Date: 12 Jun 2002 19:06:21 -0700 From: Karen Rasch Subject: *REPOST* "By the Wind Grieved" (1/13) by Karen Rasch Source: atxc "By the Wind Grieved" (1/13 ) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. They belong to 1013 and Fox Television. I'm merely borrowing them for fun. Sadly, no profit is being made. At least by me. Rating: PG-13 Classification: A, MSR Keywords: "Requiem", Reunion, Amnesia, Baby Archive: That would be lovely. Please make certain my name remains attached to the story. Thank you. I'm sorry I can't give you guys the option of downloading a single file, but as it stands I don't have a web site. Some people have mentioned to me my old URL (home.earthlink.net/~krasch) is still active. I find that odd as I haven't had an Earthlink account in almost a year. Regardless, I don't seem to have any control over that page anymore. If you're missing chapters I'm happy to email them to you. Spoilers: "Requiem" specifically, though really anything through Season 7 is fair game. This is a Doggett-free universe. Nothing against Robert Patrick, but I started this story before I fully understood his role in this new XF season. Summary: Stop the madness--it's another "Requiem" story! Although, some time has passed so perhaps the fanfic market isn't quite as flooded as it was a few months ago. This piece isn't necessarily a follow-up to "All We Know." It can work in that universe or it can stand alone. Whichever you prefer. Months have passed and Mulder is back. But things are not as they once were. He doesn't know who he is or what Scully and he are to each other. Together they must reclaim the past before their enemies take away their future. ************************************************** "Oh lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again." - Thomas Wolfe ("Look Homeward Angel") ************************************************** November 18, 2000 11:14 p.m. Washington, D.C. Nurse Tamika Taylor was little over three hours into her shift and already the night was one for the record books. Never, in all her years at Washington General, had a man magically appeared on a gurney in Admittance, unknown and unattended to. And never had a pregnant woman threatened her. A small pregnant woman with a badge. And a gun. Tamika had been standing at the desk, her head bowed, riffling through the array of papers in her hands, when the tiny terror barreled her way to the counter. "Excuse me. I'm here about the John Doe that was brought in earlier this evening." Engrossed, Tamika didn't even look up. "Just a second, please." "Nurse...Nurse, I'm sorry to interrupt whatever it is you're doing--" "I'll be right with you," Tamika promised, brow furrowed as she searched for the patient history she had assured Dr. Moretti would be run upstairs to him at once. But before Tamika could find the missing form, a slim, manicured hand dropped heavily atop the documents she held, flattening them in her grasp. "Not good enough." The three short, soft words lifted Tamika's gaze level. Inches from her nose was shiny federal badge. "I am Special Agent Dana Scully, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have reason to believe that the man abandoned here tonight in one of your hallways may be a colleague of mine who has been missing for several months. I need you to take me to him immediately. If you do not, you will leave me no choice but to place you under arrest for impeding my investigation. Do you understand?" Taking a step back, Tamika looked around the badge to the woman holding it. Agent Scully stood petite and proud, her chin lowered, her lips pressed tight in an impatient little moue. Temper flashed in her eyes and resolve, the fierce, manic kind. Tamika considered calling Security, thought about rallying her co-workers around her and claiming home field advantage. Only she didn't say or do any of that. Because beyond the badge, past the spirit and command Tamika recognized when looking into Agent Scully's gaze, she caught a glimpse of something else. Fear. Hope. Desperation, just barely held in check. I don't know what your story is, Special Agent Dana Scully, Tamika mused, her eyes dark and discerning, but I'll bet that up till now it hasn't been the happily ever after kind. So rather than putting the other woman in her place, Nurse Taylor stepped out from behind the Admissions desk and gestured towards the hallway on her left. "He's this way," she said, leading the agent down the corridor. "We kept him here rather than sending him upstairs. We don't have all his lab work back yet, and with us not knowing who to call as next of kin and it being typical Saturday-night-busy--" "Is he all right?" Scully asked, her long winter coat flapping around her legs as they walked. Tamika shrugged. "It's difficult to say for sure. He's been drifting in and out of consciousness, so the doctors haven't had the opportunity to question him in any detail. "Based on what we do know, however, I'd say the prognosis is good. He shows signs of mild hypothermia and shock, and he seems under-nourished. Otherwise, everything checks out. Unless some surprises show up in his blood work, I see no reason why he shouldn't make a full recovery." "Thank God," the agent murmured beneath her breath, her eyelashes dipping in what looked to Tamika like a combination of weariness and relief. The nurse smiled, feeling a trifle awkward, not knowing either this woman or the situation well enough to adequately comment. "Well, here we are," she said, drawing to a halt outside one of the treatment rooms. "Your John Doe is behind the last curtain there." "Thank you," Agent Scully said. "No problem," Tamika assured her, their earlier confrontation all but forgotten. "I hope he's your man." Agent Scully smiled tightly, then nodded. "So do I." Intrigued despite herself, Tamika watched her, watched as the other woman crossed away from her and towards the far bed. She wasn't able to see the bed's occupant, not from her station near the door, but Agent Scully remained in view. Tamika saw how the other woman straightened her spine and squared her shoulders before beginning her short walk across the linoleum tile. She noted the way she paused just before reaching the opening of the curtain and wiped her palms against the sides of her coat, her hands seeming to tremble. In profile, she saw the agent's lips part and her eyes widen before she whispered, "Mulder? Mulder...is that you?" And she heard the unseen man reply in a voice that was wrinkled and worn as week old newsprint. "I don't...I'm sorry...Who are you?" * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter II "By the Wind Grieved" (2/13) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** "I don't...I'm sorry...Who are you?" The man in the bed looked up through bleary eyes. He was exhausted. And thirsty. And hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. The inside of his mouth tasted dry and rough, like it was lined with burlap. He suspected he might be drugged. It was hard to think, hard to see. No matter how intently he focused, everything appeared wrapped in gauze. And white. All around him was white. The bed linens, the curtain cocooning him, even the walls themselves. Blank. Sterile. Cold. All except her. The woman who spoke as if she knew him. With her bright head of auburn hair, she stood at the foot of his bed, glowing in the midst of all the chalky nothingness like a flame. Chilled despite the blankets covering him, the man wished he could reach out to her, draw her near and warm himself at her side. But that was out of the question. He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stretch out his hand. Then the woman moved, took a step or two closer, as if she had somehow sensed his yearning. She drew even with his waist, her coat draped around her, dark and full, concealing her body. So the man concentrated on her face. Her expression was gentle, yet pensive, her brow wrinkled with concern. She was pretty, this woman. Her eyes were blue. Vivid, summer sky blue. "I'm Scully," she told him softly, speaking slowly and carefully, as if the matter were of great import. "Dana Scully. Do you remember me, Mulder?" He wanted to, wanted to please her, this stranger who looked at him so kindly. He wished he could tell her what she so obviously longed to hear, to smooth the tiny crease between her worried eyes. But he so tired. Far too tired to lie. "No," he admitted in a whisper, his lashes drooping. She bit her lip and nodded. "That's okay," she said. "You've been through a lot. Why don't you get some rest? We'll talk more tomorrow." Tomorrow. She was coming back to see him. That was a good thing, he thought. Heartened by the notion, he closed his eyes. "'kay." She touched him as if to silently say good-bye, took his hand in hers and gave it a quick, firm squeeze. He was asleep before she had left the room. ***** Walter Skinner found the woman he was looking for curled over a cup of decaf in the hospital cafeteria. She was sitting alone, dressed in narrow black pants, white T-shirt, and a long, loose, gray v-neck. With it being well after midnight, the serving line was closed, but the room's vending machines shone brightly, wordlessly hawking their wares. A handful of other people sat scattered elsewhere around the room. "Agent Scully." Her eyes lifted from their contemplation of her coffee. Skinner could see her weariness reflected in them from twenty feet away. "Sir. Thank you for coming out so late." He pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. "How is he?" She moistened her mouth with her tongue. "His doctors haven't gotten all their test results back yet, but based on their initial findings, he appears to be in amazingly good shape. He looked a little thin, I thought. And he shows signs of mild exposure and shock. But for the most part...I'm hopeful." "That's good," Skinner said, his face splitting with a grin. "That's great. Excellent news." "Yes, well...there is one thing." She was watching her coffee again, studying the path made by her spoon as she absently swirled it round the cup. "And what would that one thing be?" he asked, leaning in, his arms folded atop the table. Scully didn't look at him at first. When she spoke she tried to smile as if the curving of her lips might somehow leaven what she had to say. "When I saw him...he didn't seem to recognize me." Skinner pulled back a touch in surprise, his eyes narrowed. "Well, maybe..." He hesitated to even raise the issue, hated to see this woman's dreams dashed when she had been disappointed so many times before. Yet he couldn't help but wonder, "Scully, are you sure this guy is really him?" Her head remained bowed. He was getting very familiar with the part of her hair. "We won't have a positive ID, of course, until we're able to check his fingerprints and DNA against the information on file. But based on visual identification alone..." Her eyes met his. "...yes, Sir. I'm sure." Skinner nodded, eyebrows raised like twin flags of surrender. Of course she was sure. She wouldn't have called him otherwise. And if this man had passed Scully's own personal muster, chances were good the fingerprints and DNA would check out as well. After all, no one knew Fox Mulder as well as his partner. "So what do you think is going on?" Skinner asked. "Was he just tired or could it be maybe that his mind has been somehow ...impaired?" Lips pressed thin, she shook her head and, tapping her spoon against the rim of the cup, set it on the table. "I don't know. He seemed kind of out of it when I spoke to him. The nurse said he had been conscious only intermittently since they'd found him. It's possible he just needs time...time to adjust." Skinner nodded, but couldn't help but hear his own doubts and fears echoed in Scully's husky voice. "Where is he now?" "They're moving him to his own room. The two agents you sent were standing watch when I left. I'm going to head back up there, I...um...I just needed a minute." His mouth lifting in a lop-sided smile, Skinner laid his large hand on top of Scully's far smaller one, hoping the gesture lent her some small measure of comfort. A minute. Christ. A year probably wouldn't be sufficient time for this woman to process all she had been through in the past six months. He didn't know how she did it sometimes, how she managed to hold together not only the X-Files, but her life. And that of her partner. She had done it on her own; Skinner had no illusions about that. No matter how often he had attempted to help, to offer emotional support, be a friend, he was politely, yet firmly turned away. Scully was more than willing to accept from him professional assistance--greater access to the Bureau's vast resources, introductions to his own network of contacts--but she drew the line at anything personal. He suspected it had been the same for others who had tried to get close. The toll such isolation had demanded had been high. Looking at her now, drinking from her largely untouched cup of coffee, he could see the cost staring back at him from across the table. While her middle was swollen large with child, Scully's face was pale and pinched, circles pooled beneath her eyes, hollows throwing her cheekbones into even greater relief. He knew the kinds of hours she had been putting in. Alone, because she had resisted any and all attempts to partner her with someone else. She had worked the cases she had been assigned, then had routinely put in what amounted to another day's labor searching for Mulder. All of this accomplished while another life matured inside her. God. He was exhausted just thinking about it. "Come on, Scully," Skinner said, pushing to his feet. "Let's check in on Mulder one last time, then I'll take you home." Her eyebrow arched. "I'm not going home, Sir." His lips thinned in exasperation. "Scully, you told me yourself Mulder was pretty much out of it. I'm sure he'll sleep through till morning. You can be back here before he wakes up." She didn't even blink. "I'm not going home." He didn't want to argue with her, didn't want her to expend the energy necessary to go head to head with him. Bracing his hands against the tabletop, he leaned down and spoke quietly, his voice as gentle as he could make it. "Dana, he's going to be okay. He's resting in a room protected by two armed guards. He's safe. He's home." Her eyes began to glisten suspiciously. "Sir,...knowing what you know...about Mulder and me...do you really believe I could leave him on his own again?" Unable to hold her liquid gaze, Skinner sighed and looked away, his own guilt over Mulder's disappearance destroying both his ability and desire to sway her. "No. No, I guess not." She nodded, her expression showing no pleasure in his acquiescence, and taking one last sip, set aside what remained of her decaf. Standing straight again, he smoothed a hand over his bald head and glanced towards the door. "If you're finished with your coffee, what do you say you and I take a walk?" Her brows lifted in surprise. "Where to?" "Upstairs," he said, checking his watch. 1:03. It was going to be a long night. "I'd like to get a look at our supposed prodigal son myself." "Okay," she said, levering herself awkwardly out of her chair. Skinner hesitated just an instant before reaching out his hand to help her. His hesitation, however, was enough to make the move unnecessary. She rose, seemingly belly first, without his assistance. Gathering up her cup and spoon, she crossed to the trash bin, tossed them inside and returned to him. "He's in room 417," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Skinner nodded and fell into step beside her, just barely resisting the impulse to take her arm, knowing the courtly gesture would be unwelcome. There were some things Dana Scully just needed to do on her own. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter III "By the Wind Grieved" (3/13 ) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** It wasn't the light filtering in through the room's blinds that awakened Scully. It was the sensation of someone else's eyes watching her. Pushing her tangled hair out of her lashes, she struggled to sit upright. Not an easy task given her present girth. She had fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning, slumped to the side in one the room's molded plastic armchairs, a spare pillow cushioning her head, her coat serving as a makeshift blanket. Despite her brave words to Skinner, she ached all the way up her spine, the pain most intense at her neck, which felt as if somehow during the night the muscles there had been tied in a series of macrame knots. Blinking away sleep, she directed her gaze towards the head of the room's single bed. The man she believed was Mulder sat there, propped against a mound of pillows, staring back at her. "You're awake," she croaked as she grabbed at the coat wadded in her lap, trying to keep it from slithering away and onto the floor. He nodded, his eyes shadowed and solemn. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "How do you feel?" At first, he said nothing. Then... "Better," he whispered hoarsely. Better than what, Scully wondered, looking at him with a mixture of wonder and dismay. True, his eyes seemed clearer than they had the night before and a touch of color had returned to his complexion. But his sharp cheekbones slashed his face, slicing through its usual boyish softness like razors; his hair was long and unkempt, his jaw and upper lip covered by beard. "He looks like Rip Van Winkle," Skinner had murmured when he had first laid eyes on him not all that many hours before. Yet, if this man was who she thought he was, he had been removed from his world not for years, but months. Only months. Not all that much has changed, has it, Mulder? Scully longed to ask. We're still who we were, aren't we? "I spoke to your doctors while you were resting," she said instead. "You seem to be responding well to treatment. They think you'll probably be up and around in no time." He just looked at her, a wariness she wasn't used to seeing from him, hardening his features. "What do you remember?" she queried softly, gently, determined to win his trust. Again, he said nothing, yet his eyes never relinquished their hold on hers. "Do you know your name?" she asked. He frowned and seemingly thought about it for a moment. "You said...last night," he rasped at last. "Miller...?" "Mulder," she said quietly. "Is that...my name?" he asked, his voice louder than hers, harsh, demanding. "Yes," she replied. "Yes, it is. Fox Mulder." "Fox Mulder," he echoed as if trying on the moniker for size. "Is it familiar to you?" she asked after a time. He held her gaze for a second longer before lowering his head and shaking it with remorse. "No." "It's okay--" she began soothingly. "No. No, it's not!" he suddenly growled, his eyes once more boring into hers. "I don't know who I am." The outpouring of words must have tickled something in his obviously parched throat. He began to cough then, almost immediately, gag. Wincing at the pained sound, Scully hoisted herself out of her seat as quickly as she was able and crossed to the bedside table to pour him a glass of water. Behind her, her coat puddled unnoticed on the floor. "Easy, easy now," she murmured, handing him the styrofoam cup. "Just take it easy." His eyes closed against their tearing, the man in the bed sat hunched over the glass, seemingly oblivious to her, taking small, careful sips. The water appeared to be doing its job. Slowly, he quieted. "You'll remember," Scully said as she watched him, just barely resisting the urge to comfort him with her touch. "You will. You just need to give yourself time." "How do you know?" he ground out, lifting his head. But before Scully could answer, all her would-be assurances wilted like blossoms under a dessert sun. His expression... Why was he looking at her like that? "Who are you?" he whispered, shrinking against the bed clothes, his eyes wide with a kind of dread. "What--?" she began, confused by his actions. "I told you. My name is Dana Scully." "No...not what I mean," he mumbled, shaking his head, his hands all but crushing the now empty cup. "What do you mean, then?" she asked, wondering at his sudden mood swings. Such shifts were to be expected, she supposed, given all he had no doubt been through. But that didn't make dealing with them any easier. "I don't understand. What's wrong?" "How do you know me?" he asked her, his gaze now averted, focused instead on his lap. "Who are we...?" "We're friends," she said, stepping closer. "We work together." "Friends," he echoed softly, as if he didn't quite believe her. "Yes." "And that's it....friends?" "Well, no. I mean...we're partners," she said, struggling to find a way to distill all Mulder and she had been through over the years into a simple line or two. "Partners?" he parroted weakly, his eyes lifting to hers before dropping to her middle. Swallowing hard, he paled and stared at the rounded expanse sheltering their unborn child. Scully's gaze followed his. Oh, she realized with dismay. I see. I get it. "Yes. We're partners, Mulder," she said, her voice determinedly calm and low, her hand resting now atop his shoulder. "We've worked together for years. You're my dear, dear friend." He gazed up at her for a breath or two, intent, his posture still and taut. "So, then this...?" Scully took a deep breath, hesitating just an instant before assuring him, "We're =friends=." Their eyes held for a moment or two more before the man she hoped was her partner dropped his head into his hands and expelled a long, shaky breath. "Oh, thank God....Thank God." Trying hard not to feel hurt by his fervent relief, Scully didn't notice at first the man framed in the room's doorway. "Agent Scully, may I have a word with you?" Assistant Director Skinner. Dressed in his tailored nine-to- five garb, the suit and trench coat a marked contrast to the previous evening's sweatshirt and jeans. Unable to read her superior's shuttered expression, she gently patted the bedridden man's shoulder in farewell and joined Skinner in the hallway. He immediately took her by the arm and, stepping past the room's two gun-toting agents, guided her away. "You want to tell me just what the hell that was all about?" Skinner muttered, practically dragging her down the corridor in his rush to put space between them and the mystery man. "What are you talking about?" she fired back, pulling herself free from his grasp. "What do you mean telling him that child isn't his?" he demanded, bending down to stage whisper the words into her face. "Why would you do such a thing?" "I fail to see how that's any concern of yours, Sir," she retorted, her nagging conscience lending a measure of belligerence to her tone. "Normally, I'd agree with you, Scully," he said. "What my agents do in their off-hours is their own business. "However, in this particular instance, things are different. With you and Mulder it all gets mixed up--personal, professional --maybe you can see where one ends and the other begins, but I sure as hell can't." "Either way--" "Scully, if that is Mulder in there, he deserves the truth," Skinner said swiftly, his tone gentling just a touch. "After all he's been through...anything less would be unfair. Especially from you. He's lost months of his life. According to what you've told me, his memory--" "Sir, how long were you standing there just now?" she queried softly. "Long enough," he replied. "Long enough to see the look of horror on his face when he thought perhaps this child might be his?" she asked, trying hard to ignore the tears she could feel pricking at the backs of her eyes. Skinner grimaced in sympathy. "Scully, I'm sure--" "I know he didn't do it to hurt me," she said wearily, looking away as she pushed her fingers through her still tousled hair. "In fact, I'm sure he didn't give his reaction any conscious thought at all." Skinner reached out and touched her gently on the arm. Scully wished he hadn't. It was so much harder to hold it all together when someone made an effort to be nice to her. "That man--whoever he is--is frightened and terribly confused. He's ill. He doesn't know who he is or where he's been. And he certainly doesn't know how the hell this baby or I fit into the picture." "That's still no reason to lie to him," Skinner said gruffly. "I didn't lie to him," Scully insisted, looking up at him once more. "Maybe not outright," Skinner admitted begrudgingly. "But there is a little thing known as 'the sin of omission'." "Don't you think I wanted to tell him, Sir?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. "To share this with him. Don't you think I would have told him everything if I could?" Seemingly unable to hold her gaze, Skinner studied instead the tile at his feet. "Scully--" "We don't even know for certain that man in there is him," she continued, striving for a reasonable tone. "My gut tells me that it is. And yet, I could be wrong. What point is there in discussing this at all until we know for sure?" Lips pressed thin, Skinner glanced up at her and nodded. "And besides--even if that is Mulder in that bed. He's not ready for it, Sir," she said with a sad, sure smile. "Believe me. That man in there is barely able to consider his own identity, let alone the responsibilities that identity may have waiting for him." "So what do you want to do?" he asked. Scully shrugged, one brow lifting in tandem with her shoulders. "First, confirm who he is. Then, we help him heal." "And if this guy is indeed Mulder, when during that process do you tell him he's a father?" "When he's ready." Skinner chuckled mirthlessly. "How do you plan on knowing when that is?" "I'll know." He shook his head, seemingly bemused. "You sound awfully sure of yourself, Scully." "Do I?" she queried with rueful surprise, allowing herself the luxury of leaning against the hallway wall for support. "Well, that's good to know." "How's that?" "Because, Sir," she said wryly, "I have never been less sure of myself in my entire life. And yet, the last thing that man in there needs is for me to show doubt, she thought to herself. About him. About me. About any of it. I need to be strong. For all of us. Strong, she repeated silently. I've got to be strong. For just a little while longer at least. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter IV "By the Wind Grieved" (4/13) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** The results came back from the lab in a matter of days, the process driven by the Assistant Director himself. The fingerprint analysis and DNA findings bore out Dana Scully's initial ID. The man who had been abandoned in Washington General's corridor was indeed none other than the previously missing Fox Mulder. One mystery solved. Yet so many others remained. Namely--at least, in the mind of a certain recently returned FBI agent--where the hell had he come from and where did he go from here? Some of the answers weren't all that long in coming. Without consciously meaning to, Mulder soon fell into a kind of routine with the woman he had come to accept as his partner. She visited him in the hospital everyday, sometimes more than once. Often, she would stop by in the morning on her way to work and then return in the early evening before she headed back home again. On the weekends, her presence was even more pronounced. She camped out in his room from breakfast until well after his dinner tray had been cleared. In the beginning, when he did little more than sleep the hours away, it seemed neither of them knew quite what to say to each other. Which wasn't exactly surprising, Mulder would later acknowledge to himself. After all, he had no history to draw upon with which to make conversation and Scully appeared too concerned with his well-being to do much more than sit beside his bed and murmur reassurances. For the first few days, he allowed it, allowed her to treat him like hand-blown glass. Precious, yet delicate, and far too easily broken. Soon, however, as his energy increased and a vague sense of himself began to form, it galled him that this tiny pregnant woman believed it her duty to protect him. He started to get angry. At himself, at the great gaping void that was his past. And at her, for knowing him better than he did himself. "Why are you the only one who visits me?" he asked a week into in his convalescence, his query voiced with a petulance he regretted but could not contain. "You and that bald guy." "Assistant Director Skinner," she clarified, seemingly set on ignoring his fit of pique. "He's our boss, the man we report to. As for anyone else dropping by...we've um...well, we haven't exactly publicized your return." Fears about his blasted safety again, he guessed. He knew he was being guarded, not only by this Scully woman but by the two armed behemoths patrolling outside his doorway. They had even installed a security system on his windows. As if anyone was going scale four floors just to get to him. "But my family...," he began, dismissing such a ridiculous idea. "You've at least told them, right?" At that, Scully looked away, and moistened her mouth with her tongue. "Mulder...I'm sorry," she said to a point somewhere near his left hip. "But I'm afraid there really isn't anyone to tell." "No one?" he asked, the revelation coming as a bit of a shock. He realized he was no longer a child, but surely he wasn't of so advanced an age that he had outlived the rest of his immediate circle. "What--I've got no mother or father? What about a brother or sister?" "Your father passed away several years ago; your mom, earlier this year. You had a sister...but she died when you were both in your teens." Hearing the unfortunate news, he fell silent for a time, chewing on his lower lip and staring sightlessly at the wall opposite his bed. "Do I have a wife?" he finally queried. "No." "Girlfriend?" She hesitated for an instant before saying softly, "No. You don't." He couldn't decide which was worse, the wave of loneliness that, at that moment, threatened to drown him or the pity he was certain would be waiting for him when he again met his partner's gaze. Closing his eyes against both, he drew up his knees and, balancing his elbows atop them, dropped his head into his hands. "Shit." "Mulder?" "How long did you say I was missing for?" he asked, scrubbing his now smooth cheeks with his palms. A few days before, he had let them shave him and cut his hair. The hospital barber had used his FBI badge as a guide. "How many months?" "Six. You disappeared last May." Chuckling without a trace of humor, he shot Scully a sideways glance, his temple resting wearily against his knee, his arms now looped around his calves. "Tell me I at least have a dog who noticed I was gone." With what looked like regret, she shook her head. "No dog. Fish." "Fish," he said with disdain, his eyebrows arching towards his hairline. "I've been taking care of them," she assured him. "You've ...or rather =I= have lost a couple, though. We'll need to take you shopping for more." "Fish," he said again, the word mumbled, his face once more pressed against his knees. "Who the hell keeps fish? They're not pets, they're accessories. Like lamps or ashtrays. What good are they?" "Given our lifestyle, I'm sure you--" "'Our lifestyle'?" he echoed, sitting back and twisting to face her more fully. "See...that's another thing I don't get." "What?" she asked, all calm and composed in her tailored wine-colored pant suit. It made him crazy how cool she was, how perpetually in control. But then, why wouldn't she be? he reasoned. After all, he was the one in the spotlight. The one everyone was watching, the odd one who had vanished only to reappear like some sequined magician's assistant. It wasn't fair. She was supposed to be his friend and yet it seemed whenever they were together, all she did was ask him questions, grilling him, like he had done something wrong... How do you feel, Mulder? Do you remember me, Mulder? Do you even know your fucking name, you stupid, stupid man? Screw that. Let's see how Agent Scully likes being on the receiving end for a change. "So, what does your husband think about all this?" "M-my husband?" she sputtered. Hmm. Judging by the look on her face, that little salvo caught her by surprise. Good. Mulder shrugged. "Husband, boyfriend...whatever. What does he think about you hanging out here all the time? Is he the jealous type?" Scully cleared her throat and sat up a bit straighter in her chair. "What makes you think I'm married?" He made a show of eyeing her up and down. "Well, you may not be wearing a ring," he conceded after a beat or two, his gaze slipping from her now flushed face to her prominently expanded middle. "But you certainly didn't get like that all on your own." "Mulder, I-I don't think...this is neither the time nor the place..." No question about it. He had struck a nerve. The auburn- haired agent was good and flustered. And angry. If looks could kill, he'd be dead ten times over. Wow, he thought. This was fun. "I mean...what's a guy to think?" he goaded, warming now to the game. "You sit here day after day, hour after hour, presumably to keep me company. You tell me we're only friends, yet =clearly= there is someone with whom you've been 'friendlier' in recent months. So, I've gotta wonder-- what's going on here--?" Moving clumsily, Scully pushed slowly to her feet. "Mulder, enough--" Only he wouldn't stop. Couldn't. All the frustration, all the anger he held towards his predicament and the nameless, faceless faction who were responsible for it finally had an outlet. A target. And, what do you know--it was even painted red. "Come on, Scully. Tell me the truth," he demanded with a sneer, leaning towards her now from his place amongst the bedclothes, his manner as aggressive as he could manage given his weakened state. "Am I the other man?" Lips pressed tight, she shook her head. "I'm not going to even--." Then, deciding to say no more, she stopped and turned away, her intention clearly to leave the field of play. Yet, Mulder couldn't help but get in a final parting shot. "Am I the other man, Scully?" he called after her, his voice insinuating and snide. "Or is he?" Scully had gotten all the way to the door, her heels tip-tapping smartly against the linoleum tile. The hour was late--at least, for hospital time--and in deference to their privacy, Skinner's bodyguards had allowed her to close the door. Her hand circled now around the knob. But rather than turning it and continuing her march to the hall beyond, she paused there, her head slightly bowed. "Y-you know, Mulder...you say you wonder if anyone noticed you were gone." She was sputtering again, speaking with the same strangled timbre which earlier had signaled her anger. Mulder sat there in his bed, paralyzed with an exhilarating mixture of anticipation and fear. Was she was going to return to the game, he wondered, would she whirl around and let him have it, eyes flashing, both barrels blazing? Part of him welcomed the idea, wanted to see this particular woman with a full head of steam, her usual composure melted away by the heat. Only, there wasn't a bit of him who yearned for what he got instead. When Dana Scully faced him once more, her posture straight, her stance strong. Tears shining in her stormy eyes. "I did," she told him. "I noticed. I missed you every minute of every day for the last six months." He didn't know what to say to that. All the words that had been pushing and shoving inside his mouth in their rush to be spoken had seemingly already been voiced. "Seven years we've been together, Mulder. For seven years, you've been my best friend," she continued quietly. "I've worked beside you, fought for you and with you, covering your back the same way you covered mine. We were a team. "Then one day you went into the field without me. You left me behind, and took Skinner in my place. Only...only he came back alone. He told me...he told me he had lost you. "Lost you," she repeated in a whisper, her shoulders lifting and falling in a forlorn little shrug. "Like a mitten or a shoe. I-I tried to find you. For months, I tried. But there weren't really any clues for me to follow and even with what I did know, I had no idea where to begin looking." Shamed, Mulder listened to her, regret finally urging one soft word past his lips. "Scully..." "So, I'm sorry if you feel trapped in this bed," she said, ignoring his entreaty, an errant tear escaping from between her lashes. "I'm sorry you're frustrated and confused and undoubtedly frightened by all that's been going on. "But I'm not sorry we've got you here safe and secure. You're back, Mulder. Finally. That's what's important to me. And if having that means I've got to put up with a few temper tantrums along the way...well, if you could remember anything about us, you'd know I've been through a hell of a lot worse." Wiping her cheek dry with a single, impatient swipe of her fingertips, she turned back towards the door. Only, he couldn't let her go. Not now. Not yet. "Scully," he tried again, this time a little louder than before. "Wait." "What?" she asked with a sigh, both hands wrapped around the knob this time, her face averted from his view. At a loss for what to say, but suddenly desperate to keep her there, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "When are you due?" She hesitated a moment, then looked over her shoulder at him. "January fourteenth." "A Capricorn," he said. "Really?" "Yeah," he assured her, although he couldn't fathom why he knew such a thing. "Just like Jesus." She stood there for a beat or two longer, still only partially turned towards him, her hair hiding much of her expression. "Good night, Mulder," she said at last, twisting her wrist and cracking open the door. "Scully?" he called again, stopping her before she could make her exit. "What?" she asked, now silhouetted in profile by the hallway light's glare. "Whoever he is, he's a lucky guy." The corners of her lips quirked. "Yes, he is," she agreed. She then pulled the door shut behind her, murmuring, "Luckier than he knows." * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter V "By the Wind Grieved" (5/13) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** Scully hated lying to him. It had been bad enough at the beginning, when he had been frail and whiskered and confused, so unlike the Mulder she had known. But as time passed and his strength returned, she found her deception increasingly difficult to maintain. The Fox Mulder she knew was back. Or so it seemed. Every day, she watched his personality develop, take shape before her eyes, its form familiar and sorely missed. She discovered, to her delight, that his intelligence remained intact, that his sense of humor was as droll as ever. He looked now just as he always had, his hair trimmed, his face shaven. He had even regained the weight he had lost, the junk food he had charmed her into smuggling past the nursing staff no doubt assisting in the effort. She spent every spare hour sitting by his bedside, talking to him, answering questions and calming his fears. Together they played board games and cards, watched television, and discussed the books and magazines she brought him. Stories were told; history was shared. Bit by bit, Scully relearned him, while at the same time, tutoring Mulder on her. She had to. Because while Mulder was now able to hold discourse on any number of subjects--from the Chaos Theory to Sandy Koufax's curve ball--he still had no knowledge whatsoever of his own life or any of the other lives that had touched it. Which was ultimately why, despite her grave misgivings, she yet refrained from telling him her child was his. This Mulder had no memory of their years together, she reasoned when she lie awake at night, twisting restlessly beneath the covers. He didn't know of their joint sacrifices and devotion, their triumphs and their trust. He couldn't even remember loving her. So how could she burden him with the responsibilities of that love? No. She would wait. Wait until he was better, until he was completely restored. And with any luck, that day wouldn't be all that long coming, she assured herself one December Sunday morning as she greeted the guards sipping coffee outside Mulder's hospital room. She had gotten the official word from his doctors. The latest round of test results were in. Aside from his highly selective case of amnesia, her partner had a clean bill of health. The psychologist assigned to the case recommended he continue with regular therapy sessions. Otherwise, his physicians saw no reason why he couldn't be released. Mulder didn't know it yet, but she had come to take him home. "Hey, Scully--am I into college football?" "I don't know," she said, entering the room and closing the door behind her. "Are you?" Mulder sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants, a heather gray henley, and floppy white socks. He had his glasses on and was surrounded by sections of the Washington Post. "That's just it. I don't know," he said, gesturing to the sports page. "I'm reading the paper and there's all this talk about the bowl games coming up--national championships and all that--and it means nothing to me. You said that... before...I liked sports. So shouldn't this...shouldn't I care who wins and who loses? I mean...shouldn't this interest me in some way?" She considered as she eased her coat from her shoulders. "Perhaps. But, honestly, Mulder, while it's true you followed sports, I don't recall you rooting for any particular college team." He frowned. "So, I =didn't= like football?" She shook her head. "I didn't say that. I just remember you being more into pro ball. Like the Redskins, for example." This seemed to perk him up. "I liked the Redskins?" "Well, they =are= the home team," she said with a smile. "But, yes, to answer your question, you were a fan. You even invited me to a game once." "I did?" he said, seemingly pleased at the revelation, his small smile mirroring her own. "What happened? Did we go?" Her smile fading slightly, Scully shook her head again. "No, we didn't. We couldn't. The case we were working on got in the way." "Too bad," he murmured with what sounded like real regret, his eyes drawn once more to the newsprint circling him. "Mulder, what's this all about?" she asked, crossing towards the bed, her coat folded over her arm. "What does it matter what team or even what sport you liked before? You're not bound by your past, you know, any more than anyone else is." "You're right," he said, gathering up the newspaper sections and stacking them in a ragged pile. "I have absolutely no ties to my past. That's the problem." "I didn't mean it like that--" "Don't you get it, Scully?" he asked, tossing the paper to the foot of the bed and swinging his legs around to sit facing her. "I've been meeting with my shrink every day for the past two weeks. We've tried talking it out, drawing it out, hypnosis--you name it. And I still can't remember a damned thing prior to waking up in this hospital. I don't know anything about myself. Nothing except what you've told me. I can't tell you my favorite food, what movie I saw last. I can remember how the game of football is played but I haven't a clue whether I cheer for Florida or Florida State. You tell me--how is that possible?" "I don't know. I don't know what's causing this. But I do know you can't rush the process," she said, reaching out her hand and laying it lightly on his shoulder. "You've got to give yourself time--" "I'm sick to death of time," he muttered, looking up at her from the edge of the mattress, his gaze hectic. "I have a seemingly endless supply of it, but nothing to do with it. Do you know what I do when you're not here, how I spend all my precious time? I read. I watch TV. I wait for some... something. A moment, an instant. Some flicker of a memory. But it never comes, Scully. It never does. So I look at the paper some more, I watch the news, I talk to the guys at the door. I fill my days with other people's lives, not my own." "Mulder...," she murmured, lifting her hand to skim it gently through the hair at his temple. The strands sifted between her fingers, silky and cool. "I know it's hard, but it's not going to be like this forever. You just need to be patient." With her touch, he bowed his head and sighed. "Shit. Oh, shit. Scully, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I swore to myself I wasn't going to do this again." "Do what again?" she asked, repeating the caress. He lifted his gaze to hers, his lips twisting with what appeared to be chagrin. "Be a selfish, ungrateful son of a bitch. Like I was before." She draped her coat over the foot board and sat down beside him. "Before what?" she asked. Removing his glasses, he closed his eyes once more and rubbed the lids with the heels of his hands. "Like that night... when I was such a bastard. I told myself I wasn't going to let that happen a second time." "And you haven't," she said with shrug. "Nothing happened here but a little venting, Mulder. That's all. Given all you've been through, I'd say you're entitled." He turned his head and peered at her through his lashes, his eyes now bleary and bloodshot from their massage. "I don't need to take it out on you, though." "Don't worry about it," she said, bumping companionably against his shoulder with her own. "I'm tougher than I look. Besides, that's what friends are for. To be a sounding board. You'd do the same for me." He looked at her for a breath or two, studying her face, his expression thoughtful. Then, setting his glasses aside, he reached over and captured her hand in his. Focusing on their clasped palms, he said quietly, "I would, you know. I would do that or anything else you asked. I owe you, Scully. I owe you a lot. Don't think I don't realize how much." All but hypnotized by his nearness, by Mulder's soft voice and the slow sweep of his thumb across her knuckles, she spoke in a hush, as if fearful anything louder might shatter the fragile mood. "Mulder, you don't owe me anything. I don't expect some sort of 'payment' from you. I'm here because I want to be here. Because I don't know where else I would be but with you." Her confession seemed to surprise him, and he hesitated an instant before asking shyly, "So does that mean you're going to continue coming to see me, even though the possibility exists I'm going to act like a jerk?" "Your being a jerk has nothing to do with it," she said, taking the opportunity to transition their conversation, to broach the main reason for her being there, "but I'm afraid I won't be coming to the hospital anymore." Mulder's look of panic made her instantly rue her wording. "What...why not?" Giving his hand what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze, she said, "Because you won't be here." He shook his head, clearly confused. "Why? Where will I be?" "Home," she said simply. "Home?" he echoed with a frown. "Yes," she said, taking hold of his other hand. "Your home, Mulder. Today's the day. I've spoken with your doctors. They see no reason to keep you here. The work that still needs to be done can be done on an outpatient basis. As far as they're concerned, you're free to go." He blinked at her. "I talked to Skinner. I know this probably wouldn't be your first choice, but he wants to keep the guards assigned to you," she went on, "at least initially. While we're getting you checked out of here, I'll have them do one last sweep of your apartment. We've been over it before, but you never know. I think it's better to be safe." Gnawing on his lower lip, he nodded, his gaze dropping away. Puzzled by his continued silence, Scully leaned in closer, her head cocked in question. "Mulder?" "Wow," he said breathlessly, his eyes yet evading hers. "Aren't you happy?" she asked, sitting back and releasing his hands. "I mean...I thought you'd be excited about this, about the opportunity to start living your life again." "What life?" he queried darkly. "The life I can't remember?" "You will," she assured him, tamping down all her own doubts and fears in the face of his. "You've got to believe that." He sighed and looked at her at last. "Scully, I can't even remember where I live." Smiling, she once more covered his hand with hers. "Lucky for you, I can." Reaching into her coat pocket, she grabbed hold of the key chain Mulder had once given her, and dangled the shiny ring between them. "And if you're nice to me, I'll even lend you my key." ***** Mulder didn't know what he expected when he entered his apartment for the first time. A part of him half suspected some crazed villain might be waiting there, his still unnamed kidnapper ready to greet them with a gun. Another hoped perhaps the space might spark something, a familiar smell or sight at long last urging some deeply buried memory to the surface. He was unprepared, however, for what did occur. Nothing. No images of the past floated to mind, no snippets of conversations long forgotten or moments frozen awaited retrieval. This place was to him like any other. Only colder and dustier than most, its rooms smelling of stale air and neglect. "We need to bump up the thermostat," his partner said from somewhere behind him. "I'd turned it down to try and conserve energy." He heard the door close and turned to face her. Scully looked back at him, dressed in her weekend get-up of stretch pants and sweater. While she met his gaze directly, Mulder saw in her eyes a kind of wariness. This was uncharted territory for them both and, despite her brave front, he could tell Scully was as nervous about it as he. Oddly enough, he found comfort in that. She didn't know what would happen now. Neither did he. "So this is the place, huh?" he said for want of anything better. "This is it," she confirmed. "If I haven't mentioned it before, thank you for keeping it for me," he said, setting down the small bag he had brought with him from the hospital. "I'll pay you back whatever I owe you." "I know," she said, crossing away from him to adjust the thermostat. "I'm not worried about the money." "I am," he admitted, sliding his arms free from his leather jacket and hanging it on an odd-looking coat rack just inside the door. "I don't even want to think about my hospital bills." "I wouldn't worry about that either," she said as she moved to the living room windows and drew open the blinds. Outside, the gray winter sky hung overhead with a gloom that matched Mulder's own. He wondered if he could make it any cheerier inside by flipping on a light. It was worth a try. "You'd be surprised what the FBI's health insurance will cover. Besides, you were working on a case when you went missing, all the proper paperwork filed and everything. As the investigation into your disappearance remained open all these months, you've continued to draw a salary. The paychecks should be piling up." "Great," he murmured absently as he wandered in her direction, taking in his surroundings. "Maybe I can afford to buy some new furniture then." Standing at his desk, Scully looked appalled at the notion. "Why would you want to buy new furniture?" He glanced again at the shelves, the prints, the chairs and tables--all functional, yet far from fashionable. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked. "I mean...look at this place. It's not exactly the lap of luxury." She shrugged. "I don't see anything wrong with it." "You don't see anything wrong with it?" he echoed. "Scully, open your eyes--it's a pit." "Mulder, it hasn't had anyone living in it for six months," she said reasonably, although the urgency with which she argued her point suggested she wasn't entirely disinterested. "The place is bound to look a little rough around the edges." "Maybe," he conceded, his lips pursed in thought. "I don't know, though. If nothing else, this couch has got to go." To his surprise, Scully stepped between him and the sofa, almost as if she thought to protect it from him. "You can't get rid of this couch." "Why not?" he asked, smiling, amused by her vehemence. "It's all beat up. Look at it--it's scratched and scuffed. It's even got a little tear here along the seam." "Mulder, you love this couch," she said, her arms folded firmly against her chest. "When I first met you, you slept on it practically every night." He looked down into her upturned face. "Why did I do that?" Thinking about it for a moment, she shook her head. "I don't know. Probably because you kept falling asleep while you were in the middle of things. You've always driven yourself pretty hard, but it was especially true back then. We had a lot going on. I don't think you cared where you laid your head." Mulling over that particular insight, he crossed back towards the entry hall, thinking he would check out the kitchen next. "What about you, Scully? You seem pretty driven, and yet I'll bet your place is more Martha Stewart than this." "Oh, I don't know about Martha Stewart," she said, trailing after him. "I'll admit, there was a time in my life when things like whether the curtains matched the rug were important to me. But... I don't really feel that way anymore." "You don't?" he queried, looking back at her, surprised yet pleased she was revealing something personal. Their conversations tended to revolve around him. It was a treat to hear her talk about herself instead. "That seems odd. Especially with the baby coming. Don't most women like to nest?" His mentioning the child appeared to make her uncomfortable. Frowning, she unbuttoned her coat, then removed it, draping it over a nearby chair, all the while avoiding his eyes. "It's funny you should say that. My mom has been bugging me.... I haven't even gotten a nursery together yet. No crib, no nothing." "Why?" he asked, standing across the dining room table from her. She shrugged, seemingly still self-conscious. "I don't know. I was focused on other things, I guess. I kept thinking I had time. You know? That I'd get to it sooner or later." "Tick-tick, Scully," he said with a smile. "You're getting close now. Better put Pampers on your Christmas list." He had expected a quick retort, a chuckle, or a perhaps only a smile. Instead, Scully said nothing at first. Rather, she stared at him, stared hard, a kind of wonder in her gaze. He had no idea what he had done to prompt such a reaction. Yet, he would have given anything to know its cause. He would have given anything to have her look at him that way again sometime. "I already got my Christmas gift, Mulder," she said at last, circling around the table to stand less than an arm's length away. "It just came a month early. That's all." She was looking at him with such feeling, such emotion, he couldn't speak. His throat felt suddenly thick, almost as if it were swollen with strep. He swallowed hard against it, but the words still wouldn't come. Scully didn't seem to notice. She too was silent now, her eyes bright amidst the shadows, her lips curved in a tremulous smile. Something was happening between them here, he thought, something important. He could sense it, but couldn't name it. It was all too new. This life, this woman... What had he done to prompt this? What had he said? What did she want from him? What would the old Mulder do? Thankfully, he didn't have to answer any of those questions. Scully found her voice first. "You don't need to say anything, Mulder," she told him calmly, almost as if she had read his mind. "I just want you to know... it's really good to have you back." "It's good to be back," he replied, her seeming calm somehow relaxing him as well. He might not fully understand what had just passed between them, but the certainty he saw in her made his own doubts seem silly and unnecessary. Whatever it was they had--friendship, partnership--it was good. That, he knew. He could trust it. And her. "Thank you for being the one to welcome me home." Smiling, she fell silent again and, opening her arms, stepped into his embrace. His eyes closing, Mulder clasped her to him carefully, mindful of her size and the life she sheltered inside her. She felt small against him and warm, her heat chasing away the apartment's stubborn chill. As they stood there, holding each other, he marveled at how quickly perception could change, at the speed with which a person could long for something they once had shunned. When he had first realized Scully was pregnant, that this woman who had appointed herself his guardian angel was with child, he had panicked. He had thought her concern was for him alone, that she had found him, slept by his bedside, armed and ready to defend him, because she cared for him, worried for =him=. Weak and confused, he had desperately needed that kind of strength, had relied upon it almost instantly. Without understanding why exactly, he was convinced this woman could help him. She knew him, after all, had called him by name. Yes. She would make sense of all the nonsense. He believed that. He had to. Until her coat dropped from her lap, and he saw his protector was only months away from giving birth. Then, an odd irrational fear took root inside him. What if Dana Scully had come to him with needs of her own? What if she was the one looking to him for support, for comfort? What if he was her baby's father? No, no. It was all too much. He couldn't be that man. Not just then. He had his own problems to deal with, he couldn't shoulder hers as well. Please, don't let the baby be mine, he had pleaded shamelessly to the heavens. Please, please, don't let it be mine. God may not have answered him directly, but Scully had responded readily enough. Her child belonged to another man, she had told him. They were merely friends. Just friends. The knowledge had soothed him then. How ironic that in recent days he had begun to yearn for something more. But then...who could blame him? he mused, his cheek nestled against her hair. Scully was a beautiful woman. Her body fit well with his, he noticed, even with her swollen tummy. He liked the way her head tucked neatly beneath his chin, how the base of her spine was positioned perfectly for his hand. She smelled of Ivory soap, warm womanly skin and the faintest hint of lavender, her subtle perfume wholesome, yet strangely erotic. He imagined for a moment what it might be like to wake up to that same smell on his pillow. If he wasn't careful, he could get used to this, he admitted to himself, breathing her in. He could grow accustomed to holding her, soft and supple in his arms. And wouldn't it be easy to want still more? a small voice needled inside his head. Don't you wonder what her lips might taste like, how her body would feel sliding hotly over yours? Aren't you curious what sounds she would make if you touched her just right? But that wasn't going to happen, he reminded the voice. None of it was. Much as he might be tempted to learn the answers to those and so many other questions he had regarding Dana Scully, the truth was she belonged to someone else. Her life was with a man whose name he had not yet even learned. It wasn't lack of curiosity that kept the information from him. He was dying to know just who this bozo was. But after the previous week's fiasco--the one where he had basically accused her of two-timing--he had made himself a vow to stay out of his partner's affairs. That was the least he owed her, especially after the way he had behaved. If she wanted to tell him about the father of her child, he would gladly listen. But he wasn't going to pry it out of her himself. After all, he had no idea how long her attentions would last. Sooner or later, he would lose her to this unknown rival, when their baby was born, if not before. He wanted to enjoy what time they had left together. For them to be the friends she had assured him they were. "Hey," he murmured now into her ear, searching for a friendly topic to help ease them apart. "I know I haven't been much of a host up to this point, but are you hungry? You probably haven't eaten since breakfast. Do you want to order food or something?" She slid her arms from around his waist and brought them up between their bodies so that her palms rested against his chest. "Actually, I'm not all that hungry," she murmured to his breastbone. "But I wouldn't mind something to drink. Do you want a cup of tea? I could make a pot. You usually keep some around." "Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice," he said with a smile. "But later, I'm thinking pizza. What do you say? My treat." "Sounds good," she said, stepping past him and into the kitchen. Reaching up, she pulled open a cabinet door and peered inside. "Just make it a large one. Thin crust. Onions, green peppers and extra cheese." His smile broadened as he backed away, watching her stand on tiptoe to root through his cupboards. He was just about to offer his assistance when she found what she was looking for --a battered box of herbal tea bags. "So it's true then what they say about pregnant women and their cravings, huh?" "Be thankful I don't have a taste for anchovies." Chuckling, Mulder grabbed his duffel bag and headed off in search of his bedroom. He found it and the bathroom next door without too much effort. It took him even less effort to put away his belongings. While he waited for the kettle to whistle, he poked around in his closets and dresser drawers. What he found there was encouraging. It seemed his taste in clothes was better than his decorating sense. All in all, his wardrobe wasn't half bad. Soon, however, he returned to Scully. She greeted him at the archway leading to his living room and handed him a mug of tea. "I put sugar in it," she said. "Though I wound up scraping the bottom of the bowl. We're going to have to take you grocery shopping, Mulder." He took a sip; the brew was hot, scorching his tongue. "I assumed as much. Grocery shopping and fish shopping-- I hope I don't get the two confused." She chuckled and, with her tea, strolled past him to take a seat on the couch. Mulder smiled at her choice, then sat down beside her. "You know, Scully, I'm beginning to think the one who 'loves' this couch is you, not me." He expected her to deny his playful accusation. But to his surprise, she did nothing of the kind. "You're absolutely right," she said, casting him a sideways glance over the rim of her mug. "I do. I have a lot of fond memories involving this couch." "Ooh. That's sounds interesting," he teased. "Anything juicy?" "Not in the way you mean," she retorted with a smile. "It's just that your couch has been witness to a lot of history between us. I'd hate to see it go." "What kind of history?" he asked, taking another careful sip of his tea. It tasted like what he imagined tree bark must taste like, woodsy and bitter. He couldn't imagine he had actually liked this stuff before. Maybe he had kept it around for her. "Oh, I don't know," Scully said, her hands cupped around her mug. "All sorts of things. A lot of it was work related, of course. Our discussing various cases, writing up reports, that sort of thing." "Sounds exciting," he drawled, setting the tea aside. "Some of it was fun, too," she said. "You introduced me to 'Caddyshack' on this couch, and 'Plan Nine from Outer Space'." "Ah, the classics," he murmured, somehow knowing these films, although he couldn't recall ever having seen them. "I've slept here," she admitted, "waiting for you to come back from whatever mess you'd gotten yourself into, furious that you had left me behind." "I had a habit of that?" he queried. "A nasty habit," she grimly assured him. "One I'm hoping you won't take up again." Abashed, he nodded, imagining the fierce dressing-downs he had no doubt received when he had returned from his misadventures. "I sat here with you, Mulder, after your mom had died," she continued. "We talked all night. You told me about your childhood, the Vineyard. I tried to make you smile by telling you stories about being a Navy brat. We were hoarse by the time Skinner came by the next morning." "I wish I could remember that," he said pensively. "I wish I could remember any of it." "I know you do," she said, laying her hand atop his arm in comfort. He sat there, enjoying her touch, yet at the same time so tired of the melancholy that had prompted it. So very tired. Enough was enough. Sighing, he pushed to his feet. "Hey, Scully. Let's go do something. Go grocery shopping or whatever. I need to get some air, I think. The walls are beginning to close in." Setting her half-finished tea beside his, she nodded. "Okay. There's a supermarket a couple of blocks from here. I'll phone the guys downstairs and tell them where we're going. We can take my car and they can follow us." Smiling at her easy acquiescence, he reached out and took her hand in his, pulling her up to stand beside him. She had just released his hand and stepped past him when he heard a sharp, hollow ping, then the crack of shattering glass. Before he could even wonder at the cause, Scully gasped, then stumbled, listing sideways into him. He caught her by the shoulders to stop her fall and was all set to tease her about her clumsiness when she looked up at him, her head lolling weakly against his chest. "Mulder, get down," she rasped, tugging at him, her gaze glassy, her voice pained. "Get down on the floor." He bent his head to ask her why and was astonished to see blood trickling from her hairline, staining her pale complexion red. "Scully!" he whispered, horrified. "Get down," she pleaded again, clinging to him. Another pane of glass splintered to pieces. This time, the bullet that had torn through it glanced off the coffee table inches from where they stood. "Shit!" Trembling with adrenaline and fear, Mulder finally did as Scully had instructed, cradling her against him as he pulled them both behind the arm of the couch and to the floor. "Scully...Scully? Oh, God. Where are you hurt?" he queried, leaning over her on the rug, his fingers probing gently at her scalp, searching for the wound. "Can you tell me where you're hurt?" "Scratch," she whispered, her eyes battling to stay open. "Just a scratch. Stay down, Mulder...stay down. There's a sniper--" "I know there's a sniper," he muttered, wincing as violently as she when he found what he had been seeking. Jesus. The gash hidden beneath her hair didn't look all that deep, but there was an awful lot of blood. "We've got to get you to a doctor." "No," she argued softly, her hand clutching at his sleeve. "Just wait....we need to wait. Gotta let the guys catch him first." The guys. That's right. His two bodyguards were outside in the car, supposedly keeping watch... ...while blood ran in a rivulet down the side of Scully's face. "Where's your cell phone?" he asked hoarsely, peeking out over the arm of the sofa. He couldn't see anything, but that didn't mean they were in the clear. "In my coat pocket," she mumbled, her lashes fluttering. Damn it. He was losing her. "Stay here," he said gruffly, squeezing her fingers tightly with his. "And try to stay awake. I'll be right back." "'kay." Jaw set, he turned and crawled on his belly to the dining room. No further shots rang out. Scully's coat was where she had left it, draped over a chair. Keeping low, he plunged his hand into one of the pockets and retrieved her phone. Stabbing wildly at the buttons, Mulder dialed the number he had learned just that morning. On the third ring, the agent known as Montrose answered. "Montrose here. Who is this?" "It's Mulder, you asshole. Where the hell are you? We're being shot at." "We're aware of that, Agent Mulder. Back-up has been called for, and Agent Renfrew and myself are in pursuit. Just sit tight and stay away from the windows." "It's a little late for that," Mulder growled. "Agent Scully has been hit. We need medical assistance immediately." "S'okay, Mulder," she called softly from the living room, her words slurred and slow. "I'm all right....not shot, just a scratch." "=Now=, Montrose," he insisted, Scully's faint assurances doing more to frighten him than anything else. He didn't like how distracted she sounded, how thin and reedy her voice had become. "You listening to me? You get the paramedics up here now." "Will do," the agent said before hanging up. Feeling marginally better for the exchange, Mulder scuttled back across the floor to his partner. They were going to be all right, he told himself. Even if he didn't know what the hell he was doing, the agents outside did. "I'm back, Scully," he murmured when he had reached her side. "Just like I promised. You take it easy now. Help is on the way." Only she didn't answer him. She just lie there, her eyes closed, her lips parted and blanched. Blood now matted her hair. She was unconscious. "Scully?" And all Mulder could do was hold her until the paramedics arrived. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter VI "By the Wind Grieved" (6/13) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** Dana Scully woke with a whopper of a headache. But as bad as she felt, Fox Mulder looked far worse. She had glimpsed his expression earlier, before coming to in the hospital treatment room. She had been loaded onto a gurney at his apartment and was being wheeled down the hall to the waiting elevator. Rocked side to side by the gentle motion, she had roused to the sensation of her fingers being all but crushed, seized in a warm, moist grip. Curious as to who was clinging to her so, she had raised her heavy lashes and seen Mulder trotting alongside the stretcher between the two paramedics, his worried eyes locked on her face. "Mulder," she had murmured dreamily, trying and failing to muster a smile for him. "Shh," he had said quietly, his attempt at a smile a shade more successful than hers. "It's okay. You're going to be fine. They're just taking you to the hospital to get checked out." "They catch him?" she had asked, her voice matching his in volume. "No," he had said, shaking his head. "No sign of the guy. Skinner has got agents out there now, though, canvassing the neighborhood. They'll find him." She hadn't had the heart to tell him just how unlikely that was. "S-stay with Montrose and Renfrew, Mulder," she had implored instead. "Don't...it's not safe. Not yet." He had seemed surprised by her admonishment. "Scully, don't worry about me. I'm fine. You're the one they're carting off to the hospital." They had reached the elevator. Moving into position, the paramedic at her feet had swiveled the gurney through the open door and Scully's world had spun with a sickening lurch. Her sight had wavered, then dimmed, promising a return to unconsciousness. Her breath shallow, she had struggled against the threatening oblivion, needing to tell Mulder just one more thing. "They were gunning for you, Mulder," she had insisted even as the edges of her vision began to speckle and darken. "Sir, if you could move out of the way, please," the paramedic near her head had requested. Softly, her fingers had slipped free from Mulder's hold. She had wanted to keep him with her, but couldn't seem to make her hand do her bidding. She couldn't even see him anymore. As if from nowhere, a dense gray fog had rolled in, filling the elevator car and stealing her sight. Still, she had known he had yet lingered nearby. Before the door had slid shut and darkness had claimed her fully, she had heard him whisper. "Yeah. But they hit you." Then nothing. Until now. Good Lord, the lights in here are bright, she silently noted, the observation her first upon awakening. She squinted against the overhead fluorescents, their glow nearly blinding in its power, and sharply turned her cheek to try and escape the fearsome glare. Unexpectedly, that small movement was enough to aggravate the wound above her left ear. The skin there pulled and burned, adding to the headache the lights had seemingly spawned. Moaning softly, she closed her eyes again and lightly fingered the dressing secreted in her hair, wondering just how serious her injury was. "Scully?" She knew that voice. Taking care not to make the same mistake twice, she pivoted her head slowly in its direction. Once there, she lifted her lashes a second time. Mulder sat beside her, hunched and miserable, his chair pulled close to the bed, her blood on his sweater. "Hi," she said, studying him. "How are you feeling?" he asked. She thought about it for a minute. "Like I got kicked in the head by a mule." His eyes flitted away from hers to focus on the floor. "Close enough." She wet her lips with her tongue. "Have you spoken to the doctors?" "Yes," he said, his face brightening just a touch. "You were right. It was just a scratch. Hell of a headache, I'm sure, but no concussion." She blinked rather than nodded. "What about the baby?" Mulder took her hand. But instead of holding it vice-like as before, he raised it to his lips. Scully watched, astonished, as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. "The baby is fine," he told her gruffly. "The doctors were concerned at first about your blood pressure, but that seems to have stabilized. You're going to walk out of here with a half dozen stitches, Scully, but it could have been worse. We were lucky." With that, he smiled, seemingly thankful for their fine fortune. She smiled back at him, thankful for that and a good deal more. Safe there in that bed with Mulder whole beside her, the months all at once melted away. Her partner and she had never been separated. She had never cried herself to sleep with fear and longing. Mulder had never had things stolen from him that others shouldn't even have had the right to touch. This was just another in a long line of hospital room conversations, another scary near-miss. Nothing they hadn't triumphed over before. But then, the man she loved whispered... "Do you want me to call him for you?" Scully frowned, jarred from her reverie. "Call who?" "The baby's father," he said just as quietly, her hand still clasped in his. The baby's father? Her eyes welled at his concern, at the way he was looking at her, his gaze troubled and intent. Oh God, Mulder. How could you believe I would want anyone else? "Y-you don't need to call him," she began hesitantly, wishing she had had more time to prepare an explanation. "He isn't--" "Agent Scully?" Instinctively, she stopped and turned her head towards this new, yet familiar speaker. Instantly, pain flashed from temple to temple, searing across her brow. It felt to her like no more than she deserved. "Sir?" she answered back weakly, her eyes narrowed against the ache. Assistant Director Skinner crossed into her line of vision, dressed in gray slacks and a black turtleneck, his trench coat covering both. "How are you holding up?" Gently, she pulled her hand free from Mulder's grasp, needing to put some distance between them. She couldn't touch him just then, could barely look him in the eye. "Not too bad, all things considered." Skinner nodded. "That's good to hear. I spoke briefly to your doctor on the way in. He'd like to keep you overnight for observation. However, I'm thinking we may need to get you out of here sooner than that." Pushing to his feet, Mulder stood and faced their superior. "With all due respect, Sir, it seems to me Scully's physician should be the one to make that call, not you." "Normally, I'd agree with you, Agent Mulder," Skinner said mildly, seemingly unmoved by the younger man's harsh tone. "Unfortunately, given what happened today it may not be safe for her here. For either of you." "What have you learned?" Scully asked, amused in spite of herself by the display of testosterone. "Not a whole hell of a lot," Skinner growled, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. "Which is why I think we should get the two of you someplace safe until we figure out what's going on." "There's no lead on the shooter?" Mulder asked in disbelief. Skinner shook his head. "Judging by the angle of the shots, we're guessing he was positioned on the roof of an apartment building across the street from yours. Our men have been up there, but they've found no footprints or shell casings to confirm our suspicions. We have agents going house to house, but I'm won't be surprised if they come up empty." "They won't find anything," Scully murmured, pressing her fingers to her temples in the hope it might alleviate the pounding there. "The guy was a professional." "I agree," Skinner said. "I just wish I knew who hired him. And why he waited until Mulder was discharged from the hospital before he came after him." "Wait a minute," Mulder demanded. "Why is everyone so sure it was me he was firing at? Scully was the one who was hit." "Only because I stepped in front of you," Scully reminded him. "Besides, if someone wanted me dead, they would have tried something long before now. Why wait until you returned?" "Why return me at all if they want me out of the picture?" Mulder countered, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. "If they wanted to kill me, when didn't they do it when they had the chance?" "Mulder, over the years you and I have made enemies, not all of whom have the same agenda. It's possible that one faction may have been responsible for your kidnapping, while another might be behind today's shooting." As if dumb struck, Mulder stared at her for a beat or two, his mouth hard. Finally, he shook his head. "Shit," he spat, his fingers combing roughly through his hair. "I am next to useless like this." "What are you talking about?" Skinner asked. "What do you think I'm talked about?" Mulder said, dropping his arms. "My God. A bullet was fired through my window today, and I didn't have the presence of mind to hit the deck until Scully told me to. She could have been killed because of me. We both could have." "Mulder, you can't blame yourself--," Scully began, stretching out her hand to him. He ignored her entreaty, choosing to pace instead. "Then who the hell should I blame, Scully--you? We're supposed to be partners in this and yet I can't even remember how to load a gun, let alone fire one." "No one expects you to," Skinner said reasonably. "None of this is your fault, Mulder." "Of course it is," he argued, whirling to face them both. "You said so yourself. I'm the target. And anyone who gets near me is going to be at risk. Christ, I'm a danger to everyone I come in contact with. The best thing I could do would be to disappear all over again." "No!" Scully cried. She had been sitting there, listening, doing her best to be patient. She understood that, as before, Mulder needed to vent, to release some of the fear and guilt he had no doubt been feeling since the shooting. But all patience dissolved at the thought of him vanishing again, leaving her alone... She struggled to sit upright, to raise herself from her current angled position. But with the baby and her aching head, she didn't get very far. She managed only to lift her shoulders from the pillow when the room began to dip and twirl. Moaning in frustration, she wilted sideways. "Whoa," Mulder murmured in her ear. She didn't know how he had managed it, she hadn't seen him move. But somehow he had caught her, his arms holding her strong and fast. "Take it easy, Scully. Take it easy. I'm not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway." "Not ever," she said fiercely, her lashes drooping against the dizziness, her cheek resting high now on his chest. "I'm not going to lose you again, Mulder." Their faces were close, their voices hushed, Skinner's presence forgotten in the heat of their exchange. "I'm only thinking of you," Mulder insisted, tenderly brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You and the baby. It's not safe for you to have me around." "Just because you're the one they want doesn't mean the baby and I aren't targets too," Scully said, her vertigo gradually subsiding. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "Mulder, our separating doesn't necessarily guarantee my safety," she said. "They can use me against you, as a hostage... or worse." "Or worse?" he echoed. "They've done it before," Skinner said quietly from the foot of the bed. "Scully was...taken herself. To punish you, we believed. She was missing for months. She came back so sick from whatever it was they had done to her, we didn't know for certain she'd pull through." Mulder glared at first one, then the other of them, as if demanding they take the revelation back. "It's true," she murmured softly, lifting her hand to his face in a kind of mute consolation. "Jesus," he muttered finally, easing Scully away from him and lowering her gently back onto the pillow. "Mulder, we need to stick together," she said stubbornly, grabbing hold of his ruined sweater before he could walk away, her fingers clinging to its hem. "It's the only chance we have. Please. You have to trust me on this." For the longest time, Mulder stood motionless, his eyes averted from view. At last, he spoke, his head still lowered. "All right, Scully. We'll do it your way. Only you have to trust me too." "What are you talking about?" she asked, her hand falling away. "I need to know what we're up against," he said, his gaze now meeting hers, sure and resolute. "No more trying to protect me. No more telling me only what you think I need to hear." "I haven't--," she protested. Even though she had. "Look--I'm not trying to point fingers here," Mulder said, cutting her off. "I'm sure you had your reasons. But, frankly, those reasons aren't good enough anymore. There's too much at stake. Like it or not, you need me, Scully. And I'm no good to you the way I am." She couldn't argue with that, not with any of it. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "All right, Mulder. You have yourself a deal. Just what exactly do you want to know?" "All of it," he said flatly. "I need to know everything you and I have been through over the past eight years." "Then you need to know about the X-Files," she replied. He nodded. "You've told me they're made up largely of unsolved cases, cases other departments have passed on." "That's true," Skinner offered. "Only these particular cases often have...unusual elements to them." "Unusual how?" Mulder queried. "Mostly supernatural or extraterrestrial," Scully murmured, watching closely for his reaction. Mulder took the news better than she had anticipated. He simply pondered it for a moment, his hands on his hips, his brow furrowed. "So are you telling me we've got aliens after us?" "More likely alien collaborators," she said with a wry smile. He stared at her. "I don't suppose you've got documentation on any of this?" "Files and files of it," she assured him. "Shit," he said heartily, turning away from her to stride towards the window, then back again, his hand rubbing slowly over his mouth and chin. "Sounds to me like I've got some reading to do." ***** Upon hearing Skinner's plan, Mulder realized he would have more than enough time to get that reading done. "I already have a car and a team of agents waiting," the A.D. said. "As soon as we can get Scully squared away, I want to get you two out of here." "Will we be going to a Bureau safe house, Sir?" Scully inquired. "No. Given what's happened, I don't trust there aren't leaks within the FBI itself." "Our own people are against us?" Mulder asked. "There have been instances in the past where that has been the case," Skinner explained with some measure of regret. Mulder could only shake his head. Aliens, alien collaborators, ghosts, goblins--God only knew what else. Was there anyone who wasn't after him? "I have a friend who owns a vacation home in northern Pennsylvania," Skinner continued. "I've visited there several times over the years and am familiar with the house itself and the parcel of land it stands on. I've spoken to this friend and he is willing to let us borrow it indefinitely." "Where is it exactly?" Scully asked. "The property is part of the Allegheny National Forest. It's pretty isolated up there, not a lot of people--especially during winter. But there's only one access road to the place and the sight lines from the house to the surrounding woods are good. All in all, it should be easy to defend." "Against who?" Mulder muttered, almost to himself. "Or what?" "I don't know," Skinner admitted. "Not yet. That's why I want you two tucked away somewhere safe. The property actually has two sets of living quarters--the main lodge and a smaller guest cottage down the drive. You two will take the big house, Montrose and Renfrew will be in the cottage. They'll rotate with two more sets of agents who will patrol the perimeter." "Sir, what about Agent Scully?" Mulder asked, glancing in her direction. "What about me?" the small redhead murmured, glancing back. "Well...how isolated is it exactly?" Mulder queried. "I mean ...she's close to her due date now. If anything should happen..." "You'll be about 30 miles outside of Brookville," Skinner said. "They have a small, but fully equipped hospital. If the situation should arise, the agents on duty will be able to get Scully whatever care she needs without too much trouble." "Besides, Mulder, I'm more than six weeks out," Scully assured him. "I can't imagine we'll be hidden away up there anywhere near that long." With a smile, she looked to Skinner for confirmation. The Assistant Director looked back, saying nothing one way or another. Feeling like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas--after his heart had expanded to its proper size--Mulder watched as Scully's smile faded. He was certain she had no idea just how much her face gave away. Damn. Because of him, not only would the poor woman be away from her child's father at this crucial time, but she would quite possibly miss spending the holidays with her family as well. "Sorry about all this, Scully," Mulder mumbled. "Don't be silly," she said with a determinedly upbeat tone of voice, one Mulder didn't entirely buy. "It's the only way." Perhaps. But that didn't stop him from feeling badly about it just the same. Once the plan had been laid out, matters moved with impressive speed. Agents known and trusted by Skinner were dispatched to both Mulder and Scully's apartments to pack them bags. Others were sent ahead to the house to stock it with supplies and ready it for occupancy. Mulder didn't know what the hell kinds of strings Skinner was pulling to make it all happen, but he couldn't help but admire the big man's efficiency. In the midst of this whirlwind of activity, it was Scully herself who remembered the most important provision of all. "You sure you're really ready to go through the files, Mulder?" she asked, propped against the pillows. "Yes," he said. "I am." "Well, in that case...Sir, back when we had the basement fire, Agent Mulder made digital copies of whatever files we could salvage," she said to Skinner and Mulder both. "He wanted backups in case, God forbid, something like that happened again. I have a set of copies in my safety deposit box. I believe Agent Mulder keeps his in a similar place. A third set is stored with the Lone Gunmen. It seems to me that, given the circumstances, theirs would be the easiest to retrieve." "The Lone Gunmen?" Mulder echoed, wondering just who in the world these particular shooters might be. "They're friends of yours," Scully explained. "Of both of ours, actually. Among other things, they're conspiracy theorists. The three of them publish a magazine with that title." "If they're friends, why haven't I met them?" Mulder asked. Scully grimaced with chagrin. "That's my fault. They know you're back, but I had asked them to hold off visiting until things got more ...settled. Their...enthusiasm can be a bit overwhelming at times." "I'll pick the files up myself," Skinner said. "Just do me a favor and call the Gunmen first, let them know I'm coming. I don't want to show up at their door unannounced. I don't think they trust me." "I wouldn't take it personally," Scully said with a wry smile. It wasn't long before Montrose delivered their suitcases. Excusing himself, Mulder stepped out of the room to change, allowing Scully the chance to get dressed herself. When he returned, clad now in a clean pair of jeans and sweater, she was with her physician, Dr. Talcott, signing her release papers. "Can you give her anything for the pain?" Mulder queried, even though he recognized it really wasn't his place to ask. "I'm sorry. But with the baby, I can't really prescribe anything more powerful than Tylenol," Talcott said with regret. "And even those need to be restricted in terms of dosage." "Don't worry, Mulder," Scully said, sitting dressed and woozy on the side of her bed. "I'll be all right. I just need to get some sleep. That's all." "Might as well do that in the car," Skinner said, choosing that moment to enter the room. "It's going to be a five or six hour drive. You won't get in until well after midnight." "Great," Scully said without enthusiasm, her eyes closing wearily. "Best of luck, to all of you. I'll have an orderly bring a wheelchair around for Dr. Scully," Talcott said, exiting with his clipboard under his arm. "That's not necessary," Scully called after him, eyes snapping open. Without waiting for assistance, she began to scoot to the edge of the mattress. "A wheelchair would be fine," Mulder said, crossing to her and placing a heavy hand on her shoulder, effectively keeping her seated. Scully looked up at him with annoyance. "When did you get to be so bossy?" "I'm just doing what you would do for me," he assured her. "Oh, I see," she grumbled. "Pay back, huh?" "Not at all," he argued, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "I'm looking out for you. That's all." "Mulder, I'm fine," she insisted with a sigh. "Scully, you have stitches in your head because =a bullet hit it=," he said slowly and sternly. "You have admitted to me you have a headache, you haven't eaten since this morning, and you're nearly eight months pregnant. For God's sake--let the guy wheel you to the door!" "I'll be waiting outside," Skinner said, ducking out of the room, a small smile softening his mouth's firm line. Neither acknowledged the other man's departure. Scully sat there, eyeing Mulder through her lashes, her expression unreadable. Much as he believed he was doing the right thing, Mulder couldn't help but worry he had in some way overstepped his bounds, behaved in a way counter to what he once might have in the past. Finally, Scully spoke, her voice scraping the bottom of her register. "So...you're looking out for me?" He shrugged, then lifted his hand and tucked a few flyaway strands of auburn hair behind her ear, feeling oddly embarrassed as the object of her scrutiny. "Trying to, anyway." She hesitated a moment more before saying, "Thank you." His hand faltered, his fingers still twined in her hair. "For what?" "For taking care of me," she said softly. "It's been a long time since anyone has done that for me. I'd forgotten what it felt like." A long time since anyone had taken care of her? A woman like Scully, someone who was weeks away from giving birth? Just who was this idiot she was seeing? "It's the least I can do," he said lightly, sliding his fingertips one last time over her tousled hair. "Especially now that we're going to be roomies." "Are you okay with that?" she queried, a frown creasing her forehead. "With all of it? A lot has happened today. How are you doing?" Chuckling ruefully, he shook his head. "Honestly? I don't think it's clicked yet. You know? None of it feels real." "I'm not surprised," she said gently. "The things you've heard...it all must seem pretty incredible." "To put it mildly," he said dryly. "It'll probably seem even weirder when you go through the case files," she warned. "The things you're going to read about, Mulder...it may be difficult for you to take in." "Is that why we haven't talked about it before now?" he queried, already knowing the answer. "Yes," she said, her eyes dipping guiltily from his. "I'm sorry for that, for keeping things from you. I only did it because..." "You wanted to take care of me?" "Yes." He looked down at her from where he stood. Scully sat, clearly exhausted, pale, circles beneath her eyes, specks of dried blood clinging to her hairline. "Funny how that works, isn't it?" he murmured, although, at that moment, amusement was in no way what he felt. Rather, a kind of resolve flowed through him instead. Resolve tempered by fear. Scully had seven years of friendship to draw upon when it came to him, seven years of memories binding her to his side. By comparison, he had enjoyed scant weeks in her company, less than a month total for him to forge a bond. Yet, in the end, what did time really matter? It could have been only minutes they had shared and yet he would still feel the same pull, the same affection, the same trust. He was sure of it. He cared deeply what happened to Dana Scully, to her and her unborn child. Their welfare had quickly become as much his responsibility as it was anyone else's. And he would do whatever he had to do to keep them both safe. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter VII "By the Wind Grieved" (7/13) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** The car Skinner had spoken of was, in fact, a van, made for situations just like theirs. Navy blue in color with Virginia plates, tinted windows, and plenty of cargo room in back, it had been designed to be as nondescript as possible. But in case the whole incognito thing didn't work out, the windows, windshield, side and back panels were bulletproof. It was like driving in a tank made by Ford, complete with cup holders and an in-dash AM/FM cassette stereo. Behind the driver and co-pilot bucket seats was a single upholstered bench. Agents Montrose and Renfrew climbed in front while Mulder guided Scully inside with a hand to her elbow. "Upsy-daisy, Scully. Watch your head." Moving slowly, she settled on the far end of the bench. Mulder sat beside her. With the last of the gear stowed in back, Skinner stuck his head in through the open side door. "I'm going over to Gunmen's to pick up the files and then I'll stop by your place, Scully, to get your laptop. From there I'll head out and meet you two later at the house. Is there anything else you think you might need?" "Sir, you'll have to borrow a zip drive from the Gunmen too. My computer isn't equipped with one," Scully said from her seat near the window. "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure they have one lying around somewhere," he said, hand braced against the edge of the door. "I guess that's it, then. Have a safe trip. I'll see you both there." But before the A.D. could step away, Scully called out, "Oh, Sir! There is one more thing." "What?" he asked, turning back. "I don't know if you want to take them with you or what, but...would you mind feeding Mulder's fish?" Skinner's jaw worked from side to side before he answered with a sharp bob of his head. "Okay." "Thanks." Mulder murmured with a smile, the notion of his no-nonsense boss fish-sitting amusing him somehow. "Don't mention it," Skinner growled, grabbing hold of the door handle. The noise the door made sliding shut muffled the sound of Mulder's laughter. Turning the key in the ignition, Renfrew started the engine. Adjusting his seat, Montrose glanced over his shoulder at Mulder and Scully, the African-American agent's eyes shining almost black in the shadows. "You two think you can sleep if I turn the radio on?" Scully smiled wanly. "I can't speak for Agent Mulder, but I could probably sleep through just about anything right now." "Go for it," Mulder told him, watching as Scully removed her coat and began folding it into a neat little square. "Just stay away from easy listening and Rush Limbaugh, okay?" The big man chuckled. "How do the blues sound? There's an all-night program I like to try and catch. I'll keep the volume low." "Sounds good. I could go for a little Buddy Guy." With Montrose searching the FM band, the van pulled out of the hospital drive. Shrugging out of his jacket, Mulder looked to his left and saw Scully trying to wedge her coat between her chin and the window. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Pillow," she said, gesturing to the fast wrinkling trench. Poor Scully, he thought fondly. Exhaustion had reduced her to caveman speak. She couldn't hide the fatigue in her eyes, the slump of her shoulders. The day had taken its toll. Mulder thought he might be able to do something about that. "Come here, Scully," he said with a smile. "I've got a better idea." "What?" Reaching across her body, he took the coat from her hands and placed it on his thigh. "Lay your head down," he said, patting his leg in what he hoped was an inviting fashion. "You're not going to get any quality sleep propped up against the glass like that." Her gaze flitted from his lap to his face and back again. "Aren't you tired?" she queried, clearly tempted, yet not entirely convinced. He shook his head. "Nah. I'm too wired to sleep. You go ahead, though. Stretch out, get comfortable." She hesitated for a half second more before saying softly, "Thanks, Mulder." Swinging her legs up onto the seat, she turned sideways and laid her head gingerly on his leg. "Oh. Hang on a minute," he said before she was entirely settled. Scully started to rise, only to have Mulder lay a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "No. It's okay. Just let me do this." Taking his jacket, he draped it on her like a blanket. "Mulder, you'll need this," Scully protested as he covered her. "No, I won't," he assured her, arranging the black leather over her. "I'm wearing a wool sweater and Renfrew up there has already got the heat cranking. I'll be fine." Turning her head, she peered up at him, the smallest smile shaping her mouth, her cheek inches from his crotch. God help him. Mulder knew it was wrong. Scully was his friend. But with the picture she presented, sleepy and sweet, and near, so very near to a rather responsive part of his anatomy, he couldn't stop his thoughts from turning ...somewhat more than friendly. "You're sure?" she asked him, her voice throaty and low, its husky alto feeding all those pesky impure musings. Focus, Mulder, he coached himself. Focus. Now what were they talking about? "I'm sure," he mumbled at last. "Go to sleep." She looked at him a moment longer, then sighed with what Mulder thought, to his surprise, was a kind of contentment and laid her head back on his thigh. "'Night, Mulder," she murmured in a hush. "Good night, Scully," he said just as quietly, resting his hand on what he judged to be neutral territory, her shoulder. They were speeding towards the Beltway now, Ruth Brown on the radio, Renfrew and Montrose chatting softly from time to time up in front. It was dark inside the van, the dashboard instruments the only light. Alone in the back with Scully curled up beside him, warm and still, the mood was intimate, reflective. Releasing a long, slow breath, Mulder watched the asphalt roll beneath their tires and tried to make sense of it all. Hell of a day, he thought. No other way to put it. Talk about your highs and lows. And revelations, don't forget revelations. Who knew he was an honest-to-God Man in Black, an alien hunter? And here he had been thinking he was basically a federal cop, handling kidnapping, drug busts, that sort of thing. Elliot Ness without the fedora and bathtub gin. It would all be too absurd, too crazy to be believed if it wasn't for Scully. She gave the whole thing credibility. She was a doctor, after all, a scientist. If she gave credence to the work, their investigations had to be some basis in fact, some evidence her wonderfully rational mind couldn't ignore. And what exactly was that work? Part of him couldn't wait to get his hands on the files Skinner was busy retrieving, to learn precisely how he had spent the last several years of his professional life. With any luck, the information in those records would be the key to unlocking his past. How could it not? Scully had told him more than once that the X-Files had been his obsession. If they couldn't jump-start his memory, he didn't know what would. But another part of him worried about what he might find on those discs, afraid the data stored there might reveal a life he wasn't ready for, make demands he wasn't prepared to meet. It wasn't the supposed supernatural bent of their investigations that bothered him. Oddly enough, he was more intrigued by the notion than fearful. With no history of his own, he had no prejudices to color his perceptions. He was open to the possibilities. He wasn't so naive as to think that what Scully and he did was by any measure "normal." But he also didn't see how the exotic nature of the work automatically cheapened it or made it any less valid. What concerned him more was the idea that his existence to this point had apparently been subjugated by these files, that he had put on hold any sort of private life to chase creatures from both Earth and beyond. While he hadn't been able to draw from her many details, Scully had explained that he had viewed their work as personal, motivated in the beginning by his desire to find his missing sister. That was all well and good, he supposed. One might even label it a noble quest. But...he couldn't even remember that sister or her tragic disappearance, an event that had seemingly shaped his life from an early age. Without that loss, that need, to drive him forward, Mulder wondered just how motivated he would be to keep on as before, the X-Files his all-consuming passion. The woman resting beside him shifted in his lap. Her head heavy against his leg, he judged she was already asleep, his conclusion confirmed a moment later when she nuzzled his thigh with her cheek. No way would she have done that awake. Smiling, Mulder lifted his hand and slid it softly through her hair. She sighed, her eyes darting beneath their lids. Watching her dream, he did it again. The strands were tangled but soft. Carefully, he combed through the matted silkiness, separating pieces with his fingertips. There was Scully to consider, too. If he were to go back to work in the basement, he would get to continue working with her. Or he thought he would. They really hadn't discussed her plans after the baby was born. Given what he knew of her, he would be surprised if she chose to give up her career in favor of raising a child. Of course, he really had no sense at all about the man in her life. For as generous as she was about most things, Scully could be remarkably stingy with information about her significant other. Even tonight, when he had inquired as to whether she had been able to get hold of the man to let him know what was going on, all she said was, "I spoke to him. He knows where I am." Mulder had no idea if he was tall or short, old or young; he didn't even know what the man did for a living. None of that should have mattered--after all, he wasn't the one involved with the guy. But, like it or not, his curiosity was slowly eating away at his complacency. Mulder wanted to know who the hell he was. He wanted to be able to put a face on the lucky bastard. He wanted to know what kind of man he would have needed to be to win Dana Scully's heart. ***** Scully was awakened to Mulder brushing his knuckles softly against her cheek. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead," he whispered, his mouth hovering above her ear. "We're here." She started, then stilled, remembering where she was and who she was with. She opened her eyes, but couldn't see much from where she rested. It was still dark outside. "What time is it?" she mumbled, pushing awkwardly to her elbows. Mulder's large hands gripped her gently by her upper arms and helped her the rest of the way up "About quarter after three," he said, reaching out and tucking a fall of hair behind her ear. "You slept straight through. How you feeling?" She captured a yawn before answering. "Better, I think. My head doesn't hurt as much. I'm still kind of tired, though." Mulder smiled. "Lucky for you the night life around here sucks. You can crash out and not miss a thing." With that, the two rear doors swung open. Scully turned and looked over her shoulder. Agent Renfrew stood at the back of the van, his craggy face thrown into harsh relief by the cargo hold light. Just behind him she could make out Montrose's linebacker silhouette. "Agent Mulder, if you want to help Agent Scully into the house, we can take care of your bags and the rest of this stuff," Renfrew said. "Thanks, guys," Mulder said before she could object. "Is the door open?" "Just unlocked it myself," Montrose said, stepping forward, a suitcase already in his hand. "Come on, Scully," Mulder said, stretching to the right to throw wide the van's sliding side door. "Let's get you to bed." Drowsy and stiff from her long nap, the persistent pain at her temples beating in time with her heart, Scully decided to allow her partner's coddling. It had been a tough day. If Mulder wanted to tuck her in, who was she to object? Scooting along the seat, she reached for his hands and let him guide her to the ground below. It was colder outside than she had anticipated. Ice crunched beneath their feet and a light dusting of snow coated the ground. She was glad they had each taken the time to put back on their coats. "The radio said a storm is on the way," Mulder reported, his breath expelling from his mouth in fluffy clouds of white. "We're supposed to get anywhere from four to six inches by tomorrow night." "Looks like we got in just in time," she said as they made their ways to the stairs, Mulder's arm locked around her shoulders, hers around his waist. The change in weather surprised her. It had been mild when they had left the D.C. area. The only light available came from the inside of the van and the steps were slick with nearly invisible patches of ice. Just to be safe, they took it slowly, Mulder hanging on to the railing while she hung on to him. With night and the whipping wind impeding her vision, it was difficult for her to get a sense of what the house looked like. All she could tell was that it was big, two-stories, and covered with what appeared to be cedar shingles. "Here we are," Mulder said, holding the front door open for her. Scully stamped her feet free of what snow she could and entered, Mulder followed close behind. Once inside, he closed the door and began feeling along the wall with his hand. "Where the hell is the switch?" A second later, he found it. A simple flick and suddenly the entryway was flooded with light. Narrowing her eyes against it, Scully had to bite back a moan. No question about it--her headache was better, but not entirely gone. "Hey, this place isn't half bad," Mulder said from somewhere off to the side. Eyes now adjusted to the light, she took a moment to look around. Mulder was right. "Not bad at all," she agreed. If they had to be holed up somewhere, they could do a lot worse than this. From where they stood, she could see a central staircase basically divided the house in two. To their right was the kitchen and dining room, a breakfast bar separating one from the other. To their left was the living room, complete with fireplace and big screen TV and a hall which looked like it might lead to another room or two in back. Whoever owned the house had decorated in Eddie Bauer casual. The furniture looked rough hewn, but well-crafted. The sofa was overstuffed and piled with throw pillows; the tables and chairs were made from honey-colored oak. Braided rag rugs dotted the gleaming hardwood floors; the knotty paneled walls were hung with landscapes and dried flower arrangements. The atmosphere was homey and welcoming, not at all like a typical safe house. From outside, Scully could hear footsteps on the stairs. Opening the front door, she saw Renfrew and Montrose struggling onto the porch with their gear. "Where do you want your things, Agent Scully?" Montrose asked, shouldering his way across the threshold. "Um...upstairs, I guess," she said, unsure where she was sleeping. "Scully, why don't you go up with him," Mulder suggested, coming to stand beside her. "Not all that much is going to go on down here. I'll wait up for Skinner to arrive with the discs and then I'm probably going to hit the hay too." "I could wait up with you," she volunteered, only to ruin the offer with a yawn. Chuckling, Mulder shook his head. "There's no need for both of us to stay up. I'm still wide awake, while you, quite clearly, are not. Go to bed. I'll see you in the morning." She hesitated a second before acquiescing, common sense winning out over pride. "Okay. But don't stay up any later than you have to, Mulder. You need your sleep too." "Yes, mom." Giving her partner the evil eye, Scully turned and trudged up the stairs after Montrose. "This room okay, Agent Scully?" the agent asked when they had reached the second floor. They stood outside one of two front bedrooms. "Oh, I don't care," she assured him with a weary smile. "A bed is a bed. I'm sure this one will be just fine." "All right then," he said, entering the room and turning on a floor lamp he found just inside the door. "We'll be right down the road if you need us. Use your cell phone. You have the number. Have a good night." "Thanks. You do the same." The room was actually far better than just fine. It was charming. Smallish, it had been decorated in a manner more feminine than the rooms downstairs. A double bed and matching night stand dominated one wall, each piece whitewashed so that, in places, the darker wood showed through from underneath. Across the room stood an equally distressed armoire and a tufted green chaise. A dresser that looked as if it might be an antique completed the furnishings. A handmade quilt in shades of green and purple and yellow covered the bed while canvas sprinkled with faded violets covered the walls. It was all terribly inviting. The only problem was Scully was too pooped to appreciate it. "In the morning," she mumbled to herself, turning off the light that Montrose had just turned on. Toeing off her shoes and shrugging off her coat, she ignored the suitcase by the door and crawled up onto the bed fully clothed. Tugging on the quilt, she pulled half over on her while laying on the rest of it. Cocooned in its cushioned depths, she thought to herself as she drifted off to sleep, 'This place is so nice. It's almost like going on vacation.' Almost like going on vacation... Except for the men who were out to kill Mulder. Or possibly herself. ***** When next she rose, it was to the sound of drawers opening and closing, and some kind of kitchen gadget--a grinder?-- whirring noisily. Peeking out from under the covers, Scully sniffed the air. Coffee. God, she missed coffee. She wondered if the stuff downstairs was with or without caffeine. Only one way to find out. Rolling ponderously out of bed, she glanced over at the clock on the night stand. 10:00. Damn. She hadn't meant to sleep so late. She got up, crossed to her suitcase and popped it open. Rummaging through the contents, she searched for whatever toiletries she could find. Surprised yet pleased to discover a bag filled with soap, toothpaste and other essentials, she took it with her and headed down the hall to the bathroom. Setting her bag on the sink, she peered into the vanity mirror. Good Lord, she grumbled to herself, shoving her fingers through her sleep flattened hair. Look at me. She was wearing yesterday's clothes, yesterday's make-up, and she hadn't even brushed her teeth before going to bed.... She needed to get cleaned up. Twenty minutes later, she felt like a new woman. Freshly showered and dressed in maternity jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt, with a plaid flannel shirt over that, she checked her reflection in the bedroom's full-length mirror. She had brushed her hair but hadn't washed it. She couldn't yet, not with her stitches. So rather than wear it down, she had pulled it back in a low ponytail, securing the slippery strands with a clip. Studying her reflection, Scully couldn't help but chuckle. With her dress, hair, and lack of make-up, she looked far younger than her years, more like a grad student or twenty- something slacker than a middle-aged M.D. "That is...if you can look past Junior, here," she mumbled, her rounded middle seemingly the only thing at that moment standing between her and the Fountain of Youth. As if in response to her droll observation, the baby she carried poked her with its foot, the jab striking her high in the belly. Smiling, she rubbed her hand over the spot and watched in the mirror as her face transformed with wonder. "Good morning, little one," she murmured, her eyes misting, her heartbeat stuttering like a bashful child. "How you holding up?" Rubbing her hand slowly over her abdomen, Scully waited, eyes locked on her reflection, to see if perhaps the infant inside her might choose to do it again. But after a minute or two of standing there, breath all but suspended, she realized the kick was probably not going to be repeated any time soon. "Just like your father," she mumbled with the faintest of smiles, fondness, not anger, rumbling beneath the surface of her words. "I leave you alone and you run wild. But when I want you to do something, you just sit there like a lump." Where was Daddy, anyway? She needed to share this with him. Padding down the stairs in her stocking feet, Scully found Mulder in the kitchen, flour, sugar, eggs and other assorted food items arranged before him on the counter. "Hey, good morning," he said, greeting her with a smile. "How did you sleep?" "Like the dead," she said, smiling back at him. "I don't suppose the coffee I smell is decaf, is it?" "No, sorry," he said with regret. "It's the regular kind. I didn't see any decaf in there on the shelf." "That's okay," she said, crossing past him to the refrigerator. "I kind of figured that would be the case. It usually is." Opening up the stainless steel side-by-side, she saw it was stocked to the brim. The agents Skinner had sent had done their job admirably. Pulling out a carton of orange juice, she opened up a nearby cabinet and took down from it a glass. "How about you? What time did you go to bed?" He shrugged, leaning against the counter, watching her. "I don't know. Skinner got here about an hour after we did. Your computer and the discs are in the study in back, by the way. I went to sleep right after he left." She poured the juice and put the carton back. Coming to stand beside Mulder, she eyed the mess on the counter before asking, "What are you doing?" He seemed to preen just a little. "Making breakfast." "You know how to cook?" she asked, taking a sip from her glass. His face fell. "Why? Don't I?" Smiling, she shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe. I couldn't really say. We ate out a lot, you and I, or ordered in. I don't think I ever saw you actually make something more involved than toast." Mulder thought about it for a second, then shrugged again. "Well, how hard could it be? I mean...this guy has a shelf full of cookbooks. All I have to do is follow the instructions." "What are you planning on making?" Scully asked, coming around the breakfast bar to take a seat on one of the stools there. "Pancakes," he said from the other side of the counter. "Pancakes and bacon. How does that sound?" Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle long and loudly. Eyes widening at the sound, Mulder burst out laughing. Chuckling herself, Scully could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I'd answer you. But that would only be redundant." "Hey, that's all right," he rushed to reassure her. "Seeing as you're eating for two these days, your body is bound to be a bit more demanding." "=Someone= is being demanding," she said with a rueful smile. "First the baby kicked me and now this." "The baby kicked you?" Mulder asked, seemingly delighted at the notion. "Yeah," she said, feeling unexpectedly shy with her confession. "Where?" he queried, circling around the counter towards her. "Here," she said, swiveling in her seat. Pulling back her flannel shirt, she laid her palm against the spot. Something hard pressed back against her hand, something that hadn't been there before. "Oh, wait," she murmured softly, her eyes sliding from his, her fingers tracing along the ridge she had found. "Mulder, come here. Come here." "What? What is it?" he asked, concerned. "Feel this," she said, taking his hand and placing it where hers had been. Gently, he ran his fingertips over the upper slope of her belly, carefully, like a blind man reading Braille. "What is that?" he asked, his breath ruffling her hair, his hand continuing its slow caress. "The baby's foot," she replied, unable to keep the tears from welling when she looked up into his excited eyes. "It's his heel, I think, pressing up against the womb." "His?" Mulder echoed, his palm now resting flat against her. Its heat warmed her through the thin cotton she wore. "Do you know that it's a boy?" "No," she said, placing her hand on top of his, holding him to her. "Not for sure. I've had ultrasounds done, of course. Everything seems to be fine. But I haven't wanted to learn the baby's sex." "Why not?" he asked, looking down at her with tenderness. A tenderness that was going to be her undoing if she wasn't careful. Maybe she should let herself be undone, she thought. Maybe she should tell him; perhaps now was the time. "I don't know," she murmured, glancing away from all that dangerous tenderness and down instead at their stacked hands. "I don't know why I never asked. I guess...I like surprises." Mulder didn't say anything at first, then chuckled before mumbling, "Well, that makes one of us." Confused by his reaction, she looked up at him again. "What do you mean?" He slid his hand free from under hers. "I mean...some surprises are better than others." "Such as?" He shrugged, then folded his arms across his chest. "Such as ...finding out you've won the lottery. That's a good surprise. Or having someone give you a gift you weren't expecting. That's good too." A gift, Scully echoed inside her head. Their baby was like a gift. Wasn't it? "And learning a baby's gender only after it's been born...that's a 'bad' surprise?" she asked aloud. "No, no, no, no, no," Mulder said swiftly, reaching out to grip her lightly on the shoulders, squeezing her there as if for emphasis. "Not at all. Not at all. It's just that...something like that is really, really important. It's a life-changing event. And, for me...I wouldn't want any surprises." "You wouldn't?" she asked, wondering if that meant she should or shouldn't speak. "No," he said emphatically, his hands dropping away from her arms. "Absolutely not. No surprises." No surprises. Oh, God. She should have told him right away. Why had she chosen to wait? What possible advantage had she thought she would gain? "Of course, all of this is moot." "It is?" she queried weakly, her heart feeling as if it were in free fall through her body, plummeting, cold and lifeless, towards her toes. "Yeah," he said with a smile. "After all, you're the one who is going to be a parent here, not me." "You might be one day," she said, giving it one last try. "One day," he agreed. "But not now. Thank God." "Why do you say that?" she asked with a frown. "Only for all the most obvious reasons," Mulder said, crossing away from her and back around the breakfast bar. "I've got no memory, no job, really. I'm on the run from someone or something that seems set on killing me. I mean...come on, Scully. With all that going on, what kind of father could I possibly be?" Turning in her seat, Scully rested her forearms on the counter and looked down at her now clasped hands. Tears were threatening again. Angrily, she blinked them away. "I don't know, Mulder...I think you would be a wonderful father." She could feel him staring at the top of her bowed head, but she didn't meet his gaze. She couldn't. If she did, she would lose the battle with her tears. She was certain of it. And the last thing she wanted to do right now was cry in front of him. "Thank you," he said, oblivious to her all her tortured musings. "That means a lot to me, Scully." She nodded, but still didn't look at him, until a moment later, when his hand came into view. Saying nothing at first, he laid it atop hers. "Hey, you're not mad at me. Are you?" he quietly asked. That demanded she lift her head. If she didn't, he would know beyond a doubt something was wrong. Steeling herself, she cleared her throat, and looked up. Mulder stood there, regarding her with concern. "No, of course not," she said, forcing the words out in as cheery a tone as possible. "Why would I be mad at you?" He shrugged, seemingly ill at ease. "I don't know. This whole baby thing, maybe." "Mulder, don't be silly--" she began, pulling her hands out from under his. "I mean...I think it's great that you're going to have this child, Scully" he said, his palms pressed now against the counter. "It's just that =I'm= not ready for it. That's all I'm saying. You know what I mean?" "Yes," she said brightly, nodding her head so rapidly her brain felt as if it were jiggling around loose inside. "Of course, I do. Of course." Mulder stared at her a beat longer, as if weighing her sincerity, before nodding himself. "Good. Okay. So...you still hungry? How many pancakes can you eat?" Sliding from her seat, Scully stood, her legs unexpectedly shaky beneath her. "Actually, I'm feeling kind of nauseous all of a sudden. I think I'm going to take my orange juice upstairs and maybe lie down for awhile." "Lie down?" he echoed in amazement. "Scully, you just got up." "I know," she said, edging away towards the stairs, her glass gripped tightly in her hand. "I know. I probably won't sleep. I just...I just need to rest." "Um...well, okay," Mulder said as she climbed the steps. "If you need anything, just yell down. I'll come up and check on you later." "Okay," she called over her shoulder. "Sorry about breakfast." "Don't worry about it. Feel better." Oh, Mulder. I'd like to, Scully thought as she reached the landing and turned the corner towards the second flight of stairs. I really would. The only problem is I don't see that happening anytime soon. You see, the father of my child doesn't want it. When this is all over, he may not even want me. And I have no one to blame for this entire mess but myself. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter VIII "By the Wind Grieved" (8/13) by Karen Rasch kmrasch@hotmail.com Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1 *************************************************** He had insulted her. He had hurt Scully's feelings at a time when those feelings were closer to the surface than usual. There could be no other explanation. Could there? No. That had to be it. Without meaning to, he must have somehow made her think he found her pregnancy distasteful or unattractive or simply a bad choice all the way round. Yet how could she believe that of him? How? How could she think him so judgmental? Didn't she know how much he admired her, how glad he was for her and the father of her child, how covetous he was of their situation? Wasn't it obvious? Mulder had felt as if he had been all but transparent that morning, when he had stared down into Scully's shining, happy eyes and felt the life growing inside her press hard against his palm. The intimacy of the moment had snuck up on him. One minute, he had been laughing with her, charmed by the embarrassment her noisy, empty tummy had caused, and the next he was literally holding in his hand proof that another life flourished inside her. A life that for one crazy, mixed-up instant he had wished he had helped create. The desire had made no sense. He had had no right to it, no claim. The very idea was absurd; with all he had facing him just then, he was the last person on earth who should be readying to welcome his child into the world. Yet still he had wanted it, desperately--the baby, Scully, all of it--had wanted to be part of something bigger than himself. Adrift as he was, no past to anchor him, he had yearned for a place to belong, for a purpose to help direct him. He had wanted to be needed, most especially by this particular woman, a person he found himself needing more and more each day. In that moment, when they had stood there, sharing the peculiar joy to be had in so small a thing as a child's foot, he had thought for just a second he had glimpsed a similar want in her, a longing only he could satisfy. Telling himself that longing granted him permission, Mulder had indulged his whim, had allowed himself pretend he was the man Scully was meant to confide in, the one who was supposed to be beside her now, offering support. Until he had nearly kissed her, and brought the entire illusion crashing down around them both. It had been a near thing. So very near. He had been standing before her, close enough to notice she had used a different soap that morning. A faint, unfamiliar trace of citrus had clung to her skin rather than the customary lavender. They had been staring at each other, Scully's eyes soft and shimmering, her hand's slight weight warm atop his own... ...she was looking at him and he was touching her and it was wonderful... ...but it wasn't enough. Not by half. He had wanted more, had yearned to deepen whatever this thing was that flowed between them, to give the feelings he had for Scully physical expression. What would she do if he kissed her? he had mused, already anticipating the taste of her lips. He had been scant seconds from finding out. Only Scully had glanced away. And, in that instant, sanity had returned. The moment she had bowed her head, it was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, one that had shut down all those sweet yet treacherous desires. Oh my God. What the hell had he been thinking? he had asked himself. This was Scully. His friend. He couldn't take advantage of her that way. Not after all she had done for him. What would she think? So he had stepped away, both literally and figuratively. Nothing going on here, ladies and gentlemen. Uh-uh. No way. Taking care to drive home his point, he had assured Scully fatherhood was the furthest thing from his mind. After all, he couldn't have her without having her baby. And if he wasn't interested in her child, then he wasn't interested in her. That made sense, right? Well, it had. At the time. To his admittedly muddled brain. Jesus. He had made such a mess of it. He had wounded the one person in the world he wanted most to protect. And the really sorry part of the whole thing was, he had no idea how he had managed it. While he had indeed stressed his own lack of readiness in the parenthood department, he had thought he had made it clear how pleased he was for her. Yet, apparently, he hadn't done a very good job of it. Fine. He would just have to try harder. And he was more than willing to do so. If Scully would just come back downstairs. She had been up in her bedroom all day, ever since their aborted breakfast. He had checked on her once, mid-afternoon, when his own company had become too much to bear. Climbing the stairs and tip-toeing softly to her door, he had rapped against it with his knuckles. "Scully," he had called, his voice not much more than a whisper. "Everything okay?" She had not answered. She could have been sleeping, of course. Or she could have been playing possum. Guilt weighing heavily on his conscience, Mulder had been too much of a coward to open the door and find out which. Instead he had crept back down the stairs and returned to what he had been doing. Puttering. Cleaning up after himself in the kitchen, daydreaming out the window as he watched the snow fall, scouting out all the house's nooks and crannies. He had even called over to the cottage to see how things were going with their small army of bodyguards. Agent Renfrew had had little to report. It seemed he and his partner were as bored as Mulder was. Too disheartened to begin work alone on the files and too distracted to do anything else, Mulder had finally just given up and sacked out on the sofa. His sleep was light, however. He was roused late afternoon by the sound of footfalls overhead. "Mulder?" Pushing his fingers through his tousled hair, he sat up and peered over the back of the couch. Scully was on her way down the stairs, dressed as she had been earlier, her face scrubbed down to the freckles, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. He could detect in her no outward signs of distress, although she eyed him much as he imagined he must be eyeing her, with caution. "How are you feeling?" he queried politely. "Better, thanks," she replied, crossing towards him. Although he wouldn't ever call attention to it, Scully was beginning to walk with a bit of a waddle these days. Seeing it never failed to bring a smile to his face. "Sorry about before." "There's nothing to be sorry for," he said, swinging his legs around and rising to his feet. "If you don't feel well, you don't feel well." Coming to a halt at the end of the sofa, Scully glanced down at the floor and tucked a stray fall of hair behind her ear. "Yes, well...so what have you been doing all day?" He shrugged. "Not much. Taking it easy, mostly. Checking the place out. I, um...I discovered there's a gym downstairs in the basement. Well, a weight bench and treadmill, anyway. And a woodworking shop. If things get slow, we can build you that crib you said you needed." "You think you know carpentry?" she queried with the smallest of smiles. "At least as well as I know how to cook," he assured her, his smile matching hers. The corners of her mouth still upturned, Scully nodded and cleared her throat. Her gaze was meeting his only intermittently, Mulder noted. He wondered if she feared more what she might see or what her own eyes might give away. "Did you have a chance to get started on the files?" she asked after a moment. He shook his head. "Actually, I kind of wanted to wait and do that with you." Scully lifted both brows. "With me?" "Do you mind?" he asked, feeling foolish suddenly for not having approached her about this sooner. He had assumed he would have her assistance going through the discs. But with the way things had been going between them, perhaps it would be wise not to take anything for granted. "I mean...I realize the files are probably pretty complete. But you were there. You know? There are bound to be things only you would be aware of, things that didn't make it into the official records." "No. I don't mind," she said, taking a step towards him. "You're right, in fact. There are a lot of things that didn't make it into our final reports." Mulder nodded once more. "Based on what you said at the hospital, I figured as much. I don't imagine the powers that be take too kindly to reading accounts of alien invaders." "Actually, several of our case files include mentions of alien encounters." "No way," he said, edging closer to her, his hands on his hips. "Way," she insisted, seemingly bemused at his disbelief. "I'll admit, there were times I tried to smooth things over by positioning some of our more outlandish theories as being only one of several possible hypotheses. But we didn't try and hide what we learned, Mulder. Not from anyone. We told the truth." He chuckled, amazed. "And we were never called on the carpet for that kind of thing? No one ever questioned whether we were making proper use of taxpayers' money?" "On the contrary," Scully assured him, her tone bone dry. "We were called on the carpet so many times I think I probably have permanent rug burn." "But if that's the case, why were we allowed to continue?" he asked, the awkwardness he had sensed between them earlier slowly fading into memory, replaced on his part by a curiosity he couldn't contain. "Why didn't someone in authority shut us down?" "We =were= shut down. Twice. The first time we were separated; you were put on wiretapping detail and I was transferred back to Quantico. More recently, we both got relegated to desk jobs. We spent months doing all the scut work Kersh could find for us while agents Fowley and Spender took over running the X-Files." "Wait a minute. Wait a minute," Mulder muttered, waving his hands as if in surrender. "Who are these people? Kersh, Fowley, Spender...I don't know those names." "No, you wouldn't," she said. "We haven't spoken about them." "Seems to me like we should, though," he said. "Don't you think? I mean...Skinner said he thought there might be a leak within the Bureau. Isn't it possible it could be one of them?" "There was a time I would have agreed with you. Now, however, that scenario seems less likely. While we still may have Kersh to deal with, Fowley and Spender are no longer a threat. They're both dead." Taken by surprise at the news, a thought occurred to Mulder, the possibility admittedly unlikely, yet one he couldn't help but voice. "We didn't kill them, did we?" Scully chuffed, seemingly both appalled and amused. "Mulder! No, we didn't =kill them=! What kind of agents do you think we were, what kind of people?" "I don't know!" he admitted, embarrassed. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking you, why I =need= you to help me fill in the blanks. You're the one who knows me best, Scully. How can I hope to learn who I was--who I am--if not through you?" They stood at the end of the couch, toe to toe, Scully looking up at him, a small smile yet playing on her lips. "I'll help you, Mulder," she said, having no trouble now holding his gaze. "You know that." "Yeah?" he asked, concern over her earlier hasty retreat still preying on his peace of mind. "Yeah," she said softly, reaching between them to take hold of his hand. Fingers tangled, she squeezed. Mulder squeezed back. "Thanks, Scully," he said, more relieved than he cared to confess. "You're welcome," she murmured. And just like that, all was forgiven. Or so it seemed. Hands still linked, Scully and he strolled into the kitchen, chatting now about things like dinner choices, who would cook and who would clean up. Yet, even as he poked around in the refrigerator, searching the crisper for salad fixings, Mulder couldn't help but wonder. How had they done it? How had Scully and he repaired things without really even discussing the problem? He wasn't complaining, but he was curious. Had it always been this way between them? Did Scully and he always leave things left unsaid? ***** When Walter Skinner made the drive up to northern Pennsylvania the following Saturday, he was met at the door by Mulder, wearing jeans and a gray turtleneck. The agent greeted him with a smile and a hushed voice. "Hey. What are you doing here?" "I wanted to see for myself how you and Agent Scully were managing." "Great. We're doing great. It's good to see you, Sir," Mulder said, shaking his hand. "Come on in. We need to keep it kind of quiet, though. Scully is zonked out on the couch." Skinner nodded his understanding and stepped inside. Removing his coat in the entryway, he looked towards the living room and saw that Mulder was right. His partner was indeed resting soundly, curled up in the corner of the sofa, her glasses on the side table nearby, the crocheted afghan covering her, pulled up to her chin. "She does this almost every afternoon," Mulder murmured from beside him. "We'll be going at it, plowing our way through these files and suddenly she's out like a light. Yesterday, she nodded off on me mid-sentence." "That kind of thing is to be expected, I guess," Skinner said, his volume low. "What with the baby and all." "Yeah, I know," Mulder replied, gazing fixedly at the sleeping woman half a room away, affection shining unguarded in his eyes. "I know." "She's been okay, hasn't she?" "Yeah. Far as I can tell, everything is fine. It's kind of tough with Scully, though. She holds her cards pretty close to the vest." "She always has." Mulder shot him a sideways glance. "I've been wanting to ask you about that. You...uh...you feel like a beer? Whoever stocked this place was kind enough to include a case of Milwaukee's finest, and Scully certainly isn't going to help me drink it." His mouth dry after the long drive, Skinner smiled appreciatively. "A beer sounds great." Trailing after Mulder into the kitchen, he watched as the younger man retrieved two bottles of brew from the refrigerator. Keeping one, the agent handed the other to his guest. Twisting it open, Skinner took a swig, then leaned back against the countertop to get more comfortable. He didn't know what exactly was on Mulder's mind, but he had a feeling whatever it was might take awhile. "So what did you want to ask me about?" Skinner queried, folding his arms across his flannel-clad chest, beer in hand. Mulder worried the label of his bottle with his thumbnail, his eyes focused on that rather than on the man standing opposite him. "How well do you know Scully and me?" Skinner shrugged. "You two have been reporting to me on and off for the past six years or so." Mulder nodded, his lips pursed. "Okay, but...how well do you =know= us?" "I like to think of you and Agent Scully as friends," Skinner said, shrugging again. "But to be honest, Mulder, with the two of you, there's not a lot of room for anyone else." "What do you mean?" "As partners--as a team--you and she are basically...self- sufficient. You tend to turn to each other for help before going to anyone else." "So, she trusts me, then." Skinner chuckled, incredulous. "Yes, of course, she trusts you. More than anyone." "More than the father of her child?" Mulder queried in disbelief. Oh, shit. Skinner didn't want to go there. "Believe me, you have no reason to doubt Scully's devotion," he muttered, taking another drink of his beer. Mulder nodded again, his brow knitted in thought. "Mulder, what's this about?" Mulder shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing, probably. It's just...hard sometimes. I'm not always sure how to read Scully. I don't know how to act with her, what to say." "Has something happened?" "No. That's just it. It's more like a feeling I have." "What kind of feeling?" Mulder sighed and looked away. "I, um...I'm probably way off here, but,...I think maybe Scully might be keeping something from me. Well, if nothing else, Mulder's intuitive powers seemed to be intact. "I don't know, Mulder. Seems to me the one you need to talk to about this is Scully, not me." "I know," Mulder said, shoving his hand almost angrily through his hair. "I know you're right. The problem is it's not like Scully has said or done anything specific. I'm basing this on instinct and instinct alone." "For a lot of people, that wouldn't be enough," Skinner admitted. "The thing is, your instincts have always been on the mark." Mulder brought his bottle to his lips. "I just don't want to hurt her again." "Again?" Skinner queried with surprise. "I seem to have a knack for it," Mulder muttered after taking a swallow. Skinner set down his half-finished beer and took a step closer to Mulder, as if to emphasize by proximity his point. "Look, Mulder, I don't know what you've done or what you think you've done. But I do know one thing--you are the last person on Earth who would ever willingly hurt Scully." Gnawing on his bottom lip, Mulder pondered this a moment. "You think so?" "I know so. Scully knows it too." "What do I know?" The men turned and saw a newcomer to their little tete-a-tete. Dana Scully was standing in the archway leading to the kitchen, dressed in sweat pants, a baggy cable knit sweater, and thick white socks. Her hair was mussed and sleep-flattened on one side, and she had a crease on the corresponding cheek, marking where it had pressed against the sofa cushion. Seemingly paralyzed by this rather less than fearsome sight, Mulder stole a glance in Skinner's direction, eyes wide with panic, appearing for all the world like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Scully looked at first one, then the other of the two men, the bemused smile on her face widening when both took their time in answering her. "Oh, this must be good." "Not at all, Agent Scully," Skinner said, rescuing Mulder from himself. "We were just talking about the importance of good communication." "Is that why you're here, Sir?" Scully queried, eyebrow raised as she crossed to the refrigerator and took from it a bottle of water. "To 'communicate' something to us?" "Well, as I told Agent Mulder, I'd wanted to see how you two were faring--" "Not that it isn't nice to see you, Sir, but if that was all you wanted to do, you could have used the phone." Lips pulled up in a reluctant smile, Skinner looked down at the floor, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets. "That's true. I could have called." "But you didn't," Scully said, closing the refrigerator door and turning back to face them. "Which leads me to believe there must be a pretty good reason for your being here. One that goes beyond simply seeing how Mulder and I are doing." Skinner nodded. The auburn-haired agent was right. "Why don't you two have a seat? I want to show you something." Skinner crossed away from the kitchen and into the entryway. Slipping his hand into the inside breast pocket of the jacket he had left hanging there, he withdrew from it a grainy black and white photograph. The picture was of two men having a conversation over coffee. "Yesterday, I received this in the mail," he said, returning to his two agents. They were seated across from each other at the dinner room table, looking at him expectantly. "It was accompanied by a note signed by Marita Covarrubias." As Skinner sat down at the head of the table, Mulder reached over and took the picture from him. Studying it for a moment, he murmured, "Alex Krycek." Skinner felt a surge of adrenaline rush through his veins. "Do you remember him?" Mulder shook his head, the photograph still clutched in his hands. "No. Sorry. I don't remember him or anything else from before. But I recognize the guy. Pictures of him were mixed in with some of the files." "The files," Skinner echoed, nodding. "How has that been going?" "We've been working our way through them, case by case," Scully explained. "We started out going in chronological order, but as we've gotten more into them, we've sort of been jumping around a lot, going from topic to topic instead." "We've haven't gotten as far into them as we probably should have by now," Mulder said with a self-deprecating smile and a glance in Scully's direction. "It's been kind of slow going. I ask a lot of questions." "Imagine that," Skinner said mildly. Scully took the picture from Mulder and looked at it as intently as her partner had, her focus on the man seated across from Krycek. He appeared to be close in age to Alex, but was bigger, broader, with longish black hair and an olive complexion. "Do we know who this second man is, sir?" "No. Not yet," Skinner said. "This is a copy of the original photograph. The lab back in DC is working with the one Marita sent, trying to ID Krycek's friend. So far, no luck. He's not showing up in any of the usual databases." "You said there was a note," Mulder prompted, "from that Marita whoever." "Covarrubias. Yes," Skinner confirmed. "And although neither Agent Scully or myself have been in touch with Marita for several months now, the note does appear to be legit. The style of the handwriting matches up to various samples we have on file from her days at the UN." "Do you have a copy of it?" Scully asked. "What does the note say?" Skinner shook his head. "The original is at the lab with the photo. I didn't bother to make a copy of it because the message was easy enough to remember: 'Tell your agents to beware these two men. They are looking for them and are being highly paid for the search.'" "Wait a minute," Mulder said, looking at his partner, confused. "Didn't you tell me that Marita and Krycek work for the same side?" "Most of the time," Scully said. "Not all of the time. It's like I said before, there are different factions involved here. Alliances are fluid with these people. They can be bought. No one more so than Alex Krycek." Mulder nodded. "Okay. So what do we do now?" "Same as before," Skinner said. "Nothing changes. I dropped off an envelope full of these photos to the cottage before I came up here. The agents guarding you now know these faces as well as anyone. They'll be on alert. I expect you to be as well." "We will," Scully pledged with a meaningful glance in Mulder's direction. "What do you think is going on here, Sir? How is Krycek involved?" "Isn't he the one you said came to us about the downed UFO in the first place?" Mulder queried, clearly trying to make some sense of all the intrigue. "Yes," Scully said, her face darkening with the memory. "He and Marita were the ones who all but led you to it." "When you went missing," Skinner added, "we thought perhaps the whole thing had been a set-up. That the reason Krycek and Covarrubias had wanted you involved was so they could more easily engineer your abduction." "A theory that gained credibility when the two of them disappeared not long after you did," Scully murmured, taking a sip from her bottle of water. "So...is that why you think Krycek wants me dead?" Mulder asked. "Because I returned when he didn't expect me to?" "I don't know," Scully said, shaking her head. "I'm not convinced he was the shooter. I just don't see what's left of the syndicate giving the job of assassin to a man with one arm." "This other guy could have been the one who pulled the trigger," Skinner suggested. "It's possible," Scully agreed. "But if that was the case, then what exactly is Krycek's role in this? It's not like he hired this other man to go it alone, not if what Marita told us is true. She said they were =both= looking for us." The three mulled over the possibilities a moment, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. "There is a scenario here we haven't considered yet," Skinner said at last. "One where Krycek never intended Mulder would be gone for good." "What are you talking about?" Mulder asked. "What if Krycek did set you up," Skinner said. "What if he led you to that UFO with the express purpose of your being taken up in it. But what if he also thought you'd be released some day. In the vast majority of abductee cases, the victims are returned." "But Mulder said he didn't believe the abductees would be returned this time," Scully interjected. "He said he thought this was some kind of 'mop-up' mission for the aliens. That was his reason for keeping me from going back with him to Bellefleur." "Mulder was right, when it came to those people who had been abducted in the past," Skinner said. "But he wasn't one of them. He had never been taken before." "Okay. So now I'm back," Mulder said, seemingly exasperated his two companions were talking about him as if he weren't there. "What do you think Krycek wants? To get together over a drink and discuss old times?" "Information," Skinner said without hesitation. "What kind of information?" Scully asked. "To the best of our knowledge, Mulder is the first trained agent to ever have been abducted by these beings," Skinner said. "Sure there have been aficionados who have been taken in the past, member of MUFON and the like. But, as far as we know, no one with Mulder's unique blend of interest and experience has ever been aboard one of those ships. Duane Barry is probably as close as they had come previous, but his deteriorated mental state made him a less than reliable scout." Scully paled. "Are you saying you think Krycek sent Mulder up there as a kind of unwitting spy, hoping he'd learn something Krycek could sell or use himself against the aliens?" Skinner shrugged. "I don't know. I'm only guessing. But it fits with what we know so far." "If you're right, the joke's on him," Mulder mumbled with a wry smile. "I can't remember any of the stuff he sent me up there to find out." "Krycek may not know that, though," Scully said softly. Skinner nodded, his expression grim. "No, he may not. And I sure as hell don't want either of you around when he finds it out." * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter IX