From: "KRUMS" <KRUMS@qis.net>
Date: Mon, 25 Sep 2000 17:37:11 -0400
Subject: xfc: REPOST: Mine Forever 1-2 of 29
Source: xfc

Title: Mine Forever
Author: Smurf
Email: KRUMS@qis.net
Rating: PG-13 for naughty words 
Category: SXR
Keywords: Post-Requiem (I'm sorry, I had to!). Scully solo. And can
we say "angst"?
Spoilers: Everything under the sun.
Distribution: Everywhere. Just keep my name attached and drop me a
line 'bout where it is.  

Summary: "All decisions, no matter how small or short-lived, effect
your entire life. Taking life for granted is not forgetting the good
things you have done, but forgetting the bad as well."

Notes: See the end. :o)

Disclaimer: Scully, Mulder, Doggett . . . and anyone else you
recognize is not mine. Grace Fidelia Connelly is. You can borrow her
if you want, just ask.

Final word: I know about the apprehension for reading post-reqs, the
craziness around them is unreal. But I pride myself on originality.
Try it, will ya?

Listening Soundtrack:
1. Bang and Blame by REM
2. My Skin by Natalie Merchant
3. Do What You Have To Do by Sarah McLachlan
4. Tonight and The Rest of My Life by Nina Gordon
5. Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain

~1~

"If you could yourself now, baby 
 It's not my fault you used to be so in control
 You're going to roll right over this one
 Just roll me over let me go
 You're laying blame." 

FBI Headquarters
Monday, November 6, 2000

The office is quiet today. Too quiet. Not to say that I enjoy noise,
but it always seems so empty when I'm down here alone. I just wish I
could have some company once in awhile, instead of only my thoughts. 

Good Lord. I'm rambling again. I seem to do a lot of that these
days. I'm not quite sure why. 

It is so quiet down here. I'm so used to another voice. Usually a
male voice, one that is soothing, melodramatic, and witty, and a
voice that comforts me. I haven't heard that voice for some time now,
except my memories. 

I believe it's going on nearly six months since Mulder . . .
disappeared. I hate to say it that way. Disappeared. It's too broad.
Although I have no exact definition for what happened to him, I don't
want to say he disappeared, and I don't even want to say he's gone.
He's just not back yet. 

If he were here right now, he would tell me how ridiculous that
sounds, and how obvious it was that aliens abducted him from the
woods outside of Bellefleur, Oregon.  He would be here, pounding
furiously at his computer, hot on the trail of some mysterious
anomaly at the ends of the earth. Or in some tiny town with a dying
cattle population. Or investigating monkey babies with tails. Or God
knows what else. 

He would tell me all about it. I wouldn't believe him. I never do,
and I probably never will. Then he would convince me that we had to
be on the next flight to Stick-In-The-Mud, Whatever State. He could
always convince me. 

We would investigate, even when there was nothing presented that
really needed investigation. When he was right (and I'll admit, he
was, once or twice, to some degree) he would never say, "I told you
so." Although when I was the correct one, I might let it slip once in
awhile. I wish I hadn't. 

If he were here right now, he would be telling me it's not my fault
that he's gone. He'd tell me it was all right, that everything was
going to be all right, even if he knew it wasn't. 

I wish he were here right now. 

But no matter how much I wish on it, no matter how hard I try; he
still isn't here. And I am still alone. And it is too quiet. 

~ 2 ~

Contrary to my fears, I was not assigned a "temporary" partner to
work with in Mulder's absence. That was a blessing from God. I don't
know how I would have handled having someone else say I was their
partner, and having he or she say they were mine. I know that sounds
ridiculous, but it would just feel so weird. 

However, there is a man that I work with. His name is John Doggett.
I'm not quite sure how to explain just where he is in relationship to
me, as far as partnerships, and superiorities, and underlings, and
whatnot goes. I think he is supposed to be my superior, as a senior
agent. 

He, like Skinner, is an ex-Marine. When I first heard this, I
thought, "All right, I've dealt with one before, and he's not so bad.
I can do it again." Boy, was I ever wrong. This guy's temper makes
Skinner's look like a walk in the park. Some days I piss him off just
for spite. Just because I know I can. I blame the hormones. 

I don't think he really likes me because I'm a woman. A woman that
refuses to take his orders, that is. I don't seem to take orders from
much of anybody anymore. Mulder rubbed off on me more than I realized.

I think the one thing I dislike most about Doggett is the fact that
he takes it upon himself to choose our assignments. As if I'm not
capable of deciding what is an X-file and what is not. And when we do
get a case we can agree on investigating, that's the last thing we
agree on. It seems like no matter what I think, he thinks the
opposite. 

In a way, it was like that with Mulder. However, this is different.
I've at least become as open-minded as my scientific background will
allow, but if Doggett even hears the words "unusual" or "paranormal"
he shakes his head and stamps his feet like a stubborn two-year-old.
I have to work my investigation around him.  

They wanted me to cease and desist my investigation into Mulder's
disappearance and the disappearance of the people from Oregon.
"They", being the tight-lipped, right-winged higher-ups that have
wanted none other than to shut us down all these years. I all but
told them I didn't give a flying fuck what they wanted me to do. I
was going to find my partner with or without them. They almost forced
me to hand in my resignation. I told them I already had it typed. The
threats boiled over after a few days. 

At first I was relentless in searching. I followed every obscure UFO
sighting, every tabloid article, and every weird or mysterious thing
that happened anywhere. If a dog in Utah took a green shit in the
shape of Kentucky, I knew about it. And suddenly, I understood what
has driven Mulder all this time. 

I slowed down after the negotiations, and now I continue my search
sort of in the background of my assignments. I still go out in the
field, trying to solve the mysteries that Violent Crimes can't handle
or doesn't have the time for. Sometimes Doggett accompanies me, but I
can't help but feel like something is missing. I miss the wild
theories. I think that's what it is. Doggett lacks the imagination I
need to suit my role. There comes a time when I just want to shout at
the top of my lungs that so-and-so was killed by the ghost of Elvis
come back from Graceland and who dares to contradict me? 

I blame that on the hormones too. 

Ah yes, the hormones. Steadily increasing with strength and vigor
every day, slowly taking over my mind until I will be reduced to
nothing but a weepy, angry, miserable puddle of pregnant goo. 

The first trimester was a trip. I could have done without the
fatigue, the insomnia, the dizziness, and the vomiting at four every
morning though. But I was so involved with finding Mulder; it was
over before I realized it. 

This second trimester has been a little easier. No more nausea or
anything of the like. My back hurts a little when I'm on my feet for
too long. Mostly I just keep getting bigger. 

It really does amaze me. Every month, I go in for an ultrasound and
a check up. And every month, I cry at the sight of my child. I will
not blame the hormones for that. I haven't found out the sex yet, and
I don't want to know. There has to be a few surprises left in life. 

I have not begun to think of names. I have barely begun to buy
things for this baby once it's born. It just hasn't sunken in yet. 

At times I feel as though I may wake up at any moment, and
everything will be back to normal. I won't be pregnant, and Mulder
won't be missing. In a way I wish I would just wake up already. In
another, I'm glad this isn't a dream. 

I don't know how I was able to conceive when they told me I
couldn't. I don't want to know. I'm fine just the way I am, minus the
part that the baby's daddy is gone. 

Mulder is my child's father. There I said it. Here, I'll yell it.
MULDER IS MY CHILD'S FATHER! No tricks, no X-files in that. Just one
night together, the first of a blissful many, that ended all too
soon. I won't go into detail. Let's just say it was the night I
walked away from Daniel Waterston and the life I left behind, and it
was about time. 

I understand my mission. It is as clear to me as it has ever been.
It is as clear as the test results confirming my pregnancy, as clear
as the pain on Skinner's face when he told me he had lost Mulder. I
will find him.

I have to. 

~3~

Tuesday, November 7, 2000

I ended up going home early yesterday. I was tired and miserable. It
was just one of my bad days. I took advantage of the fact the Skinner
is always stressing how I need to take more time away from work, and
that I could have time off whenever I want. He feels guilty for
taking Mulder away, even though he couldn't have stopped it. To make
up for it, he has stepped into the role of fussy, pecking, dad-to-be,
even though he's not. He's just keeping Mulder's place warm. 

Once again, I enter the basement office alone, in the quiet. It
doesn't bother me as much today as it did yesterday. Doggett works in
an office upstairs. Around here, it's pretty much the same thing
every day at the office. I come in, look over any new assignments
that might be in the inbox, check my email for any information from
the Lone Gunmen, and start wading through some previous case
paperwork. I sit at Mulder's desk. I haven't moved much around,
except for the normal organizing that I did anyway. The boxes of
files and papers are still strewn about around the desk, and on the
cabinets, and stacked in the corners by the wall. I haven't moved
them, partially because I can't lift the boxes anymore and partially
because the clutter reminds me of Mulder. 

Today I come into the office, turn on all the lights, put my things
in a chair in "my area" and take a seat at Mulder's desk. Every time
I sit down, the little joking voice in the back of my head tells me
that I, too, am just keeping Mulder's place warm.

There is only one file in the inbox today. It looks like all the
other case files, black and white striped, some preliminary
information scrawled onto the front, and a case number stamped in the
designated zone. Because it is the only file, I decide to look
through it instead of shoving off to the side until later. 

The case is a double murder in Alexandria, Virginia. At first it
doesn't even seem like the case warrants FBI jurisdiction at all.
That is, until I read that the man who was killed worked for the
National Security Agency. Apparently the man, Eric Connelly, and his
wife Amanda were found in their suburban home on the afternoon of
October twenty-fourth. They had been killed by a single gunshot to
the base of the skull, execution style. 

The question I have is; how did I end up with this case? It
certainly isn't an X-file, and how could the Violent Crimes Section
let this juicy deal slide through their grubby little hands?

I'm rereading the police and Medical Examiner's reports when there's
a knock at the open doorframe to the office. 

I look up to see Doggett's tall frame filling the doorway. His
composure seems kind. But I can never get over how cold his eyes
always look, and how his jaw is always set in an appearance of anger. 

"Good morning, Dana," he says, entering the office. It used to irk
me that he insisted on using my first name, but now I've kind of
gotten used to it. 

"'Morning, Doggett." I, on the other hand, refuse to call him by his
first name. That would imply a friendship, and we are not friends. We
are merely acquaintances, coworkers.

"I see you got the case I sent down here." He looks at the file
folder in my hands and the case photos spread on the desk before me. 

"I did, but I'm not sure why you would want my investigation on
this. It isn't an X-file."

"I know," he says, picking up a handful of the photos and examining
them. "I have a friend in VCS and I convinced him to let us have
this. I figured you and I both could use a break from the bizarre and
mysterious." He chuckles.

I'm not amused. In fact, if he had said it yesterday, I would have
been downright offended. But he's right, in a way. The case has
already nabbed my attention. And it has been a long time since I
investigated something run-of-the-mill. 

"I set up a meeting with the detective working the case," He
continues. "We're to meet at ten o'clock at the crime scene."

I nod. 

Please don't offer me a lift. 

"I would be happy to drive us," he offers and smiles. The way his
lips part around his perfect white teeth only makes his fa=E7ade more
intimidating. 

My chest sinks a little in reluctance and I agree. This man seems
obstinate about us becoming friends. He views us as partners,
although we're not. He's used to that partner-to-partner bond from
being on the police force in New York City. Unfortunately, I'm
against the idea. I try to keep us separate; he tries to get us
together. I am perfectly capable of driving myself, for the time
being, and I would rather not be trapped in a car with Agent Doggett. 

"Well, I'll let you continue going through the reports." He drops
the pictures back on my desk and turns away. On his way out, he
tosses over his shoulder: "I'll meet you in the garage at nine." 

"Okay," I call back. I glance at my watch. It's seven forty-five. I
still have a while. 

I flip through the file until a picture of Connelly and his family
catches my eye. Connelly was a short, balding fellow with dark hair
around the sides of his head and a dark beard. In the photo, he's
wearing a blue V-neck sweater and khakis. His wife, Amanda, has one
of those fake perfect family smiles that you might find on the box of
some board game. The thing that really catches my eye is the girl in
the picture. I turn back to the profile on the couple, and find that
they have a daughter, Grace. The first thought that comes to mind is,
oh man, they had a kid. What has become of her? I do not know.
According to the profile, she has recently turned fourteen, her
birthday being in August. As I study the picture, an odd sensation of
familiarity begins to stir in me, but I can't quite put my finger on
it. 

After a few long moments, I put the photograph aside and dive into
the forensic reports. They're very thorough, and should keep me
occupied until nine. 

All I can say is, it's shaping up to be a very interesting day.    

~4~

Interstate 395

The ride from the office to the crime scene has been mostly quiet so
far. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it stays that way.
Unfortunately, Doggett always has to have small talk or something
going. I have a feeling it won't be this way for much longer. 

I enjoy watching the sights of Alexandria as we drive through, even
though it's the same sights I've seen a thousand times before. The
exit to get to Mulder's apartment is coming up. I watch for it. As we
pass by, I look away. I can't explain why. 

"So," Doggett begins to say. 

Oh great, here we go.

"Did you find anything of interest in the forensic analysis?" 

"No," I say quickly. 

He glances at me a moment. "Anything in the profiling report?" 

"No," I repeat. 

He pauses, heaving out a long breath. "Dana, if you didn't want to
be on this case, you should have said so."

I don't reply; keeping my eyes focused on the highway before us. 

He continues regardless of me, "I just thought you might want a
normal case for once. You've been investigating all of that nonsense
all these years. I thought you might appreciate a welcoming back to
the real world."

I turn my head quickly and look at him. Where did this come from? 

He sees my eyes on him, and the offense they possess, but he keeps
pushing, "Tell me, what would make you want to work with a man like
Mulder all these years? From what I hear, he was totally obsessed
with his work, just dragging you along for the ride."

"You don't know Mulder," I say calmly, but I know the calm won't
stay for long.

"I've heard enough about him to know that he was a failure, a
disgrace to the FBI. He could have been so successful, and he threw
it all away. You, on the other hand, are a very intelligent woman.
I'm just trying to understand why you would waste your time." 

I look out the windshield and take a deep breath. I wish I could say
that the insults just glance off of me, but they don't. They cut
deep. All throughout these years I have defended Mulder, from the
people that know him, from the people that don't, and from himself.
Once again, some asshole that has never met the man thinks he knows
his story. I can't take it anymore. I turn back to Doggett, my eyes
boring holes in him.

"Look, you don't know Mulder." I repeat harshly, my words burning
with fury. "You have never met Mulder. He is more passionate, more
loyal, and ten times a better investigator than you will ever hope to
be. He deserves more respect than bureaucratic brown-nosers, like
you, give him." I pause. When I speak again my voice is quieter, but
much stonier. "And in the future I ask that you not refer to him in
the past tense."

Doggett lets my words hang in the air a moment. "My apologies,"

I know he doesn't mean it. 

Doggett doesn't know anything about Mulder other than what Skinner
and VCS agents have told him. He knows Spooky Mulder. He doesn't know
the Mulder that I know. I always hated Mulder defending me when I
could do it myself. But I wish he were here now to put this jackass
in his place. 

There I go. Wishing again. 

~5~

Former Connelly Residence
Alexandria, Virginia

My first impression of the Connelly's home is that it is very
lovely. It is all stone; none of that only front-side stone bull.
There's a cobblestone walkway that leads to the front patio, where a
lovely wooden rocking chair sits. Off beside the house, there is a
small white gazebo. I imagine that in the springtime, there are a
million flowers everywhere and the effect is spectacular. Suddenly
I'm very jealous, remembering the tiny potted plants in my apartment
that just barely grip onto life. The thing that bars the picture-
perfect scene is the yellow police tape crisscrossing the yard and
over the makeshift wooden door. There are boards on the windows as
well. 

Doggett pulls into the driveway behind an unmarked gray sedan and a
police cruiser. The detective and two officers are waiting for us on
the patio. Doggett kills the engine and gets out, wordlessly. I do
the same. 

"Agents," The detective greets, stepping off the patio to the
pathway. He meets Doggett halfway. I'm not far behind.  "Agent
Doggett, I presume," The detective greets, shaking Doggett's hand as
he nods. 

He looks to me next. "Detective Cartwright," He says, and offers me
his hand professionally.

"Agent Scully," I hear myself say. I notice the detective eyeing my
protrusive belly. 

"This is Officer Grady and Lieutenant Lewis." Cartwright gestures
back to the two officers. Grady is a middle-aged man with a beer gut
and dirty blonde hair. He looks at me the same way Cartwright does. 
Lewis is his exact opposite, a fit, younger, African-American woman.
She barely seems to notice what the men have spotted. 

We begin moving into the house, Cartwright speaking. I miss the
beginning of what he says, but actually begin to listen as we enter
the front foyer to the house. 

" . . . You've read that Connelly worked for the NSA. He was in the
communications division. Aside from that he was an all around average
man. We can't figure out why anyone would want to kill him, or his
wife."

As Cartwright speaks, we start up the carpeted stairs that lead up
from the foyer.

"The daughter found them when she got home from school. They were
both DOA--"

I interrupt at this point; to make sure all bases were covered.
"What condition was she in?"

Cartwright looks back at me as we reach the end of the hall where
the master bedroom is. "She was hysterical, extremely shaken up." He
pauses, gesturing for us to into the room, falling back behind me.
"She's not a suspect if you're asking."

I nod. I wasn't asking, just being thorough. I don't even want to
think that she would be a suspect.

Upon entering the room, the most prominent things that stick out are
the two large bloodstains near the foot of the bed. They are no
longer red, rather a dried brown color. The room has already been
dusted and is clean as a whistle. Only things that were of importance
have been moved. I do notice that there is some clothing strewn about
in disarray. For some reason I don't think Mrs. Connelly would have
allowed that mess. 

"What are the theories for the murder?" I ask, looking over the
things on the dresser by the near wall to the door. 

"Well, the most obvious seems to be a robbery gone wrong. There was
some jewelry missing from that box next to you." He says and I look
at the open wood jewelry box on the dresser with a few pieces of
jewelry lying around. "Also, some money was taken from a sock drawer
and Mr. Connelly's wallet. But all of the really expensive stuff was
left behind, stereo equipment, electronics. There's a 500 dollar
painting downstairs that was untouched.  The other theory is some
kind of paid killing." 

Cartwright turns his attention to Doggett as he examines the blood
and the body outlines. I linger by the door, my attention falling to
the framed photographs on the top of the dresser. In working around
Doggett, I've learned he is very uptight when it comes to evidence
collecting. Although I am the forensic pathologist, he insists on
doing the dusting and fiber collecting him self. Apparently, he dares
to tell me, I don't do it right. 

Some of the photos on the dresser are of the happy family; but most
are of the girl.  There is one of her when she was very little, about
three or four. I pull on a pair of prophylactic gloves from my pocket
and pick up the photograph.

There is something to stunningly familiar about this girl and so
help me God I cannot figure it out. She has strawberry blonde hair,
very light at such a young age. Her eyes are blue. It only takes me a
moment to realize she looks nothing like her parents, who are dark-
haired, although her mother did have blue eyes. For some reason, I
suddenly remember that she is the only witness.

"Have you talked to their daughter?" I inquire, replacing the
picture and turning away from the dresser.

Lieutenant Lewis answers this time. "We did, but she didn't say
much. She was still too upset." 

"I want to talk to her." 

"She didn't have any living relatives, so she's in the care of
social services. She's at a group home downtown." Lewis explains. 

"Cartwright and I are going down to the station to take a look at
the evidence." Doggett says. "We can meet up at the office later."

"Okay," I look to Lewis. "Would you mind going over to see her
again?" 

Lewis shrugs. "Not at all,"

As we leave the house, I can't get the image of her out of my head.
All I can think it maybe after I speak to her, this feeling will
pass, or I'll realize who this girl reminds me of. 

Yet I have this odd intuition that there is something I am
overlooking.

~6~

Lil' Angels Group Home

The woman that opens the door after I knock looks typical of someone
who might work at a group home for orphans. She is short, about the
same height as me, and I know I'm short. She is also plump, with a
very kind-hearted smile and a jolly composition. Her hair is short
and curly, an ashy blonde color. She smiles broadly and asks how she
can help me. I almost want to say I have the wrong house, deciding
talking to a teenager about her dead parents isn't such a good idea
after all. But I don't, I pull my badge from the inside pocket of my
trench coat, and before showing it notice how the woman is glancing
back and forth between my gun poking out from my shoulder holster and
nothing other than what everyone else looks at, my stomach. I wrap my
coat tighter around myself.

I try on a smile, and show her my badge. "I'm Agent Dana Scully. I
need to speak with Grace Connelly. Is she in?" 

The woman smiles again. "I'm Ms. Pat." She says. "You're lucky Grace
hasn't gone back to school yet." She turns from the door and invites
me in.

"Gracie!" She calls as I follow her down the hall. The home is a
roomy townhouse. In a room off to the left of the door, a handful of
young children, preschool age, are watching cartoons. I stand for a
moment and watch them. It brings an easy little smile to my face. 

"There's a lady here from the FBI to speak with you," I hear Ms. Pat
say from a room further down the hall. I can't hear the reply.
"Please, Grace. Just go talk to her, maybe that will help end the
questioning." 

A few moments later, a girl exits the third room on the left and
starts towards me. I am struck by that feeling that I know her once
again. She has shoulder length, strawberry-blonde hair, like in the
picture, only it is much darker. Her stunning blue eyes are focused
on me, her face in bitter resent. She carries herself in a dignified
manner, and proclaims with her body language that she does not want
to be here. 

"We can talk in the parlor." She says and goes into the only room to
the right of the door. I follow her there. 

She flops down in a high-backed chair at the end of a coffee table.
The first impression I get of her is her cold strength. Although it
has been only two weeks since her parents' death, she appears
unfazed. She isn't stoic, actually quite far from it. Her eyes are
alert and watchful of me as I observe her for a moment.   

I sit in a similar chair across from her. Sitting down isn't
difficult yet, but getting up is a different story. I pull a notebook
from my jacket pocket where I have scrawled a few questions,
introducing myself as I flip to the desired page.

"My name is Dana. As you know, I work for the FBI. I came here to
talk to you, but that's only if you're comfortable with it." 

She stares at me a moment, as if sizing me up with a scrutinizing
eye. "Let's just get this over with," she sighs, her eyes averting to
the floor. 

"Okay. Can you explain to me what happened after you got home on
October twenty-fourth?"

She sits forward. I can tell she thinks my question is ridiculous.
"I've already told the police everything." She proclaims. 

"I know," I say. "But I'm just trying to understand for myself."

She sighs and sits back again, rolling her eyes in submission. "I
came home from school at four, like always. I had Cross-Country
practice, so a friend dropped me off." Again her eyes fall to the
floor. "The first thing I noticed was that the front door was
unlocked. My mom locks it even when she's home. But my dad was home,
and sometimes he forgets to, he's absent-minded like that. I went in
and nobody was downstairs. So I went upstairs to look for them. And
when I got to the bedroom . . . I found them."

She looks back up at me, pain in her eyes. I feel so terrible for
making her relive it again. And I can't help but notice how she talks
about them in present tense. "Is there anything else you noticed that
was odd?" I dare to ask.

"My dad's wallet on the floor." She answers quickly. 

I jot something down on my notepad. Robbery gone wrong this is not.
I do not believe it so. "Did your dad have any enemies that you know
of?"

She seems a little troubled by this question, but answers, "He
worked for the federal government. You have enemies, don't you? So
yeah, I guess." She shrugs a little. There is something awkward about
that answer and the way her eyes won't meet mine this time. She's
hiding something. However, I won't push her just now. Instead, I
close my steno pad and put it back in my pocket. 

"That it?" She inquires and I nod. I expect her to get up and leave.
She remains sitting. "Do you have any idea when I can get out of
here?" She asks, hopeful. 

I shake my head reluctantly. I wish I could have some good news for
her. 

She chuffs like she was expecting me to say that. "I suppose I'm
lucky I haven't been living in places like this my whole life." 

Now I'm curious. "Why is that?" I ask, leaning back in the
incredibly comfortable chair and clasping my hands over my belly. 

"I'm adopted." She says like I should know it already. "Since I was
a baby."

She brings her lower lip between her teeth and lifts her hand to her
hair, twirling a long red-gold lock around her fine-boned index
finger. 

Just like I used to do . . .

The odd sense of familiarity I felt from her picture returns again.
My attention flashes on her. Memories from a life I haven't lived for
a long time come flooding back to me. Suddenly, I know who this girl
is. She is fourteen, adopted as a baby, red hair, blue eyes, and a
dignified demeanor. Realization slams into me like a slap across the
face. My lips part in an O as the familiarity of her face clicks in
my brain. 

She is my daughter. 

~7~

Fox Mulder Residence
Arlington, Virginia

I told myself I was only dropping by to feed the fish. That's the
agreement, that when Mulder's gone, I feed his fish. When I'm gone,
he waters my plants. 

Then why am I standing here at the threshold of his apartment,
unable to move, trying as hard as humanly possible not to break down
and cry here and now? 

I take off my coat and put it on the chair by the door. Then I take
off my jacket and my gun and put the holster on the table. Since I
got bigger, I couldn't wear a hip holster anymore, having to settle
for one on the shoulders. I leave my jacket with my coat. I'm wearing
a white button-down blouse that drapes over my belly, and a pair of
black pants. I hate the way I look in maternity suits. It's too
obvious that I'm pregnant. 

I cross the room to the fish tank. His apartment is pretty much the
way he left it, from the clothes on the bedroom floor to the
mysterious reek from the refrigerator. Needless to say I don't eat
here. I wouldn't eat here if the food were fresh. Take-out Chinese
and I don't mesh anymore. 

I haven't had the heart to move any of Mulder's stuff around. 

The fish tank is situated on a stand in the corner. I open the
little food jar and sprinkle some flakes onto the water surface.
These few fish are the hardiest I've ever seen. And when they do pass
on, they can be flushed. Mulder could never have a pet that couldn't
fit down the toilet. 

Next, I turn from the fish and to the desk, pressing the button to
hear the messages on his answering machine. One is from an adult
video store complaining about his overdue bill. There's not much I am
willing to do about that. The other is from a guy who claims to be
someone who went to college with Mulder.  He wants them to get
together some time. I suppose I could call back and tell him that
Mulder isn't around, but I'm not really in the mood. 

Finally I ease myself down on the lumpy leather couch and close my
eyes. I really came here to think. I didn't know where else to go. So
many revelations in one day, so many memories resurfaced. 

I didn't tell Grace who she was. In fact, I didn't tell anybody. No
one is supposed to know. And no one does, except for my immediate
family, my brothers and my mother being the only ones left. We never
talk about it. It's our dirty little secret. 

It happened when I was in college. I was twenty-one. It was mid-
November. A bunch of friends and I went out to a party. We drank way
too much. There was a guy at the party; I think his name was Tommy.
Things got hot . . . and I ended up pregnant.  I was too young. I
couldn't handle the idea of being responsible for a baby. There was
too much I wanted to do with my life. Abortion was so out of the
question the thought of it sickened me. Anonymous adoption seemed to
be my only choice. August rolled around, my baby was born at St.
Agnes Hospital in Baltimore. All I knew about her was that she was a
girl. I didn't hold her, and I didn't look at her.  They told me it
was best not to look. She was taken straight away to her new parents. 

The first few days were hard. Separation anxiety is terrible. I was
glad she was born in the summer, so she wouldn't affect school. I
mourned for a couple of weeks. There were days when I didn't want to
get out of bed; the guilt was so overwhelming. Eventually though,
classes started up again, my normal schedule returned, and I all but
forgot about her. I moved on. 

And now it was all back. One chance case, one single coincidence and
I find myself face to face with my past again. I have a decision to
make.  

I can turn away. I can pretend I don't know who Grace is. I can keep
myself covered that way. I can let her stay in the group home to be
shuffled from foster family to foster family because people only want
to adopt babies. 

Or I can tell her. I can let her know who I am. If social services
allow me, I can adopt her. I can make up for my mistakes.  

My mistakes. 

I don't view my end decision as a mistake. It was for the better.
Grace had a better life with the Connelly's than she would have ever
gotten with a single college student. I wouldn't be where I am today
had I kept her. I would mostly likely not be a doctor. I most
certainly wouldn't work for the FBI. I wouldn't know Mulder. 

But now I don't know what to do. 

I miss Mulder even more right now. He doesn't know about Grace.
Hell, he doesn't even know about his own kid, but especially not
Grace. If I had my way, he would never know about Grace. But if he
were here now, I would tell him in a heartbeat. I would spill my guts
in a way I never have before. He would know everything. 

God, I miss him. 

I sit up, pressing my fingers against my forehead, trying as hard as
I can to keep from crying. Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I
want nothing more than to let it all out, yet I have no idea why I
simply can't allow it. Still, I want to cry, and I want someone here
to pick me up and tell me everything is going to be all right. 

I want Mulder. 

After a few minutes, I take enough deep breaths to convince myself
that I'm okay, and then I get up and head to the bedroom. 

I'm not sure what possessed Mulder to begin sleeping in his bed
rather than the couch. Maybe it was because I convinced him that the
sofa wasn't doing his back any favors. Or maybe it's because the sofa
isn't big enough for both of us. 

The bed is still messy and slept in. The night before we left for
Oregon I spent the night. We weren't here the night before he left,
but we were together. I remember very clearly coming into his hotel
room that night, shivering and upset. Neither of us knew what was
wrong with me. He was there to comfort me. He wrapped me up in the
comforter and his arms as we lay on the bed, little were we to know
that my "illness" was only the early side effects of being pregnant. 

I don't remember any of that from my first.

Ohhh . . .

It was almost out of mind. 

I go to Mulder's dresser and pull out one of his tee shirts and a
pair of boxers. Even though it's clean, it still smells like him. I
take off my blouse and pull on the tee shirt, and then do the same
with the boxers. His clothes are still too big, even in my current
state. I can't help but wonder what he would do if he could see me
like this. I caress my palm over my tummy. The baby moves. It's like
bubbles. It brings tears to my eyes again.

I sit on the bed and bring my legs up. Then I pull the blankets to
my chin as my head finds a pillow. The bed, like the shirt, smells of
Mulder. It's familiar, and it's comforting and saddening at the same
time. 

"Mulder," I whisper into the darkening room. The tears are spilling
down my cheeks now. I won't stop them this time. 

All I can do is imagine him here. I close my eyes. I can't see him,
but I can feel his presence. As I lay on my side, I can feel his arms
around me, his body close. His hands on my sides, sweeping gently
down to my thighs and then to my stomach. The baby kicks again. I
begin to cry. I can feel his breath and his voice at my ear, but I
can't understand what he's whispering. 

"I don't know what to do;" I say softly, my voice high-pitched in
sobs.

His arms lace tighter around me and I can feel his lips touch my
throat and then my cheek. I know he's telling me everything is going
to be all right. 

I open my eyes and he's gone. 

"Mulder . . ." I whimper, unable to stop it. 

I bury my face in the pillows and weep.

~8~

Alexandria Police Station
Wednesday, November 8, 2000

This is frustrating. I can't help but feel like I'm missing
something. I'm standing here at the Alexandria police station,
listening to the accounts of the previous evening being told, seeing
the broken glass on the floor, and the yellow tape around the
evidence room. 

At around midnight last night someone broke into the station and
stole every piece of evidence from this case, leaving little evidence
him or her self. They knew exactly what evidence it was, what was the
most important, and how to get in. The night guard was surprised from
behind and hit with a blunt object. I examined him myself, and
although he was knocked unconscious for a period of time, he suffered
no concussion or long-term damage, just a bump on the head.

It is because of this, that I feel like there is something I'm
overlooking. I've been in this situation before, and in my
experiences evidence is taken when someone really doesn't want the
case investigated. They will go so far as burning an entire hotel and
personal belongings, as per our first case in Oregon years ago. What
I don't understand about this case is what exactly Eric Connelly knew
that would have him killed and cause the evidence to be taken. 

According to the night guard I examined, he heard the door crash
through while he was somewhere else in the building. When he got to
the entrance, he didn't see anyone but the broken glass all over the
floor. He also saw that the evidence room door was open, but when he
went to investigate it, someone hit him with a flashlight (he
suspects) and ran.

I'm thinking about all of this, and just how typical it is, when
Doggett catches my attention. He is stooped on the floor amongst the
shards of glass, evidence kit in hand. He waves Detective Cartwright
and I over to him. I join them, trying to be careful not to step on
too many large pieces of glass, which may prove to be good evidence
later. 

"What do you think of that?" He asks, handing a plastic evidence bag
up to me. 

There is a small, possibly one-inch wide, glass shard in it. On the
sharp edge and along the surface of the glass is a smear of red. "It
looks like blood," I reply and hand it to Cartwright. He hands me
another baggy in return. 

"One of the boys found some hair and fiber." Cartwright explains,
giving the bag of glass over to a woman with forensics to be
catalogued and sent to the labs. 

I examine the hair in the bag. It is short, probably from a male,
and a dark, dirty blondish color. 

This is all well and good, but if we don't get a suspect to match it
to, we'll be up the creek anyway. 

Cartwright sees this in the expression on my face. "It's better than
nothing," he says, shrugging, and returns to the ransacked evidence
room. 

I have to agree with that. 

Doggett stands up, plucking his gloves from his thick hands. He
turns to face me. He is a tall man, possibly the same height as
Mulder. I can remember Mulder's exact height in proportion to mine
because I have to look up to talk down to him, and when we embrace,
my head fits neatly under his chin. So I'm guessing Doggett is around
the same height, but he has a bigger build. 

"Well this is certainly shaping up to be quite an interesting case."
he says. 

I nod a little. 

"Did you learn anything from the Connelly girl yesterday?" He asks
and turns to go toward the evidence room as well, me in tow. 

Boy did I ever learn something. I swallow hardly and shrug it away.
I still find myself unable to come up with a decision about that. 

"Not much," I answer. "But I definitely think she's hiding
something. Her answers to some of the questions seemed a little
rehearsed. I don't know though, it could be nothing."

"Do you think we should talk with her again?" 

"Actually I was planning on doing that later this afternoon. I would
prefer to do it alone though. Since we've spoken before I don't think
she'll be intimidated." I say. In truth, I don't want Doggett talking
to her at all. He tends to be a bit overbearing. The last thing we
need is for him to push her so far she becomes more withdrawn than
she already is.  

"Okay," he says simply and enters the evidence room to scour for
more evidence, tossing a statement back over his shoulder: "I'm going
to personally deliver the fibers and the blood to the FBI labs."

How could I guess?

I pull on some gloves and join him with the rest of the forensics
crew this time. Forensics is something I know; perhaps it will get my
mind off the more pressing matters. 

Yeah, and perhaps pigs will fly. 

~9~

Lil' Angels Group Home

Well, I find myself here again, debating whether I should knock or
not. As I said I would do, I drove myself down here after lunch. I
was sitting in my car for about fifteen minutes, deciding if I should
start the engine and run, or get out. I got out and as far as the
first step to the front stoop. No one has seen me out here, giving me
plenty of time to think about what to do. 

Finally, I take a deep breath, climb the last few steps and knock a
few times on the wood door, all without pause. If I had paused, I
would have lost my nerve. Ms. Pat opens the door and smiles politely,
looking directly at my face for a change. I left my gun under the
seat in the car. 

"Do you need to speak with Grace?" She asks, inviting me in
regardless of my answer. 

"Please," I respond.

The children aren't in the room watching TV. They are running
around, playing in different rooms. There are some older ones now,
probably Kindergarteners. As Ms. Pat leads me down the hall, two
boys, both four or five years old, run by, toy guns in their hands,
cowboy hats on their heads. 

"Aaron, Michael!" She scolds, "Calm it down a little, okay?" They
laugh and run up the stairs. 

I smile a little. 

We go into the room at the very end of the hall and enter. It is the
dining room. Two girls are at the table, markers and wax crayons
spread before them, drawings on white paper strewn all over the
place. I recognize Grace immediately by her hair. It looks like mine
did when I was her age. The other girl is a curly-haired brunette of
about five. 

Grace is facing us, the little girl's back to us. As we enter, Grace
looks up. I can feel her eyes begin to burn with her resent and the
prospect of answering more questions.   

"Mary," Ms. Pat says to the younger girl, "Would you allow Ms. Dana
and Gracie some grown-up time alone, please." 

The girl, Mary, slides out of the too-big dining room chair. 

"Take your crayons and book with you," Grace adds, handing her one
of the boxes of crayons. 

Little Mary turns around and gets a good look at me. Her eyes light
up. "She's gonna have a baby!" She squeals in revelation. I really
smile this time. It feels good. I see Grace begin to smile too. 

Ms. Pat chuckles and takes Mary's hand to lead her out of the room.
She closes the door behind herself. 

"Forgive her," Grace says, "She just learned where babies come from." 

"Did you tell her?" I inquire curiously.

She nods a little. "The cabbage patch and the pearl story." 

"Oh," I answer and sit down in the place Mary had previously
occupied. 

She never hesitates to cut to the chase. "Why are you here?" She
questions coldly. "I thought I answered all of your questions
yesterday. Besides I don't see why I have to answer all these
questions, it's not going to bring them back."

The stones in her voice are a little bit of a shock to me.
Realization seems to have settled into her, giving way for the hurt
anger to rear its ugly head. It's all on the path to acceptance and
moving on.  

I lift my eyebrows in inquiry and offer her a question: "You don't
want whoever did it to be brought to justice." 

She stares at me hard. "It won't do any good for me. The only
parents I ever knew will still be dead no matter how long he rots in
jail or how hard he fries." 

I sense a hurt in her voice that I didn't hear the day before. My
only thought is that she has her good days and her bad. I must have
caught her on a bad day today. I know exactly what she has gone
through, having gone through it three times before. 

At first I'm not sure what I can tell her. I can't just leave it
hanging, but I don't exactly know what would soothe the utter pain
and confusion she is feeling inside. I could tell her putting her
parents' killer in jail would prevent it from happening to someone
else. But would that be the honest truth? This was obviously not just
a random killing. So if true professionals were behind the murders,
putting one hit man in jail wouldn't stop them all. I can only tell
her the thought helped me through it each time: 

"It will get better with time."

Her gaze that has fallen away from me for fleeting instant, returns,
this time filled with tears. "How would you know?" She cannot help
the edge in her voice. 

I imagine she's had people telling her that or something similar for
the last two weeks. More often than not, the people speaking to her
have no idea what it's like. They have never lost a loved one or two,
much less to a violent and heinous crime. They didn't stumble over
the bodies on a sunny October afternoon. 

But I know what it's like. I know how it feels to lose. 

"I've lost a parent," I say slowly, nabbing and keeping her
attention. "And a sister, and a child."

Her eyes plead for me to continue, finally having a kindred spirit
in her pain. 

"I don't talk about it much, any of it. I lost my father to a very
sudden heart attack about six or seven years ago. We were very close."

"A heart attack isn't the same," she says, but pauses for
interrupting me, apologetic. "How did you sister die?"

"She was shot in the back of the head . . . By a man who was sent to
kill me. I also lost a child very close to me to a genetic disease."

Again Grace's eyes have transformed from cold, to confused, to
empathetic. As a single tear spills over her long eyelashes, she
wipes it from her cheek quickly and returns her palms to press
against the cool surface of the dining room table. 

"It's always hard at first," I continue, maintaining a steadiness in
my voice that's even surprising to me with this touchy subject. "You
can't believe that they're gone; that you'll never see them again.
You get angry with them for leaving you, with doctors for not saving
them, and with yourself for not being there. And it seems like no one
knows what it's like, because no matter what they say, they've never
gone through it."

She nods very slowly, blinking back tears that threaten to breach
her faltering defenses. I wish that I could just wrap her up in my
arms and tell her that everything is going to be okay. I wish I could
just bat and eye and end her pain and suffering. But I know I can't,
and that she is the only one that can do all that. 

"But it gets easier. You realize that they aren't gone forever, and
that you will meet them again, when it's your time. You move on."

She again reaches up and wipes the tears from her eyes, her face
contorting in a smile and a frown. There is a battling range of
emotions within her, and it is beginning to show on the outside. In
an act of pure understanding, she reaches out with on tear soaked
hand and lays it on the center of the table, offering it. 

I gaze at her splayed hand a moment, the delicate bones pressing
palm down on the table, purple nail polish shimmering in the
incandescent overhead light. I bring my left hand up from my lap and
place it over hers. She turns her palm up and clenches her fingers to
mine. I offer her the only tiny smile I can muster, sniffing back my
own heated tears.

This single amount of contact between us is a comfort in itself.
More than just unknowing blood, we have experienced similar losses.
We contain a pain within that is rarely shown on the outside. We are
kindred spirits.

~

We sit unspeaking for an amount of time I lost. I don't go into
detail anymore about Melissa or Emily--including the fact that Emily
was my daughter.  But I do elaborate a little on my father and our
relationship. It's what she seems to understand the most.

After a few minutes, Grace gets up to get the two of us some drinks.
She returns moments later with two glasses, water for me, and soda
for her. 

"So, did you really come here to tell me about what you have or to
ask me questions?" she asks as she sits down again across from me.   
  

"Neither really, I thought we could chat."

"Chat?" She looks at me skeptically. The familiarity is undeniable
in that look. "About what?"

I shrug casually. "Anything you like." 

"You came all the way down here, from across the bridge, just to
have a girl chat with me?" 

"My investigation is down here too, but yes, I did." 

"Okay," She says. 

As she sits there in a silence a moment, I find myself thinking
about my reasoning in coming here. I have no interest in pressuring
her for answers about her parents right now; I just want to get to
know her. And I definitely feel that we have already made a
connection. Perhaps that will influence my decision. 

"How about we talk about my getting out of here?" She says hopefully. 

"That's not exactly within my jurisdiction," I say. I wish I could
get her of here. But the one way I can think is the way I'm not
exactly prepared to do yet. 

"You're an FBI agent!" She exclaims. "You have to have some sort of
power, don't you?"

I shake my head. "Unfortunately I don't. We're investigators. That's
all. We investigate crime, I'm afraid I can't get you out of a group
home without a foster family willing to take you in."

She sinks into the wood chair, frowning. "That's what my social
worker keeps telling me. But there are no foster homes right now, and
people only adopt babies. I wish I could just live on my own." 

I don't know whether it's the fact that I know she's my daughter or
my raging maternal hormones, but I want nothing more on earth right
now than to help this girl. But there is nothing I can do. Not yet.

She looks back up at me, changing the subject in the beat of a
heart. "How many months are you?" Her eyes are on my stomach.

I pass my hand down my swollen middle and shift in my seat, a bit
surprised by how quickly she could move on. "Six months," I reply.

"What's it like?" She asks.

I'm used to the questions. I get it all the time now. Strangers stop
me on the street and ask me questions. It kind of bothered me at
first, but it's okay now. 

"Different," I say, not quite sure how to answer the question. "Very
different."

She seems to accept that as a legitimate answer. 

"Now I have a question for you." I begin. She nods for me to go
ahead. "Have you heard anything about your birth mother?"

Beating Around The Bush, by Dana Scully. 

She shakes her head. "No, but mom said she would help me find her
when I was older. They told me as soon as I could understand that I
was adopted. They thought it was for the better."

I notice how she uses past tense today as she speaks about them. 

"Do you want to meet her?" I question next, trying to hide the eager
apprehension in my voice. I haven't exactly done much research on
whether or not she's really my daughter. This intuitive leap is new
to me, and I'm not sure I like it much. Can we say hormones?

"I do, but . . . I don't know," She says, her eyes clouding as her
gaze falls to the floor. She absently picks up a piece of hair from
her shoulder and threads it through her fingers. 

I have a feeling it's something she thought about for a long time
before she came to a conclusion, but in light of all that has
happened, she's faced with an internal struggle of guilt. She doesn't
want to linger over her adoptive parents' death, but she doesn't want
to move on too soon.  

"What would you say to her if you met her?" 

She thinks for a long while, shrugging as she rolls it around in her
head. "I dunno, hello maybe?" She chuckles lightly and ponders for
another moment or two, her eyes falling down to the wood table
surface. 

When her blue eyes meet mine again, there is something in them I
can't quite interpret. Something like longing, or confusion. 

"I guess I would ask her why." She continues carefully. "Why she
gave me up." 

I let out a long, slow breath. Every barrier, every ounce of
composure I have is put into keeping from breaking down and spilling
a thousand apologies, a thousand explanations for my reasoning. I
just cannot bring myself to tell her yet. 

Finally I get up, very slowly, very methodically. I better get out
before I say something I may regret.

"Um, Agent Scully?" Grace beckons from her seat. 

I turn back. 

"Can you help me find her? My birth mom?" She asks me very warily. 

I can tell she's been debating whether or not to ask for a very long
time. And I can understand her logic. She sees her birth mother as
being her last of kin, the only one who may be willing to take her
in. Her only savior.  

I smile a little and reply, "I'll see what I can do." 

She grins brightly. A ray of hope has broken through her storms and
the clouds that once covered her face. "Are you gonna come see me
again?" She asks next.

"Sure," I say. "I'd like that." 

"Me too," she answers. "See you later, Agent Scully."

I go to the door and open it, but then look back at her, still at
the table. "Grace," I say. 

I am your mother, are the thoughts in my head. 

"You can call me Dana," are the words that actually come out of my
mouth.

She smiles again. 

~10~

Dana Scully Residence
Friday, November 10, 2000

It just doesn't add up. None of it. Nothing at all. I've been at
dead ends before, but this seems to be all more frustrating. Maybe
I'm too close to the case. No . . . that can't be it, if I was too
close to the case, it would be affecting me more . . . 

I've been at this for over an hour. Pacing around my apartment,
turning the case inside out and upside-down in my head. Nothing seems
to fit. The facts are there, and the answers have to be somewhere,
they just aren't presenting themselves, as they should be. I of all
people should know that the solutions to cases almost never just come
gift-wrapped to the front door, but there is just something about
this case.

Perhaps if I ran over it again, it might fall into place.

Yesterday we visited Connelly's office. He works in Communications;
computers, satellites, the Internet, things like that. According to
the people who would talk to us, he was a well-liked man. He kept to
what he was supposed to do and was never caught snooping around where
he shouldn't be. No one could seem to figure out why he would be
killed. 

The theory of a "robbery gone wrong" was dumped all together when
some kid found the missing jewelry and money in a ditch down the
street from the Connelly house. He wouldn't give it to the police
alone, but when Doggett and I showed up to talk to him, he was all
too willing to hand it over. Sometimes the perks of being an FBI
agent really add up. 

Did I mention no trace evidence was found on the money or jewelry,
at all?

The next thing we did was to return to the house (again) and tear it
apart, from one end to the other. It should have been done from the
very beginning, but I'm glad it wasn't, because that evidence would
be gone too. It may have looked like a flurry of agents and officers
ripping around someone's house, but it was really very meticulous. I
made sure of that. 

Among important items, we found some unlabelled diskettes, and
encrypted laptop hidden under the bed in the master bedroom, and a
letter addressed to Mr. Connelly. 

The disks haven't been scanned yet, and the laptop hadn't been
checked out either. I let Doggett take the laptop to the Computer
Crimes Lab, but I have someone else I want to check out the
diskettes. The letter was unsigned, and apparently a love letter. It
wasn't from Mrs. Connelly; the handwriting didn't match up, so we
suspect Mr. Connelly had a girlfriend. Which could provide us with an
MO, an unlikely one, but an MO nonetheless. 

And in the words of the great Detective Cartwright, "It's better
than nothing." 

Still, no matter how you toss the dice, our sole living witness
remains to be Grace Connelly. 

I didn't go and speak with her yesterday since I was busy talking to
her dad's former coworkers. Detective Cartwright went. He called me
up in the evening with what she had said. It measured up to a whole
lot of nothing. He said she either didn't reply to his questions, or
she changed the subject. She has made it clear again and again that
she is through speaking with us about her parents. I don't blame her.
Even though I think she isn't telling the whole truth, I wouldn't
want to be constantly answering questions about my parents' death. I
don't talk at all about my sister Melissa's death; she was killed in
a similar manner. So in those aspects, I completely understand. 

What I don't understand is; if she does know something that could
blow this case wide open, why doesn't she say something? I feel as
though I'm on my way to gaining her trust, so perhaps she'll tell me
when she's ready. 

And here's what really doesn't add up: Grace claims to have gotten
home around four o'clock that afternoon. Witnesses, including the
friend who dropped her off, place her at her home sometime between
quarter of three and four o'clock. The Medical Examiner's reports
claims time of death for the two bodies to be four o'clock, give or
take a half hour. If this is true, both stories, that places Grace
extremely close to when her parents were killed. In fact, a little
too close to not have seen or heard anything. Because of this, we
pretty much know she's keeping something from us. 

I pace back to the window from the front of the couch and back
again, habitually groping for the gold cross at my throat that I
can't seem to remember isn't there. It is still weird, going for the
pendant that always seemed to be my guiding light, or my good luck
charm, only to find it isn't there. Then, only to remember where it
is: Dangling from its chain around Mulder's neck. The last thing I
did before he left was give him that necklace, as a reminder that he
has to come home. Mulder always returns that necklace to me, no
matter what happens. That was just my way of ensuring his return.
Hey, now I don't even know what I'm so worried about. 

I chuckle dryly and then groan, bringing my fingers to the bridge of
my nose to pinch back the arising headache there. Then, as all of my
aimless thoughts have been pondered away, as a candle burns until
there is nothing left to feed it, my strength has left me as well,
leaving behind a dull, achy pain in every inch of my body. I sink to
the sofa and bring my bare feet to rest on the coffee table. 

I stare at them a moment, my feet. The burgundy nail polish I put on
months ago is chipping away now because I can't reach down there and
redo them. I laugh as I think that pretty soon I won't be able to see
my feet when I stand at all. Poor, abused things, they are.  If the
three-inch-heels weren't bad enough before, now they've got who knows
how many extra pounds to support. At least I don't try both at the
same time. 

The doctor tells me everything is going well. I saw him today, after
taking a half-day from work. That is some great news. In between all
this investigating, and debating, and worrying, I haven't had time to
be nervous about the pregnancy like I was before. But the seed of
fear is still there. I just want what all mothers want: my child to
be happy and healthy. Though it would be nice if his (or her) daddy
could be there for some of this too. What I wouldn't give for Mulder
to see me like this. Yet I have this strange, sinking feeling that
arises late at night that he won't be here for the birth either. And
that upsets me. 

There is too much going on in my life. No, I did not just come up
with conclusion. It's been floating around in my mind for a while
now. Thank you very much. Not to say that my life was predictable
before, but this is a little over the top, wouldn't you say?

Where to begin? I'm six months pregnant with a child I never thought
to be possible. I'm single, which in the eyes of the Catholic Church
is a no-no. Once can be forgiven, twice and you're out of luck. At
least there was no alcohol this time, and I can say I'm a bit closer
to this baby's father than I was to Tommy-what's-his-face. Next, I've
just come across my daughter who I thought I would never see again,
for the better, and I'm knee-deep in the investigation of her
parents' murder.  Oh, and then there's that whole thing with my
partner/best friend/lover (yes, lover) being missing. And, he's also
my miracle baby's father. 

Deep breath. 

This is too much stress for someone in my condition. 

Yeah, yeah, good excuse, Dana. You got yourself into this mess,
sweetheart, you can get yourself out. 

. . . What am I going to do? 

Somebody help me. 

"I can't do this alone," I say out loud. I chuckle dryly again but I
can feel the tears stinging my eyelids. "I don't think I've ever
admitted that before." I muse. Again, my fingers on one hand grope
for my cross, while the other hand goes over and around the girth of
my stomach, longing to be held. "I need your help, Mulder. I can't do
it anymore. I tried. There's just too much."

I can almost hear him respond. His breath is there in my ear again
as he whispers the answers.  But like before, I can't understand him.

"Please, Mulder," I whisper. The breath becomes chilly. 

I shiver and pull the giant afghan my mother made me from the end of
the couch over my body. 

I am so uncertain about everything right now and it frightens me.
Between Grace and this baby and Mulder . . . 

It's just so hard. And the worst part about my pain is, I'm the only
one that understands it. I'm the only one that has to deal with it.

I am alone. 

~11~ 

Lil' Angels Group Home
Monday, November 13, 2000

I spent the entire weekend doing some heavy thinking. I thought
about everything that has happened over the last few days and what
point I'm at in my life. Right now, I am a mother, whether I want to
be or not. And the not doesn't apply. I wouldn't give up any of this
for the world, neither Grace nor this baby. I've come up with a
decision.

I'm going to tell her.

No, I didn't come here this very day to tell her every secret I've
ever kept. Today, I'm not here to tell her anything. I'm here to get
her out. 

I've decided not to tell her until I know her better. Not until
we've become friends, and not until I find the right moment. The only
thing I've come with today is an agreement with her social worker, a
very nice woman by the name of Sidney Rogers, to make me her foster
provider. It took a little bit of bargaining, but it was done, the
paperwork was signed early this morning. 

There are other children here today, older children, about Grace's
age, some older, some younger. There must no school today for
whatever reason. It must be Professional Day for teachers or
something like that, a veritable "get out of jail free" card, for
students. Another woman is here as well; I'm guessing a volunteer to
help Ms. Pat by the way she tries to keep the children under control.
I've counted at least two-dozen tots already, and who knows how many
more are on the second and third floors. Quite a job if you ask me.
The other, younger woman (I think she said her name was Anne) let me
in before disappearing. 

All of a sudden, she reappears, this time holding the hand of a
diapered toddler and with a baby, just under a year old by the looks,
on her hip. 

"I'm Dana Scully," I say as I follow her up the hall to the second
door on the left. "Is Ms. Pat around?" 

"Upstairs," She says exasperatedly. The toddler in her grip loosens
free as another runs by in the room, completely in the buff. "You'll
have to go get her." She shifts the baby in her arm a little. "And
would you mind taking this guy upstairs with you?" 

She shifts the baby boy from her hip and drops him into my arms
before I can give an answer. 

I figure it couldn't do any harm, I could use the practice, and Anne
could use some help. I look at the little blonde-haired, green-eyed
baby and then turn away from the room to head up the stairs that
start at the front foyer. I talk to the little guy as we go up the
stairs, stepping gingerly to avoid stray toys. His response is to
gurgle happily and grip onto my hand. 

Perhaps I'm lying when I say I need practice in handling babies.
I've actually had a lot of practice. Between my four nephews, three
nieces, and multitudes of second and third cousins, I consider myself
rather experienced in the field of child handling. It's the actual
rearing of the child that I'm clueless about. Of course, no one ever
goes into parenthood an expert on parenting. It's a play by ear
situation, so I've been told.

So far, I know I can make a baby, I can hold a baby, feed a baby,
change a baby, and entertain a baby, but can I raise a baby? Am I,
Dana Scully, capable of being totally responsible for the upbringing
and overall welfare of another human being? All I can say is: so far,
so good. And as I look at this orphaned child in my arms I think that
I sure as hell am willing to try. In some eyes I may have failed as a
mother once, but so help me God, I am not going to do it again.

The top of the stairs spills out into a hallway that goes back the
length of the townhouse. There are two children playing some game in
the middle of the hall. Just beyond them is a door on each side of
the hall. I can hear the muffled voices of other children, so I'm
guessing these must be the bedrooms. 

One of the girls playing in the hall scoots out of the way so I can
get past. I ask her where I can find Ms. Pat and she points to the
room on the right. I enter. 

The room is obviously the girls' bedroom. The walls in this room are
pale pink; the curtains on the only window are white, and the
carpeting a dingy gray. There are three twin beds by the far well, a
few cots, and several sleeping bags rolled in the corner. The room
itself has to be large enough to sleep the older girls, probably ages
four and above. Grace is sitting on the bed in the corner by the
window, braiding the hair of another girl around her age. Ms. Pat is
unrolling some sleeping bags and spreading them on the floor. 

Her attention drifts over to me as she sees a few of the girls in
the room looking in my direction. 

"Agent Scully," She greets, smiling that cheery smile of hers and
coming towards me. "I didn't think we would see you today, thought
you were finished up here." She takes the baby from me. "And I see
you've met Jacob, the newest addition to our little home." 

I smile back at the cute baby I had just been holding. 

"Jacob was born addicted to crack, delivered in an alley. His mother
overdosed about a week after the hospital took him in. They put him
through that new ultra-rapid de-tox, and sent him here. Still needs
methadone treatment, but not as aggressively." She continues without
heed. "It's such a pity. I've been in this work for over twenty
years, and it doesn't get any easier. Every day I see more children
come here or someplace similar, unwanted and unloved." She shakes her
head somberly, then, just as quickly, regains her composure and puts
on a smile for Jacob and the others. 

It's as if she knows my secret. If I didn't feel guilty about my
past decision before, I do now. 

"So, to what do we owe your visit today, Agent?" She asks.

I reach into my coat pocket and bring out the freshly faxed
documents regarding my new foster status. It wasn't easy to get those
papers either. I had to convince Sidney Rogers that the only way I
could get our sole witness to speak was to gain her trust, and the
only way to do that was to get her out of the shelter. She agreed
with it after some reasoning, but couldn't stress more how temporary
it was. I'm happy with that, for now. I just need time to get to know
Grace. 

"Actually, I'm here because I've got Grace a foster home." I say,
handing her the papers. I glance over at Grace, who is staring at me.
She didn't hear all I said, but her name and the word "foster" was
enough to make her eyes light up.

"Really?" Ms. Pat says incredulously, looking at the papers. She
pauses to read the document. She looks up at me and then to the
signatures scrawled at the bottom of the first page. "Well, this is a
surprise. I do believe this is the first time I've had an FBI agent
become a foster provider." She smiles again. "You'll have a few more
documents to sign downstairs before you both leave." Then she calls
to Grace to gather her things before leaving the room.

I approach Grace casually as she still sits on that bed in the
corner. She must not have heard any of the conversation. 

"So, Grace, you still want to get out of here?" I question
nonchalantly. 

Her face lights up brighter than before and she stands up. "You mean
it? You got me a foster home?" 

I nod. "With me." I say. 

She has already begun throwing her clothes into an old blue
suitcase. "You're really doing this for me?" She asks as though she
can't believe what she's being told. 

"Sure," I say.

Once she finishes getting her few possessions together, we go
downstairs. I have to fill out a few more forms for Ms. Pat to keep,
and one more for Social Services. After that's done, Grace says good-
bye to a few people and we leave. 

The drive out of Alexandria is relatively easy. There isn't much
traffic. That is, until we get onto 395. It's lunchtime by the time
we get near the Pentagon, so a little congestion is expected. But
when we sit at a parking lot standstill for fifteen minutes, I turn
up the radio for a traffic report. 

"Great," I mutter as the reporter announces that there was a four-
car pileup on the exit to Memorial Parkway, right where we have to
get off. 

Grace sinks into the passenger seat, looking bored already. "Times
like these when I wish cars could fly." She jokes dryly. 

I can't help but to chuckle. 

"So," She begins, trying to find a way to make some conversation.
"Where do you live?" 

"Up in Georgetown," I answer. "I have a big apartment, we shouldn't
be too cramped."

"Pets?" 

"Not anymore," I sigh. Since the alligator ate little Queequeg, I
haven't had the heart to get another animal.  

She nods, I suppose contemplating what to ask next. "You like
working for the FBI?" 

I shrug. That question has so many levels; one answer can't sum it
all up. "Yeah, I guess. It's like any job I suppose. It has its slow
days." 

"Got a partner?" 

How did I know she was going to ask that? "Yes." I answer simply,
refusing to go into more detail than I need to.

However, she sees no harm in continuing her inquiries. "A man or a
woman?" 

"A man," Again, my answer is quick, almost brusque. For some reason
I think she'll get the hint that I don't want to talk about it, but
why should she? She doesn't know anything about it. 

"Does he got a name?" 

I sigh again and pass a little smile, knowing she wasn't going to
give up. "Yes, his name is Mulder." 

"Mulder?" She has that same skeptical look as everyone else the
first time they hear his name.

"That's his last name," I explain. "His first name is Fox?" 

She looks just as skeptical as before. "Fox?" 

I have to chuckle again. 

"What's he like?" She inquires more curiously after taking a moment
to see that the traffic still wasn't going anywhere. 

I have to give credit for that one; it's a good question. How, in a
nutshell, do I describe the man that has taken me eight years to
understand, and still has a bit of his persona in the dark? All I can
come up with is, "He's a nice guy." 

"Am I gonna get to meet him?" 

"I don't know," I say quietly. It's about time for a subject change.
"So what about you?"

"What about me?" 

I shrug again. She can tell I haven't thought about anything to ask
her. "Do you have a boyfriend?" 

She snickers in a way typical of teenagers asked a question such as
that. "I wish," she says. 

"When are you planning on going back to school?" I ask her as
traffic finally starts to move and I pull up the car some. 

She just sort of rolls her eyes a little. "I hate school."

"Well you need to go." I tell her. "I'll tell you what, I let you
have this week off to get comfortable with this arrangement. Then on
Monday we'll go to the high school in the district and get you
registered." 

"Deal," She says. By that answer I can tell she doesn't hate school
as much as she says. 


I give her a smile. As the traffic starts to move steadily again, I
think that this little arrangement is going to work out fine. 

~12~

Dana Scully Residence

We got back to my apartment a little after one o'clock. By the time
we got Grace situated in the guest room, her few belongings she was
allowed to take from her house contained in the old oak dresser, and
the bed dressed in clean sheets, it was nearly two. She sits on the
living room sofa now, studying the books I have strewn on the coffee
table, most of which are on pregnancy, childbirth, and everything
postpartum. 

"I guess we can take Saturday and go shopping. We can get you some
more things for school and for here." I say as I return from the
kitchen with a glass of diet coke for her and a mug of hot tea for
me. 

"Sure," She says, shifting her attention to the bookcase against the
wall to the left. 

I ease myself onto the couch and settle back into the cushions, the
warm mug between my palms. I have already exchanged my work attire
for cotton pants and an oversized sweatshirt. 

"So, I'm kind of new at this," I say, returning my attention to
Grace. "I'm supposed to make some outrageous rules you'll hate and
resent me for now, right?" 

Grace laughs. "Not if you remember anything about being a teenager." 

I smile and reply, "Well regardless if you hate them or not, there
are a few ground rules I have to lay down." 

"Dum da dum dum." She hums comically. 

"Okay," I begin, trying to think out my speech on my toes. "If you
go out anywhere with friends, I'd like to know where you're going,
who you're going with, when you'll be back . . ." I see the look on
her face and trail off, she's definitely heard this before. "Did you
have a curfew at home?" I ask.

"Yeah," She grins. "It was midnight." 

"Nice try, let's shoot for ten o'clock." 

She rolls her eyes in that oh-so-charming manner. That in and of it
self reminds me of myself at her age. 

"What about an allowance?" I question next. 

"Fifteen," She says quickly. 

"Five," I suggest. 

"Ten," She argues. 

"Deal." So nice to know we can bargain with one another. I continue
on a more serious subject, "Um . . . now I have some things I need
you to know in the event of any emergency." I say and she gives me
her attention. "There are some phone numbers on a card by the phone,
uh, police, fire, two of the local hospitals, things like that.
There's also my boss's phone number, his name is Skinner, my mother's
number, my partner's number, and the number of the landlord. If I'm
not here, and someone you don't know comes to the door, call the
police, I don't care who it is, call the police." 

She nods her understanding. "Now, this is important, and I'm telling
you because you need to know. I come into contact with people through
my job that can be very dangerous. There have been incidences where
those people have come here looking for me. You have to know that I
keep my gun on my bedside stand where I can reach it quickly. If
someone were to come to the door late at night, and knock or try to
get in or whatever, you come get me. Do not touch that gun. I don't
care what time it is, you wake me up. There are only three people
with a key to this apartment, the landlord, my partner, and myself.
So anytime anyone knocks, come get me, don't answer the door. Don't
ever touch that gun. Do you understand?" 

She swallows hard and nods very slowly. Now that I've scared the
bejesus out of her, I'm sure she's really confident about living
here. 

"Have people really broken in here trying to get you?" She asks in
awe.

"Yup," I answer. I'm going to try to keep this light. I want to be
honest but I don't want to scare her anymore. Yeah, that's the
ticket. 

"Did you shoot them?"

"Once," I say. "Right over there." I gesture with a nod of my head
to the area between the front door and the hall back to my bedroom
and the bathroom. I conveniently leave out that I killed him in cold
blood.

She stares at that area a moment, as if she can re-enact the scene
that she never saw. I, on the other hand, can see it in my head, and
don't want to. Ever.

"Cool," She says finally, as if it's something she saw on TV. 

Kids. 

"Well," I say, taking a slow moment to get up from the sofa, leaving
my half-full mug to sit on the coffee table. "Feel free to watch TV
or a video or something. There are snacks in the fridge and the
pantry if you want them. I'm starting to get a headache so I'm going
to go lie down." I start back to the hallway. 

I glance back at Grace as she turns on the TV. Once again I can go
back to my original theory: so far, so good. This parenting thing is
pretty easy. 

I can only hope it stays that way. For my sake. 

~13~

Dana Scully Residence
Tuesday, November 14, 2000 - 4:00AM

It is too cold. I pull my comforter off my bed and onto my knees
here in the chair. 

I just had a dream I won't soon forget. Actually I had two. They
were both terrible and hard to stomach, and now I can't sleep
anymore. I just sit in the rocking chair in my bedroom and stare out
the window at the stars and think about them. And I think about
Mulder. 

The first dream I had is a recurring dream I have every so often.
Actually that's a lie, it was a variant of the recurring dream I
usually have. It was a dream, probably, of forgotten memories and
thoughts from my abduction, going on seven years ago. In my dream,
I'm always in a huge white room that has no walls. It really isn't
even a room, just a light. A light so bright it hurts my eyes to open
them, so I try not to. My head feels fuzzy, like I've been drugged,
and my stomach hurts terribly. I usually open my eyes a little and
look around at first. I see the silhouettes of men, at least I think
they're men. They are veiled in light and some kind of curtain or
something so that I can't see them clearly. My eyes slip shut again
for I don't know how long. I open them again in time to see the long,
sharp, skinny bit of some kind of drill descending on my forehead. I
can hear it whining above me. But that didn't happen this time. 

This time, there was no drill the second time I opened my eyes.
There were no figures anymore either. My head feels very heavy, and
the most I can do is turn it to the side. When I do, I see someone
else on a table next to me. That someone is Mulder. He is dressed in
some kind of white clothing, like I am. He is asleep, or unconscious;
I can't tell which. He's so close I could reach out and touch him, if
only my arms weren't so heavy. I want nothing more in the world at
that moment than to touch him, to speak to him, to let him know that
I'm there. But I can't. I can't do anything but lie there and look at
him, until the image fades to darkness. 

My second dream is worse. I am in the hospital. There are nurses and
doctors all around. I am having my baby. It is all very normal,
except that I don't feel any pain, I don't feel anything at all. I
can't understand anything that the nurses or doctors are saying to me
either. It's as if their voices are mere echoes. When the baby is
born, I don't get to look. They tell me not to, they make me look
away. I am crying for them to let me see, to let me hold my baby, but
they won't let me. They take the baby away and I don't get to hold it
or see it at all. I cry and yell for them to stop, I cry for Mulder
to stop them, but Mulder isn't there. They take my baby away and I
can't stop them. 

I woke up in a cold, clammy sweat, clutching onto my stomach. The
only one there to greet me and comfort my sorrows was darkness. I
felt so ill by the dreams it made me physically sick. I got out of
bed and darted to the bathroom and was on my knees before the toilet
in a heartbeat. I'm no stranger to sickness. I gathered myself up off
the floor and found myself here, in the chair, staring at the sky. 

I didn't realize my greatest fear until tonight. My fear is that
somehow my baby is going to be taken from me. And that Mulder won't
be there, ever. I have had so much taken from me before; I guess it's
natural to feel this way. But knowing it's natural doesn't ease the
fear and doesn't take the pain away.  

There is a pain in my heart like I've never felt before. Not when my
father died, not when Melissa died, not when Emily died. Death can't
cause a pain like this. It's not death; it's loss; being lost, and
losing. It's not just these past few months either, I feel like it's
been awhile now, even before Mulder left, when I lost myself.  It had
to be when Daniel Waterston happened back into my life and the that
past I thought I had run away from came crashing back. That's when I
realized that I was lost. I lost myself. 

And now I've lost Mulder. I have Grace now, in a way, but Grace does
not fill the gaping hole in my heart that only Mulder can. Mulder is
as much a part of me as Grace, as this child I now carry. The fact
that the baby is his makes it even truer. As he once said to me, "You
make me a whole person," so goes for me. Without him I am not whole.
I am lost. 

My heart, my soul, my life; all lost.

Everything is lost. The things I took for granted especially. At
work, the stray sunflower seed shells on the floor, the smell of his
aftershave lingering in the air, his lopsided grin and nonchalant
greeting every morning. After we start sleeping together, there were
little things too: his jeans draped over the chair I sit in now, they
aren't there. Waking up in the middle of the night to hear his soft,
steady breathing matching the rhythm of his chest rising and falling
beside me. His laugh, his voice, his scent, I miss it all and it's
all lost. 

I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand and
continue my gaze of the heavens, pulling the blanket up over my
shoulders. 

It is still too cold.

~14~

Dana Scully Residence
Thursday, November 30, 2000

It's been two weeks. I think Grace and I are relatively comfortable
with this little way of living now. We've both had to time to settle
into each other's presence by now. Like I said we would do, we went
shopping Saturday. I forgot how much fun it is to shop with
teenagers. Yeah, fun--like a root canal. Allow me to elaborate; first
off, teenagers only want name brand clothes, they don't care if it's
forty bucks for a shirt, if it says 'Gap' or that 'Abercrombie'
bullshit, they want it. That's okay though. I was willing for fork
over a few extra dollars for her to get a name brand shirt. But when
we went in some other designer store and she found this skimpy, tiny,
tight, white shirt she just had to have, I had to draw the line. She
whined a little about it, but I won the argument. I guess it's safe
to say I'm pretty far away from my teenage years and can't remember
what it's like. She's at that stage where she now knows the female
physique can drive men crazy and is willing to use any means
necessary. I'll have to explain to her that women can drive men crazy
without dressing like a floozy. 

Overall these two weeks have been as much fun as they were a
learning experience. I feel that Grace and I have become friends,
maybe good friends at that. Grace is a wonderful girl, intelligent,
charming, witty, but if she would just stay off the damn phone for
five minutes, it would be all the better for both of us. Don't get me
wrong, I love the fact that she could make friends so easily in the
short amount of time she's been in school, but if I hear "Oh my god,
you didn't," one more time, I'm going to scream. 

Thanksgiving was spent here, just the two of us. My mother flew out
to San Diego to be with my brother Bill and Charlie and his family
had Thanksgiving with his wife's parents. Besides that, I'm not quite
ready for them to meet Grace, seeing as even she doesn't know she's
related to them yet. 

Speaking of that, I can feel the time for me to tell her is coming
close. I just have to pick the right moment. And I have never been
very good at that. 

As far as the case goes, there have been no developments. No
suspects were named in the burglary of the evidence, and forensics
has yet to turn up anything valuable. I haven't had a chance to get
the Lone Gunmen to look at the diskettes. They are still safely
tucked away in the lock box in my closet. According the Doggett, the
Computer Crimes Lab is backed up with other projects and will make
time for Connelly's laptop when they can. 

There is still nothing on Mulder's whereabouts. The one source I
had, that rat Krycek, seems to have dropped off the face of the
planet. The Gunmen haven't turned up anything else either. 

"Hey, Dana," Grace beckons, coming out of the guest room, which I
have gotten used to referring to as 'her room', interrupting my
thoughts. 

"Yeah," I answer, and go back to chopping the potato I was working
on go in our omelets. Grace's idea, breakfast for dinner, and the
baby agreed. 

She pads out into the kitchen in stocking feet. "Have you ever heard
of Limp Bizkit?" She asks as leans against the counter next to me. 

"Limp what?" I say, oblivious. I glance over at her as I shovel the
chopped potato cubes to a frying pan. Her hair is bound in a loose
bun, clips taming back the few curling strands too short to put up.
She has a shirt on that says 'Angel' with a little glittery halo over
the A. 

So characteristic of her, she rolls her eyes. "It's a band." She
explains, and then continues with what she was originally going to
say. "My friend Lindsey got tickets to their concert in Baltimore,
and she wants to know if I can go. So can I?" 

I'll admit; her bluntness and lack of kiss-up is a little
surprising. Although, she has never come to me with a request like
this before, so I guess she's just testing the waters. "I . . ."
Don't know what to answer. "Don't know. Are her parents going?" 

Now she looks nervous. "Well, noooo . . ." says she, "But her older
brother is, and he's twenty-one."

And don't I know just how responsible twenty-one year-olds are. I
look at her even more skeptically than before. 

"You could go if you wanted to." She tells me. 

Somehow that's even less appealing. "I consider myself pretty well-
rounded in music preference, but I don't think I would like a Limp
Bizkit concert too much." Oh well, I suppose I've got to give her a
chance. "Let me think about it." I say. "Remind me again about it in
a few days." 

She seems to accept that as an answer, smiles, and leaves to head
for the living room. Oh yes, it is six o'clock; "Friends" is on.
Something else that amazes me is the teenage ability to memorize when
every TV show is on. Personally, I don't even know why I own a TV,
the only thing I really watch is the news, and infomercials, and
that's when I've got nothing better to do. That is, until Grace moved
in. Now she's got me hooked on some show she watches at nine on
Sunday nights. I like it, but I couldn't tell you much about it. I
fall asleep halfway through more often than not. 

Like I said, it's been a learning experience. 

I scramble the eggs next and pour them into the pan to cook as the
outside of the omelet. There's a little downtime, so I stand behind
the counter and watch Grace in the living room. 

There are times when I wish I could read minds, mostly so I could
know what Grace is thinking. I want to know what she is thinking
about me. So far as I can tell, she has no idea that she is my
biological daughter, but I could be totally off. She may have figured
it out long ago, just hasn't said anything. What I do know, is that
she is very interested in knowing about Mulder. She asks me about him
all the time, yet my answers are always the same: quick, short, and
soon to change the subject. I really don't like to talk about it. 

While I don't speak much of my subject of secrecy, I encourage Grace
to talk about hers. She knows that I know she's keeping things from
the authorities. I tell her that she can tell me when she's ready,
when she's comfortable. I have this sinking feeling that she won't
utter a word about it until she feels I've earned it by spilling what
I have to hide. However, I'm not quite ready to talk about any of it. 

For now, I am content to finish dinner. I toss the onions in with
the browning potatoes and turn back the heat on the eggs. My stomach
grumbles as I turn from the exquisite smelling food, remembering that
the last thing I ate was an early lunch. The baby starts to move
inside me, as if also remembering our last meal, and he won't stand
for it. No, I still don't know the gender, nor have a desire to, "he"
is only generic. He continues to move and kick; sometimes it's a
little painful, but mostly it's wonderful. 

"Grace, Grace! Come here," I call, waving for her to come over. 

She springs from the couch and is at my side at my beckoning. She
thinks there's an emergency, until she's sees the look on my face. 

"Give me your hand," I direct. When she reaches out, I take her hand
and press it palm down against my stomach. 

It takes her a moment to feel it, but when she does, she smiles
broadly. "That's so neat!" She exclaims. "What's it feel like
inside?" 

"I don't know . . . kind of like, uh, bubbles, in my belly." I say,
one of my hands just below my belly button, the other still over
Grace's hand. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Sometimes, when he kicks too hard."

"He?" 

I shrug, "He, she, who knows?" 

She smiles again and moves her hand around to try and feel the
movement again. It amazes her just as it does me every time. It's so
nice to have someone around to share an experience like this with. 

For the first time in a long time, I don't feel so alone. 

~15~

Someone is touching my shoulder and whispering my name. I was
finally asleep too. As I slowly begin to regain consciousness, and
allow my eyes to slit open, I see Grace's silhouette in the moonlight
shining through the curtains. 

"Dana," She says, pushing my shoulder again. 

I yawn and ask her what she wants. 

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see the uncertainty on her
face. She starts to back up and turn away. "Never mind." She mumbles. 

I grab her wrist before she gets too far. "What is it, Grace?" I ask
her.

She takes a deep breath and stares at me for a long time. She's
still uncertain about what she's going to do. 

"I'm ready to talk." She finally says confidently. 

I nod and pat the unoccupied side of my bed. She hops up and scoots
over there before pulling the covers over herself. Now fully awake, I
watch her, as she gets comfortable. I'm pretty certain of what she
needs to talk about, so I want her to feel as though she can tell me
whatever she needs to. I make that clear:

"Whatever you need to say, I'm listening."

She nods and turns to her side to look at me. "I wasn't sure if I
should tell you. I didn't tell the police because I was scared." She
pauses. "I still am." 

"You can tell me," I encourage her. 

"You said there was a problem with the times between when I got home
and when . . . they were killed? Well that's because they weren't
dead when I got home." She returns to her back and stares intently at
the ceiling, as if her buried memories might somehow be contained
within. 

"I got home at three-forty five. Practice ended a little early. The
front door was unlocked, which is unusual. I looked around for my mom
and dad, but I didn't see them anywhere. I did hear some arguing
upstairs, so I went up. I went to their room and looked through the
crack in the door, it was open." She pauses again and swallows. I can
see her eyes shimmering faintly. "My dad was arguing with a man in a
black trench coat. He had dirty blonde hair in a buzz cut. I never
saw his face. He was arguing with my dad about some information. Then
I remember him making Dad and my mom get on their knees and look at
the wall. My dad was begging him not to. And I could hear my mom
crying." 

At this point she has to stop again and take a ragged breath. When
she speaks again, her voice is high-pitched with a cry she will not
let escape. "I couldn't hear what he said to them, but I saw him take
out a gun. I looked away. There was no sound of a shot . . . I just
heard a thump and my mom screamed." She takes another pause to
swallow. By this time my hand has found its way down to hers, coaxing
her to go on. "Then he shot her too. I ran and hid in the crawlspace
in the bathroom that used to be a laundry chute. He never saw me. I
waited until I was sure he was gone before I came out and called the
police."

Once she's finished, she wipes her eyes with her arm and lets out a
long breath. 

I let go of her hand and push a lock of her long hair away from her
face. "Grace, what was the information they were arguing about?" I
ask gently. 

Her confidence has returned now. "My dad works-" She catches herself
at the slip up, trying to hide the hurt in her eyes. "Worked, in
Communications. But it wasn't just telecommunications, it was like
satellites and stuff, too. He, um, he found this signal from the
satellites. He said it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen.
That it would prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the existence of
life on other planets."

Suddenly, I am very interested in this information. Without a word
from me, she keeps going. 

"He had a friend at NASA he was going to tell about it."

"Did he?" I ask. This could be imperative, not only to understanding
who murdered them, but also, possibly, hopefully, something to lead
me to Mulder. 

"I don't know," she says. "But he did tell Mom, and me. I think it
was something he wasn't supposed to see." 

I agree with that. "Grace," I say, getting into my scary tone of
voice again. "If they find out you know this, you could be in some
real danger." 

"I know," She whispers. "I've known from the very beginning, that's
why I wasn't sure about telling you." 

"Is the information on those disks?" I ask her, just now remembering
that I haven't given them to the Gunmen yet. 

She nods. Now I know I must get those to them. There is a long few
minutes of silence. She has told me all she knows, I'm confident of
that. Only now I'm not quite sure what the problem is. I turn my head
and look at her. Her composure is completely regained. I admire her
incredible strength so much. Her parents were killed a mere month
ago, yet I have never seen her falter. Like myself, I cannot decide
if that is an attribute or a fault. 

"Your turn." She says. 

"What?" I know very well what she wants me to talk about, but I'm
hoping maybe to stall. 

"Your partner. I want to know about him. I wanna know why you always
change the subject when I bring him up. And, while I'm on this, I
also wanna know why you haven't bought anything for the baby yet."
She urges. 

I try a grin on her. "I'm a procrastinator."

"Dana," 

I sigh in surrender. She is right. She told me everything, so it's
only just that I tell her something. 

"All right, I'll tell you." I concede, rubbing my face and my eyes
with my hand. "Where do I begin?" I mumble, half to myself. 

She gives me a start, "How long have you known him?"

"Eight years, eight long years." I say, musing, and remembering. "I
was assigned to be his partner, sort of to keep tabs on him. It's not
so much that way anymore. I-"Stumble over my words, that's what I do.
"I guess you could say he's my best friend." 

"So what makes you so sad every time you talk about him? What
happened to him? Did he die?" She asks interestedly. 

No, please, Grace, I don't even want to think about it. "No . . ." I
begin, not knowing how to answer. Might as well tell the whole story.
"The first case we had together was in Oregon. There were these
people either disappearing, or mysteriously being murdered. The ones
that were killed had a record of also disappearing. Mulder was
convinced they were being abducted. We stopped the last one from
being killed and the disappearances and the murders ceased. Anyway,
we got word back in May that people were . . .being taken again. We
didn't know where they were going, but we knew there was something in
the woods. After the last person was taken, we came back here. A man
told us there was some kind of ship, or something, hidden in the
woods. Mulder thought I shouldn't go back because I would be in
danger."

I look at her, trying to decide if I should go into detail. Her eyes
ask me to. "I was kidn-err . . .abducted, I guess, a few years ago.
Since it was all people previously abducted and not returning, he
thought he might . . ." I have to pause now, I can feel the tears in
my eyes and the sob arising in my throat. It takes me a moment to
recompose myself. "He thought he was going to lose me." It is
undeniable how much like a whimper my voice sounds, but I am unable
to stop it. I glance at Grace, seeing the tears returning to her
eyes. There must be a lot of emotion in my voice as well.  "But it
wasn't me they were going to take . . . i-it was him. I didn't find
out until it was too late. I found out about that ten minutes after I
found out I was pregnant."

I look at Grace again. Through my own watery blur, I can see the
pity on her face and the sadness in her eyes. I press on, now unable
to quit spilling my guts. 

"I was told I was infertile because of my cancer treatments three
years ago and the abduction. I didn't know whether to be happy or
upset. I still don't know. That's part of the reason why I haven't
bought anything for the baby. I don't want to do it alone. It's
Mulder's child and he should be here!" I cry out. "I shouldn't be
alone." 

All of my barriers have fallen now. The stone walls I have erected
high over the years to keep people out, and my emotions in, have
crumbled to dust. The wear and tear of Mulder's absence has done some
heavy damage to them. But unlike the other times, there is someone
here to pick me up: Grace.

She sits up and aids me to as well, then wraps her arms tightly
around me. My head meets her small shoulder and I let go. She is
crying too, for her own reasons, and mine. We cry into each other. 

It is so hard for me to express my feelings, especially about
Mulder. I've never spilled so much before all at once. 

Right now I can't believe how much I miss him. How much I need him
here. I'm starting to realize that he is more a part of me than I
ever knew. I can't go on with my life without him. I'm not prepared
for this baby. I'm not prepared for any of it. I can't do this
without him.

I can't. 

I sob all of this into Grace's shoulder, over and over again. But my
tears are not completely of sadness anymore. Some are of an
overwhelming joy that can only be expressed in that way. A joy
because I am not crying alone, in the darkness tonight. For the first
time in six months, I do not feel alone.         

And it isn't cold. And it isn't quiet. 

~16~

FBI Headquarters
Friday, December 1, 2000

Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, I spend half of my life doing
paperwork. Getting out in the field and investigating a crime is the
best part of my job. It's all the paperwork that precedes and follows
the investigations I could do without. Doggett does his share, but it
seems like I'm doing more these days because there are times when I
choose not to go into the field. 

I pick up one of the five reports strewn about the desk (I'm a
little behind today) and reread the same line for the millionth time.
"Periodic psychosis noticed several days prior to death." Have you
ever read something and thought about it so much that it has lost all
meaning? That's happening to me a lot today.

I just can't concentrate on anything other than my personal
problems. Namely, Grace. After last night, I definitely feel as
though we are close enough for her to know the truth. The problem is,
I can't seem to find the right moment. I'm worried about how she is
going to take it. And I'm starting to doubt myself. I mean, what if
it's all just a big coincidence? I can't do a DNA test without
telling her, and I don't want to do that if I'm wrong. 

For the time being, I set aside the report I am supposed to be
working on and stack it with the others on the corner of the desk.
Then I pick up the phone from the cradle and let my fingers dial the
first number that comes to mind: Mulder's cell phone. Don't ask me
why I do it; I can't explain it. I let it ring and ring until the
message says the phone is out of range or turned off. I actually do
that quite often, each time just praying a little that he'll answer,
even when I know he probably won't. 

I press the button to disconnect the line, and then dial another
number: this time to the Offices of the Lone Gunmen. After the first
ring, I hang up. Naturally, the Gunmen don't know about Grace, but
they are probably the only people that can get me the information I
need. I have to get them those disks as well. I prop my elbows to the
desk and press my fingertips to my temples. A second or two later, I
drop one hand to the desktop and place the other over the phone. 

Decisions, decisions, decisions, my head taunts as my fingers drum
the rhythm. 

In a single, deep breath, I pick up the phone and punch in the
number. A few rings later, the other end picks up, along with the
nearly inaudible click of a tape recorder. That's the Gunmen for you. 

"Road-kill Cafe, you kill 'em, we grill 'em." The unmistakable voice
of Langly answers.

I would be amused if I didn't have other things on my mind. "Turn
off the tape, Langly." I grumble as my greeting. 

There's another click as the recorder is turned off. Wow, he
actually listened to me without my having to repeat myself
exponentially. 

"What's up, Scully?" He inquires with a normal air of nonchalance. 

"Same old, same old. Actually, I called because I have some disks I
need you guys to check out for me." I answer. No immediate need to
cut to the chase, now is there?

"Sure, your wish is our command. Want one of us to come by later and
pick them up?" He asks. 

"No, that's all right. I'll just drop them in the box on my way
home." I say; referring to the lock box Mulder and I use to exchange
information with the Gunmen when we can't meet up with them.

"Anything else?" 

As he asks this, I can hear voices in the background growing louder.
I didn't realize I was on speakerphone. I suppose the other two
stooges just entered the room.

"Yeah, you can take me off speakerphone." I direct. "Then you can
put Byers on."
I hear him call for Byers as the speakerphone is turned off. I feel
more comfortable talking to Byers than the other two, he's the sanest
of the bunch, and I know he won't crack jokes. 

"Agent Scully, how are you?" Byers greets kindly. 

"I'm okay, Byers.  I need you to get me some information." 

He starts without thinking, "I'm sorry, Scully, we're trying as hard
as we can, we just haven't found anything else . . ." 

I interrupt him, "No, no, it's not about that." 

"Oh," He replies, a little stunned.

"You guys can get into adoption records, can't you?" 

He sighs audibly. "It takes a little work, but we can do it." 

"Great," I say. "I need you to find me the records on a fourteen-
year-old girl named Grace Connelly. She'll probably would have been
born at St. Agnes in Baltimore. If you find she wasn't, you can stop
searching."

There's a long pause as he presumably writes this down. "Are you
looking for her biological parents?" 

"Yeah, sort of." I answer. 

"All right, we'll get right on that." He says, and then he says good-
bye and hangs up. 

I replace the phone and lean back in the swivel chair. Okay, so I
didn't tell them. But if I am correct about Grace, they'll find out
about it soon enough. 

Until then, I just pick up the report and read "Periodic psychosis
noticed several days prior to death" again and try to keep my mind
from getting away. 

--
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