." I repeat his statement with a slight
nodding of my head.  Yeah, right.  "What else?"

"What do you mean 'What else'?  There is no 'else'."  His voice
begins to whine and change in pitch as his anger increases.  I am
the one remaining stoic here.   "I just want her to meet you. 
She's an important person in my life.  She's like a mother to me.
And god knows, I didn't have a very good one while growing up. 
She cares about me and my welfare.  I just thought that *you*
would care, too, enough to meet her.  But I guess that's not to
be, is it?"

I refuse to answer this childish discourse.  There is so much I
could say, so much I wish to say about how I feel I've been
treated on this whole Dana Scully issue.  But I am also
intelligent enough to know he will never listen nor alter his
behavior, nor does he care to hear my opinion.  I am also wise
enough not to put voice to my thoughts, at least not yet. .
.maybe not *now*, this minute.

He stands and hrumps around the room as he tries to control his
increasing ire.  I refuse to watch his pacing, keeping my head
and my gaze forward to the place where he crouched in front of
me.  My jaw is clenched tightly shut at his petulance.  And my
own anger is at the boil.

Mulder continues, the dam of his anger breaking and spilling
forth to drench me in the hot fire of his intended swords.  "I
can't believe you, Kate.  I can't believe you would be so selfish
as to not want to see this part of my life. . .not want to meet
the people who are important to me.  You have no idea how hard it
has been for me these past five years since Scully died.  You
have no idea the pain I went through and how these people helped
me out of the black hole I dug for myself.  Maggie Scully is the
strongest woman I know, the most compassionate, and the most
forgiving.  The losses she has endured because of me have been
tremendous.  

"Scarcely after Scully and I started working together, Dana's
father died just when his retirement was beginning. . .just when
he and Maggie had the future ahead of them that they'd waited for
all those years.  Then Dana herself was kidnapped and lost for
four weeks, and Maggie sought to comfort *me* during that time,
when it was *her* daughter missing.   Then Melissa, her sister,
was killed by a bullet meant for Scully.   And Maggie didn't
blame me one iota.  And when Scully got cancer, Maggie and I
nursed her together, always there for her, holding her, rocking
her.  We did everything for Scully, and Maggie never faltered. 
And she's been there for me ever since Dana died, trying to ease
my pain when she has no tie to me. . .no duty. . .no *reason* to
have to do what she's done.  I love her like a mother and she
treats me like her son."

I say nothing.  I know this conversation is not about meeting
Maggie Scully for lunch today.  It's about a lot, LOT more. .
.issues of which we have never spoken nor hashed out, which
remain wedged between us because we choose not to address them.

But my own indignation takes hold strongly.  Before I realize
what I am saying, I speak, my voice still cold steel, low and
humming.  I rise slowly out of the chair and turn toward him. .
.more like turn *on* him.  "Great Mulder, she treats you like a
son, and you treat me like a child.  You think I know not the
pain you went through when Dana died and for years after?  I know
the pain all too well, and all too raw.  You think I don't want
to see this part of your life, but you desire not to see any of
mine. . .me as I am rather than as you would want me to be. .
.while showering me with 'Dana did this' and 'Scully was like
that'.  I hate you for every comparison you make of her to me. 
But they meet your goal.  They elevate Dana Scully beyond human
and denigrate me to something so much lower, so unworthy of your
equal consideration and respect.  You hang onto your memories of
the dead because they are so much easier to face than having to
confront your fears and join the living.  Well, damn it, Mulder. 
I will *not* be dragged back into that despair, that black hole
out of which I clawed my way years ago.  I am here with the
living, and you're welcomed to join me if you wish.  If not,
wallow in your memories of the dead.  I will not share the loss."

I'm not through, but I pause as I struggle to put a modicum of
sympathy back into my voice.  "And if Dana Scully was half the
woman you portray her to be, I don't think she would approve of
the pedestal. . .or the self pity. "  

I grab my purse and briefcase and advance to the door.  With my
hand on the knob I turn back to him.  "Please extend my apologies
to Mrs. Scully.  I don't believe I wish to have lunch with *you*
today."  I close the door quietly behind me -- although I really
wish to slam it hard -- leaving Mulder standing in the middle of
his office staring after me.  

* * *
Con't Part V

***

(Section 8 continued)

Mulder:

My eyes slide slowly shut.

Ohhh. . .SHIT!                                                   

I can't believe I did that.  I just can't believe it.  I am such
a dumb fuck.

"Katie!"  I cry out as I fling open the door and bolt for the
elevator.  I catch her as the doors are about to close.  Seeing
she is not alone in the box, I brace one hand against the door to
keep it from closing, extending my other towards her, silently
pleading her return and understanding.

Kate considers the hand a moment longer than is comfortable.  I
see her expel a reluctant sigh as she places her hand in mine and
steps off the elevator.  I let the doors slide shut.  It's now
just the two of us.

We look at each other, our eyes locking, each bespeaking their
silent apology.  I reach a tentative hand up and brush her cheek.
Her gaze softens perceptibly.  My fingers snake around behind her
ear, pulling her head to me.  I plant a small kiss on her brow,
letting my lips linger against the silkiness of her skin a moment
longer than necessary.

"I'm sorry, Katie," I whisper as I take a whiff of the lavender
scent of her shampoo.  "I'm so sorry." 

I feel her arm come around my waist as her head drops to my
shoulder.  I enfold her briefly in my arms.  I am so stupid
sometimes, almost throwing this away.  Kate's right of course.  I
still don't know how women -- some women -- do that, looking all
the way down into my soul as if it were an open book.    I am
afraid of living. . .but not of her. . .never of Katie.

I walk her back to my office and close the door quietly, leaning
against it as I study the floor.  Kate's standing in front of me.
I know she's waiting for something, but I'm not sure what more I
can give.  

Still leaning against the closed door, I reach for her hands. 
She drops her briefcase on the floor and places her small fingers
in mine.  I caress their tops with my thumbs.

"You're right," I apologize.  Everything she said was right:  the
comparisons, the living in the past, the failure to see what Kate
has endured.  I spread her arms and draw her hands behind my
waist, bringing her closer.  

I rest my hands gently on her shoulders, my fingers playing with
strands of her hair which hang there.  "I think. . . ," I offer
softly.  ". . .I'm looking for Maggie Scully's blessing."  

Kate's eyes are dark, limpid pools into which I could sink for
the rest of my life.   "But first."  I hesitate. We have not
talked about this, never even broached the subject.  Never even
had sex.  I learned from Dana also not to be afraid of my
intimate feelings, and to express them more frequently. . .or it
could be too late.  I think I'm on the verge of asking Kate to
marry me.  Surprisingly, I am not petrified by this idea.  In
fact, I feel rather liberated, as if a huge weight is falling
from my shoulders.  I shake my head at the incredulity of my
life.  "First, you and I need to have a serious talk.  Why don't
we go away this weekend. . .where we can't be found. . .where
work will not interfere. . .and spend some time. . .talking?" 

If I'm not mistaken, a light of understanding fills Kate's gaze. 
She considers my offer silently for a few moments, her hands
tracing small circles on my back which are driving me to
distraction.  She leans up and plants a simple, tarrying kiss on
my lips.  "Okay," she breathes at my mouth.  The fire of her
breath is catching.  Oh god, Katie, not now.  Not here!  Think. .
.stock car races. . .basketball. . .twelve sweaty men practicing
their tackles in Frostburg.  Anything but the seduction occurring
at my door and the heat in my groin.  

Kate takes pity on me and steps back.  "Mulder, do you think we
can go to lunch now?  I'm really quite hungry.  I haven't eaten
since eleven yesterday."

"I'm sorry.  Sure, we can go.  Eleven. . .last night?" 

"Morning," she offers simply, reaching around me for the handle. 
I grab my jacket and her briefcase, and follow her quickly to the
elevator, looking once to make sure parts south are not
noticeably. . .inappropriately positioned.

"You should have told me.  C'mon, we're going to a small place
not too far from here.  Pretty good food, actually.  Italian, if
you don't mind?"  I could swear I saw Kate since yesterday
morning. . . .  Didn't I?  Anyway, I know I score with the
Italian restaurant; Kate could eat Italian food daily and never
tire of it.

Kate smiles, "How often do you eat there?"

I shrug, "Once a week.  Why?"

"I just don't want to go someplace you ate last night."

"No chance,"  I laugh.  "Last night was. . .take out Chinese."

Exiting the building I grab her hand and stop on the sidewalk. 
"Katie. . .are you sure about this?  You're okay with meeting
Mrs. Scully?"  

She just nods.  "It's okay, Mulder."  She tugs at my hand and we
walk to the restaurant two blocks up the avenue in silence.

"Kate," I whisper as we step briskly past the corner.  I can't
seem to voice what I'm really thinking, which is that I love her.
"I'm still here, and I always will be.  Lunch will not change
that."

She flashes me a brilliant smile, "No.  Lunch will not change
that."

***

8.  Ball
Two months later
Kate


Needless to say our little weekend for talking did not take place
after lunch with Mrs. Scully.  Mulder was called out of town on
an emergency, and. . .well, you know what they say about the road
to hell. . .paved certainly with Mulder's good intentions.

But he did call me, incessantly.  Finally on Sunday evening I
told him to take a break, relax, watch some television, and not
call me until at least Tuesday. . .unless of course he was
injured and laid up in the hospital. . .then he could call. .
.yesterday.  He asked me at the end of the conversation if he was
being obsessive.  I told him it sounded more like *possessive*. .
.but I really didn't mind.  It was rather endearing.

He returned almost ten days later, only to tell me he was being
placed in charge of a major national task force for two months. 
Again, all hush hush and with little notice.  He went to Boston
for most of that time.  Because of the nature of the work, he
felt it was unwise for us to see each other; I would not be safe.
So, again, telephone calls. . .still affectionate, still
incessant.  This time I did not ask him to moderate their
frequency.

I miss him.

We're supposed to be going to a ball tonight.  The FBI's annual
shindig.  He's getting some sort of award.  Too little
recognition for his work for too many years has left him cynical
about this.    Fancy, dress up type of affair.  It's not Mulder
or me, really, but I agreed to attend because of the
commendation.  

I have not spent an evening with him since he returned from
Boston earlier this week, so this is a 'date' for us.  When he
called today at lunch I could tell he was eager.  Me too, me too.
                                                                 
I'm slipping the sleeveless forest green silk over my head when
the phone rings.  "Hello?"

"Hey, sweetie,"  he greets.  There's a hesitancy and concern in
his voice.  I know instantly something's up, and brace myself.

I greet him warmly nonetheless. "Hi," I intone softly.  Maybe
he'll have second thoughts about standing me up.

"I've got a problem.  I'm going to have to be a little late
tonight. . .some last minute work in the office which has to be
finished before I can leave," he explains.  I hear the wince in
his voice, thinking I'll reject this reason.

"Okay.  I can wait.  Really."

Mulder is quick to counter. "No, no.  I've made. . .other
arrangements.  A friend is picking you up.   That okay?  He's
Assistant Director Walter Skinner.  He'll be there on time, and
I'll meet you a little later at the hotel?"

Great.  My tall, dark and handsome mystery man is sending a
surrogate to sweep me off my feet.   Not likely to happen.  But
he is trying; he's really trying.  I relent, "How will I know
him?"

"Ask for his I.D.  He's my height, broad shoulders, balding,
glasses.  No mistaking him.  Military bearing."  Mulder pauses,
then continues more quietly, "Katie?  You know that talk we were
going to have. . .the weekend away?"

"Um hum?"

"You want to go with me this weekend?  I've got the key to a
friend's cabin in Pennsylvania.  We could go up after the dance
tonight. . . ?"

My lids slide shut.  Yes!  

Oh, Mulder, I do love you.

I search my brain for some witty comeback, and arrive at a total
blank.  Maybe he has stunned me.  Reached through the phone and
taken hold of my vocal chords.

"Are you telling me my coach awaits at midnight?"  It is all I
can come up with on short notice.  I am sure I'll think of
something really intelligent in about. . .oh, say, twenty years.

He chuckles softly, "More like your pumpkin will turn into a
chariot of fire at midnight and sweep you away to . . . "

". . .the Wicked Witch's cottage in the forest?"  I interrupt
him.

He growls just like the Big Bad Wolf.  Oh my, all fairy tales
come true.

"Mulder," I say after a pregnant pause.  "Just. . . ."  I want to
say 'come tonight', but the overriding sexual innuendo in that
statement causes me to reconsider.  "Just don't keep me waiting
too long.  I'll be the wall flower pining away in the corner."

"Hmmm, not if I can help it.  I'll make it as quickly as I can. 
Just don't accept any wooden nickels or rides home from those who
come to pluck the flower out of the garden," he purrs.  "Katie. .
. ."

"I've missed you, Mulder,"  I hurriedly interject before he has a
chance to go all sentimental and sappy on me.  "I'll see you
later."

"Bye."

"Bye."  I stare at the receiver in my hand.  I'm not at all good
at phone sex, probably because I can't think very quickly on my
feet about anything except legal defenses.  Ooh, Mulder, give me
your corpus delecti.  Yeah, that'll really get his blood
stirring.  Jeez, I'm pathetic.

As I finish dressing, slipping into my fuck-me pumps, dyed
especially to match this expensive gown I've actually purchased
-- I don't know why I did that.  I'll probably only wear it once,
just like that bridesmaid dress which has been hanging in my
closet the last fifteen years.  Dumb, just dumb. -- the doorbell
rings.  I take one last look in the mirror.  Presentable.  Not
overly glamorous or showing too much skin, but definitely
presentable.  I hurry to the front door.  Mustn't keep an
Assistant Director waiting.

Walter Skinner is not at all what I expected.  He seems awkward
and shy, out of place on my front stoop in his well-tailored tux.
I see the standard black Lincoln Town Car behind him, double
parked with emergency flashers on.  No time to invite him in. 
Actually that's okay as I glance at the clock on the wall.  We're
about thirty minutes late.

I grab my bolero jacket and overnight case, deciding to take
Mulder up on his offer, and lock the front door.   Assistant
Director Skinner is every bit the gentleman, carrying my satchel
and taking my arm at the bottom of the stoop to guide me to the
car.  He holds the door for me then drops my duffle bag in his
trunk.   He is a skillful driver and we are quickly on our way.  

"I am sorry Agent Mulder could not pick you up this evening, Miss
Foster, but he should be done on the range fairly quickly,"
Skinner says, glancing briefly at me as he makes a right turn
onto the Parkway.   "His recertification is mandatory, as you can
well understand."

Recertification?  On what does Mulder need to be recertified? 
The 'range'?  What certification on the range does an FBI agent
require. . .except. . . ?  The light slowly begins to dawn.   I
roll my eyes as day breaks.  Weapons certification.   Jeez,
Mulder.

"When does his expire?" I ask casually, trying to make my
question seem normal conversation.

"Tonight at midnight,"  the Assistant Director responds.

Nothing like leaving it to the last minute, Mulder.  I shake my
head slightly, a tolerant grin creeping across my face.  That's
our boy.  My silent musings do not go unnoticed by the driver,
and Skinner nods understandingly.  

"Thank you for picking me up, Director Skinner.  It was quite. .
.accommodating of you," I remark after we both have our chuckle
over Mulder's self-imposed plight.    Switching topics I inquire
about the award, "What is Mulder being cited for this evening?"

Skinner's countenance clouds with seriousness.  "Agent Mulder is
long overdue for recognition.  His work in profiling and on the
X-Files has been extraordinary.  It is unfortunate Agent Scully
could not enjoy the same acknowledgment.  So much of their work
together went unappreciated for the years of their partnership."

I detect a note of discord with those persons in the upper
echelons of the Bureau who make the decisions governing agents'
work product and advancement.   Barely veiled bitterness suffuses
Skinner's comments.   It is similar to Mulder's own cynicism of
the Bureau and bureaucracy in general.  

"Agent Mulder has sacrificed much over the years.  As a senior
agent in the Bureau, he's achieved a certain amount of
flexibility in his case assignments.  His stint as ASAC in Boston
the past two months finally showcased his comprehensive
abilities.  Tonight he's being promoted to ASAC of the Violent
Crimes section."

I am surprised at this.  Mulder never mentioned a promotion or a
move out of the X-Files office.  Knowing his attachment to the
latter, I am concerned over his reaction to losing control of
them.  "Will he be losing the X-Files?"

Skinner shoots me a surprised eyebrow, but recovers quickly.  I
note the military and FBI training in this mannerism: never let
them know you're surprised by anything.  Goes along well with
'never let them see you sweat'.    

"No.  Agent Mulder will keep the X-Files, but they will be
expanded to include several other overlapping areas, all of which
he will now oversee."

"Does he know?"  If so, I can't imagine why he kept this a secret
from me.

Skinner pulls in front of the Mayflower Hotel.  "Of the
consolidation of divisions, yes.  Of the promotion, no."  I get
the distinct impression I am not to disclose the same, as if
Skinner just scolded an errant child for placing her hand in the
cookie jar.

The ballroom is crowded with tuxedos and women in gowns.  I'll
never be able to find Mulder here, and am reminded why I do not
like these affairs.  I do not mingle well.  Small talk was never
my forte.  

Skinner deposits my overnight bag at the coat check and hands me
the ticket.  "Would you care for something to drink, Miss
Foster?"  He asks kindly.  I think he feels a little uneasy in my
presence.

"Just ice water, please."  He goes off in search of my mundane
request, while I scoot back against a blank wall and wait.  I
send a silent prayer Mulder will find me soon.

After about five minutes, Skinner returns and presses a cool
glass of water into my hand.  "I'm sorry. . .I got delayed by a
few agents.  Dinner will start in a few minutes.  If you could
excuse me for a moment, there are some people I need to consult
about the presentation."  He smiles and again departs.

I finally take the initiative to wander through the crowd.  I'm
not really looking for Mulder, just scoping out the competition,
seeing who there is and what.    I see him walk through the far
door and my heart stops.  He is more handsome than I've ever
noticed.  His tux fits perfectly and looks expensive.  There is a
twinkle in his eyes, a genuinely happy smile on his lips.   The
epitome of sexy.

As my heart beats wildly seeing him for the first time in almost
nine weeks, I realize just how much I've missed him.  I wish I
could freeze this moment in time.  While everyone else in the
room remained frozen, he and I could spend a few minutes catching
up, hugging, kissing, just being together.  

What I see next causes my stomach to lurch, and I have to grab it
with my palm to make sure it does not leap right out through my
chest.   A tall woman has her hand slipped through his, smiling
possessively, laughing at some remark he's directed solely
towards her.  She leans up and plants a lingering kiss on his
cheek.  

WHO. . .IS. . .THIS?                                             

I take a step back, intent on hiding my presence among the other
agents and spouses there, hoping Mulder has not yet seen me.  The
woman continues the blatant body language:  her other hand on his
chest, the space between them minute if there is any at all.  He
drops her hand and places his against her back, guiding her
forward.  

Tiny tears prick at my eyes and I turn to leave. . .quickly.  
I've reached the door thinking my escape has gone unnoticed when
I feel a strong hand on my back.  Oh god, please don't let this
be him.

"Katie?"  Mulder calls softly in my ear.  He bends forward and
glimpses my stricken face.  I clutch my purse to my chest as my
breaths increase their pace.  My traitorous eyes look up at him,
then behind, seeing her right there, right behind him.

I can't run and I certainly can't hide from this.  It takes
Mulder less than a second to conclude the source of my
discomfort.  Effortlessly, he guides me out of the crowded
ballroom, taking my water glass from me and setting it on a tray
by the door.  Unbelievably, this woman follows us into the
populated hallway as Mulder steers me toward a door on the other
side.

Finally he realizes we are being shadowed.  Turning to her his
voice is cold, "Diana, I'll talk to you later.  We may be able to
accommodate your request in a few months."  He turns back to me
and opens the door to a darkened, smaller, and vacant room. 
Mulder all but shoves me inside and closes the door quickly
against further intrusion.

Tenderly he turns me toward him, his hands coming up to cup my
face.  "Katie.  Oh god, I missed you."  His last word is muffled
as his lips descend upon mine in a fervent and passionate kiss.  
His fingers thread through my hair as his tongue begins a slow
and ardent plundering of my mouth.   One arm drops to my back,
pulling me closer to his chest.  I am so lost in his kiss I
barely notice his other hand cupping my ass and pushing me into
his growing erection.   I do not realize his hand has left my
hair until I feel him squeeze my breast, brushing his thumb
across my hardening nipple.

Oh god!  Oh god, Mulder!  More, I need more!

He pulls away from me too quickly, but understandably so.  We
are, after all, in a public place and his erection will only
continue to grow if we continue to grope.  I smile at him
sheepishly.  "Sorry," I mutter.  He reaches down and readjusts
himself.

"I guess we'd better stop. . .or I'll never make it to
Pennsylvania," he chuckles softly into my hair.  "Oh, Katie.  I
have missed you."  Mulder tightens his grip around my shoulders. 
"I shouldn't have waited so long to see you after returning from
Boston."

I take a deep breath and push him off slightly, cocking my head. 
I am serious now, although I no longer doubt his resolve or
feelings towards me.  "Who is she, Mulder?"  He knows of whom I
am speaking.

I watch him swallow hard before answering.  "Diana Fowley. .
.*Special Agent* Diana Fowley."  He purses his lips as if
disgusted with himself.  "We used to be. . .lovers."  I watch him
hesitate for a moment, but am proud he acknowledges the full
extent of the relationship.  "It was a long time ago, when I
first discovered the X-Files. . .even long before Scully. 
Diana's returned from Europe,"  he inhales deeply and lets his
breath out slowly.  "She is trying to recapture what we once
had."

I have not said anything to all these admissions, just let him
speak.  I have learned in my career the more a person talks, the
more likely he'll make interesting or incriminating confessions. 
I categorize Mulder's statements as 'interesting'.  

Mulder must be concerned, however, over my silence.  "Katie?"  He
looks at me incredulously and with a slight amount of fear in his
eyes, his hands coming up to grip my upper arms.  "You don't
think there is anything still. . . .  No,"  he says more
forcefully, catching himself.  "Kate, there is nothing going on
between Diana and me.  My heart is captured elsewhere, and I
don't intend to. . . ."  He shakes his head, a smile moving up
gradually to his eyes.  "Oh, no Kate.  Oh no.  *You* are the one.
. .and *only* one in my life. . .now, and if you'll have me. .
.forever more.  I am not one bit interested in Diana Fowley."

I knew this.  I really did.  After a kiss like that. . . .  Well,
let's just say, any man who kisses me like that, I'm keeping for
a long, long time.  I scrunch my nose at him.  Forever?  Oh,
yeah, we're going to talk *seriously* this weekend.  I lean up
and capture his lips again.  You're not going anywhere soon, Fox
Mulder.  Not if I have my say. 

* * *
9.  Button
7 A.D.
Kate

I feel rather *off* today.  Just not right.  I've been feeling
this way for the past week.  I'm not sure what it is.  I
developed a fever a couple of days ago, one of those low grade
ones which should eventually dissipate.  I really tried to pay no
attention, and went to work today.  But now. . .I don't know. .
.just not quite right.

"Hey, Kate," Mike Sternman greets me as I walk into the room in
the federal court.  "You ready to do this plea today?"

"Of course,"  I reply.  Actually, my client has been ready to 'do
this plea' for the past fifteen days he's sat in jail.  "Let me
just make sure I have this right.  Plead to one DOS and one
misdemeanor hit and run.  A fine and six months' loss of license,
no restriction, ninety with seventy-five days suspended, and you
won't allocute for any additional jail.  Right?"  It is really
the best deal my client is going to get.  The U.S. Attorney
considered prosecuting him for malicious wounding by automobile,
but knew they could not prove the required state of mind.  My
client was smart -- one of the few -- and kept his mouth shut
when they wanted to take a statement.   So time served and he is
out of jail today.  

"That's right," Mike confirms.  "Let's get this show on the
road."

The judge is informed the players are ready to take the field and
we await his royal presence.  My client is brought into the
courtroom from the lockup, complete in orange jumpsuit -- no need
to dress up for the judge; a jury would have been another story
-- and the plea is taken and sentence imposed.  Inasmuch as my
client must be returned to the Alexandria jail a few blocks away
to retrieve his belongings, we are requested to remain in our
places until he is removed from the courtroom.

Standing at the podium, I feel the flush of fever again surface. 
That's it;  I've got to check this out with my doctor.  I don't
think things are supposed to be like this.  I'll give him a call
as soon as I get back to my office.  Client safely ensconced
behind closed doors, I turn and take a step back to the gallery.
. . .

. . . And am hit with a blinding, searing pain in my abdomen.  I
don't even know what happens to my briefcase as I clutch my right
side and gasp.  This had better be nothing more than
appendicitis.  But my knees buckle as the pain increases,
ratcheting up a few notches as I try to exit more gracefully.  I
don't and falter, grabbing the counsel table I pass on my way to
the floor.

I'm in too much pain to even cry out.  Mike is instantly at my
side, lowering me to the carpet and rolling me on my back.  My
knees come to my chest as I try to stem the utter agony.  
Modesty is completely forgotten.

I know I'm going to pass out from this pain.  I grab Mike's lapel
and pull his face to mine.  "Mulder," I gasp.  "Fox Mulder. .
.FBI. . .headquarters."  My chest cannot expel enough air to make
me heard more than a few inches from my lips, but I think Mike
gets the name.  I repeat as darkness overtakes me, "Mulder. .
.Muld-- . . . ."

* * *
Mulder

It is a rare occasion when Walter Skinner visits my office.  I am
now entrenched in the Violent Crimes section I oversee from my
cubby hole off the bullpen.  My cubical, complete with window
facing Northwest D.C. and the building across the gray street
below me five storeys, is much smaller than the X-Files office. 
Luckily, I was able to keep the latter, so here I only have
stored what is necessary for the day-to-day runnings of Violent
Crimes.  My associates -- yeah, I have two *associate* agents;
will wonders never cease -- actually work in the basement and
keep tabs on things in the realm of unexplained phenomenon for
me.  They think Scully and I are icons to emulate.  On occasion,
I still take a case in the field, but not as often as before.  

It's mid-morning and Skinner just showed up at my doorway. 
Knocking on the open door he steps in.  My eyebrows raise in
greeting, but I remain silent, knowing he'll tell me to what I
owe the pleasure of this infrequent visit.  He fishes in his
trouser pocket and extracts his car keys as he advances on my
cluttered desk.

"Did you drive in today?"  He asks without preamble.

I am surprised by the question, but shake my head negatively in
reply.  Now that Kate and I live in her townhouse in Alexandria,
I usually walk the mile to the Metro when I don't drive,
especially when it is a picture perfect spring day such as this. 


Skinner tosses his keys to me which I catch one handed.  "Level P
two, slot B five."  I know this is his assigned parking space so
I am unsure why he is telling me the location of his car.  My
brow furrows, but I still do not ask the pregnant question.

Skinner has an urgency about his person.  He lowers his voice as
he speaks, "Kate has just been rushed to Fairfax Hospital in an
emergency.  I'll sign you out."

Before he finishes the sentence I am out of my chair and grabbing
my suit jacket.  I tug my arm through the sleeve and brush by
Skinner.  "Call Maggie, please, sir."  I toss back and then rush
through the bullpen to the exit as I straighten my jacket's
collar.  I hear him confirm he will do so, and I am gone.

One thing Skinner's car has which mine does not is a flashing
blue strobe and internal siren.  I can use these if I need to,
and I know he would want me to on this occasion.  Actually, there
is little traffic this time of day, at least not enough to clog
the roads in D.C.  In two minutes I am passing the Washington
Monument on Constitution Avenue.  One minute later I cross the TR
Bridge.  In less than three more minutes I round the curve on
I-66 at Glebe Road.  I make it to Fairfax Hospital fifteen
minutes after I depart the Hoover Building, normally a thirty
minute drive.

I am scared shitless.

I pull into the first available space I see, slap the FBI placard
in the front window, and bolt for the emergency room doors.  

"Kate Foster.  I am looking for Kate Foster. . .she was just
brought in," I tell the clerk at the ER window.  I am frantic and
know it is showing in my voice.

"Are you family?"  She asks inanely.

I merely nod my head, as she continues to speak.  "Miss Foster
was taken to surgery on the fourth floor.  The elevators are
through that door and down the hall to the left," she directs
pointing her finger.  I do not wait for her to finish as I slam
through the two large swinging doors connecting the remainder of
the large hospital complex.

Surgery.

Now I am not only scared shitless, I'm in a panic.

Not Kate.  Please not Kate.  Please not *this*!

* * *

Kate sleeps quietly behind me on the single bed in the room.  She
is hooked up to heart monitors and I.V.s, and a rubber bulb is
laid in her right hand.  I know she can squeeze this and the pump
will automatically deliver the correct dosage of pain killers to
her without fear of overdose.  

Oh god, Katie.  Oh god.

I do not know how I am going to tell you this.

That jackass she married previously, Tom -- who had the good
grace to die before I met him, because I would have surely killed
him for the way he treated Kate -- did not want children.  He
forced a tubal ligation on a naive and innocent wife, then went
off his merry way and fostered children -- well, *child* --
illegitimately with another woman, robbing Kate of her ability to
conceive.    

Until modern science came along.

We have been blissfully married for ten months now.  She is
everything I ever wanted in a mate.  Not Scully, but in some ways
very Scully-like; in other ways, very different.  She is not my
soul mate as Dana was, but Kate has other strengths and gifts
which she gives without measure.  She is my life and I love her
more than I thought possible.

And through the grace of modern science, she was to be the mother
of my children.  We went through the whole process of reversal of
the ligation, but her tubes were too damaged by the clips to be
useful.  So four months ago, she was inseminated with four
fertilized eggs.  Her eggs, my sperm, our children.  Two of the
four zygotes did not take at all.  But the other two did and we
were looking excitedly at the prospect of having twins in. . .oh
say, about five months.

Until today. . . .

The doctor informed me, in that clinical voice they are so wont
to use when they desire to be detached from all emotion, one of
Kate's fallopian tubes ruptured, spilling infection and detritus
into her abdominal cavity.  Although they performed emergency
surgery to stop the bleeding and clean her up as much as
possible, there is little more they can do.  She is on a regimen
of antibiotics and is being watched around the clock for the
onset of infection, which we all know will come. . .it is only a
matter of time.

And the babies?  Oh god, the babies. . . .

One fetus spontaneously aborted during the surgical procedure.

I close my eyes and shake my head in disgust at the medical
terminology.

Fetus.

It is not a *fetus* when it is *your* child.  This is a *baby*!

And it did not 'spontaneously abort'!

No, doc, it died.  My child DIED!!

He or she did *not* abort!  He DIED.

DIED. . .DIED. . .DIED.

I watched. . .I *watched* that monitor as Kate had her first
internal ultrasound.  I held her hand in sheer fear of my
emotions.  We were giddy like two teenagers.  I *saw* those
heartbeats.  Two of them.  Strong and steady.

Our babies.  

Hers and mine.  Our future.  Our hopes.  Our family.  Our most
loved and precious possessions.  What she and I would both die a
thousand deaths to protect.

OUR BABIES!!

And somehow I have to find the strength and the words to tell my
beloved that our baby is gone.

I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, and bury my
face in my hands as I weep uncontrollably.  Our baby. . . . 
Goddamn it!  Our baby.

My little boy or little girl.  The light of my life.  The one I
would take to the ball game and buy a pennant for. . .or to Ocean
City and carry on my shoulders and set in the cool, refreshing
water of the Atlantic Ocean on a hot summer day, as Mommy sat on
the beach and took our picture. . .the little girl who would play
dress up and look as beautiful as her mother on our wedding day,
who I would one day walk down the aisle and hand over to the love
of her life.

My baby.

My. . .tiny. . .little. . .baby.

I feel my heart cleave in my chest, and I send a silent prayer to
heaven.  That's where Scully is.  I pray to her.  Please Scully,
keep my baby safe.  Help him or her grow.  I know you would have
been a good mother; please be a mother to my baby.  Take care of
him. . .watch over her. . . .  And for god's sake, Scully, stop
my tortured life from being visited by these continual tragedies.
I cannot take any more.  Samantha, my father, Melissa, YOU, my
mother. . .my baby.  Oh god, Scully, pleasssse!!  Make it stop!

It takes me a few minutes to collect myself.  The room is dim,
lit only by the lamp in the corner above the sink.  I walk back
to the recliner some kind intern placed here for me, so close to
the bed my knees knock the frame when I sit.  But I do not care.

I cover Kate's exposed upper arm with my hands.  They are so
large they completely obliterate her appendage from my sight.  I
must, however, feel her.  I must maintain what little connection
I can muster now.

Hearing her groan, I rise and reach over her still body and
squeeze the rubber bulb, sending the pain killers to her I.V. and
down the tube.  When I straighten to move back to my chair, Kate
is staring at me, her eyes dark.

I know I have to say something.  She can read the fear and sorrow
in my eyes, and I must speak before she panics.  

"One," I choke out around the lump which grew in my throat the
moment I saw she was awake.  "One."

Tears well on her lashes and slip silently down toward her ears. 
Without taking my eyes from hers, I toe off my shoes and slide
onto the bed on top of the covers, careful not to jostle her too
much.  I slip my arm under her neck and around her far shoulder,
bringing her into my chest.  We both weep for our lost child,
clutching fiercely to one another in our grief.

Our baby died today.  


* * *

I awaken, hearing the soft voices of people in the near distance.
Scrubbing the sleep and dried tears from my eyes, I look at my
wife, still curled next to me, still asleep.  

She is warm.  When I gently withdraw my arm from her back, it is
drenched in her sweat.  I slide off the bed and touch her
forehead.  She has a fever.

Without seeing who else is in the room, and without stopping for
my shoes, I run to the door and throw it open, sprinting down the
hallway.  "Nurse!  My wife. . .she's burning up. . .she has a
fever.  *Give her something*.  We've got to get the fever down!"
I know my voice is raised in fear, but I need their attention.

Thankfully, an older woman on duty hastens passed me back to
Kate's room.  She is the senior nurse on the floor and knows well
to expect this surge in infection in Kate's body.  Before I
return, she has a hypodermic inserted in my wife's I.V. and is
injecting a clear yellow solution.

"Is that trans-placential?"  Please, nothing that will hurt our
last remaining baby.

She looks at me, a calm descending over her features.  Her voice
is sympathetic and low, "No, Mr. Mulder.  It will not harm the
baby, and it is the strongest antibiotic we can give her in this
state."  She walks up to me and lays a comforting hand on my arm.
"Please calm down.  It's not good for your wife to see you so
agitated.  I'll have a cold blanket draped on her.  It may help a
little to lower her temperature."

My heart is beating wildly in my chest.  A spike in Kate's fever
could cause the last baby to abort.  Oh god, please! 
Sculllleeee!  PLEEEAAASSSEEE!

I slump in the recliner and grab onto Kate's arm again.  Maggie
Scully brings a plastic basin of cool water from the bathroom,
together with a washcloth, and wipes Kate's face, neck, arms,
legs, any place she can reach.  Kate still sleeps, unaware of the
danger she and the baby are now facing.

"Fox," Maggie says quietly.  "They're doing all they can.  You
know Kate must sweat out the fever before it breaks."  She places
an arm around my shoulders and I lean into her stomach as I watch
the monitors on the far side of Kate's bed record her vitals and
temperature.

103.

It takes ten minutes to drop to 102.6.

Another half hour before we see 102.

By ten o'clock, the fever is down to 101.3.  

Walter Skinner, who has been keeping Mrs. Scully company all
evening, leaves at 11:30.  Kate's temperature is 101.1.  Since I
awoke next to Kate at eight o'clock, I don't think I've said more
than ten words to him, my concentration elsewhere.  I know he
understands when he squeezes my shoulder on the way out, with a
promise to visit tomorrow.   I return him his keys.

At midnight, I ask the nurse to bring a cot in for Maggie to
sleep on.  Kate's parents died when she was a child, and Maggie
is the closest thing either of us have to a mother now.  She has
taken my wife under her wing as she did me years ago.  We are her
children, and she will be the grandmother of mine.  This is our
silent understanding.  She unbidden will stay the night, keeping
vigil with me at Katie's bedside.  

* * *
Kate

My endearing husband has been hovering.  I don't want to say
'over protective', but it's a close call.  He's home today, as
usual for a Friday.  

He and Maggie Scully have surreptitiously arranged my baby
sitting schedule.  I am the baby they sit.  Or rather, me and the
child within.  Maggie 'just happens' to come over every Tuesday,
Wednesday and Thursday, and Mulder's here every Friday, taking
off work with the approval of Walter Skinner.  Mondays --
blissful Mondays -- I have to myself.  Yes!  

This has been going on since I took off work two months ago, at
the insistence of my doctor.   I am supposed to be 'bedridden'.
This does not mean I actually have to stay in bed, but rather I
am mostly supposed to lie down with my feet raised.  No climbing
stairs, no standing for lengths on end, no heavy lifting, other
than this belly of mine.   Mulder and I have silently accepted we
will be the parents of one child, soon.  

So, because my townhouse was too small and there was no bedroom
or bath on the first floor, we bought a new home.  Mulder moved
us to a larger house south of Alexandria's main street.  We both
like this area of Washington, D.C.  We conducted the closing on
my dining table.  Three of the strangest men I have *ever* met
came in one Saturday, and we were comfortably tucked away here by
the following Monday, just in time for me to have my day alone.

So now I live in the bedroom/study on the first floor.  Mulder
tells me there are three more bedrooms and two baths upstairs.  I
have yet to see them.  He provided Polaroid snapshots, but I have
a difficult time judging scale in pictures.  Maybe after the baby
is born I'll finally see the rest of my house. . .and what my
husband has done to it.  

I have -- and I am *sure* I will regret this -- left Mulder to
design, decorate and furnish the nursery upstairs.  He has been
carrying bags and boxes up there for the past three weeks, and
spending more and more time in the bowels of this house.  I
smelled the odor of paint two weeks ago, but he won't tell me the
color.  He came down to bed that night with flecks of white or
yellow in his hair.  I have my suspicions.   

My boredom increases daily, and I have just about reached my
limit.  I am thankful for the number of people I call 'friends'
in the Bar.  They have taken over my practice.  It will not be so
hard to reestablish the same when I return to work.  And I am now
the chief researcher for any legal issue to arise among my
colleagues.  But it is not enough.  I am still bored.

I hear my husband upstairs.  He is talking on his cell phone,
maintaining his link to the office.  Every so often I hear his
muffled curse.  I think he is putting together some piece of
furniture for the baby.  At lunch -- or tonight if this project
is still incomplete at lunch time -- he will bring more Polaroid
pictures, carefully angling his shots so I do not see the rest of
the nursery.  It is his little game, keeping me in suspense.  I
do love him.

Braxton-Hicks contractions have increased over the last week, and
today I am feeling poorly.  This aching accompanying my every
step is more than Braxton-Hicks.  Maybe indigestion or gas.  

On my way to get the morning paper, I feel another strong
contraction, and a seep of liquid between and down my legs.  I
have not been able to see my toes while standing for weeks now. 
Moving from the spot to the wall, I note a red tinge to the pool
on the floor.  Not the clear liquid I was expecting of my water
breaking, but red.  Blood.

Oh my god!  Oh no!

"Mul--," I try to scream, but the word is caught around the lump
in my throat and the fear in my chest.  Oh my god, no!  I try
again, "Mulder."  It comes out strangled and hollow.  I know he
cannot hear me.  I summon the remainder of my strength and
rationality, and scream the high pitched sound of a woman being
attacked.

"MULLDDDERRR!"

I collapse against the wall, sliding slowly down to the puddle of
blood collecting there.  

* * *
Mulder

At the bloodcurdling cry, I bolt out of the nursery and down the
stairs.  Spying Kate slumped against the wall, her top and shorts
soaked in blood, all semblance of emergency procedures leave me.

"KATE!"

I am at her side immediately, helping her up as she cradles a
hand around the base of her belly.  The baby.  I know this is
about the baby.  I have got to get her to the hospital
immediately.

Forgetting the overnight bag Maggie packed for us two weeks ago,
I hustle Kate to the car.  She has gone pasty white.  I am hoping
it is from fear rather than shock or worse, complications inside
her body.  Oh no, not Kate!  Not the baby!  

I pull out onto Washington Boulevard and head toward Columbia
Woman's Hospital.  We have to make it.  There is no alternative. 
It is where Kate's doctors are, where they are expecting our
baby.  I dial my cell phone and inform the secretary in her
physician's office we are on the way and relay Kate's bloodied
condition.  I grip the steering wheel tighter, my foot pressing
harder on the accelerator.  I do not want to chance a look at my
wife.  Anything I see there would only propel my panicked state
further than it already is.  I bust two red lights and break all
speed limits I encounter along the way.  To hell with it.  If a
cop wants to stop me, he'll have to deal with an armed FBI agent
turned lunatic, and a pregnant lady.  Just let him try.

Because it is only mid-morning, we make it to D.C. in record
time.  Kate is wheeled into the OB examination room, while I park
my car.  I am met at the nurse's desk when I return.  Apparently
Kate has put up quite a fuss, screaming my name, and they are
unable to assess fully her condition until she calms down.  The
nurse escorts me to the exam room, instructing me to don the
scrubs and mask proffered before I enter.  

I can hear Katie on the other side of the swinging doors. 
"Mulder!  Where's my husband?  Mulder, please!"  It is enough to
drive my haste.

"Katie!"  I say urgently into her ear as I bend down and grasp
her hand.  "Kate, I'm here. . .I'm here, honey.  It's okay."  She
calms visibly at my words, opening her eyes and tightening her
grip on my hand.  

"It hurts, Mulder.  Oh god, it hurts!"  She lets fly a leg not
secured in the stirrups and a stool careens across the room
crashing into the opposite wall.

The doctor between her legs stands and issues instructions to the
nurse beside him.  Then he approaches the opposite side of the
bed and speaks to Kate and me.  "Mrs. Mulder, we have to take you
to surgery.  The baby is in fetal distress, and I want to do an
emergency C-section."

My brow is furrowed with concern for my wife and child.  Kate is
due either this week or next, so there is no issue of it being
premature.  But we both wanted a natural birth.  I know this is
not an option now.  All I want is my wife and baby to be safe,
sound. . .healthy.

I wait for Kate to respond to the doctor's suggestion, but she is
overwhelmed by the pain and her fears, petrified from acting.  I
know this doctor; we have had lengthy consultations and visits
with him since Kate's stint at Fairfax Hospital.  I trust he
would not suggest this if there were any other way to insure
Kate's and the baby's survival.  I close my eyes and nod my head
in assent.

"Katie, they're going to take you to surgery," I whisper into her
hair.  She nods and I know my message has been received.  "Can I
go with her?"  I ask the doctor hopefully.  I do not wish to
leave her side.

"Only until the anesthesia takes hold," he responds
understandingly.  No need for an errant husband getting in the
way.

Anesthesia.  This is bad.  They don't give pregnant women
anesthesia unless it's bad.  I grit my teeth and grip my wife's
hand tighter.

We are moved quickly down the sterile hall into a surgery bay. 
It is a hive of activity, nurses and assistants scrubbed and
ready for Kate.  They lift her, shifting her onto the narrow
surgical table.  She refuses to let go of my hand, for which
connection I am grateful.

As I stand by her head, an assistant drapes Kate with blue
sheets, while another applies the rust-colored antiseptic wash to
her bloated belly.  Her I.V. bag is moved and another is added to
the stanchion.  As an anesthesiologist inserts a hypodermic into
one tube to start the flow of anesthesia, Kate looks up at me,
her eyes dilated with fear.  

"I love you, Mulder," she says hoarsely.  "Know this above all
else, I love you."  Her eyes slide closed as I stand watching,
unable to voice my need of her.  

KATIE!  I scream silently, my sobs caught in my throat.

I am ushered unceremoniously out of the room and down the hall,
where I am told to wait.  I collapse into a chair, my legs no
longer able to support my weight weakened by my own dread.  My
wife. . .and my child. . .lay up the hall, behind several sets of
swinging doors, under the harsh light of a surgical lamp.  I
wonder if I should ever see either of them alive again.

Margaret Scully finds me, slipping her fingers into my clenched
fist.  We sit together in silence, staring at the swinging doors.
I have told her nothing of today, but somehow she knows.  She
just knows.  Later she will tell me she had a vision, called the
house to find neither of us there, and then phoned the hospital. 
When she learned Kate was here, she dropped everything and came
at once.  

We swallow hard, our mouths grim lines of emotion as the doctor
exits the surgical bays and heads toward us.  He has changed back
into street clothes.  His hands appear freshly scrubbed, shiny
pink as if to discard Kate's blood.

Stopping in front of me, I raise my eyes to him, but not my head.
I tighten my grip on Maggie's hand, her other hand coming to
clutch our entwined fingers.  

"Mr. Mulder, would you like to come with me?  Perhaps see your
wife. . .and baby girl?"

My lungs expel a throaty cry of disbelief.  Baby girl?  Wife? 
They're all right?  Tears spill down my face.

Maggie is pulling me up to stand, but my knees feel so weak they
tremble.  

"Are they okay?"  I can't believe that scratch was my voice, low
and almost soundless.

The doctor grins widely, compassion streaking across his face as
he extends an arm to my elbow, steadying me.  "Yes, Mr. Mulder. 
They're just fine, both mother and daughter.  Your wife will be
sore for a few days, and I'd like to keep her a day extra in the
hospital.  She lost a lot of blood and I want to make sure there
are no complications.  And your daughter. . .the neonatalogist
just finished with her.  A clean bill of health.  A plump seven
pounds, seven ounces, twenty-three inches long, and lungs like an
opera singer."

Oh god!  I have a girl!  A daughter!  A baby daughter!

My tears of fear turn to ones of joy.  I have a baby girl!  All
pink. . .and bows. . .and crying for her mother's milk!   Oh god!

I hug Mrs. Scully tightly, then extend a grateful hand to Kate's
OB/GYN.  He claps me on the back and leads me to the maternity
ward and Katie's room.  

A GIRL!

Maggie pushes me into Kate's room alone and quietly closes the
door.  My wife is in bed, looking drained and sleepy.  Her eyes
are closed and I do not know if she is awake.  To the left is a
clear plastic bassinet with a pink blanket wrapping something
petite inside.  

I take hesitant and small steps to the crib.  It's there. .
.*she's* there.  Asleep.  Light hair, more like peach fuzz.  Too
light to tell what color it will be.  Fat checks and a ruddy
complexion, tiny slits for eyes and long dark lashes.  Her fists
are balled up.  Pink blanket, white wrist band.  White shirt. 
Yellow cap.

I reach a large index finger in and lightly stroke her cheek. 
It's real.  She's there.  Our daughter, and she's here.  At last.


"Hi, baby," I whisper as I bend over and kiss her forehead
softly.  "Welcome to our world."  I straighten when one of my
tears falls inadvertently on her cheek.

I turn back to look at my wife.  She's awake and looking at me as
if peace finally reigns after all hell broke loose.  She extends
me her hand.  I want to gather her in my arms and weep for sheer
delight that she is okay.  I do the next best thing.  Kneeling by
her bed, I lay my face into her shoulder and cry, great gulping
sobs.   All my fears and joys coming out at once.  She
understands, as she strokes fingers through my hair.  

Elizabeth Margaret Mulder.  Named after Maggie Scully.  I did not
want to saddle Kate with memories of Dana by using my partner's
name.  Margaret is close enough and we both agree a good name.  

She'll be known as 'Button' for short.  It's an inside thing with
me and Kate; we always imagined a little girl being our Button,
small and precious, essential and cute.

* * *
10.  Reflections
10 A.D.
Mulder

I'm awake, but my eyes are too tired to open just yet.  It's
early.  My alarm has not gone off.  My wife is spooned against
me, her back to my chest, my morning erection finding a warm and
welcoming place between her legs.  Oh, yeah.  That would be a
good way to start the day.

Then I hear Kate's quiet voice, "Did you go to the bathroom?"

It's an odd question to be asking me, a forty-plus year old man. 
I crack an eye open and look over my wife's shoulder. . .

. . .To see the red curly top of my daughter's three year old
head, bobbing up and down in answer, the gold and auburn of her
hair catching the morning light spilling in through the lace
curtains.  

Damn.  No sex this morning.

It's okay, though.  Kate's in no condition to have intercourse,
so it would be only my selfish enjoyment.  It'll just have to
wait.

My daughter, Button, looks more like Scully every day.  Same red
hair; same blue eyes.  Neither my wife nor I can figure out the
genes which created this one.  But she is beautiful and I know
one day I'll have to fend off the boys who come to my door
searching for her.  Just let them try.  Not with *my* daughter. 
Kate scoffs at me when I tell her this.  She somehow does not
believe I'll lock Button in her room until she's, say. . .oh,
forty.

I focus my attention back on the early morning, monosyllabic
conversation Kate and Button are having.  I tighten my arm around
Kate's extended belly and nip her shoulder with an affectionate
kiss.  

"Daddy's awake, Button," my wife informs the little girl.  "Why
don't we go down and make him breakfast?"

Button's head continues to nod furiously.   "Hi, Daddy," she
greets with a big smile.

"Hi, love," I respond as I sit up, opening my arms to her.  She
scrambles around the end of the bed and hoists herself up,
crawling up the covers into my waiting morning embrace.  Melvin
the Bear in tow -- a gift from Frohike.  Planting her fat
cherubic fingers on either side of my face, and Melvin hitting me
in the ear, she gives me a loud and smacking kiss on the lips.  

"You got whiskers," Button announces, scrunching her nose in
disgust.

Kate lifts off the covers and struggles out of bed.  Nine months
pregnant with our second child, this one conceived the
conventional way -- yes, sir -- she waddles off to the bathroom,
again, to relieve the pressure on her bladder one more time.  As
the alarm on my night stand shrills, I reach over and slap the
offending instrument off.  

"Whatcha doing today?"  I inquire of my daughter.  She's smart so
I have little doubt she'll remember the import of the planned
events.  

"Gwama and Gwampa are coming," she reports with unabashed glee.

I nod at the correctness of her statement.  I doubt Walter
Skinner ever thought he would be my children's 'grandfather'.  I
laugh knowing Dana would not have believed her mother to be
called 'Grandma' by my Button.  But such is the way of life. 
Kate and I attended their wedding last year.  The two were made
for each other.

"You going to work today?"  Kate asks as she exits the bathroom
and takes Button's hand before leaving the bedroom.

I call after her, "Only for a few hours.  Walter is going to
lecture to my Criminal Justice class.  Then we'll be back. 
Thought I'd give you women some time alone."  As Kate heads for
Button's bedroom to help the child dress, I head for a quick
shower and shave.

Coming down the stairs ten minutes later, Button and Kate proceed
me.  It's a slow trip, Button grasping onto every spindle as Kate
guides her down the steps.  At the bottom I scoop up my daughter
and follow Kate into the kitchen, planting butterfly and eskimo
kisses on Button's face.  

Coffee is already brewing in the electric maker, as I direct Kate
to a chair.  "You. Sit.  I'll make breakfast."  Before I start,
however, I have to have a morning rub of the belly, holding Kate
sideways into my shoulder and leaning down to an ardent and
passionate kiss.  I don't think I can get enough of her, and I
can't wait until this baby is born and my wife is more. .
.approachable.   Kate reads this in my kiss and squeezes my butt
playfully.    

Such emotion causes Button to throw her hands in front of her
face and express a disgusted, "Oooh."

Kate's eyes are laughing as I pull away.  I know, me too, hon.  I
brush a stray lock of hair off her brow and tuck it tenderly
behind her ear.  God, I love this woman.

I can't wait to be introduced to my son. . .or second daughter. 
Any day now.  That's why Maggie and Walter are coming -- for the
birth of our child.   William John or Anne Katherine.  Whichever,
I just want this pregnancy to be over.  It's been hard on Kate to
be both mother, lawyer, teacher and pregnant wife.  I help as
much as I can with household and child care chores, but it's
still exhausting for her.   And it's a high-risk pregnancy as
she's in her forties now.

I clutch her hand briefly in mine and plant a kiss on her head,
as I turn to the cupboard for bowls, Toastie O's cereal, milk,
juice, toast, marmalade, coffee. . .all the accoutrement of
breakfast in the Mulder household.  

Button's talking a blue streak, "When will Gwama get here?  I'm
gonna show her my room.  And I wanna go swimmin'."  Swimming. .
.as in the kiddie pool in the garden.  It's February.  Not really
time for swimming.  I'll leave Kate to explain the intricacies of
the weather to our offspring.

"What's Walter talking about today in class?"  Kate asks, more
curious about my curriculum than Button's incessant banter.

"Criminal investigatory methods.  Search and seizure, maybe. 
Definitely the FBI." 

Kate and I left Washington, D.C. two years ago.  As much as we
loved our careers, our attentions shifted focus to raising a
family, and we decided it was time to look for a small, friendly
town where the criminal element was greatly diminished from that
in the big city.   We moved to Radford, Virginia, where I teach
at the college and consult with the local police force when
needed.  And Walter Skinner, still Assistant Director, sends me
an unusual X-File several times a year, just to keep my interest
piqued and my skills honed.

Kate joined a small criminal practice, and likewise lectures a
class or two a semester at the school.  She may run for judge
next year,  in order to have a more set schedule and time with
the children.   Our house is in the country with thirty acres of
orchards and fields surrounding the four bedroom structure.  We
can see the Milky Way on a clear night and hear the owls in the
wood.  

Dana Scully would roll her eyes and laugh at me, the thought I
actually would settle into a 'normal life' being as foreign to me
when we were partners as the idea of fatherhood and marriage. 
But I actually love my life now.  I guess I am getting old and
set in my ways.  I wouldn't trade Kate, Button or the baby for
anything on this earth or in the vast universe beyond.  

I still miss her, Dana that is.  Sometimes when I'm caught in my
study late at night with only the desk lamp and a cat to keep me
company I wonder what my life would have been like if she lived. 
Would we have continued as partners?  Become lovers?  Raised a
family?  

There are twists and turns, mountains and valleys in this journey
called 'life'.  Unchartable its course.  But for Scully's death,
I would never have taken on more profiling in the Bureau. .
.never have met Kate at the courthouse that summer. . .never have
changed her tire or met her in the park. . .never have fallen in
love or had two children or moved to western Virginia.  But for
Scully herself, I would never have learned to love and found the
fortitude to continue living.  

My heart still aches because of her absence.  The date of her
death is indelibly etched on my soul, and Kate lets me become
withdrawn and sentimental for those twenty-four hours.  I still
visit her grave when I go see Maggie.  Still take her flowers and
tip back a few in remembrance of her every year.  Sorrow is a
book of sketches, drawn by a selective memory.   

My love for Kate is all too strange and strong. . .and
life-giving. . .and sheltering.  I do not choose nor am I asked
to.  When I have sat in my darkened study long enough, she comes
to me.  I have love.  And it is enough.

***

THE END


* * *

Author Notes:

1.  I hate these.  I'll try to keep mine REALLY short and
succinct.

2.  First and foremost, I must thank Deb for reading this and
giving me unabashed encouragement to post.  I have written over
60 stories in the last three years and have been way too shy
(yes, even at my age that can happen) to disseminate them.  I
wouldn't have done so without Deb, or without the prodding of
"Anonymous" from the Chron Lite Lost and Found Board.  You guys
are true inspirations.

3.  I never quote songs, poems, sonnets, etc. in my work.  I hate
it.  I only kept this in because I wanted to explain from whence
the title came, it too being all too strange. . . .  "I've Never
Been in Love Before", from Guys and Dolls.

4.  I'm not a writer.  I'm a lawyer.  But I do live in
Washington, D.C. -- or at least in its environs -- and I know the
places of which I speak -- uh, write.  I know the streets, the
buildings, and the local verbage/nomenclature for certain things.
Sorry if you don't.  No, perhaps you are better off.  Perhaps you
are not a lawyer.  Perhaps you don't live in Washington, D.C. 
Duh.

5.  CJA:  Attorney lingo for Criminal Justice Act, meaning
usually court-appointed attorneys in the federal system who are
appointed and paid pursuant to said act.  The fees are set by
Congress.

6.  DOS:  Driving on a Suspended License -- again attorney lingo.
So is the sentence proffered.  "No restriction" refers to the
fact that the defendant shall have his license returned to him
during the six month suspension, without any restrictions imposed
against his driving.  "Ninety with seventy-five days suspended"
indicates jail time imposed, then a particular portion suspended.
In this case the defendant would have fifteen days to serve, but
since he has already served that time while awaiting his trial or
plea, he will be released on the same day as his plea.  He gets
credit for time served pre-trial.  "Allocute" is the parties'
perrogative to argue for additional matters, longer sentence,
less time, etc.  It is the time we attorneys whine the most. 
"Malicious wounding" requires proof of malice, not just striking
the victim.  Because the defendant did not give a statement and
the prosecution had no additional facts upon which to base a
finding of malice, they were unable to proceed with this charge. 
It's a game; all in the nature of the evidence available.  Those
of you who still believe the criminal justice system is about
"justice", need to get a real life, and get your head out of the
t.v.  God, does that ever sound cynical!  Actually I love this
country and would die defending it; it just has a few problems.

7.  This fic obviously takes place after the death of Scully
('A.D.' = After Dana).  If you want a good read on the situation
leading to her death and Mulder's reaction to it, may I
wholeheartedly recommend *Gethsemane* by Jennifer Anne Berry?  I
cry great gulping sobs everytime I read her story.  It inspired
me to examine what Mulder's life would be like in the aftermath.