From: laster <laster@mpinet.net>
Date: Sat, 26 Aug 2000 14:11:05 -0400
Subject: NEW: A Legacy by dlynn
Source: direct

A LEGACY: CHAPTER EIGHT


With Mulder nipping at my heels like a less than well-
behaved puppy, I follow Byers into the bedroom.  Mulder, 
for his part, softly barks into my ear as he passes by, 
letting me know that he's been encroaching upon my 
thoughts again.

//Do I need 'NO TRESPASSING' signs, Mulder. Do we need 
to establish privacy and rude behavior guidelines?// 

I realize my tone is probably harsher than I intend, but 
he's seriously beginning to freak me out with his 
unauthorized transgressions. 

Throwing his hands in the air, with a cocky 'hey, I'm 
backing off', he retreats to the other side of the 
room to lick his wounds. 

Byers leaves the bedroom, gently squeezing my shoulder 
on the way out the door. I take a moment to center myself 
and to gather my thoughts. I formulate my logical argument... 
about not wanting to worry every time a stray thought pops 
into my head that Mulder will be there to rope and brand 
it. I envision my impassioned plea for privacy, common 
courtesy, and the right to govern that which is mine 
until I decide to give it away. I deliberate, and just 
as quickly throw away, my smart-ass retort about wanting 
to be able to size up a man's ass any time I choose, 
without fearing Mulder will bear privilege to my 
salacious desires.

"Salacious?" His eyebrows twitch as he steals my 
thoughts like a pickpocket takes wallets from an 
unsuspecting mark.

"Damn it, Mulder. That's exactly what I mean." 

But reasonable deliberation falls to the wayside and my 
words never see the light of day. I am transfixed with 
the sight of Mulder... his hooded, gentle eyes; his nose,
just a tad off-kilter and disproportionately too large 
in context with his other features; and his seductive 
mouth, quirking upward in the tiniest, most hesitant 
smile.

"Scully...you're...pregnant."

"I've been 'quite' pregnant for seven and a half 
months."

"I know...it's just ... you're pregnant, with child, with a 
bun in the oven, knocked up...."

"For a man who has no difficulty expressing himself, you 
are remarkably redundant."

I walk forward a few steps and stop.

"I'm...speechless, Scully. This afternoon when I saw you 
for the first time, Byers had to grab me to keep me from 
running to your side. He physically had to restrain me 
and remind me of the bigger picture. All I could see, 
was you...sitting there, pregnant with... my child...
with our baby." 

Mulder repeats my earlier motion and crosses the floor 
two steps in my direction. It's as though we are 
preparing to duel. 

//I don't want to fight.//

"Me either..."

"You have no idea." I pause and study the amused 
expression which crosses his face. "Ok, you do have an 
idea, but I'm going to tell you anyway. When I heard 
your voice coming through that earpiece, my heart began 
to beat again. I'd almost forgotten what it sounded 
like."

As I speak, I shorten the distance between us once 
more. 

"Scully, for the past several months there has not been 
a moment, a single solitary instant in time when I 
haven't been thinking of you...drawing strength with the 
knowledge I had to make it back to you." 

He smiles, taking two steps and stopping just a mere 
breath away, waiting for me to make the last and most 
important move. Waiting...so fearfully, he is waiting.

"You do not frighten me, Mulder." 

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little. Mulder, you are my partner, my 
lover, the father of my child. You are my best friend 
and the only one I trust. You've been to Hell-"

"-well at least Antarctica-"

"and back for me. There is no one in this world...or any 
other...who loves me as you do."

He chuckles, but I see the fear still lurking behind his 
eyes as he wonders what his 'new skill' means to us.

"Mulder, something will have to be done about your 
penchant for transgression," I whisper, reaching forward 
for his hand, and clasping his strong fingers, laying 
them against my cheek.

"Trespassing is only a misdemeanor offense, Scully." His 
palm caresses the side of my face. His fingers weave 
through my hair, tangling themselves in the strands. He 
pulls my head forward, inhaling the fragrance of my 
shampoo and reacquainting himself with my scent. 

I murmur against Mulder's strong hands, "I'm a federal 
agent, which makes any offense against me within federal 
jurisdiction. We're not talking misdemeanor."

"Scully, you talk too much." He bends his head, nuzzling 
my cheek, moving his lips in feather soft kisses across 
my face to my lips...where he pauses.

"Scully, I love you." //Mulder, I love you.//

We may have been apart for months, but it's as though it 
were only yesterday that Mulder kissed me like this. His 
mouth demands much, but I demand more as I 
race my lips across his until his mouth opens, 
providing entrance to my questing tongue. Tasting, 
exploring, yielding... we sway together, our bodies 
recognizing each other as a mother recognizes 
a child's cry...instinctively, intuitively, without 
question...knowing which one is her own.

I slide my hands up his chest, across the snug cotton of 
his T-shirt, reveling in the solid feel of him beneath my 
hands. Somehow my arguments, contentions and quarrels 
have little value, and I decide to table all discussion 
until another moment. 

"Mulder...about my salacious desires."

~*~*~*~*~*~~*~

When I was growing up, following the rules came 
naturally. You weren't the daughter of a military man 
without the expectation of adherence to order and 
standards in your home life. Jokes from Dad about our 
ability to bounce a quarter on top of a well-made bed 
were said in good jest. But there was an underpinning 
truth beneath the humor. We were a ship shape family. 
When you add to that a Catholic upbringing and a faith 
journey steeped in ritual, everything about me begins to 
fall into place.
 
Whereas Missy bristled at mandates, I found security 
within order. Perhaps that's why I pursued science as an 
initial career choice. Mystery, which delighted me, was  
present in the process, but the scientific method 
provided a structured rubric. Theories and results might 
be ambiguous or surprising, but the scientific procedure 
was logical and ordered.

My life was the same way...once upon a very long time ago. 

I planned =everything= with the same precision that I 
laid out my parochial school uniform each evening when I 
was a child. Before I'd go to bed, the red plaid skirt, 
the crisp, white cotton blouse, with its Peter Pan 
collar, the navy blue knee socks, and my brown loafers 
were placed on top my bedroom dresser. For years the 
ritual was always the same; the process never changed.

Except once.

I'd had enough of proper uniforms, conformity, and 
always being the 'good daughter.' Structured was all 
well and good, but life's spontaneity and the magic of 
individuality was lacking. 

Besides the dress code was stupid. 

I was tired of looking childish and like every other 
cookie cutter shaped kid in my school. So in my backpack 
I placed socks Missy had given me for Christmas. They 
were vibrant red socks, with garish orange stripes at 
the top. But the best part was each little multi-colored 
toe had its very own 'glove.' 

As soon as I got to school, I raced to the girls' 
bathroom, stripped off my regulation blue knee socks and 
slipped on the offensive red and orange toe socks, 
wiggling each little digit into the correct hole. I 
stuffed my very proper Catholic girl shoes and hosiery 
into my backpack, and I exited the bathroom, sliding 
into the congested hallway with hardly a ripple in the 
steady stream of traffic. My heart furiously beat in my 
chest, heralding my small moment of defiance...my spark of 
eccentricity.

First period, no one even noticed 'Dana's' new look, 
except Beth, one of my best friends. By the time I'd hit 
third period, the whispers had begun, the kids were 
snickering behind their books and passing notes about my 
flaky footwear. I think some understood my small 
rebellion, however, most thought I was just being weird.

But then came fourth period and advanced math. I sat in 
the front row, directly in front of Sister Mary 
Katherine's desk. For the first thirty minutes of class, 
I managed to stay out of the good Sister's way, 
dutifully answering the questions she put to me. By 
now...I had realized it was only a matter of time before I 
was caught in my transgressions and sent to Father 
O'Flaherty's office - one step away from a dozen Hail 
Mary's and the confessional. 

I might have escaped fourth period detection, except 
Sister Mary Katherine decided the class should do board 
work. When it was my turn to move forward to the 
chalkboard and represent my team in a math game, my 
knees began to quake at the prospect. As I walked to the 
board, my hands were so sweaty the chalk dust stuck to 
my palms even as I tried wiping my shaky fingers on my 
pleated skirt. Each breath I took was my last, or so I 
thought...surprised that Sister Mary Katherine still 
hadn't commented on my disobedience.

Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my 
teacher had her eyes focussed on the math book laid open 
on her desk. As she gave the equations for us to solve, 
she didn't even glance up...she didn't even look to the 
board where Ben and I furiously scribbled our answers. I 
wanted to be back in my seat so badly, I raced through 
the problem, not really caring if the answer were 
correct or not. With a sigh of relief, I practically 
slammed my chalk on the tiny grooved ledge, and quickly 
slipped undetected into my desk.

I'd done it.

"Dana."

"Yes, Sister Mary Katherine."

"Would you please explain your answer to the class."

"Yes, ma'am." My sweaty palms were now past the stage of 
gentle perspiration. I had a full-scale flood, literally 
pooling into the linen cuffs of my blouse. 

"Well, in solving for X, I-"

"No, Dana. Please come to the board and show the class 
how you solved for X." Sister Mary Katherine looked up 
from her math book. I felt her eyes daring me to fall 
apart. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me 
squirm.

Straightening my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I 
slipped out of my desk and began shuffling forward to 
the front of the room. By now those who'd been 
whispering and passing notes are quiet and still. All 
eyes are on Sister Mary Katherine and me. 

"When solving for X, you must first-"

The bell, signifying time for class change, pealed loud 
and long. And I practically jumped out of my skin with 
the first piercing whistle. Looking over to Sister Mary 
Katherine, I waited for her to say something...anything.

"Dana, you may step down. Class, don't forget to do 
pages 43-45 tonight. The test will be on Thursday."

I slunk back to my seat, shoved my papers and math book 
into my bag and slung the canvas sack over my shoulder. 
I joined the line of kids in front of the doorway, and 
waited for my turn to leave. I resisted the urge to push 
through the crowd and squirm my way to the front of the 
line.

"Dana, would you come here please?" Ah...I knew it. Sister 
Mary Katherine was a stickler for the rules. I could 
just see in my mind's eye, the blue detention slip, 
grasped tightly in my hand as I explained to Ahab how I 
happened to get library time for a week by traipsing 
around the school in toe socks.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sometimes it's difficult to follow rules, especially 
those that seem unfair or inexplicably unjust. I'm sure 
you feel the school uniform regulation stifles your 
creativity. Am I correct?" Sister Mary Katherine held me 
with her gaze. It was firm, but compassionate.

"Yes, ma'am. Sometimes I just feel so many things 
bottled up inside, and I just want to let go... especially 
when it seems as though I'm beating my head against a 
wall and there's no hope for change."

"Our country's heritage is full of times of civil 
disobedience, Dana. From the Boston Tea Party, Rosa 
Parks refusing to move to the back of the bus, and 
college sit-ins during the Vietnam War, we are a people 
who confront injustice and choose our battles. We weigh 
the consequences against the outcome we desire. We try 
to choose wisely and discern whether necessity outrides 
expediency.

"I wasn't very wise when I pulled this stunt, was I?" I 
suddenly saw my act of disobedience for what it truly 
was...a chance for me to get some attention...any attention. 
Being the third child out of four and the 'good one', 
sometimes felt as though I were invisible in my own 
home. I wanted someone to notice me. I didn't care about 
the merits of the dress code.
 
"Let's just say, Dana, if you choose to intentionally 
disobey a rule or break a law, make sure you understand 
the motivation behind your decision. Are you fighting 
because of injustice, to protect another...for a religious 
ideal or self-preservation? Understand the consequences, 
Dana. Then let your conscience guide you."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll go change my socks." 

"Dana have you tried to approach administration with 
your dissatisfaction? Have you tried to work within the 
system, before you thumb your nose...or toes at it?

I couldn't help but chuckle. "No, Sister Mary Katherine.  
I haven't done much besides gripe. But what if they 
won't listen to me? What if nothing I say will sway 
administration? What if I truly believe there's no hope 
no matter how hard I try?"

"Then if you feel so led, I'd say you make your 
decisions, but take the risk of suffering repercussion. 
There are always consequences for actions, Dana."

"Yes, ma'am."

I had almost reached the threshold before she spoke 
again. "And, Dana...if Father O'Flaherty and Sister Ryan 
don't at least listen, let me know...I have a pair of 
those wonderful toe socks as well. I think they'd be 
quite striking with my habit, don't you?"

Smiling so hard it almost hurt, I couldn't believe what 
I'd just heard.

"Yes, ma'am. They're all the rage."

"Oh...and Dana. Don't forget your blue detention slip. Mom 
or Dad needs to sign it."

Stopping in my tracks, I turn to grab the blue scrap of 
paper from Sister Mary Katherine. At least she only gave 
me three days study hall.

"There are always consequences for our actions, Dana."

Always consequences....

...actions....nothing's as it seems....

always at their mercy...never able to win....

so cold...so very, very cold...."

"Scully!"

My eyes fly open. The answer is perfectly simple and 
perfectly insane...and in perfect clarity I realize I most 
certainly have lost my mind.

"Scully?"

"Hmm...Mulder." I urge my body to relax within his arms. 

"Scully, not only are you considering breaking more laws 
than I even care to count, you are proposing that you-"

"-Kidnap our child before someone else has a chance to do 
so." 

"Scully, you can't be serious. We'll protect Thomas. 
We'll get him away."

"I know you believe we will be able to do that, but I 
also know, Mulder, we have never won against these 
people. Over and over we've had our lives destroyed 
because we played by the rules and they did not. I'm 
tired of always being reactive to everything as it's 
happening to us. For once I choose to be pro-active. 
Me...Thomas' mother, Mulder."

"There's more to your plan than just 'helping' Thomas 
disappear, Scully." 

His eyes plead with me to reconsider. I know he's seen 
the whole scenario. 

"You are talking about giving up your son, Scully...to not 
know where he is, to not know if he lives, to lose all 
contact with him for an indeterminate amount of time."

"I know, Mulder. I'm also giving up you because you must 
be the one who takes him. You must protect him, Mulder. 
I can't...I can't be near either of you." I blindly reach 
out for him, grasping his hand and pulling it towards my 
neck. I place his cold palm against my fevered skin, 
reminding him once more that I am no more than a trained 
lab rat, running through a master's maze.

"Scully...no..."

"Mulder, no matter what I do, they will know where I am. 
There is no place I can hide. Unless." //I could do it, 
to know Mulder and my son would be safe, to have a few 
precious months with them...I could do it.//

"No! You will not remove the chip. You will not trade 
your life for ours, Scully." He frantically clutches at 
my pajama top, pulling the buttons from their tiny 
loops. As he finishes separating the pieces of cloth, he 
lays me bare to his frenzied gaze. I see his eyes roam 
over my body, drinking in the wondrous changes...the full 
breasts, with darkened aureole, being prepared to suckle 
a son I may never know; the swollen abdomen, the 
nurturing place my son has developed for the last 
several months; and the small, stretch lines extending 
from my belly button to my pubic bone, signifying the 
way my petite body's changed to accommodate our child.

Mulder knows if I do this...there is a chance they 
will be denied to me forever. 

"I can't live without you, Scully. I won't. ==I choose== 
not to do so."

"And damn the consequences, Mulder? We CANNOT protect 
our son. We CANNOT keep him from these butchers who 
take small children, such as Gibson Praise, and turn them 
into lab experiments. We can't protect him from men who 
kidnap eight-year-old girls from their homes and...their 
brothers and torture them for years because the end 
justifies the means. We can't defend against those who 
would medically rape me, extract my ova and create 
=children= for the soul purpose of heinous experimental 
research."

Mulder places small frantic kisses against my stomach 
and over my breasts, latching on to me and suckling, 
reminding me of what I will lose. 

"Damn it, Mulder. There's no other option."

"They will look for him, Scully. They will know you've 
done this and they will look for him." He cries salty 
tears against my chest, and I rake my fingers through 
his sweat-slicked hair. He knows what I'm going to say 
even before the words are uttered.

"No they won't, Mulder, because as far as the world is
concerned, the kidnappers will have killed Thomas. 
We will make them think the baby's dead, and I will fill 
a diary full of bogus journal entries to throw anyone
snooping around off track. I will make myself believe 
you and our son are dead. =I will make THEM believe.= 
This I will do for our child...and for you...and for 
the hope that someday, when it's safe, I will be 
allowed to find you."

"And if it's never safe, Scully?"

"Then you and Thomas will be dead to me."


A LEGACY: CHAPTER NINE

NOVEMBER 10, 2000
FRIDAY EVENING
LONE GUNMEN'S LAIR

My pen clenched between my teeth, I chew on the hard, 
tasteless plastic. Across the room, Mulder and Byers are 
huddled over hospital blue prints, checking security 
cameras and emergency exits. Frohike is flexing his 
Kungfu muscles by picking through personnel records and 
security and hospital rotation schedules. Langly, for 
his part, is arguing about the merits of various plastic 
explosives with some grungy, overweight bald guy, who is 
dressed totally in black and camouflage. 

There's an eerie quality about the room, even more so 
than usual. The lighting is diffuse, but the glow 
emanating from several computer monitors casts a bright 
white tinge into the shadows. As reflected in the 
monitor's glaring light, hunched over his keyboard, 
Frohike appears ghostlike. Mulder and Byers stand in 
silhouette, shadowy figures foreshadowing our foray into 
the world of conspiracies. 

Living the last ten days has been like scaling Heaven's 
pinnacle and descending into Hell's dark morass. Because 
we are intentionally perpetuating a lie, as far as 
Mulder's continued disappearance, I have not been able 
to stay with him as much as I want. To spend so much 
additional time with the Lone Gunmen, would make my 
keepers suspicious. And because of the chip, we haven't 
felt safe enough to meet anywhere else. 

So I've rationed out our moments with miserly 
exactitude, selfishly hoarding every instant alone we 
can steal. 

And steal we must....

Every exquisite second, from every precious hour, from 
every priceless day is plundered until not another crack 
in time has been left untouched. But this escapism must 
never be at the expense of our plan. Even as we are 
together, we must always be thinking and strategizing. 
Our time is too short, our objective too prized - 
obtaining a quality life for our son -- too valuable a 
consideration for us to squander seconds, let alone 
hours.

And thus, I am dying inside, just a little bit more with 
each visit. My destruction is slow and torturous. A 
bitter reminder is time's transient quality, infusing 
each shared gaze and poignant, impassioned kiss, knowing 
shortly this will all be over, and I will be left 
alone ... again. Only this time the loneliness will be 
unparalleled, as I will lose not only Mulder, but also 
our son. And there's no guarantee ... no promise any one 
of them can speak, out of love or compassion, that will 
give assurance to our eventual reunion. 

So my days are spent at work, trying to concentrate on 
all the unimportant minutia of my life. I'm fearful of 
being around Skinner, afraid he'll see something in my 
face to give away my resolve. At this point we are 
keeping him out of the loop, not so much because we 
don't trust him, but because we do. We expect Skinner to 
do as he's said and set up his impenetrable defense to 
protect me. One I will circumvent, by passing the 
information on to the Gunmen and Mulder so they may plan 
their counter offensive. 

We've debated taking the Assistant Director into our 
confidence, but we've decided, after much heated debate, 
that Skinner's ignorance will work to our benefit. His 
incognizance will also protect him if this should 
backfire, and our scheme becomes known. Mulder and I 
have made our decisions, and we understand the possible 
consequences for these actions. We take full 
responsibility for what we do and know it may all blow 
up in our faces.

We've become the master strategists. We can't derail 
Skinner and his team too soon, or I become vulnerable to 
the consortium and the colonists. And yet, we must 
somehow deceive them such that Mulder and the Gunmen are 
able to safely take our son. We've never walked a finer 
line or felt less qualified to do so.

If we could do this alone, without the Lone Gunmen's 
help, we would do so. Although Langly says this 
'kidnapping' will be 'da bomb', everything in his life 
has been moving forward for this particular instant in 
time. He feels he was destined for this moment. Byers 
and Frohike are not so 'enlightened' as far as 
understanding their special place in the universal 
scheme of things. They just want to right perceived 
injustices, and Frohike thinks being a conspirator is a 
great change of pace. 

He envisions selling his memoirs someday. 

I envision growing old, a bitter woman ... but only in 
moments of weakness, which thankfully I'm able to 
squelch down ... most of the time.

"Scully?"

"Hmm..." I murmur. My mind wanders away from its task. I 
spit out the pen, which has written nothing in the last 
few minutes, and rest my arms upon my unfinished 
project.

"What are you doing?" Mulder sits next to me. Pushing 
his leg against mine, he jiggles my knee, trying to get 
my attention. As though he senses my hesitancy, his 
fingers reach out, pulling back strands of hair that 
veil my face from his gaze. 

"Scully." he whispers.

I slowly inhale, holding my exhalation as long as 
possible, trying to still my trembles. I don't like him 
to see me this way because I know my anguish increases 
his guilt and weakens his resolve. But I've denied my 
feelings for so many years, ignoring pain, instead of 
charging through it and acknowledging its impact on me. 
With unerring determination I have denied myself as much 
emotional connection as I could, in order to avoid that 
which made the agony worse. And in doing so, I have also 
incised all which has given me joy.

No more...

This hurts...beyond measure of words or description. 

I feel Mulder stiffen beside me as he searches my mind 
and sees that which I naively think I can deny him. 
He's been better lately about spouting off every little 
thought he gleams from me. He tells me he can 'dull' 
the connection, refocus in such a way that my thoughts 
become more like a pleasant hum and less like a 
loudspeaker in his brain. I've appreciated his effort.

I slowly unfold my arms, lifting them off the table so 
Mulder can see what I've been doing. He reaches around 
me, grasping on to a book. Turning it over in his hands, 
he places it right side up so he can read the title:

"Thomas' Legacy"

"Scully? What is this," he whispers, his voice husky 
with despair. 

"I ... um ... I wanted to do a baby book for Thomas, 
Mulder. I know I won't be there to fill in most of 
these pages. For that, I'll have to rely on you," I 
smile, stroking his cheek with my chilled fingers. 
"But the beginning of the book, I =can= fill out. 
There are pages with family history information, 
sections for me to describe how I felt about this 
pregnancy...my emotions, my feelings, my 
hopes for him...."

Pushing aside Mulder's hand, I flip through the pages, 
showing him the sections I am talking about. 

"See...there's even a place for me to describe how you and 
I met. What I thought about you-"

"-Oh God, Scully, do you really want to scar our child 
with horror stories of Spooky Mulder?"

"Yes...I want him to know everything, Mulder. I started 
writing in the book awhile ago, before you returned. But 
I have so much more to say. Every time I've been here at 
the Gunmen's, after you fall asleep, I get up and write 
for a few hours. I know I can't take this book with me 
because I'm afraid someone might see it, and I need to 
get it finished. Who knows how much longer I'll have to 
get it ready."

"Scully, you could write in this at home. Everyone would 
just assume you are preparing a baby book."

"Well, I've added extra pages, Mulder. I've taken time 
to write things to him...for you to read to Thomas, when I 
can't be there. I've imagined what he'll be like at 
different stages. What his first words might be, how 
well he'll crawl, how soon he'll walk. With each 
milestone, I've written something for him."

"Scully, this is crazy. We can't do this; I =can't= do 
this."

I slap shut the baby book and slide it back into its 
box. Getting up from the table, I head for the door, 
grabbing my jacket and my car keys. 

"Stay, Scully...." Mulder murmurs, even as he knows the 
answer I must give.

"I can't, Mulder. I stayed last night. I'm already 
spending too much time here as it is." I search for my 
purse, seeing that it's fallen beneath a table. Before I 
can attempt an unwieldy descent, Mulder picks up the 
purse and hands it to me.

"I promised Mom I'd stop by and see her tonight. I'll 
spend the weekend there."

"Agent Scully, let me drive you." Byers grabs his winter 
jacket from where it lies on an old leather couch. It's 
probably the couch Mulder sleeps upon when I'm not 
here...when he does sleep...in between plotting and 
planning every contingency, every detail. 

"Electronic hospital ID bracelets, damn!" Frohike,
disgustedly pushes back from the table and yanks
a coffee pot from the counter. Langly joins him
and they begin discussion on how to get around
that glitch.

I know they haven't told me everything that will occur. 
In fact, I've asked them not to. If I'm going to pull 
off this charade, I must be caught by surprise as much 
as the rest...to hopefully lend credibility to my 
performance. I don't think there will be any difficulty 
feigning despair. 

We're already intimately acquainted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

RESIDENCE OF MARGARET SCULLY
LATER THAT SAME EVENING

As I stand at my Mother's door, the strap of my
overnight bag thrown over my shoulder, I shiver 
in the brisk November wind. I know the icy chill 
comes from more than a Washington Fall; it stems from 
my own mind. Fumbling for my keys, I can't help but 
wondering who's behind me ... watching me, reporting 
to superiors about me. Even as I insert my house key 
into the lock, the car which has pulled into the 
driveway across the street is suspect. I wonder if
it's Skinner's man, which I'm not supposed to know about,
or the consortium's.

I've taken paranoia to new heights.

"Dana! Honey, get in here...Why didn't you call and let me 
know you were on your way? I thought you weren't 
supposed to be here for another couple of hours?" Mom 
hustles me inside, shutting the door to the outside 
world, but by no means keeping real out real life. 

"I was able to finish up a little earlier than I 
expected, Mom. I figured you wouldn't mind." I shrug out 
of my tan, woolen coat, slipping it onto the coat tree 
in the foyer hallway.

Mom clasps my fingers, rubbing them within her own warm 
palms, trying to infuse heat back into the frozen 
digits. How is she to know...there's no chance of 
animating something that is already suffering the icy 
death of despair? She can massage my hands all she 
wants; nothing =she= does can bring the glow she 
desires.

"Come on, Dana. Let's go into the kitchen and get a hot 
cup of tea inside you. Have you eaten?" She strides 
ahead of me, already focussed on her task. I scoot my 
overnight bag out of the way with my toe and follow.

The kitchen is already lit, a warm yellow glow 
reflecting off of wallpaper and paint. This room has the 
most comfortable feel, and I can already smell-"

"Apple pie? Mom, you baked?"

"Well, actually, Dana. I-" She reaches behind her on the 
counter, grabbing the evidence of her deceit - a box 
from Mueller's.

"Thank God, Mom, I had visions of another one of your 
crusts." For as much as I love my mother, her piecrusts 
have the texture of old shoe leather. We know this 
because Bill actually tore up an old shoe he had in the 
closet and brought it to the table when he was about 16-
years-old. With great aplomb, a napkin tucked under his 
chin, a knife the size of a meat cleaver, and play by 
play commentary, Bill proceeded to compare and contrast 
the merits of shoe leather with a piece of Mom's 
homemade pie. 

Thank goodness Mom could take a joke, and her pie was 
that...a running joke, because there wasn't a dry eye at 
the table that night. We laughed so very hard.

If it weren't for Muellers, and other bakeries 
crisscrossing America, the Scully family would have gone 
deprived. As it was...the only one in the family who could 
make a decent crust, turned out to be Charlie. Mom 
insisted we all try so we'd understand how difficult it 
truly was. I've blocked out what Bill said about my 
attempts, and his...well let's just say, Dad tossed a 
lovely looking cherry pie into the back yard for the 
dog. The poor mutt wouldn't touch it.

"Dana, would you care for a slice?" Mom smiled, knowing 
where my thoughts had taken me. Why is it that even in 
the midst of despair there are traitorous moments when 
it seems all right to smile? With a mother's 
intuitiveness, she'd tried something to help lighten 
my load, if for only a moment. If she only knew, how 
heavy that burden truly is...she'd have brought home more 
than a pie.

Feeling the tears begin to swell within me, knowing I'd 
soon be hard pressed to keep them at bay, I decline. I 
need to get out of here...I need my room...I need some 
time to fall apart because I don't know if I have the 
strength to keep all this from her any longer...and it's 
not safe for her to know. As much as I need to tell her,
to give me someone who can understand...I can't.... 

"Mom, would it be alright if I had my pie for breakfast. 
I'm feeling very tired tonight. And I think I need to go 
lie down. I promise; we'll have a good long talk in the 
morning. I've planned to stay the weekend if you wouldn't 
mind." As I attempt to slip past her, she reaches out 
and gently strokes my cheek. With wise eyes...she allows 
me my dignity and my solitude.

Just as I reach the stairs and grab my overnight bag, 
the doorbell rings. 

"Mom, you expecting anyone?" I head to the front door 
and peer through the tiny glass window at the top. "It's 
some sort of a delivery person, I think, Mom."

"Dana...what did you say?" Mom comes up behind me.

"I think it's a delivery person. Were you expecting 
anything?"

"No...Honey. I don't know what it could be." She reaches 
for the door handle as I place my arm upon her forearm 
to still her motion. 

"Just a minute, Mom." I reach behind me and wiggle my 
fingers into the outer pocket of my overnight bag and 
snag my weapon. Pulling it out, I release the safety and 
load the chamber. I motion her to open the door. 

"Dana, don't you think you are being a little paranoid?"

"Perhaps...but I can't take any chances." I take a deep 
breath and hold it. 

Mom opens the door, revealing a man dressed in an UPS 
uniform. "Ma'am. I have an insured delivery for a 
Margaret Scully."

"I'm she...Who's the delivery from?"

The man cannot see me. I've hidden myself in the 
shadows, but I can see and hear everything he does. He 
takes a clipboard, and runs his fingers down a line of names.

"The delivery's from a Commander William Scully, Ma'am."

"Bill? Whatever in the world might he be sending me?" 
Mom murmurs.

"I don't know, Ma'am, but it's a very large box, and I 
need to get it unloaded. I still have several more 
deliveries to make tonight." 

"Of course...please bring it inside." Mom opens the door 
the rest of the way. I quickly hide my weapon behind me, 
still not totally sure, however, that this is on the up 
and up. Something just doesn't feel right to me.

Barely acknowledging my presence, the driver says, 
"Ma'am if you would sign right here, I'll go get the 
dolly and load this up."

"Ok...of course." Mom reaches for the clipboard and signs 
her name. 

"Thank you, Ma'am. I'll be right back."

"Mom, were you expecting anything from Bill?" I watch 
the driver unlatch the back double doors of his truck, 
pull down an incline, and begin walking backwards down 
the incline, pulling a very large box. 

"No...I can't say I was expecting something. He does have 
that habit, you know, of sending me things from 
different ports. But usually his packages have been 
smaller than a breadbox. I can't imagine what this might 
be."

The man approaches the front door again. "Where would 
you like me to put this, Ma'am."

"Oh...how about just leave it here in the foyer. I'll un-
box it here."

"Yes, ma'am." The driver slides the box off the dolly as 
I still keep my weapon firmly incased in my hand. I just 
can't get past this anxious feeling I have. "Ok...that 
outta do her...I'll leave you ladies alone, now. And, 
ma'am...I have a message for Agent Scully."

My fingers tighten on my weapon's grip, and I warily look 
at the UPS man, who I know is not whom he pretends to 
be. 

"I'm Agent Scully. And I would encourage you not to make 
any quick moves," I say as I motion Mom to step back 
from the door and to move away from the box.

"No, ma'am, I wouldn't think of it. George Hale wished 
me to inform you that the house has been exterminated. 
Apparently, this was done earlier today...when Mrs. Scully 
went to the market."

"Exterminated? There have been pest control people in my 
home today?" Mom bristles as she moves closer to the 
UPS man. I'd be worried about him if it weren't for the 
fact, I have an idea what's in the box. 

"Dana, who is this George Hale, and what was he doing in 
my house." She turns to me as she says this, allowing 
the UPS man to escape. Wise man.

"Mom, I think you need to find me a utility knife so I 
can open this container." I see the box, shifting a 
little as, inside, he slumps against the cardboard walls. 

"And Mom, there will be two of us for the weekend.
I hope you have lots of pie."

"Scully, get me out of this damn box!"

"Fox!" Mom's eyes grow large as she recognizes Mulder's 
voice. But just as I think it might be too much for her, 
she spins on her heal and points her finger into my 
chest. 

"Dana Katherine Scully, what the hell is going on?"

"Mulder's back," I gulp, suddenly very afraid of a woman 
who's not packing heat and is not any taller than I am. 

"And he's in pain sitting scrunched up in this damn box 
like a sardine amongst friends. Would someone please get 
me out of here?" Mulder gripes, throwing his shoulder 
hard against the cardboard. So much so, in fact, he 
almost tips the box over.

"Dana, you can forget going up to bed, young lady. I 
expect answers from the both of you. Or I'll personally 
shove him back in that box and send him out to San 
Diego, personal delivery to Commander William Scully." 
Mom huffs as she heads into the kitchen to retrieve the 
utility knife. 

"Scully...on second thought, I think I'll stay in the box. 
I don't want that woman around me, wielding any sharp 
implements. We might want to have additional children 
some day."

//Why is it that even in the midst of despair there are 
traitorous moments when it seems all right to smile?//

"I don't know, Scully. But it does feel good, doesn't 
it."


A LEGACY: CHAPTER TEN
MRS. SCULLY'S KITCHEN


Mom slaps down a plate in front of Mulder. On that plate 
is a reasonable portion of apple pie, but only because I 
gave Mom a dirty look as she was hacking the smallest 
sliver she could from the pan. With a shrug of 
aggravated acquiescence, Mom finally slid the knife over 
a bit and attempted to at least pretend to be a good 
hostess.

To Mulder.

Tea sloshes over the side of my cup, dousing the saucer 
beneath it as Mom repeats her slapping motion. Mulder 
for his part looks longingly towards the box from which 
he was just removed. I couldn't swear to it, but I think 
he still feels the sharp utility knife should be removed 
from my mother's vicinity.

"Without a doubt, Scully, having that tool here is 
liable to increase our son's chances of being 
fatherless," he whispers, letting me know he heard my 
thoughts. But he doesn't speak quietly enough as Mom 
responds to his comment.

"Actually, Mulder. At this point I'm more likely to use 
it on my daughter." Mom yanks open a kitchen drawer and 
throws the utility knife inside where it clatters 
against batteries, tape and scissors. The jarring 
reverberation of the drawer being slammed closed makes 
my tea slosh once more.

"Mrs. Scully-"

"Agent Mulder ... I-"

Mom stops mid-sentence. She places the dishtowel on the 
refrigerator handle, unties the apron from around her 
waist, and folds it carefully. She places the apron on 
the counter and joins Mulder and me at the table. I see 
her eyes assessing the situation.

Mulder and I have our chairs as close together as 
possible. Even as he eats his pie with his right hand, 
his left hand encloses mine ... his fingers absently 
stroking my knuckles. None of this escapes my mother as 
she takes a deep breath. Her features soften, but not 
her determination.

"Fox ... in case I've forgotten to mention it, I am pleased 
you are back, safe and sound. I apologize for not making 
that clear. But-"

"Why is it that whenever a Scully woman uses the word 
'but', I feel the need to cringe," Mulder mutters around 
a large mouthful of pie.

"Perhaps you should," Mom throws back at him, still not 
ready to let either one of us off the hook. 

"Mom, I've explained why we couldn't tell you Mulder had 
returned. Although, I'm quite at a loss to explain his 
presence here now." 

Turning, I give my full attention to my partner who is 
currently pressing his fork across his plate, picking up 
every tiny piecrust crumb. If he starts licking the 
plate, I'm putting him back in the box.

"Damn good pie, Mrs. Scully." 

With a twinkle in her eye, Mom admonishes me to keep my 
mouth shut.

"Thank you, Fox. It's a very old family secret."

Raising his head, he looks Mom straight in the eye, 
capturing her attention with the intensity of his gaze.

"So ... Mueller's ... Is that an offshoot of the Scully tree 
I've never heard about?" 

Mom discretely looks behind her, trying to remember if 
she left the box visible on the counter.

"It's not there, Mrs. Scully. You put the Mueller's 
bakery box in the pantry trash can before you went to 
answer the door."

"Stop it, Mulder. It's unnecessary to perform parlor 
tricks." I watch Mom process what Mulder has just said.

"I'm deadly serious, Scully. I'm not playing around. I 
decided if we are going to go through with this, you 
cannot be left without any support, but at the same time 
your mother must understand who and what she's dealing 
with."

Mom reaches across the table to grasp my hand ... the one 
I've just yanked from Mulder's, my aggravation with him 
is quite apparent. As she strokes my fingers, she stares 
across the table at my partner ... her intensity no less 
than his.

"If you are referring to an underground government 
consortium that has been collaborating with an alien 
species for the last fifty years to try and prevent 
total world annihilation during possible colonization, I 
am acquainted with who we are dealing with, Fox. 
However, further illumination is always welcome. Dana's 
explained the differences between the colonists and the 
resistance, but frankly I still find that somewhat 
confusing, and I have some additional questions."

Mulder gulps beside me, speechless for once in his life. 
He hadn't realized I'd told Mom everything while he was 
missing. I see the glare my mother gives him. I can just 
imagine what she's thinking. 

//You little 'shit' if you ever speak to me again with 
that tone of voice, Thomas will be an only child. Do I 
make myself clear? And I won't need a utility knife.//

"Yes, Ma'am, you do," Mulder responds to Mom's unspoken 
question, confirming my belief.

"Ok ... here's the deal," he begins, deciding further 
explanation will divert the negative attention he's been 
getting. "There's been a plan ... in the works for several 
years. The research and development end of it has been 
accomplished. And the implementation has actually begun, 
but it may take as much as...." 

Mulder stops, his eyes compassionate as he reaches out 
to take my hand again. Mom, who knows nothing of our 
agenda for Thomas, holds her tongue ... for the moment.

"-Two to three years before we will see any marked 
results." His voice trails off to a whisper. He 
watches me make the connection.

"Two to three years?" My brain tries to wrap around 
the implication.

"At the very least," Mulder finishes. His face revealing
his anger and anguish.

"I know there's more going on in this conversation than 
I'm being told, but let's table that for the moment. 
Fox, continue with your explanation." Mom's fingers 
pull out a tiny cross from under the collar of her 
blouse. Without even being aware she's doing it, she 
slides the chain back and forth within her hand, the 
tiny cross dangling.

"Actually, the research for a genetic "cure" for the 
virus has been in development for years, hidden within 
legitimate research, sponsored, in part, by our own 
government and various world health organizations. Now 
that's irony for you. Mrs. Scully do you have the issue 
of Time Magazine, July 31, 2000?"

"At one point I did; I think I've thrown it away ... but 
I usually read all the articles. Why?" Mom asks, her face 
perplexed about where this is heading. Too bad I'm in 
the dark as much as she is. 

"Scientists have created something called 'golden rice.' 
It's a product of genetic engineering, calculated to 
provide Beta-Carotene to some of the most impoverished 
people of the world. As the article says, 'Snippets of 
DNA, borrowed from bacteria and daffodils,' have been 
incorporated into the rice. I won't bore you with the 
details, but suffice it to say ... unknown to the general 
public, more than just the genes that encode the 
instructions for making Beta-Carotene have been 
incorporated into this transgenic garden."

"Transgenic, Mulder?" I try and grasp what he's telling 
me as my mind wanders to giant jiffy pop bee hives and 
desert cornfields.

"Another irony, Scully. Transgenic crops may be our 
salvation instead of our ruin ... The special crops will
be crossed with local rice plants to ensure their 
propagation."

"Ok ... I know I don't have all the information you two do, 
but I don't understand. What good is this?"

Still amazed that she's accepting all of this as easily as 
she does, I try to explain.

"Mom, rice is a world staple. Not only do most people's 
diets subsist on rice, but also most relief 
organizations routinely deliver rice to famine areas. If 
the rebels can incorporate the cure for the virus into 
the genetic code of the rice ... they will mass inoculate 
millions and millions of people."

"Exactly. Mrs. Scully, hopefully, within three years, if 
we can stave off colonization for that long ... most of 
humanity will no longer be susceptible to the virus. We 
will no longer be viable 'breeders' and pawns in this 
continued civil war. We will be able to fight back. And 
the alien DNA remnants that already are incorporated 
into humanity will be activated by exposure to the 
genetically engineered rice. Within those who already 
share a genetic precursor for enhanced brain activity, 
these areas of their brains will be 'switched on'."

"Like you, Fox?" Mom's face demonstrates her 
comprehension. 

"And like, Thomas," I whisper.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

MIDNIGHT
MRS. SCULLY'S HOME

"Scully?"

"Hmm ... Mulder." My thoughts are very far away, and he 
knows it. I'm getting used to his little traverses 
through my head. 

Mulder spoons himself closer into my back, pulling me 
against him ... his hand possessive upon my abdomen. He's 
been playing with our son again, pushing gently against 
me ... until he's rewarded with the tiniest pressure against 
his hand. 

"He's gonna be a football player, Scully. He's got a 
hell of a kick."

"Yeah, well at the moment, he's kicking against my 
bladder. Remember that, Mulder, as you continue your 
little punt, pass and kick game."

As he nuzzles my hair, gently blowing strands out of his 
mouth, I hear him chuckle. But he also quits pushing on 
my stomach.

"Scully, why Ecclesiastes?" Mulder's not been distracted 
long; he's gone back to snooping.

I roll over within his arms, until I am lying on my 
back, looking up at a very dusty ceiling fan. It's been 
awhile since this room's been used.

"There's a time for everything and a season for every 
activity under heaven," I whisper.

"Every time I hear that passage, Scully, I think of the 
Turtles ... you know. Turn, Turn, Turn." Mulder hums the 
60's pop music classic as my mind returns to the verses.

"My life, Mulder, has been made up of seasons. As I was 
growing up, I was the dutiful daughter. Then there was 
medical school, and I was the perfect student. Just 
after graduation I joined the FBI, and I was the ideal 
foil for Spooky Mulder."

"Not so ideal, Scully, you refused to be led around by 
your nose." His humming stops as he hears the 
seriousness within my voice.

"But it was another season, Mulder," I insist, turning 
towards him so that I might see his eyes. "It's another 
example of how life's experiences are transitory and how 
just as you begin to figure things out ... it all changes."

"But that's what gives life it's flavor, Scully, the 
idea ... we can't plan for the changes. Just as we figure 
out summer, fall approaches...bringing with it something 
new ... and exciting."

"Exactly ... that's what I was thinking about ... trying to 
find hope from, Mulder. I'm about to head into winter, the 
coldest ... most barren season of all. And I know that the 
only way I will survive the harshness of this period is 
to always look forward, to keep my eyes watching for 
spring."

Mulder reaches across me with his right arm, trailing 
his fingers down my cheek. As they pass across my lips, 
I place a gentle kiss upon their tips.

"Are you sure this is still what you want to do, Scully? 
I believe there has to be another way ... something not so 
drastic as for you to give up our son."

"Mulder ... I'm only giving him up for a season. And you 
will be with him; you will keep his mother alive for him 
until we can be together. And ... as much as I doubt it now, 
I must have faith that we will someday be a family."

Mulder flops to his back, throwing his arm across his 
eyes, covering them as he speaks. "Scully, the chance 
for colonization is not over. The resistance is making 
headway ... but there's no guarantee. Spring may never 
come." 

I lay my hand across his forearm, stroking the fine, 
silky hairs. Even as I shudder at the thought, I know he 
is correct. I know my hope is based on so many things 
out of my control.

"I can make it two to three years, Mulder. I will make 
it, knowing with my doing so ... our son will live a life 
outside of the consortium's reach." 

"Earlier, Scully when you were in the bathroom-"

"During one of my every 30 minute visits you mean."I 
interrupt, wondering how long it will be before my next 
nocturnal potty break.

"Yeah, well ... she asked me, in essence, what my intentions 
were." Mulder pulls his forearms from his face and turns 
on his side to watch me. 

"Your intentions?" I'm going to kill my mother.

"She wants Thomas to be legitimate, Scully."

"Are you asking me to marry you, Mulder?" I choke, the 
words catching in my throat.  

//In my mind Mulder and I have been married for years. //

"In my mind as well," he chuckles. "But it has been the 
longest celibate marriage in the course of history." 

"Don't I know it, Mulder. We took the concept of 
foreplay to frustratingly new heights."

"You know we can't make it legal, Scully. There's no way 
to have even a civil ceremony without tipping off the 
wrong people." His lips begin to pepper tiny kisses 
across my forehead, my hair, and my face. I feel as 
though I'm being sprinkled with love.

My mouth trails across his, sliding in tender caress, 
gently nibbling with soft whispers and sighs. He begs 
entrance on the brink of exhalation, but not because I 
require this supplication from him. He's asking for more 
than mere permission to intensify our kiss. He desires 
admittance into my soul ...into my mind, and into all that 
I am.

"Scully?"

//Take Mulder...but tread lightly. I've no more to give.//

My lips part, granting physical access to Mulder as his 
mind lovingly probes my thoughts, pulling out every 
desire, every fantasy, every hope, and every dream. With 
only him do I trust my essence...everything that I am.

Groaning, Mulder pulls me against him, fastens his mouth 
more securely over mine, his exhalations becoming my 
inhalations, until the air we breathe is shared.

Here in the guestroom of my mother's house, I will say 
goodbye to Mulder. I know, deep within me as I believe 
does he, that this will be the last time we will make 
love for a very long time...if not for a life time. For as 
long as there are stars in the sky, I will love this 
man...without reservation or apology. 

//Mulder, you complete me.//

"And you complete me, Scully."

//I, Dana, take thee...Fox.//

"Fox?"

//Hush, Mulder. It's a wedding; I may call my husband Fox, 
just this once.//

Mulder pauses above me, his eyes hooded and dark with 
passion and pain. He grasps the side of my face with 
both his hands, holding me still as he looks deeply into 
me.

"I, Fox, take thee, Dana ...within this covenant, this 
promise...to be your husband, to love you without reserve, 
with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we 
both shall live. And I promise to protect our son with 
all that I am, with all that I have...and to make sure he 
knows, without a shadow of a doubt, the tremendous love 
his mom has for him."

Shoving against Mulder with my hands, feeling the 
anxiety build within me...and the pain begin to overwhelm 
once more...I push him off of me, until he lays beside me 
on the bed. Carefully, I move myself upon him, settling myself 
over him...and I grasp his face between my palms.

"I, Dana, take thee, Fox...within this covenant, this 
promise...to be your wife, to love you without reserve, 
with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we 
both shall live. And I promise not to give into despair, 
to have faith that we =will= be together, that we will 
create this legacy of love and sacrifice for our 
children-"

"Children?"

"-Shut up, Fox, I'm saying my vows." I smile. "And I 
promise never to call you Fox again."

Mulder can't bring himself to laugh, even as I know my 
words amuse him. His smile is bittersweet, knowing how 
short our time is. 

"Scully, open yourself up to me. You can do it, love. 
We've always been connected; there's intuitiveness 
within you you've never embraced. In this moment, 
Scully, come to me."

I close my eyes, trying to relax against him, even as 
our lovemaking increases. I feel Mulder filling me, 
pushing up into me as I begin to rock upon him. But as 
much as I love him, I am unable to do as he wishes."

"Scully...open your eyes...Look at me," he guides, his hands 
settling against my hips, physically urging me on, even 
as his voice pulls me to him.

I stare into Mulder's face...let my mind drift into 
the dark passion of his eyes, flow into the warmth and 
love of his gaze. I swallow my fears and my disbelief...
I open myself to him...in all ways. 

Physically and emotionally.

//I want to believe.//

"You =have= to believe...in us, Scully."

With the shuddering climax of our joining, my heart and 
my mind become one with him. All the barriers have been 
broken because I feel him ... not only his physical presence 
within my body, but his essence, all that is 
Mulder...fills my thoughts.

//Scully, I love you.//

//Mulder, I love you. I had no idea...//

//Seductive isn't it, Scully?//

As the tendrils of my psyche intertwine with his, 
flowing into one stream of consciousness, the loneliness 
I've felt for years...washes away, replaced by a love so 
complete, so encompassing I have no words to describe 
it. But I understand, in this moment, that =we will= 
survive.



A Legacy: Chapter Eleven
Megan and Thomas, 2045
On top of the water tower


"How many years was it, Dad...before Grandma and Grandpa 
were reunited?" 

I gaze at my father who has one leg dangling over the 
water tower's ledge; his other is drawn up such that his 
arms rest upon his knee. Eyes unfocused, unguarded...Dad 
leans forward into the sunset, his gaze lazily drifting 
across the horizon. Sundown's crimson and lavender hues 
streak the western sky, and dusk descends upon our small 
town, slipping in as quietly as the hushed jeweled tones 
of a turning kaleidoscope.

While I wait for him to speak, seconds become minutes 
and the silence drags like one of Mr. Bartelli's physics 
lectures. Finally, Dad reaches for the journals he set 
down on the ledge beside us. He opens the first one, 
which is an old fashioned three ring binder, and hands 
it to me. 

Squinting because of the fading light, I try to read the 
words embossed on the front cover. Acknowledging the 
futility of this endeavor, I slip my fingers into my 
backpack, pull out my flashlight, and snap the solar 
cell into its activation slot. With the additional light 
I'm able to read the title. 

'THOMAS SCULLY MULDER: A LEGACY' 

Dad observes me as I open the binder and begin flipping 
through the pages. It appears to be a baby book, of 
sorts. In the book's beginning are entries from Grandma 
Dana, then the handwriting changes ... to Grandpa 
Mulder's. But inserted throughout are other letters. 
There's even one from Great Grandma Scully.

"Megan, I would love to be able to tell you that both my 
parents were there for my birth, but it wasn't so. There 
was no way to be able to smuggle Grandpa Mulder into the 
labor room without alerting all of Grandma Dana's 
protectors. So with her mom in attendance as Lamaze 
coach, I came screaming into this world amidst more 
security than a first world dignitary."

He takes a water bottle and sips from it, swishing the 
water around in his mouth before he swallows. It's as 
though he's rinsing a sour taste from his mouth.

I scrutinize his face, wishing I had the guts to delve 
into his mind and save him the trouble from recounting 
all this. But I know my transgressions would not be 
welcome. This is private, and he deserves the chance
to tell me in his own way ... in his own time. So I'll
keep everything verbal between us.

"Grandpa Mulder and the Lone Gunmen arranged for the 
bomb threat, didn't they? ... It was all a plan to get 
Grandma moved to a different hospital ... one where they 
controlled the playing field." 

"Yes...after Grandma Dana left Great Grandma Scully's, 
she was put on bed restriction the next day. She wasn't 
able to have any more contact with my father after that. 
It was too dangerous for him to come to her apartment. 
So ... He and the Lone Gunmen planned and plotted, and 
Grandma Dana filled her journals with the first of many 
bogus entries. And she learned everything she could from 
Assistant Director Skinner concerning his plans for 
protecting the two of us. She then passed all that 
information along to Frohike."

"They are the ones who drugged the guards and Grandma 
Dana ... they took you from the hospital?"

"Yes...I don't know all the details. I'm not sure anyone 
ever did besides Grandpa and his Merry Men, but suffice 
it to say ... there was more than just dinner being 
delivered in that meal cart," Dad chuckles. "There was a 
running joke when I was growing up ... Uncle Frohike used 
to call me Meals on Wheels. For the longest time I 
didn't have a clue what he was talking about."

Not really sure I see humor in any of this, I continue 
with my questions.

"Assistant Director Skinner never suspected anything?" 

Flipping to one of the pages, Dad taps at it. 
"Everything's in here, Megan. My legs are getting 
cramped sitting up here so I'm going down for awhile to 
walk around. I'm way too old for this tree house 
nonsense." 

He gets up, snaps together a solar battery pack and 
activates another lantern. "We'll talk again in a bit, 
Sweetheart. Just read."

As Dad descends the water tower ladder, mumbling 
something about "not being a damn monkey", I grab my own 
water bottle and sit cross-legged on the ledge, laying 
the binder across my legs. 

I read....

...and the story continues.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

December 16, 2001

Dear Thomas, 

Happy first birthday, little one.

I am disobeying a direct order from both Fox and Dana 
just by writing this letter. But as your grandmother and 
Dana's mother ... I couldn't hold my tongue. I pray that 
no one will discover my weakness and use it against you 
or your parents.

Thomas ... My newest grandson, I just wanted you to know 
how precious you are to me and how blessed I was to be 
there at your birth. You are truly a miracle child, in 
so many ways. I will treasure the moment I first held 
you ... The feeling was exquisite.

I pray Dana will be reunited with you and your father 
someday. But as I've heard the horror stories... I am 
not naive enough to believe in "fairy tale" endings. 
Thus, I write this letter. When you are a man, I hope 
this will help you to understand the great sacrifice 
your parents made because they loved you and wanted 
nothing more than to ensure your safety.

Thomas, your mother died inside the day you were born. 
As she was giving you life, she was mourning your 
'death.' While most women rejoice with the arrival of
their due date, your mother dreaded it, knowing that 
your birth would mean the beginning of your separation 
from each other. The tears she shed for you that day ... 
were such bitter sweet testament to the miracle of your 
birth and the impending shadow of your 'death.'

I understand the reasons behind what your parents did. 
I'm not sure it was the only opportunity available to 
them, but I am not one to question their resolve. I 
can't begin to understand all that they've been through. 
I just know this Grandmother's heart broke when you were 
taken. 

Even as I know it is only a ruse, that your death is not 
real ... the anguish is ... especially for your mother.

Thomas ... Dana Scully is a strong woman. She's been a 
survivor for so many years. Many have accused her of 
becoming emotionally distant or detached, as though it 
were a conscious decision on her part. When in 
actuality, it has been a coping mechanism, allowing her 
to handle the horror that has been a part of her life 
for many years. 

All those years...Thomas. I had no idea what she had been 
through. I didn't understand my daughter ... and I fear I 
was less than supportive. Thomas, Dana survived an 
abduction, medical rape, a sister's murder, cancer, a 
daughter's death, exposure to an alien virus and 
incarceration in an alien 'breeding tank', and other 
untold monsters ... but giving you and your father up 
was the "proverbial straw", and it broke more than your 
mother's back. 

It broke her spirit.

One week after your 'death', Dana took an indefinite 
medical leave of absence from the bureau. She was 
diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, something 
she'd probably been living with for years, but had 
managed to control just by virtue of her strength of 
will. 

Instead of 'glossing over' the pain and loss in her 
life, Dana finally began to face it. She pushed through 
it ... She quit minimizing her anguish and learned how to 
integrate the pain until, eventually, she came back to 
herself, but not for several difficult and agonizing 
months. 

But as I said, your mother is a strong woman ... and she 
has managed to find her way through a hell I can only 
imagine. 

Just remember, Thomas, no matter what happens in the end,
your mother loves you ... She aches for you ... There's 
not a moment she doesn't think of you. And through God's 
providence, you =will= someday be united.
 
With all my love, 

Grandma Scully


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

EXCERPTS FROM FOX MULDER'S
WRITINGS

December 31, 2000
10:30PM

According to YOUR calendar, Scully, midnight will begin 
the new millennium. I guess I won't be fighting off the 
walking dead or getting my second annual New Year's Eve 
kiss. Instead, you and I are as far away from each other 
as we have ever been, and I'm doing laundry. Thomas 
decided to pee all over my shirt as I was changing his 
diaper. By the time I realized that thing was cocked and 
loaded, it was too late ... for both the shirt and me. 
Someone should have warned me. 

Thomas is a good baby, Scully ... I sound as though I'm an 
expert on post-natal behavior, but he does seem happy, 
and he's very loving. In fact, he's uncanny. He seems to 
sense my mood and alter his accordingly.

I start teaching as soon as the new term begins. Byers 
got me set up at the University where his Uncle's a 
Dean. His Aunt Lizzy and Uncle Rupert have been 
hospitable ... even though I'm sure they want to ask me 
lots of questions. They've opened their home to us, 
Scully, telling anyone who asks that I'm a second cousin 
whose wife just died. 

I don't have any trouble playing the grieving widow.

Without Lizzy I don't know what I'd do. She's been an 
encyclopedia of knowledge, helping me buy formula, 
diapers, and plenty of warm 'stretchy' things. She's 
gone nuts setting up a nursery and making sure I have a 
good doctor. She doesn't know that the guys had already 
found Thomas's doctor for me ... someone who knows our 
special circumstances and is prepared to monitor the baby
for anything not in the normal range. 

Lizzy and Rupert were unable to have children ... so she 
enjoys spoiling Thomas. And I appreciate the help ... 
tremendously. I assure you they are not taking your 
place, but they are making sure our child is safe and 
healthy.

Rupert says there should be no trouble with me fitting 
into Bowling Green State University's Psychology 
Department. No longer Special Agent Fox Mulder, I'm Dr. 
Robert Mathews, Ph.D. My credentials are impeccable. I'm 
a psychologist, specializing in criminal behavior. I 
will teach in the University's Graduate School and do 
consulting work from time to time with law enforcement 
agencies ... providing a cover for those times I need to 
be away.

Bowling Green, Ohio is a small town. It's definitely a 
far cry from the hustle and bustle of DC. Except for its 
lack of variety in take out food, I think it will be as 
secure a place as any for Thomas and me to reside. 

Byers' informs me that the manhunt for Thomas' 
kidnappers has been furious. And he says that the 
'bodies' we planted have stood up to the investigation's 
rigors. I didn't ask where the guys got the corpses we 
staged in the explosion, and frankly I don't want to 
know. This is not something I'm proud of, Scully, but 
black and white's become a little muddy lately and I 
will protect Thomas, even if it's at the expense of a 
few medical school corpses.

I am glad to hear the guys got the 'baby's' remains out 
of the morgue before a DNA test could be run. I realize 
that disappearance will make some question the 
authenticity of Thomas's death. But it won't give them 
enough to go on, and at this point ... I don't know what 
else we could have done. Hopefully, the ambiguity will 
just muddy the water's further as all those looking for 
the baby try to determine "button, button, who has the 
button?"

We miss you, Scully. I think Thomas knows something's 
not right. I sure as hell do....

Even as I feel your presence, a warmth that invades me
when I close my eyes ... and shut out the world. It's 
not enough ... not by any stretch of the imagination is
it enough.

I love you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

December 31, 2001
~10:30PM

Well, no matter which calendar the world is using ... the 
millennium celebrations have finally stopped. 

I've been filling in the baby book, Scully, just as I 
promised you. I've been recording every new tooth, his 
first haircut, his first shots, his first steps ... his 
first birthday cake.

I've tried to be as meticulous as you would have been. 
You can critique my efforts soon ... I hope. I've even 
become Cecil B. DeMille with a video camera, but I doubt 
there will be any Oscar nominations for my directing. 
However, I do remember to turn the camera off more than 
I did at first. I have wonderful footage of the ground, 
my shoes ... the inside of the lens cap.

Byers told me how you took a leave of absence earlier in 
the year. Oh hell, forget the semantics ... He informed me 
of your breakdown. Scully, I don't know what to say. I 
can't begin to imagine the pain you must be dealing with. 
I wanted so badly to come to you ... even as Byers sent me 
your message to stay away. I understand you feeling the 
need to deal with everything on your own ...and your fear 
for Thomas. I know you weren't trying to shut me out, 
but I hurt for you nonetheless.

I could feel the blackness, Scully. I know, at this distance,
I can't read your mind, but there are times I feel you
with me as clearly as if you were in the next room. 
A few months ago, the darkness was so desperate ... that
I was nauseous with fear for you.  Even Thomas felt it;
our son knew his mother was in pain.... 

You are the strongest person I know, Scully, but you are 
not superhuman. You must have hurt as though your soul 
were bleeding out. 

I hear Skinner's been asking a lot of questions about 
Thomas and the day he was born. He must be feeling heat 
from above as people try and figure out the truth. I 
knew the chance of getting away free and clear was slim, 
but our pursuers just don't know ... and that ambiguity 
still gives us an edge. 

If this looks as though it's going to blow up in your 
face, I will be back there to take the consequences with 
you, Scully. I will not leave you to meet the 
ramifications for OUR actions. Rupert and Lizzy would 
care for our son, and they would protect him ... I'm sure 
of it. 

As I sit here ... writing to you in what has become my New 
Year's Eve tradition, I rock our son to sleep. He's 
cutting teeth, Scully, and he's finally conked out. 
Seeing him, nestled in my arms, his dark hair ... sweaty 
from his earlier discomfort ... I know we are doing the 
right thing. I could not protect Samantha, but I can 
protect Thomas.

I've received word from the resistance that the rice 
distribution is going according to plans, with a few 
exceptions. The colonists must suspect something ... 
because there have been a rash of thefts at various 
relief agencies. But so far ... more is going out than is 
being stopped. They've also informed me that Krycek's 
been sniffing around. Since his loyalties are suspect, 
he's not been told about me, but he still suspects. He's 
a smart man, Scully. He never would have survived all 
these years if it weren't so .... 

There isn't a day, Scully, when I don't think of 
you...when I don't ache for you...when I don't want you. 

Hopefully, soon....


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

December 31, 2002
BGSU Cemetery
11:30PM

Campus security just drove by. I suppose finding one of 
the University's Professors and his young son camped out 
in the cemetery is probably more than a little odd. 
Thankfully, my penchant for spending quiet afternoons 
reading amongst the tombstones proceeds me, and they 
didn't seem the least bit surprised to find me here. 
Officer Wilkins and I have tossed back a beer or two 
together...so other than adding to my 'weird' status, this 
is barely a concern.

It would figure I'd end up at a University with a 
cemetery right in the middle of campus. 

For our New Year's Eve celebration this year, Thomas 
and I packed a picnic dinner, popcorn for a late night 
snack, flashlights, a sleeping bag, and of course his 
favorite bear. We played hide and seek among the markers 
until it was too dark to see. Then we read Chicka Chicka 
Boom Boom. I know ...hardly the stuff of ghost stories, but 
he is only two. And reading this book kept him quiet for 
all of five minutes. 

He's definitely a Scully-Mulder.

I feel closer to you, Scully, out here. I come and sit 
among the tombstones all the time ... after Thomas's 
asleep. Mr. Powell, a gentleman with a magnificent granite
headstone, and I are intimately acquainted. After all, 
I park my butt up against him at least a couple of 
times a week. 

But there's this glade, Scully, right in the middle of 
the cemetery ...near ol' Mr. Powell. And even though this 
place is full of grand Oak trees and Sugar Maples, this 
small patch of grass has no tree canopy above it. I can 
lie here and see the stars...and hear the quiet rustles 
of the leaves ... and feel you... deep within my soul
where you reside.

Thomas's snoring away now...so much for ringing in the New 
Year with me. I'm surprised he made it this long. He 
never slows down. He's asking about you all the time 
now, Scully. He wants to know when he'll see his mommy, 
and there's no way I can explain all of this to him. So 
I keep writing in the journal ... providing a record for 
him and his future children. 

Do you really think they'll believe all of this?

I always knew Skinner would come through for us in the 
end. Well, ok...not always. But I have believed for some 
time that he would do the right thing, regardless of his 
own personal consequences. Byers said Skinner went to 
bat for you with OPR, even going so far as to say you 
were being set up by people within the FBI's own 
organization ... as a means to discredit you. 

Obfuscation has been the modus operandi of those around 
us for years. It seems fitting to turn the tables now. I 
know, when this is all said and done, there will be no 
fanfare. No one will be handing out citations to Mr. and 
Mrs. Spooky, and thanking them on behalf of a grateful 
nation for having helped prevent human annihilation. The 
X-Files will slip once more into obscurity until another 
poor slob with a predilection for self flagellation, 
decides 'the truth is out there.'

The rumblings are that this will be over soon, Scully. 
One way or another.... 

Thomas and I are leaving tomorrow. We haven't told Lizzy 
and Rupert, and I know this will tear them apart. But my 
sources tell me that the hounds are closing in on our 
location, and I can't let them find us. If Lizzy and 
Rupert don't know anything ... they'll more than likely be 
safe. I hope so.

Perhaps, this time next year... you will be with us for 
our New Year's celebration. I can only hope... and dream.

A Legacy: Chapter Twelve

June 5, 2003

When all is said and done and history's been ignored or, 
at best, been re-written, the world will still go on ... 
our collective heads buried deep within the sands of 
time like the proverbial ostrich's. For 'ignorance is 
bliss' is the way of humanity ... and we don't care to 
have our weaknesses and our mistakes held up before us 
like shortcomings reflected in the Wicked Queen's 
Mirror. There is no 'fairest in the land' when it comes 
to the public's right to know or to understand. 

As I stand here, on the precipice of what will be my 
future ... secure in the knowledge that Mulder and I have 
done what needed to be done and that we have fought the 
good fight, I know my son's legacy is shrouded in 
obfuscation and clouded history. 

Ahab liked to quote military men, and I remember 
something he once attributed to Napoleon.

"History is the version of past events that people have 
decided to agree upon." 

In our case ... I'm not even sure that can be said. 

In the future when our FBI colleagues speak of Mulder 
and Scully, there will be all-knowing whispers, raised 
eyebrows, and talk of "I knew them when...." But as the 
years pass and the X-Files become a more distant memory 
... the tall tales will begin, and we will become a real 
life ghost story within Hoover's hallowed halls. Mulder 
and Scully's Legacy will only be spoken of in hushed 
tones and suppositions ... because no one knows the true 
story. Just as Mulder said about the "Lazarus Bowl", our 
contemporaries will paint us as Spooky characatures 
instead of the human, flawed vessels that we are.

Perhaps some day our Earth's history will tell the story 
of aborted alien conquest and colonization; consortium's 
and collaboration; resistance and the uncommon lives of 
ordinary people forced into the most extraordinary 
circumstances, but not today ... and not about Special 
Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Today --all is
right with the world and no one knows how very close
humanity came to anihilation. frankly, I don't feel I want
to tell them.

Yesterday I walked into Skinner's office and hand 
delivered my resignation letter. I had to laugh between 
the tears; when we looked at each other, the moment was 
awkward and poignant, both of us feeling as though we 
should salute the other. Instead, we settled for a 
loving hug and kiss, and I promised to stay in touch ... 
although, it will probably never happen. 

However, I have to admit to an ocassional 'Officer and 
a Gentlemen' moment, envisioning Mulder and I proudly
walking our son to Skinner's office. Perhaps, that 
still is within the realm of possibility, but as it is
with moving on ... earnest promises meant in all sincerity 
at the time they are made, tend to be forgotten or 
neglected just as a matter of course. And I, for one, 
have no illusions as to fate's fragile nature. I do know, 
however, that instead of fighting this future ... it's 
time to embrace it. 

My destiny is here below me ... running and playing in the 
incoming tide. From where I stand atop this sand dune, 
hidden behind tall sea grasses and a battered, wooden 
hand railing ... I clearly see all that is good in the 
world. 

I watch the scene unfold before me.  Mulder and Thomas
haven't seen me yet ... and so I take this moment to just 
take it all in ... to inhale the salty sea spray, the 
tangy brine and all my fearful expectations. 

Hope begins with a 42-year-old man, with windswept hair 
and laughing eyes, and extends to a small, brown haired 
boy, with freckles and suntanned legs. Mulder is 
barefoot and dressed in Khaki trousers, his pant legs 
rolled up at the cuffs, which he barely keeps dry 
as he chases Thomas to the water's edge. Over his 
exposed chest, bronze from the sun's caress, Mulder has 
thrown on a floral Hawaiian shirt, which he wears open and 
untucked, the edges flapping in the breeze. His hair is 
longer, curling slightly at the edges where it lays in 
unruly disregard against his collar. 

And Mulder's laughing....

Our son, a miniature version of his father, with his 
toddler size, navy blue swim suit trunks and very own 
luau shirt, races on chubby legs, into the surf once 
more ... until the crashing waves send him back ... 
careening into his father's arms. And with Mulder's 
large hands clasping Thomas's small ones, he begins 
to spin our son around. 

Mulder and Thomas ... spin and spin...and spin... 

Until ... suddenly, they stop.

Thomas, breathless with excitement, is facing the ocean, 
his head turned upward to his father. Mulder gently sets 
the child's feet upon the sand. Then, as Thomas 
impatiently tugs upon his father's shirt and butts his 
head against Mulder's legs, trying to regain his attention, 
Mulder's head raises and his eyes search the dunes where I
hide. Shocked joy lights his features as he concentrates
on Sea Oats and Pompass Grass.

Within my mind warmth begins to embrace me, its tendrils 
encircling my thoughts and sensuously sliding into my 
ravaged soul as Mulder says, 'hello' in is own personal
way. 

He knows I am here. 

I step from my hiding place onto the battered deck and 
into the sunshine. The simple sundress I wear swirls 
about my legs as the hot summer wind soothes my frozen 
spirit. I remove my sunglasses and for the first time in 
almost three years, ... my heart soars.

Thomas calms ... he stops pulling against his father; 
cocking his head to the side, he intently studies Mulder's 
face. Finally, he turns his tiny body and grabs his 
daddy's hand, until Thomas faces my direction and 
his questioning eyes pursue mine. 

Purposefully, I tear my gaze away from Mulder's and seek 
out a child I only knew for four hours, but would 
recognize if he were but one of a multitude of 
thousands. 

He is his father's son.

My fingers trembling, I lay them against my lips ... and 
stop the hiccuping sobs, which threaten to escape. I do 
not want to frighten Thomas with an hysterical outburst, 
but I have never seen such beauty in all my life ... 
there, standing together on the sand below me.

The two men of my life -- one tall, tanned and sleek,
with more contentment in his countenance than I have
ever seen. The other, our 'little man', stands proudly
next to his father. His brown, windblown hair curls
against his collar as he adjusts his stance to mimic
Mulder's.

Before I can unclench my frozen limbs and give direction 
to my numbed body, there's a tumult of color and light 
streaking toward me. Mulder has scooped up Thomas, and 
they are racing across the sand in a blur of silicone 
granules, tears, and rainbow-colored shirts.

Suddenly, I am home.

Mulder's arms encircle me, practically squashing Thomas 
between us, as he spins us around in a frenzied twirl. 
And I am enveloped in a tangle of arms and legs and more 
love than I have ever known. With frantic kisses raining 
upon my face and in my hair, I hear Mulder's voice 
fighting for distinction against that of his son's. 

"I love you, Scully ... love you...."

"Mommy!"

Grabbing Mulder's hand, I place a tender kiss upon his 
palm, a promise of more to come. He knows my mind, and 
clutches my own hand where he rubs his lips against the 
fleshy pad of my thumb, nuzzling me and urging me 
forward in the same moment. 

I stoop down, bringing myself nose to nose with my son. 

"Hello, Thomas."

"Daddy was right. You are pretty."

Choking back the emotions that threaten to overwhelm,
I reach my hand backward and clasp Mulder's for 
a few seconds of assuring contact. I don't want to
mess this up.

"Thank you, sweetie. You are quite a handsome young
man."

Thomas, with only the barest hesitation, lifts his 
gaze from mine and searches his father's face. 
Apparently, he finds what he needs from Mulder as he
stretches out his arms and grasps tightly around my 
neck, squeezing with his tiny baby hands and fingers. 

"Mommy's home," he whispers against my hair as he 
tries to crawl into my lap. 

With the extra weight of a squirming two and a half-
year-old and the enormity of Thomas's words, I fall back 
into the sand, drawing my baby into my lap. Clinging to 
my child, I finally allow release to the tears I've held 
inside for three years, and I am laid bare upon the 
crystalline sand. 

Crashing waves of emotion churn within me, and I fear the 
pain I'm feeling is also causing grief to those I love. 
I finally register Mulder behind me, spreading his legs 
V-like around my body as he pulls me tightly against his 
chest. Enfolded within his strong embrace, I grasp 
Mulder's forearms, digging my fingers deeply into his skin. 
I'm still afraid he'll disappear. Thomas has quit his 
squirming and rests quietly ... his hands pet soothingly 
at my hair. His head nestles against my breast. 

In the day's bright summer light, as swollen seas crash 
against the shore, and I unburden years of anguish ... I 
embrace Mulder, my child, and my life to come.

Suddenly, a yellow glint -- a sparkle -- catches my eye.
I pull Thomas's collar back and reveal a tiny golden
cross. My baby's wearing my cross....

"Mulder?" I manage to choke out.

"Yes, Scully." With trembling fingers, he brushes back 
damp wisps of hair from my sweaty brow. 

"It's Spring."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

LATER THAT SAME EVENING

"You know he's asleep." Mulder smiles as he sits on the 
chair next to Thomas's bed. From there he reaches over 
and rubs small circles against my clavicle, his hands 
like magic fingers ... both soothing and sensuous. 
"He's a hard sleeper, Scully; he won't wake up 'til 
morning."

"There's so much about him I don't know, Mulder. So much 
time that's elapsed ... Time I can never get back."

"I know ... but you don't have to worry about connecting 
with Thomas, Scully. For the last two and a half years 
he's heard everything about his mommy...how smart she is,
how she's beautiful, loving, and brave. I think there 
have been times he's almost forgotten he hasn't seen you 
since his birth."

I stroke my son's damp hair away from his forehead, 
worshipping the tiny exhaled puffs of breath that fan my 
cheek where it lies against his on the pillow. We've 
just finished an enthusiastic bathtub game of sink the 
boat, eaten two Oreos and drunk a glass of milk, and 
survived a reading double header-'Chicka Chicka Boom 
Boom' and 'I'll Love You Forever'. Somewhere before 
'Thomas the Tank Engine', he conked out ... clutching a 
little teddy bear dressed in a black leather Harley 
biker outfit. 

//I wonder where he got his furried friend?//

"Frohike."

"Figures ... please, Mulder, don't tell me what Langly's 
been giving him. I really feel as though I should absorb 
a small amount at a time." 

With another gentle kiss upon Thomas's ivory soap cheeks, 
I slide off the bed, careful as possible so as not to 
waken our sleeping son. There's another reunion I would 
like to attend this evening.

"Oooh, Par-Tay, Scully! I like the sound of that."

Cracking the door behind us, we leave Thomas's bedroom. 
As I step into the living area, I hear the crashing surf 
through the open sliding glass doors. The ceiling fan 
mounted above twirls in lazy disregard, circulating 
humid air throughout the room. We should probably shut 
the door and turn on the air-conditioning, but neither 
one of us seems inclined to do so.

There are hours of talk ahead of us, days of discussion 
and ruminations, but at this moment, words are not what 
I need.

Turning towards Mulder, I slide my hands upward, straining 
against him ... craving that which I've forsaken for almost 
three years. 

Even as our lips meet, the heat from our breath 
intermingles in such a way as to rival the summer's 
scorching rays. We slide into each other, our mouths 
sucking, sweeping, nibbling, caressing - teeth and 
tongues, hard and soft, passionate and tender - parched 
souls seeking thirsty release.

As I slide down to lie supine beneath him, I revel in the 
dichotomies of the hard wood floor against my back, and 
Mulder's lean muscular body poised above me. His hands 
are everywhere at once, and I am finding it difficult to 
concentrate ... It's too strenuous to keep my bearings, 
and so I allow myself to drift, letting my feelings and 
emotions navigate my way as my hands follow heart, 
marking my soul-mate.

Our bodies, slick with perspiration and hunger, search 
for each other in a timeless, soulful dance. With 
whispers and rustles, clothing is removed and 
inhibitions are unfettered, until, finally, there is 
nothing more between us. And as the last barrier's 
broached, Mulder once more binds himself to me in an act 
more intimate than humanly possible. 

//I, Fox, take thee, Dana ...within this covenant, this 
promise...to be your husband, to love you without 
reserve, with every fiber that is within me...for as 
long as we both shall live. And I have kept my promise, 
to protect our son with all that I am, with all that I 
have...and I have made sure he knows, without a shadow 
of a doubt, the tremendous love his mom has for him." //

//I, Dana, take thee, Fox...within this covenant, this 
promise...to be your wife, to love you without reserve, 
with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we 
both shall live. And I, momentarily, gave into despair, 
but I re-found my faith, knowing we =would= be together, 
remaining confident that we will create this legacy of 
love and sacrifice for our children-" //

Even as our bodies tremble in the after affects of our 
lovemaking, Mulder laughs. 

// Children?//

Drawing him closer into my arms, I urge him to remain 
upon me ... even as he hesitates for fear of hurting me. 

//I believe in extreme possibilities, Mulder ... And I 
believe in us.//

A Legacy: Chapter Thirteen

JANUARY 11, 2034
THE SAME BEACH AS BEFORE

The cold, harsh sting of salty spray buffets my face. It 
feels like tiny glass pinpricks upon my exposed skin. 
The ocean is angry today; the waves are enormous frothy 
fists pounding against an immovable shore. It's as 
though the surf rails against that which hems it in, as 
though the shore has any choice in the destiny it's been 
given, any more than the ocean has in its own. 

I remember a song I heard sung in Church ... from very 
long ago. It's told from the point of view of a piece of 
metal, being honed and sculpted by the blacksmith ... and 
as the metal is shaped and fired, it cries out, 

"So dream a little dream for me, in hopes that I'll 
remain. And cry a little cry for me, so I can bear the 
flames. And hurt a little hurt for me, my future is 
untold. But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, 
the hammer holds."

Part way through the song the metal realizes its 
destiny. Instead of being sculpted into a perfect piece 
of art, its design is to be that of a nail ... not nearly 
the future it would have chosen. So the words take on 
new meaning, sung in the context of that knowledge as 
the nail pleas for prayers that it might stay the 
course, knowing the agony of its refinement will only be 
to create a sturdy, functional tool. 

Yet, finally, as the ballad unfolds, the nail realizes 
that its true destiny is not to build a building, or 
anything else of equal practicality, but its 
inevitability is to pierce the flesh of Christ as He 
hangs upon a cross. The nail's Legacy is much greater 
than any idea it ever held and the ramifications of its 
part in history are unfathomable.

From the moment I first heard that song, over 30 years 
ago, I have understood how the nail felt. 

When I started with the FBI, I had grand ideas as to 
what my place in history would be. I'd excel as a woman 
in a predominately male field, and I'd further the 
advancement of women in the organization. And even 
separate from that, I'd be the best damn agent I could 
be, regardless of gender ... Special Agent Dana Scully.

But with the best of plans ... Special Agent Dana Scully 
met Special Agent Fox Mulder, and my fate intertwined 
with his. And for years we endured the fire, choosing to 
remain midst the pain, being sculpted into something no 
one would have ever perceived. And our Legacy, through 
Thomas ... and his future children, will join with others 
who have been 'gifted' through the years by the 
activation of the God module. 

"Mom?"

"Thomas." I acknowledge my son as he steps up behind me, 
a blanket in his hands, which he throws across my 
shoulders. Too bad it will do nothing to ward away this 
chill. 

"It's time to go."

"I know ... I'm just saying goodbye." He moves over to my 
side, and encircles my small frame within his embrace. 
As he pulls me tightly into the circle of his arms, my 
eyes sting with unshed tears. So many times Mulder and I 
have stood here just like this.

"Your father was so excited about your news, Thomas. He 
couldn't believe you and Deborah hadn't told us earlier. 
Although, he did say he didn't believe Deborah would go 
for Frohike as a first name." I wipe my eyes with the 
back of my gloved hand and search through my pockets for 
a tissue. "He suggested if you really felt the urge to 
honor Hickey that you try 'Melvin'...  you might get 
farther."

Thomas laughs and squeezes my shoulders gently. 
"Actually, Mom ... Deborah's having a girl. And we've 
decided to name her Megan because she needs a name all 
her own. But her middle name will be Samantha to remind 
her of the Legacy she continues."

"He'd like that, Thomas." My face scrunches up, my 
cheeks tautly drawn with the pain I try to hold inside, 
until finally ... I can't keep it back any longer. With 
the icy spray of harsh winter spraying upon Thomas and 
me, sobs tear from my chest, and I turn my body inward 
within my son's strong arms.

I say goodbye to Mulder, and I pray that 'I might bear 
the flames because my future is untold.'

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

THE WATER TOWER
2045

I hold Grandma Dana's journals within my hands, but I 
can no longer feel their hard, smooth surfaces. All I 
feel are my father's arms as he draws me up across his 
lap and pulls me tightly into the safe enclosure of his 
embrace. Just as Grandma cried for Grandpa, I cry for 
them both ... for all they sacrificed through the years so 
that I might live, that humanity might survive. 

"How did Grandpa die, Daddy?" 

"Quietly ... in his sleep. Grandma says she suddenly woke 
up, feeling as though something were missing ... some part 
of her was gone. She rolled over, knowing he was already 
dead. It was the night after Deborah and I had told them 
about you, Sweetheart. Grandpa had been so excited. It 
was a joyful occasion."

"They never had any other children, did they?" I clutch 
my father around his waist, burrowing further into him.

"No ... but as Grandpa always told me, not for lack of 
trying on their part. They were really ok about it 
though ... Grandma told me I was her miracle. And as far 
as she was concerned, that was enough. But I know ... deep 
down, they would have enjoyed more children."

Quieting my tears, I sit up, looking at Dad's face 
through the diffuse lantern light. It gives it a Spooky 
glow....

"Grandma was always so happy, Dad. I don't remember her 
as anything but content with her life. Yet, from what 
I've read ... from what you've told me. I can't believe 
she didn't feel as though her heart had been removed 
when Grandpa died."

Dad fills the backpack with the journals, snacks and 
water bottles. He finishes closing up the clasp before 
he answers. 

"Grandma was happy, Megan. For the last ten years she 
continued to devote her life to her family, helping 
raise you and your siblings when Mom and I couldn't get 
our work schedules figured out. She was in her element 
Megan ... among all of you...but especially you, Megan. You 
are so much like your grandfather; it is uncanny. And 
the fact you bear his gift for 'seeing' made that 
connection even stronger."

Dad pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to 
me. He gives me one of the flashlights as well. "Megan, 
Grandma left this for you ... to read after you'd read the 
journals and heard their story. I'm leaving it with you, 
Honey, and I'm heading home. This is for you to read, 
alone."

With trembling fingers I accept the letter. Dad drops a 
warm kiss upon my forehead and descends the ladder. I 
know he won't be far, even as he says he's going home. 
He won't leave ... he'll wait beneath me in the shadows, 
making sure I am all right. We both know this ... and 
that's ok.

The envelope appears old ... probably because paper's used 
so infrequently today. I slide my fingernail carefully 
under the flap and open the envelope, pulling out the 
stationary.

Dear Megan,

You have just worked your way through an amazing amount 
of history, Honey. You are probably overwhelmed and 
exhausted by the journey. But I hope that Sam's diary 
and my journals have provided some small beginning for 
you to understand the tremendous gift you have, and to 
see your special Legacy. 

You are a miracle child, born of another miracle ... your 
father. [Although, I'm sure Deborah would be quick to 
point out she had something significant to do with the 
process.] You are unique; you are blessed. 

And you will be faced with the ramifications of a 
changing world. Megan, as a 'seer', you are one of many, 
but still one of few. Humanity is only now beginning to 
understand the changes that are coming. And with change 
and growth becomes responsibility to not only the whole, 
but the individual as well. Ethics and morality, as is 
usually the case with any new development, will struggle 
for dialogue ... and not always civil dialogue.

You will be tested and scorned by some because of fear 
and ignorance, and there will be those who will want to 
'manage' you to their benefit. Your life may be 
difficult, but it will be exciting. And you have the 
strength to see you through whatever comes. You will be able 
to stay beneath the flame, Megan. 

You have a responsibility because of your heritage ... you 
can choose to hide your gift, or you can choose to find 
a way to use it ... be proud of it and create a better 
world for those around you.

Remember, Megan, there are always consequences for our 
actions and our choices. 

I write this letter to you tonight because I feel him 
near ... your Grandpa. The feeling's been increasing the 
last few weeks, and it is such that I know I will be 
going to him soon. 

In a world where time used to be a constant, and 
physical laws of nature were once irrefutable, down is 
now up, and up is...well up is somewhere found in 
starlight. 

Look for me, Megan ... look for us... in the stars....

I love you,

Grandma Dana

Carefully, I slide the letter back into its sheath, and 
I lean back against the water tower. I let my eyes drift 
to the stars ... and I pray they found each other again. 
Somehow, I have no doubt.

Silently, one by one 
in the infinite meadows of heaven,
blossomed the lovely stars,
the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The End ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


CHAPTER 14: AUTHOR'S NOTES



As is always the case writing any long story like this, 
there are people who need and who should be thanked and 
acknowledged. 

I wish to acknowledge the input of a few of my fellow 
WIP authors this summer. Pequod, Beduini, and Paige 
Caldwell have all been there for me when I came 
screaming because of writer's block or insecurities. 
Ladies, you are all a class act. 

My friend, Carol, continues to allow me to bounce ideas 
with her, and she still says she likes me ... even with my 
'obsession.'

I have had so many write to me, offering words of 
encouragement along the way. For all of you who have 
offered feedback, you have no idea how wonderful that 
has been. 

And Haven's spoiler board ... well, what can I say. You
have all been dears. :)

When I was making an attempt to figure out mythology ... 
and banging my head against the keyboard because I 
couldn't believe I'd attempted a mythology story, I 
turned to Deep Background and Tiny Dancer's sites. Both 
saved me lots of time in research, and I am very 
appreciative of those archivists' efforts. 

Thank you as well, to Paige, Kimberly, Frogdoggie, Kate,
SLS, Michelle Kieffer, CindyET, and Megan for behind the 
scenes real life encouragement. Thanks to these lovely 
people ... this WIP got finished.

Ok...this is the part where dlynn goes on an indefinite 
hiatus. I have been writing pretty fast and furiously 
over the several months since I started writing. I have 
enjoyed myself immensely; people have surprised me with 
their gracious generosity. And I couldn't have had a 
better time. I will probably continue to post the 
ocassional short vignette, but, at least, for awhile 
that's it on the long things from me. 

Real life's calling... and I'm going to listen. 

Thanks for a delightful ride!

~~~~ dlynn August 23, 2000 




Author's Notes, Chapter two:
The last three diary entries are from
Closure. They were as read by Mulder, or written, as seen
on the screen when the diary is open. Thank goodness
for the VCR pause button. :)

I contend that Jeffrey Spender doesn't remember any
of his time with his "father." That's my story, and
I'm sticking to it. :)

Author's Notes, Chapter five:
As far as the hospitals are concerned, I 
tried my best to get that accurate. I'm not sure how 
well I did. Thank you to the Haven Spoiler Board folks 
who helped me research this. 

According to The Washington Post article, [Suitland 
Trying To Shed Its Shady Side, by Tracey A. Reeves, 
Washington Post StaffWriter, Thursday, July 20, 2000; 
Page M16] Manchester Square was closed down in 1997 for 
housing violations. I wasn't able to determine if the 
building had been demolished at that time or if it were 
still standing. So...I may have taken some unintentional 
poetic license.  


Author's Notes, Chapter seven: I do not claim to have 
any idea how any of this whole Mythology Arc works. 
My only goal is to make this plausible. Large holes 
you could drive a truck through ... are not 
management's responsibility. Blame CC for getting me 
all confused. <g>


Author's Notes, Chapter eight: I appreciate Beduini 
and Pequod going through this chapter for me. They took 
time out of their own WIP schedules to help out in a pinch. 
:) Thanks, ladies!
             

Author's Notes, Chapter ten: 
Thank you to Pequod, who allowed me to bounce
ideas....

"Golden rice" is discussed in Time Magazine, July
31, 2000. The article is entitled Grains of Hope,
Pages 38-46.


Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
 
There is a time for everything,
And a season for every activity under heaven:

A time to be born and a time to die,
A time to plant and a time to uproot,
A time to kill and a time to heal,
A time to tear down and a time to build,
A time to weep and a time to laugh
A time to mourn and a time to dance,
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
A time to embrace and a time to refrain,
A time to search and a time to give up,
A time to keep and a time to throw away,
A time to tear and a time to mend,
A time to be silent and a time to speak,
A time to love and a time to hate,
A time for war and a time for peace.


CHAPTER 13:
The Hammer Holds by Bebo Norman


A shapeless piece of steel, that's 
all I claim to be
This hammer pounds to 
give me form, this flame, it 
melts my dreams
I glow with fire and fury, 
as I'm twisted like a vine
My final shape, my final form, 
I'm sure I'm bound to find

So dream a little dream for me in hopes 
that I'll remain
And cry a little cry for me so I can 
bear the flames
And hurt a little hurt for me, my 
future is untold
But my dreams are not the issue 
here, for they, the hammer holds

The water, it cools me 
gray, and the hurt subdued 
somehow
I have my shape this sharpened 
point, what is my purpose now?
And the question, it still remains, 
what am I to be?
Perhaps some perfect piece of art 
displayed for all to see

A hammer pounds again, but 
flames I do not feel
This force that drives 
me helplessly through flesh 
and wood reveals
A burn that burns much deeper, it's 
more than I can stand
The reason for my life was to take 
the life of a guiltless man

So dream a little dream for me in 
hopes that I'll remain
And cry a little cry for me so I can 
bear the painAnd hurt a little hurt for 
me, my future is so bold
But my dreams are not the issue 
here, for they, the hammer holds

This task before me may seem unclear, but 
it, my maker holds



And for those who have asked: Megan's a compilation
of my nine-year-old daughter, my eleven-year-old son,
and Gibson Praise...uh...the female version. :)