From: "KRUMS" <KRUMS@qis.net>
Date: Mon, 25 Sep 2000 17:45:32 -0400
Subject: xfc: REPOST: Mine Forever 17-18 of 29
Source: xfc

~17~ 

Dana Scully Residence
7:17PM

Grace knows something is up. I can tell by the way she looks at me.
We ate dinner in silence, as I was still buried in my mind, making
decisions. I did, however, notice her looking at me from time to time
over a forkful of spaghetti. Now we sit together in the living room.
She is studying and watching television at the same time. I have my
laptop open on a TV tray, as my lap is a little covered by my
basketball of a stomach. I'm supposed to be researching, or brushing
up on my knowledge of the causes of psychotic behavior. But, like
earlier, I can't concentrate. 

Byers called me back with my information. Of course I had to tell
them why it was my name listed as Grace's birth mother. They were a
little shocked, not that it matters to me. 

I'm still at a loss for how to tell Grace. I know I have to be
careful, but I also have to be blatant. I can't be subtle or she may
take it the wrong way. 

I think I may have narrowed her reaction down to one of three
possible scenarios: One, she is ecstatic that I am her biological
mother, everything goes well, and we live happily ever after. The
odds of that one happening are about a billion to one. Two, she is a
little annoyed I waited so long to tell her, mulls over it a few
days, and forgives me. Odds of this one are a little better. And
three, she blows up, hates me forever, and never wants anything to do
with me again. In my mind, this is the most likely to happen. 

No matter how much I ponder, I always end at the same place: I'll
never know her reaction until I tell her. 

I take a deep breath, close my laptop, and remove my reading glasses. 

Here goes nothing: "Grace, we . . . you and I . . . we can talk
about things, right?" I begin shakily. 

She glances up from her Geometry homework and says, "Sure," 

Okay, great, I've got the conversation started. What do I say now?
"Well, I - I need to talk to you about something very important."
Yes, I am stalling; I'm very good at it.

She sits up from previously laying on her stomach over her books on
the floor. "What is it?" She asks innocently. 

I say innocently because the look on her face is so much. Oh, God,
Grace, you really have no idea.

Another deep breath and then I swallow my fear. "Gracie," Whoa
that's the first time I've ever called her that. I'm surprised by the
way it rolls off my tongue. "What is it that you would . . . that you
would ask your birth mother, if you ever met her?" 

For a moment she gets that look on her face as if she's imagining
meeting her mother for the first time. "I would ask her, like, why
did you give me up?" 

I unwittingly hold my breath. 

"Because I couldn't handle the responsibility." 

Once the words spill quietly from my mouth, a dreadful, tense
silence falls over us. The buzzing TV seems to have gone mute. A pin
dropping would sound like a nuclear explosion. Even the baby,
constantly active this time of night, has fallen silent. All I can
hear is my heart pounding in my chest. 

"What?" She says voicelessly, incredulity pouring over her face. 

At this point I'm on the verge of tears. Damn hormones. "I am your
birth mother." I tell her, my own voice barely audible. 

She stands up, very slowly, eyes forever locked on mine. "No," she
says and shakes her head. 

I contradict her with a meaningful nod and a whispered, "Yes,"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" She inquires. The shock registers
on her face in a newly paled complexion and wide eyes.

"I didn't know how," I respond, momentarily allowing my eyes to
drift to the floor. When I bring them back to her, she is sinking to
the other end of the couch.

"Why?" She asks again. This time I know it is the question she
wanted to ask, only can't get the rest of the words out. Why did I
give her up?

"I was a college student. I wasn't prepared for a child." 

God, I didn't realize how poor that excuse sounds until I see the
look in Grace's eyes. 

"How did you get pregnant?" 

"I went to a party . . . I got drunk. I--" 

She shakes her head and puts her hand in the air for me to stop.
"How could you?" She asks me coldly. 

"Grace, it was the best decision I could have made--"

She interrupts me again. "The best decision?" She rises again. I
can't interpret the thousand expressions on her face at this moment,
but I know one of them is confusion. "You went to a party, got drunk,
and then couldn't be responsible for what you did." 

The coldness in her voice stings into my soul. "It was for the
better," I argue. 

"No," She says firmly, standing again. "No it wasn't. It was for
your better. It was so you could live your life the way you wanted
to. You just shove your mistakes aside. Do you know what my life has
been like?" 

I am silent, ignoring the lone tear trekking its way down my cheek. 

"For as long as I can remember, I've known I was adopted. I've known
that the people that raised me were only taking care of me. I didn't
belong to them. I was only there because my real mother couldn't
accept her responsibilities." There are angry tears in her eyes and
fire in her voice. "I've spent my life trying to figure out who I am.
Why my hair is red when my parents' was dark. Why I love the ocean
but my parents would rather be in the mountains. I never understood
it. I never fit in. And now I know it's because of you. Because you
were afraid." 

I don't know why I sit here and let her attack me. I think because I
feel guilty, because I know everything she's saying is true. 

"What was my father like?" She asks all of a sudden.  

Why does she have to ask me this? 

"I didn't know him," I say quietly, unable to look at her. "His name
was Tommy, that's all I know."

"That's great," She exclaims with a hideous sarcasm. "Not only am I
the illegitimate child of a drunken co-ed, but my mother didn't even
know my father before she slept with him." 

I knew she would be angry, however I didn't realize how much it
would hurt.

Her arms fall to her sides and her eyes remain locked on mine,
burning holes deep into me. "I'm ashamed that you're my mother." She
says, and then turns and goes to her room. 

I get up and go after her. While I may have let her attack me, I
can't let it end like that. "Grace," I beckon, entering her room. 

She is laying on the bed, her back to me. I can hear her sniffle as
she tries to hide her crying. I sit by her on the bed. 

"Can we please talk about this?" I say. 

She turns over and sits up, clutching the framed photo of her
parents to her chest. "So talk, because I don't understand your logic
on this."

"It was the best thing for me to do," I start carefully, "I didn't
have a job, I was only a junior. There was no way I could have
provided for a child without leaving school. In all likelihood I
would have lost my scholarship. We would be living in some trailer
park somewhere. The Connelly's took better care of you than I ever
could have." 

"But we would have been together . . . I see how it is. It was about
you. It was about your success and your life. You didn't care enough
about your child--your flesh and blood--enough to make your life
work. And it all worked out for you. I was the one that got screwed
over in this deal." 

I let the silence fall over us again, if only for a moment. 

"I did care." I say. "I still do. I spent months--*years* even--
after you were born trying to get over you. Trying to get over the
overwhelming guilt in my heart that I had made a mistake in giving
you up. Even though, deep inside, I knew I had made the right
decision. I know that if I had to go back to when I was still
pregnant with you and faced with that choice, I would make it the
same way. I cared--I do care--more about you than you'll ever know. I
wanted you to be happy and healthy and have a chance at a good life." 

"I don't believe you," She whispers coldly. 

I'm at a loss for anything else to say. I merely reach over and
touch her hand. 

She pulls it away. "Stop trying to be a mom. You aren't capable of
it. And I can see that you haven't learned anything either." She
looks down at my protruding stomach, and then to my eyes. "You may
have given me life, but you will never be my mother." 

Wordlessly, I stand up and leave. I am unable to believe how harsh
her words are. I don't know why she doesn't understand. I go to my
own room and sit on the bed in guilty silence.

Her speech has opened my eyes. Maybe I haven't learned anything.
Fourteen years ago I was single, pregnant, and alone. Today, I am in
the same position. Am I unfit to be a mother? Do I really only care
about my life? I don't know.

I am back at square one. I don't know what to do, what to think, or
who to turn to. 

Somebody please help me.

 I grope at my throat for my cross, my talisman of hope. As always,
it isn't there. 

"Help me," I cry out loud.

No one answers. I cover my face with my hands and weep for my sins. 

~18~

Saturday, December 2, 2000 - 2:23AM

Do you want to know what I miss the most about the time before
Mulder was gone? I know exactly what it is, the ability to sleep. 
Whether by myself or next to him, I could always get a good night's
rest. I only ever got insomnia when I knew something was wrong, or
when there was too much on my mind. I'm terrible about not being able
to get out of my own head. Now I can't remember the last time I slept
more than three hours without waking up. My mom tells me it's because
I'm unconsciously preparing myself for when I have to get up every
four hours to feed or rock a crying baby. But I don't think so. 

My thoughts have become so jumbled I can't see straight. Everything
is such a mess. I should have never let it get this far. It seems
like I've dug myself into my own grave, and I forgot to bring a
ladder to get myself out. Oh, and what do you know, there's no one up
there to reach in and help me back out. So I'm stuck, in the grave I
dug with my own two hands, to be buried alive. And yes, it is dark
down here, and quiet, and cold.

It's those moments between sleep and awake when my imagination runs
the most. It's then that I believe I can see into the future, even
though I know I can't. It just seems like I can. Tonight, my thoughts
are a blur of screaming voices that hurt my ears and bright colors
that hurt my eyes. I'm so stressed my hands shake constantly, and I
can't stop them. 

As I lay here and try to discern one voice from the next, and
separate the colors into something familiar, I begin to hear one
voice over the rest. It is Mulder. He is calling my name. His voice
is distant, an echo of what it should be. 

"Mulder," I say. I don't know if it was aloud or not. Just like I
don't know if I'm asleep or awake. 

His voice calls again, still just as distant, "Close your eyes."

I do his bidding. When I open them again, I am met by sunlight. It
is such a bright contrast from the darkness of before; it takes a
moment for my eyes to adjust. Once they do, I can see the horizon
over a crystalline blue ocean. It is so clear I think I can see the
curve of the earth. Sailing gulls break up the golden sky where the
sun is reflecting off the clouds. I am standing in the sand of an
empty beach, in a white dress I've never seen before. It has short
sleeves, a low neck, and a high waist. The fabric is the softest I've
ever felt; it wraps and billows around my legs and my belly like
there is no weight to it at all. I know the air is chilly, but I am
not cold. 

"Scully," I hear him call.

I look to my left and see him coming up the beach towards me, in the
foreground to a rocky outcropping where waves crash into the
boulders. I want more than anything to run to him, to wrap my arms
around him and never let go. Yet I can't move. It's as if my feet are
stuck in the sand. 

He comes to me. He is in the clothes he left in, jeans, a long-
sleeved, gray shirt, and a fleece vest. Dangling from his throat is
my cross. He doesn't embrace me; he only stands before me, reaching
out to tuck a lock of my windblown hair behind my ear. I reach out to
touch him, but he grabs my hand.

"This is a dream, Scully," He says softly. "I can touch you, but you
can't touch me." 

It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from crying. He
holds onto my hand, running his thumb over and around my palm. 

"I don't know what to do, Mulder," I say. My voice is but a whisper
because I know if I speak any louder I will cry. "I never thought I'd
say this, but I can't do it alone."

He gazes at me for a long time, hazel eyes locked on blue. His gaze
is not that of a partner, or a lover, or merely a friend. His is the
gaze of someone who knows what it is like to feel my pain. It is the
reflection of the missing half of my soul. 

"You have to be strong, Scully." He says. His voice is soft and
smooth, a voice my ears miss hearing. I hang on his every word as
though it may be the last I hear. "Strong like you always were. You
have to stop thinking about how much you miss me and start thinking
about what you're going to do when I get back. I am coming back." 

"When?" I ask.

He cracks a smile and shrugs, but doesn't answer.

A tear falls from my eyelid. He cups his palm under my jaw and
slides his thumb across my cheek, wiping it away. 

"But this is just a dream," I say. "It isn't real."

"Hey, what have I told you about dreams before?" He replies.

I manage to smile a little. 

"I want you to listen to me," he says in that soft, forceful voice,
"There's been another murder, in Florida. You'll hear about it
tomorrow, and you'll go on the case Monday. When you get back,
there's something very important you have to do."

I breathe an inquiry, "What?"

"Stop." He says simply. 

I don't understand. 

He moves his hand from my cheek to my arm, similarly with the other.
Then he leans in close so that I can feel his lips against my ear and
his warm breath against my skin. "Stop doing what you're doing." He
whispers. "Get away, get out of your head. Go to your mother's with
Grace for a few days. You have to take things one step at a time.
There are only three things that matter right now: Grace, you, and
this baby. You can't help two if you don't take care of one."

I nod slowly, more tears following the example of their single
predecessor. Mulder rests his forehead against mine. I can't help but
to cry. 

"I'm so afraid," I say softly, uncaring about how much my voice
sounds like a whimper. 

"Don't be," he whispers back. "It'll be all right."
 
I sniff and put my hand against his neck, barely touching is face.
No matter what he has told me, I can still feel the fabric of his
shirt and the warmth of his skin. "I love you," I say in a choked
voice. 

"I know," He answers, reaching up and removing my hand from his
cheek and then bringing it to his lips. He brings his other hand
around my neck and presses his lips to mine, if only for a second.
Then he whispers one last time, "Close your eyes."

I do, and for an instant, I can still feel the warmth of his
presence, where his hands have touched me, and where his kisses have
lain. But then it all disappears with the crash of the waves and the
cry of the gulls. 

I open my eyes again to darkness, with only the taste of him
lingering on my lips. Dreams are cruel in that they never last long
enough, or last too long. Yet with my misery of loneliness, I feel an
odd form of relief. I know now what I must do. 

The dream brought to me a renewed sense of hope, a premonition that
he is still out there, somewhere. And that he will come back to me. 

I bring my hand down over the curve of my belly, feeling the life
contained within. In that, I notice my hands aren't shaking anymore. 

A faint smile curves my mouth and then sleep returns to claim me
again.

~17~ 

Dana Scully Residence
7:17PM

Grace knows something is up. I can tell by the way she looks at me.
We ate dinner in silence, as I was still buried in my mind, making
decisions. I did, however, notice her looking at me from time to time
over a forkful of spaghetti. Now we sit together in the living room.
She is studying and watching television at the same time. I have my
laptop open on a TV tray, as my lap is a little covered by my
basketball of a stomach. I'm supposed to be researching, or brushing
up on my knowledge of the causes of psychotic behavior. But, like
earlier, I can't concentrate. 

Byers called me back with my information. Of course I had to tell
them why it was my name listed as Grace's birth mother. They were a
little shocked, not that it matters to me. 

I'm still at a loss for how to tell Grace. I know I have to be
careful, but I also have to be blatant. I can't be subtle or she may
take it the wrong way. 

I think I may have narrowed her reaction down to one of three
possible scenarios: One, she is ecstatic that I am her biological
mother, everything goes well, and we live happily ever after. The
odds of that one happening are about a billion to one. Two, she is a
little annoyed I waited so long to tell her, mulls over it a few
days, and forgives me. Odds of this one are a little better. And
three, she blows up, hates me forever, and never wants anything to do
with me again. In my mind, this is the most likely to happen. 

No matter how much I ponder, I always end at the same place: I'll
never know her reaction until I tell her. 

I take a deep breath, close my laptop, and remove my reading glasses. 

Here goes nothing: "Grace, we . . . you and I . . . we can talk
about things, right?" I begin shakily. 

She glances up from her Geometry homework and says, "Sure," 

Okay, great, I've got the conversation started. What do I say now?
"Well, I - I need to talk to you about something very important."
Yes, I am stalling; I'm very good at it.

She sits up from previously laying on her stomach over her books on
the floor. "What is it?" She asks innocently. 

I say innocently because the look on her face is so much. Oh, God,
Grace, you really have no idea.

Another deep breath and then I swallow my fear. "Gracie," Whoa
that's the first time I've ever called her that. I'm surprised by the
way it rolls off my tongue. "What is it that you would . . . that you
would ask your birth mother, if you ever met her?" 

For a moment she gets that look on her face as if she's imagining
meeting her mother for the first time. "I would ask her, like, why
did you give me up?" 

I unwittingly hold my breath. 

"Because I couldn't handle the responsibility." 

Once the words spill quietly from my mouth, a dreadful, tense
silence falls over us. The buzzing TV seems to have gone mute. A pin
dropping would sound like a nuclear explosion. Even the baby,
constantly active this time of night, has fallen silent. All I can
hear is my heart pounding in my chest. 

"What?" She says voicelessly, incredulity pouring over her face. 

At this point I'm on the verge of tears. Damn hormones. "I am your
birth mother." I tell her, my own voice barely audible. 

She stands up, very slowly, eyes forever locked on mine. "No," she
says and shakes her head. 

I contradict her with a meaningful nod and a whispered, "Yes,"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" She inquires. The shock registers
on her face in a newly paled complexion and wide eyes.

"I didn't know how," I respond, momentarily allowing my eyes to
drift to the floor. When I bring them back to her, she is sinking to
the other end of the couch.

"Why?" She asks again. This time I know it is the question she
wanted to ask, only can't get the rest of the words out. Why did I
give her up?

"I was a college student. I wasn't prepared for a child." 

God, I didn't realize how poor that excuse sounds until I see the
look in Grace's eyes. 

"How did you get pregnant?" 

"I went to a party . . . I got drunk. I--" 

She shakes her head and puts her hand in the air for me to stop.
"How could you?" She asks me coldly. 

"Grace, it was the best decision I could have made--"

She interrupts me again. "The best decision?" She rises again. I
can't interpret the thousand expressions on her face at this moment,
but I know one of them is confusion. "You went to a party, got drunk,
and then couldn't be responsible for what you did." 

The coldness in her voice stings into my soul. "It was for the
better," I argue. 

"No," She says firmly, standing again. "No it wasn't. It was for
your better. It was so you could live your life the way you wanted
to. You just shove your mistakes aside. Do you know what my life has
been like?" 

I am silent, ignoring the lone tear trekking its way down my cheek. 

"For as long as I can remember, I've known I was adopted. I've known
that the people that raised me were only taking care of me. I didn't
belong to them. I was only there because my real mother couldn't
accept her responsibilities." There are angry tears in her eyes and
fire in her voice. "I've spent my life trying to figure out who I am.
Why my hair is red when my parents' was dark. Why I love the ocean
but my parents would rather be in the mountains. I never understood
it. I never fit in. And now I know it's because of you. Because you
were afraid." 

I don't know why I sit here and let her attack me. I think because I
feel guilty, because I know everything she's saying is true. 

"What was my father like?" She asks all of a sudden.  

Why does she have to ask me this? 

"I didn't know him," I say quietly, unable to look at her. "His name
was Tommy, that's all I know."

"That's great," She exclaims with a hideous sarcasm. "Not only am I
the illegitimate child of a drunken co-ed, but my mother didn't even
know my father before she slept with him." 

I knew she would be angry, however I didn't realize how much it
would hurt.

Her arms fall to her sides and her eyes remain locked on mine,
burning holes deep into me. "I'm ashamed that you're my mother." She
says, and then turns and goes to her room. 

I get up and go after her. While I may have let her attack me, I
can't let it end like that. "Grace," I beckon, entering her room. 

She is laying on the bed, her back to me. I can hear her sniffle as
she tries to hide her crying. I sit by her on the bed. 

"Can we please talk about this?" I say. 

She turns over and sits up, clutching the framed photo of her
parents to her chest. "So talk, because I don't understand your logic
on this."

"It was the best thing for me to do," I start carefully, "I didn't
have a job, I was only a junior. There was no way I could have
provided for a child without leaving school. In all likelihood I
would have lost my scholarship. We would be living in some trailer
park somewhere. The Connelly's took better care of you than I ever
could have." 

"But we would have been together . . . I see how it is. It was about
you. It was about your success and your life. You didn't care enough
about your child--your flesh and blood--enough to make your life
work. And it all worked out for you. I was the one that got screwed
over in this deal." 

I let the silence fall over us again, if only for a moment. 

"I did care." I say. "I still do. I spent months--*years* even--
after you were born trying to get over you. Trying to get over the
overwhelming guilt in my heart that I had made a mistake in giving
you up. Even though, deep inside, I knew I had made the right
decision. I know that if I had to go back to when I was still
pregnant with you and faced with that choice, I would make it the
same way. I cared--I do care--more about you than you'll ever know. I
wanted you to be happy and healthy and have a chance at a good life." 

"I don't believe you," She whispers coldly. 

I'm at a loss for anything else to say. I merely reach over and
touch her hand. 

She pulls it away. "Stop trying to be a mom. You aren't capable of
it. And I can see that you haven't learned anything either." She
looks down at my protruding stomach, and then to my eyes. "You may
have given me life, but you will never be my mother." 

Wordlessly, I stand up and leave. I am unable to believe how harsh
her words are. I don't know why she doesn't understand. I go to my
own room and sit on the bed in guilty silence.

Her speech has opened my eyes. Maybe I haven't learned anything.
Fourteen years ago I was single, pregnant, and alone. Today, I am in
the same position. Am I unfit to be a mother? Do I really only care
about my life? I don't know.

I am back at square one. I don't know what to do, what to think, or
who to turn to. 

Somebody please help me.

 I grope at my throat for my cross, my talisman of hope. As always,
it isn't there. 

"Help me," I cry out loud.

No one answers. I cover my face with my hands and weep for my sins. 

~18~

Saturday, December 2, 2000 - 2:23AM

Do you want to know what I miss the most about the time before
Mulder was gone? I know exactly what it is, the ability to sleep. 
Whether by myself or next to him, I could always get a good night's
rest. I only ever got insomnia when I knew something was wrong, or
when there was too much on my mind. I'm terrible about not being able
to get out of my own head. Now I can't remember the last time I slept
more than three hours without waking up. My mom tells me it's because
I'm unconsciously preparing myself for when I have to get up every
four hours to feed or rock a crying baby. But I don't think so. 

My thoughts have become so jumbled I can't see straight. Everything
is such a mess. I should have never let it get this far. It seems
like I've dug myself into my own grave, and I forgot to bring a
ladder to get myself out. Oh, and what do you know, there's no one up
there to reach in and help me back out. So I'm stuck, in the grave I
dug with my own two hands, to be buried alive. And yes, it is dark
down here, and quiet, and cold.

It's those moments between sleep and awake when my imagination runs
the most. It's then that I believe I can see into the future, even
though I know I can't. It just seems like I can. Tonight, my thoughts
are a blur of screaming voices that hurt my ears and bright colors
that hurt my eyes. I'm so stressed my hands shake constantly, and I
can't stop them. 

As I lay here and try to discern one voice from the next, and
separate the colors into something familiar, I begin to hear one
voice over the rest. It is Mulder. He is calling my name. His voice
is distant, an echo of what it should be. 

"Mulder," I say. I don't know if it was aloud or not. Just like I
don't know if I'm asleep or awake. 

His voice calls again, still just as distant, "Close your eyes."

I do his bidding. When I open them again, I am met by sunlight. It
is such a bright contrast from the darkness of before; it takes a
moment for my eyes to adjust. Once they do, I can see the horizon
over a crystalline blue ocean. It is so clear I think I can see the
curve of the earth. Sailing gulls break up the golden sky where the
sun is reflecting off the clouds. I am standing in the sand of an
empty beach, in a white dress I've never seen before. It has short
sleeves, a low neck, and a high waist. The fabric is the softest I've
ever felt; it wraps and billows around my legs and my belly like
there is no weight to it at all. I know the air is chilly, but I am
not cold. 

"Scully," I hear him call.

I look to my left and see him coming up the beach towards me, in the
foreground to a rocky outcropping where waves crash into the
boulders. I want more than anything to run to him, to wrap my arms
around him and never let go. Yet I can't move. It's as if my feet are
stuck in the sand. 

He comes to me. He is in the clothes he left in, jeans, a long-
sleeved, gray shirt, and a fleece vest. Dangling from his throat is
my cross. He doesn't embrace me; he only stands before me, reaching
out to tuck a lock of my windblown hair behind my ear. I reach out to
touch him, but he grabs my hand.

"This is a dream, Scully," He says softly. "I can touch you, but you
can't touch me." 

It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from crying. He
holds onto my hand, running his thumb over and around my palm. 

"I don't know what to do, Mulder," I say. My voice is but a whisper
because I know if I speak any louder I will cry. "I never thought I'd
say this, but I can't do it alone."

He gazes at me for a long time, hazel eyes locked on blue. His gaze
is not that of a partner, or a lover, or merely a friend. His is the
gaze of someone who knows what it is like to feel my pain. It is the
reflection of the missing half of my soul. 

"You have to be strong, Scully." He says. His voice is soft and
smooth, a voice my ears miss hearing. I hang on his every word as
though it may be the last I hear. "Strong like you always were. You
have to stop thinking about how much you miss me and start thinking
about what you're going to do when I get back. I am coming back." 

"When?" I ask.

He cracks a smile and shrugs, but doesn't answer.

A tear falls from my eyelid. He cups his palm under my jaw and
slides his thumb across my cheek, wiping it away. 

"But this is just a dream," I say. "It isn't real."

"Hey, what have I told you about dreams before?" He replies.

I manage to smile a little. 

"I want you to listen to me," he says in that soft, forceful voice,
"There's been another murder, in Florida. You'll hear about it
tomorrow, and you'll go on the case Monday. When you get back,
there's something very important you have to do."

I breathe an inquiry, "What?"

"Stop." He says simply. 

I don't understand. 

He moves his hand from my cheek to my arm, similarly with the other.
Then he leans in close so that I can feel his lips against my ear and
his warm breath against my skin. "Stop doing what you're doing." He
whispers. "Get away, get out of your head. Go to your mother's with
Grace for a few days. You have to take things one step at a time.
There are only three things that matter right now: Grace, you, and
this baby. You can't help two if you don't take care of one."

I nod slowly, more tears following the example of their single
predecessor. Mulder rests his forehead against mine. I can't help but
to cry. 

"I'm so afraid," I say softly, uncaring about how much my voice
sounds like a whimper. 

"Don't be," he whispers back. "It'll be all right."
 
I sniff and put my hand against his neck, barely touching is face.
No matter what he has told me, I can still feel the fabric of his
shirt and the warmth of his skin. "I love you," I say in a choked
voice. 

"I know," He answers, reaching up and removing my hand from his
cheek and then bringing it to his lips. He brings his other hand
around my neck and presses his lips to mine, if only for a second.
Then he whispers one last time, "Close your eyes."

I do, and for an instant, I can still feel the warmth of his
presence, where his hands have touched me, and where his kisses have
lain. But then it all disappears with the crash of the waves and the
cry of the gulls. 

I open my eyes again to darkness, with only the taste of him
lingering on my lips. Dreams are cruel in that they never last long
enough, or last too long. Yet with my misery of loneliness, I feel an
odd form of relief. I know now what I must do. 

The dream brought to me a renewed sense of hope, a premonition that
he is still out there, somewhere. And that he will come back to me. 

I bring my hand down over the curve of my belly, feeling the life
contained within. In that, I notice my hands aren't shaking anymore. 

A faint smile curves my mouth and then sleep returns to claim me
again.

~21~

Dana Scully Residence
Saturday, December 9, 2000

Brrrriiiinnngggg! . . . Brrrrriiinnnngggg!

Now I hear ringing in my sleep. Great.

Brrrrrriiiinnnnggggg!  . . .

No. No it's not in my sleep. 

Brrriiinnnnggggg! . . . 

The phone. Oh shit! The phone! 

"Grace, could you get the phone?" I call groggily. 

I'd get it myself, but it's across the room and I can't get up that
fast. I was sleeping on the couch before the interruption. 

I hear Grace answer the phone and inquire who is calling. Then she
brings the phone over to me. 

"Dana it's for you, some guy named Langly?" 

I open my eyes this time and take the phone. "Hullo?" I answer
sleepily, rubbing the sleep from my face. 

"Scully, it's Langly. We cracked those disks. You gotta come down
here and see what's on them. It's amazing." He tells me excitedly, I
can hear similarly ecstatic voices in the background, as usual. 

I yawn, "Okay, Langly. Gimme a half an hour. I'll be there." He
agrees and hangs up. 

I sit up and stretch, a little less than gracefully, and look around
for my constantly disappearing daughter. I see her in the kitchen and
stand very slowly, fighting off a brief wave of vertigo. 

"Grace, I've got to go downtown for a little while. Are you going to
be okay here?" I say on my way back to my room to change. 

"Sure," she answers, "I won't do anything you wouldn't do." 

"Funny," I call back, shutting the door to my room. 

She won't do anything I would do.  That's what worries me.

~

Offices of the Lone Gunmen
Undisclosed Location

Half an hour later I find myself in the workplace/apartment/whatever
of Mulder's eccentric, nearly shut-in, friends. Okay, okay, so
they're my friends too.  That doesn't mean Frohike still doesn't
frighten me a little. No, "frightens" is too strong, alarms is more
like it. Annoys is even better. 

I don't really like coming here now. Not during my pregnancy. It
wasn't so bad before you could tell, because they didn't know the
difference. Now that they can tell, they act funny around me. Well,
funnier than normal. I guess I should have expected it. It took them
long enough to get used to a woman in their presence. They'll just
have to get used to my being "in a family way"--as my mother likes to
put it.  

I follow Frohike inside the office and back to a computer
workstation where Langly and Byers are hovering over the keyboard,
eyes intent on the screen. 

"So, what did you find?" I ask them unenthusiastically. 

"You're not going to believe it," Langly says.

"You're right, I'm probably not," I say. 

"When we first looked at the information, we thought it was just a
meaningless series of alpha-numeric code." Byers explains.

Then Frohike takes his turn to speak. "Until we cracked the code.
Then it got some meaning."

I stare at the screen as Langly brings up a blue screen with nothing
but letters and numbers in no particular order. He punches a few keys
and the screen blanks out. Moments later, a picture flashes up. It is
da Vinci's Universal Man. He hits another key, and a picture of a DNA
double helix pops up, another key and a small portion of the
Brandenburg Concerto plays. I unconsciously shiver. 

He turns around. "There's other stuff too, but you get the idea." 

Byers notices the look on my face. "Have you seen this before,
Scully?" He asks.

"Yes, I have," I answer, my arms crossed over my chest. "Mulder and
I have both seen it. Before you got these images, it was a binary
code, wasn't it?"

Langly nods, "Yeah it was." 

"Is there anything else?" I ask. 

"Is there ever," Frohike joins in, "Slide over Towhead," he directs
Langly and then takes the seat behind the computer. He hits a few
keys and a long list of codes comes up.  "We didn't know what to make
of this at first, but then we figured it out."

"They're coordinates," Byers says, continuing the round of speech. 

Langly adds, "Standard latitude and longitude." 

I stare at the screen a moment and am hit with a revelation, "A
roadmap."

"That's what we think," Frohike says, swiveling around in the chair.
"We haven't plotted all of them yet, but this one is Bellefleur,
Oregon." He points to a coordinate in the middle of the list,
'45N120W'. 

"And if they're going in order, they'll be in Manitoba, Venezuela,
Kentucky, and then Arizona." Byers says.

"We have MUFON connections in Manitoba who'll be watching the skies
for us." Langly continues. 

Byers speaks last, "These could be our key to finding him." 

Frohike ejects the disk, puts it back in the sleeve, and hands it to
me. "I suggest you make a copy," He says. "We have a printout so we
can find the rest of these coordinates." 

"Thanks guys," I say, looking to each of them. "If you hear
anything, you'll call me?" 

My inquiry is followed by a flurry of absolutely's, and right away's. 

I stuff the disk into my coat pocket and turn to leave, trying to
quiet the pounding of my heart. 

~22~

Two gunshots ring into the night, piercing the silence like needles
into flesh. I awake with a start, my eyes flashing open to darkness. 

I listen.

Nothing.

Was it a dream? 

Suddenly, I hear a muffled scream and some scuffling. The first
thing I think is Grace. They've found her, they know about her!

I reach for my gun, but find only the empty holster. She did the one
thing I told her not to do and went for my gun. For once, why
couldn't she not be typical teenager and listen to me? I get out of
bed as fast as I can possibly can. 

I'm coming Grace, I'm coming, is all that runs through my mind.

I get to my bureau in the dark and retrieve my spare sidearm from
the top drawer. I slide a clip into place and leave the room quietly
and quickly. 

There's a light on in the living room, and the scuffling is louder.
I creep down the hall as quietly as I can, avoiding all the places
where I know the floorboards creak. 

"Where are the disks?" I hear a voice hiss. It is a male voice. I
don't recognize it right away.

"I don't know," I hear Grace whimper. 

I pause at the entrance to the kitchen. I can see the two figures
over the serving counter. I can only see the man's back. He is in a
black trench coat. He has large, squared shoulders and close-cropped,
dirty blonde hair. There is something vaguely familiar about it . . .
His hand is firmly over Grace's mouth, keeping her silent. She is
facing my direction. I know when she sees me by the relief that pours
into her teary eyes, but she remains silent. 

"I'm going to ask you one more time: *where are the disks*?" He
snarls at her again and releases her mouth long enough for her to
answer that she doesn't know. 

The disks, they're in my coat pocket. My coat is on the chair by the
door. They're my only key to Mulder. He can't have them!

I step out into the living room, taking my stance, my gun firm on
the trench coat man's back. "Freeze, asshole!" I bark sternly. I cock
the hammer on my weapon, just for effect. "Put your hands up and turn
around slowly." I command. 

He puts his hands up. Grace drops to the floor and scoots back
against the counter, hysterical. There's a gun in one of his fists. 

"Drop it," I say. 

"You don't want me to do that--" 

"I said drop it!" I shout. I really don't like it when they don't
listen to me. 

He lets the gun slip from his fingers. It hits the carpet and
bounces away a foot or two. 

"Dana," He says. "Quit while you're ahead."

What the fuck?

I know that voice.

He turns around slowly. For the first time I get a look at his face.
Set jaw, deep set, glittering tone eyes, and a cynical little grin. 

"Doggett," I manage to grind out through gritted teeth. I can't say
I should have known because I didn't. I never saw the warning signs
until now. 

"That's right," He says. "You know what I'm here for. Now I suggest
you put down your gun and get your little self back to bed, unless
you want to get hurt. And I really don't want to do that. But I'm not
that rat ass little Krycek. I will kill you." 

I shake my head slowly, poignantly. God I should have seen this. It
all comes together now. He got the case because he knew he could
monitor me while it was investigated, and he could prevent it from
being solved. 

"You stole the evidence, didn't you?" I question, keeping my gun
trained on him. 

"Sure did," He confesses. "Want to know why I was gone for a few
days? I killed Wayne Newman. I killed the Connelly's too--"

"No!" Grace screams from the floor. Before I can stop her, she
lunges at Doggett, tackling him from the legs and driving him
backwards. He regains his bearings and kicks her hard in the torso.
She doubles over and hits the floor, howling in pain. I want nothing
more than to kill Doggett. 

"You son-of-a-bitch," I spit loudly at him, advancing a step. 

He whirls back, stopping me abruptly with the nine-inch blade in his
fist. It has a serrated edge and is slightly curved, like a hunting
knife. He must either be a true professional, or a complete psycho. 

"Stop," He barks gruffly. "Don't come any closer. I will kill you if
need be, and I'll start low." He points the blade downward, toward my
abdomen. 

Oh, I am going to kill him and then I'm going to rip out his fucking
brains . . .

"I suggest you just give me what I came for, the disks and the girl.
Then you forget you ever met her and ever saw those disks, we have
bigger plans for you."

"I would never," I say, glancing nervously from Grace, still sobbing
on the floor, to my coat by the door. 

He sees my eyes dancing in the direction of my coat. As soon as I
realize he noticed, he has jumped back towards the coat, snatching it
up with one sinewy arm. I am there, trying to get the coat away, or
at least get to the pockets. With a catlike speed, he whips around,
having my coat in the hand with the knife, and brings his free hand
to my throat. 

I cough and gag beneath his grip. His hand is unbelievably strong,
like a vice. He holds me like this for the longest two seconds of my
life. 

"Drop the gun, Dana," He commands. "I could snap your neck like a
rod of glass, or I could stand here until you suffocate, either way,
you might want to drop the gun." 

Even as he speaks, my vision is blurring around the edges and my
head feels swimmy. I glance down at Grace. She has balled into the
fetal position, continuing to cry for mercy. I release my grip on my
gun and let it fall to the floor. 

"Good girl," he says cockily. "Now what do you have to say for
yourself?" 

I always knew I hated this man. "Pecker-head," I manage to sputter.  

"Oh," he says snidely. "Such fire. You know, that piss and vinegar
is going to get you killed one day." Suddenly, he drops the cynical
attitude and grips my throat tighter, bringing my face inches from
his own. "Now I've got some advice for you," He snarls. I cringe;
disgusted at the spittle flying in my face. "And you better follow it
to the letter. Give. Up. Stop looking for Mulder. If he is to be
returned, he will be. If not: tough. That's the way it is. If you
want to stay alive and if you want to keep your child alive, you
better keep to your own business. Do you understand?"

I do my best to nod. If I don't agree and he doesn't let me go I'm
going to lose consciousness very shortly. That's bad. Of course I
wouldn't listen to this prick if my life depended on it, but he
doesn't need to know that. 

"Good," he says and releases his grip on my throat. 

I take a few deep breaths and back a step away, rubbing my bruised
neck. Then I notice my primary gun on the table by the sofa. Grace
must have left it there. We both see it. I grab it and have it on him
in the bat of an eye. 

Doggett replaces his knife to the holder in his sleeve and shows me
his palms, his lips curling into that grin again. 

"Leave," I say. 

He nods. "I have but a warning. If she speaks, you both die." He
points to Grace. "Even that one." He points again at my torso. Then
he turns and walks out the door. 

I sink to the floor with Grace and gather her up. She is still
crying and shaking. I hold her tightly and try my best to quiet her. 

"Did . . . he . . . get . . . the disks?" She manages to ask between
heavy breaths.

I reach over and grab my coat from where it has been discarded to
the floor. The pocket where the disks were is empty. "Yes," I tell
her. 

"I'm sorry, Dana, I tried to . . ." She begins to sob again.

"Shhh, don't talk, Grace," I say. 

There are sirens nearing my building. One of my neighbors must have
called the police after the gunshots. I stay where I am, even as the
police come in the door, full of questions. The paramedics come in to
check on Grace, and me. It doesn't matter though.

I answer the questions the police ask without a fight. I answer
Skinner's questions when he arrives. And it doesn't matter. 

My hope is gone. My key, the final thing I had, the proof to the X-
files and to finding Mulder is gone. Whisked away in fifteen minutes
of misery. The Gunmen have a printout, but it is only a page, a mere
speck of the mountain of information contained on those disks. 

And I'm back where I started. Everything is lost again. 

~23~

As it has a habit of doing, time slipped away from us. Days turned
into weeks, and weeks into months. Time moved from one mundane day to
the next in the blink of an eye. Christmas came and went like a tide.
We went to San Diego to visit my brother. Grace met her uncles for
the first time. It was all well and good, but I still felt empty.
There were a few days when things felt a little better, yet it always
goes back to the same, summed up simply: Something is missing. 

Doggett disappeared off the face of the planet, much like his
predecessor, Krycek. Every damn day I regret not shooting him when I
had the chance. There is just something that comes over people at
that instant of decision. I can't describe what it is. Whether it is
some subconscious sense of morality, or sheer ignorance, it causes
people to do things they regret. That something is what made me kill
Donnie Pfaster, and what kept me from shooting John Doggett. I regret
both every minute of my life. 

The Gunmen plotted the coordinates on a map. There are "stops"
smattered all over the US, Europe, Russia, and parts of Canada. We
don't know if they're in any particular order now, as there was a
sighting in Venezuela before Manitoba, and none in Kentucky or
Arizona. I'm starting to lose hope. 

For now, the Connelly double homicide remains open and unsolved.
Skinner believes me about Doggett, but with no evidence against him,
and no recorded or written confession, he's a free man. He could walk
into the Whitehouse tomorrow and we couldn't lay a finger on him for
anything, except maybe trespassing. 

Through all of this, something Mulder said a while ago is always in
my head: 

"They're burying this, Scully."

I didn't realize its true meaning until now.  

Grace and I had a few long talks. One must understand that the
chances of her being adopted at her age are slim to none. This played
in my favor when I informed her social worker that I was going to
adopt her. That was late December, shortly after Christmas. About
three years and three weeks since I tried to adopt Emily. I've been
going to custody hearing after custody hearing all through January.
Things are looking good. I have one more hearing set for the end of
February and a hell of a lot more paperwork to fill out, but the red
tape is all but gone. 

The biggest thing now is waiting for the arrival of the baby. It's
the first week of February and I'm into my ninth month. My back hurts
twenty-four seven, my ankles are swollen, and quite honestly, I
waddle. But other than that it's a peach. Still, I am on pins and
needles every moment of every day, just waiting for Mulder to walk
through the door or for the phone to ring and have his voice on the
other end, like a fairytale or something. I wish every day for that
to happen. 

Be that as it may, in my experiences fairytales are only that and
wishes never come true. 

~

FBI Headquarters
Tuesday, February 6, 2001

Yes, I'm still here, at work. The doctor tells me the baby should be
here Thursday or Friday, maybe sooner, maybe later. I should be at
home, but I'm not. I'm still working. And I'm going to keep working
right up until the day this baby decides to make an appearance. Which
will be soon, I hope. Not only are the Braxton-Hicks contractions
becoming an aggravation and a half, the little thing we in medicine
call "lightening" has occurred. Lightening is when the baby's head
moves lower into the pelvis in preparation for deliver. The new
position takes the weight off the stomach and chest, which is good,
but it puts the weight on the bladder, which is bad. 

A new case awaited me today; I've been researching that most of the
day, making phone calls and things. Obviously I'm not about to fly
out in the field, so I've been shifting things around, giving away my
cases to bored VCS agents who owe me one. Some of the more bizarre
stuff I just set aside. 

The custody drama is getting heavier, adding stress that I don't
need right now. Oh, they're still going to let me adopt her, but they
just want to be pains-in-the-ass before we get there.  

I've also been brushing up on my reading. It was decided that I
wouldn't be high risk because I am in shape and healthy, despite my
pre-existing medical conditions. I'm mostly at risk for cephalopelvic
disproportion, which is, in laymen's terms, the baby might be too big
for me to deliver. In that event, I may have to have a cesarean
section. On other things, I still haven't decided between the natural
childbirth and anesthesia. 

"Mysterious writings on the wall. Handwriting not matching any of
the accused or anyone involved. Substance used: fake blood." I read
aloud a blurb from the report I've been wading through. It's an old
case, but I've been putting it off. 

I yawn suddenly and lean back in the chair, deciding to put it off a
little longer. Did I mention the insomnia is back? 

The phone rings. I jump a little as my heart skips a beat, mostly
from surprise. I answer it with a weary, "Scully," 

"Agent Scully," The voice of AD Skinner says, "I need to meet with
you about some personal issues. Is two o'clock okay?"

It's one-thirty now. "Sure, two o'clock it is, sir." I say with
little enthusiasm and hang up with his good-bye. 

Great, now he's going to rag on me about how I should be home,
resting. If it was up to him I would have stop working eight months
ago.  

Out of habit more than need, I prop an elbow onto the desktop and
drop my forehead into my palm, massaging my temples with thumb and
forefinger. I close my eyes in the blissful few moments of silence,
the last I may ever hear--or rather, not hear--come week's end. 

And the phone rings again. 

Now what?

I don't have enough energy to be anticipating an unlikely happening. 

"Scully," I answer, even more pathetically than before. 

" . . ." Nothing. No answer, just silence greets me. 

I wait a few moments, and then say, "Hello?" Just because I have
nothing better to do. 

There is still silence at first, but I believe I can hear someone
breathing shallow breaths. Then I hear the faint crackle of someone's
voice before they begin to speak. I listen raptly:

Silence.

Silence and then, " . . . Scully . . . It's me."  

~24~

In the single moment that I heard his voice on the other end of the
phone, all time ceased. The universe held its breath for my reaction.
Myself, I am breathless. Like being kicked hard in the gut, all the
air has escaped my lungs. I haven't a gasp enough to utter a word. My
mind can't believe what my ears are hearing and my heart is
fluttering too wildly to know the difference. 

He speaks again, confirming that it was not my imagination. "Scully,
you there?" 

Hearing Mulder's voice was like hearing the voice of a long dead
ghost, brought back to life by the mercy of God. I swallow hard on
the lump in my throat and take as deep a breath as I can muster. "I--
" My voice comes out a squeak. "I'm here." 

"Oh God, Scully, I've missed hearing your voice so much," He sighs
into the phone. 

I am barely able to articulate any meaningful words through the
volcano of emotions building inside me. The worst part is I don't
know what emotion to let go first, so I am stuck, frozen, and shaking
under their power. "Mulder," I finally manage to half-whisper, half
whimper. My voice is still but a mere, weak shadow of its firm self. 

"Please say something, Scully," he pleads in a whispered tone. 

I open my mouth, but only a soft cry escapes my throat. I clasp my
palm to my lips to keep that from happening again as the first tears
squeeze from my eyes. 

He knows I'm crying. I can hear it in the way his tone changes
again. "Don't cry, Scully, please don't cry."

I swallow again and try to my hardest to regain some form of
control. "Where are you?" I ask; my words a bit muffled by the
restraint I must use on my voice. 

"I don't know," he answers, "Some kind of military installation. An
underground bunker or something, I think. I'm still working on how to
get us out of here."

"Us?" I ask. With this question, I need a little less control as my
emotions boil down a tad.

"Myself and the others. Christ, Scully, there's like fifty other
people here, including the handful from Oregon alone. Billy Miles and
I have been collaborating on how to get out of here. Ray and Teresa
get more and more worried about their baby every day. People are
starting to go crazy." He explains. 

"How long have you been there?"

"I don't know, a week, maybe longer." he pauses, "My watch doesn't
work anymore. It seems like there was no time when we were on the
ship, so we didn't realize how long we were gone until we came here."

Does he really realize how long he's been gone? I want to ask him.
More than that, I want to tell him everything that has happened, but
I opt for a less perilous question instead, "What happened?" 

"On the ship . . . there were . . ." There is immense amount of
hesitation in his voice. I can't quite tell if it is because he can't
remember it, or he can't bring himself to say. My answer comes
quickly, "I can't even say what I saw. Not over the phone. We made a
stop about a week ago. We've made them before, so they can take more
people, but this time there were troops waiting for us. They captured
everyone, piled us into vans, and drove us here. This base is
somewhere in the desert, Nevada, New Mexico, somewhere like that."

I open the desk drawer and pull out my copy of the gunmen's printout
where the locations of the coordinates are jotted down. Just as I
remember, one is set for Arizona. "Is there a chance it could be
Arizona?" I question, beginning the process of standing. 

"Could be," he answers with humor. "It all looks the same." 

"Mulder, I'm going to transfer you upstairs so they can run a trace
on this phone. We'll talk from there. Just give me a few minutes." I
tell him. He agrees and I punch the button to transfer him to an
internal line I can pick up upstairs, then I leave the room in a
hurry. 

I get to the elevator, wait an impatient five seconds for it the
doors to slide open. By the time I reach the fifth floor, I feel like
an eternity has passed. I am going to the bullpen. They have
equipment there to run traces on calls. I barely give the elevator
doors time to open again before slipping between them (not an easy
task in my state, mind you) and storming down the hall. 

As usual, the bullpen is a flurry of movement and work. An agent by
the name of Brigance sits behind the desk where the trace equipment
is. Naturally he is the one to receive my orders to trace this call
as I enter the office. 

He sits up, presses a few buttons on the instrument before him, puts
on the earphones, and gives me the go sign to pick up the line. 

"Mulder, are you still there?" I beckon. 

"I'm here," he says but there is an unmistakable hint of alarm in
his voice. "I don't know for how much longer though. I hear a lot of
yelling, I think they may be on to me."

"I need about three minutes," Brigance informs me. A female agent
hovers over his shoulder, watching the numbers fall into place. The
other agents have dropped what they were doing to watch the
spectacle. They know something is up. 

"Mulder, can you remember anything about what the outside of the
place looks like?" I ask him hurriedly. 

"I'm not sure, we were in and out pretty fast."

"Please try to remember, Mulder." I beg of him. If we get this
location, we need to know what we're looking for. 

There is a long silence as he strains his memory. "It was fenced in,
tall fences, twenty feet high. There was a little building, and a
sign. It didn't say anything about the military though . . . it was
for . . ."

"Please, Mulder," I whisper softly, bringing my hand to my bare
throat. 

"The Agriculture Department. The sign said it was a research station
for the Agriculture Department, but it's not, Scully. It's where they
hide everything." The instant the words spill from his mouth I hear a
shout in the background. 

"I can't stay," he says quickly, "I have to go."

"I need another minute!" Brigance says.  

I nod to Brigance. "Mulder we need longer for the trace, just hang
on." 

"I can't," he says. Then there is silence.

"Mulder," I say and then repeat it. Hopeless, he's gone. I put down
the phone and turn to Brigance. "Did you get it?" I demand. 

He shakes his head slowly. "Another the thirty seconds--"

The female agent behind Brigance speaks up, interrupting him. "This
says the line is still connected." 

I step over and around to see the screen on the tracer. Brigance
pulls the earphones back over his ears. "I can ear voices in the
background." He says quietly. 

"He didn't hang up," I mutter to myself. I watch as the last number
flashes into place. 

"Payphone in Arizona." Brigance informs us. I grab a pen from the
desk and jot down the information next to the coordinates on the
paper in my hand, I also write down a little of what Mulder described
to me. 

Next, I pick up the phone and dial the up the Gunmen. Without even
saying hello I tell them, "We found him. You guys get over here
quick. We're going after him." I hang up without a response. 

"Thanks, Brigance, I owe you one," I call over my shoulder as I
leave the room. 

Next stop: Skinner's office. I board the elevator again and go up a
floor. As I walk briskly up the hall, I never once think to slow
down. Only one thing is on my mind: We've found him. Three offices
down is Skinner's, I enter without bidding and head straight to the
door to his office from his secretary's. 

"He's in a meeting, Agent Scully," Kimberly the secretary protests. 

I wave her off and go in the office anyway. It's not like I haven't
done it before. I completely ignore the men sitting around the
conference table in the office in my haste. Mulder is much more
important than their meeting will ever be.  

"I have some news, sir," I say. 

Skinner looks a little more than annoyed. "Can't it wait, Agent
Scully? You've just interrupted a crucial board meeting." 

"I realize that, sir, but with all due respect, it can't wait." 

He rises from his seat at the head of the table. "Well what is it?"
He is definitely straining not to raise his voice.

"We've found him," I blurt out quickly. 

Skinner's expression immediately changes to something I can't read.
He glances around at the confused members of whatever board.
"Gentlemen, we'll have to continue this at a later date. I'm afraid
this matter needs my attention." 

The grumbling men begin to get up and disperse as Skinner comes to
me by his desk. "Where is he?" He asks. 

I hand him the paper. "Arizona," I say, "A supposed Agriculture
Department research station. He and the others are being held there.
We have to go get him." 

He looks reluctant, but he cannot deny the pleading look on my face.
His expression is the same as the day he told me Mulder was gone and
I told him we had to find him. He glances downward at my overgrown
stomach. "I don't have that kind of power," says he.

I contradict him, "Maybe not, but we have to try." 

He glances out the door at Kimberly, who is standing in the doorway,
arms crossed. 

"*We* aren't doing anything. You're staying here, I'll go," he says.
He turns to Kimberly as I inform him that the Gunmen will me *us* in
the garage. I may not be flying to Arizona with them, but I'll follow
as far as I can go. 

I overhear him tell Kimberly to cancel his appointments and direct
his calls to voicemail as I linger by his desk. Suddenly, the muscles
in my abdomen contract, squeezing slowly across my belly. I stand a
moment, thinking it's an irritating Braxton-Hicks, and wait for it to
pass. It only comes harder. In agony, I reach out and clutch the edge
of Skinner's desk, pinching my eyes shut to relinquish the pain. It
doesn't subside so quickly. I open my eyes and see that my knuckles
are whitening from gripping the desk so hard.

Oh, this can't be good. 

"Scully!" I hear him exclaim, having seen my current state and
become very alarmed. He rushes over, taking my hand and slipping an
arm over my waist to help support me. "C'mon, we're going to get you
to a hospital." 

"I'm fine, really, it's passed." I say through gritted teeth. And it
has passed, but it'll be back with a vengeance in oh, about twenty or
so minutes, I'd wager. 

Nonetheless, by the way Skinner looks at me as he helps me to the
couch in Kimberly's office, I know there must be more pain present on
my face than I think.  Kimberly is already phoning for an ambulance. 

I just sit as calm as I can be on the sofa, marveling at how
wonderful this child's timing really is. 

~25~

Georgetown Hospital

An hour has passed. I've been settled into a room in the maternity
ward for about thirty minutes now. Skinner left straight away with
the Gunmen for Arizona. Don't ask me how they're going to get Mulder--
or any of the others--out. But they had better hurry up. Time is of
the essence at this point. I would rather Mulder not miss this if I
can help it. 

I lay in the hospital bed, surprising myself with my calm, staring
out the window and thinking about how long labors last. For all I'm
worth, I cannot remember how long I was in labor with Grace. I guess
in getting over my guilt in my decision those fourteen years ago, I
forgot more than a few things about her. What I do know, is that this
is the real deal. I was hit by that first contraction, and then my
water broke waiting for the ambulance. There's no turning back now. 

There is a soft knock on the door and a woman enters. I assume she's
a nurse by the uniform and soft, gentle demeanor. 

"You must be Dana Scully," she says, smiling, and offers her hand as
she crosses the room. "I'm Nurse Andi. You can just call me Andi.
You're probably going to see me in and out of here all through the
labor and the delivery. If you have any questions, feel free to ask
me, I can probably answer it. I have three wonderful kids at home and
I've been doing this for fifteen years." Her speech is fast and
friendly, if a little overbearing at first. 

I shake her hand and offer her my own polite smile. "Where's Dr.
Paxton?" I inquire about my OB, Marc Paxton. After Kimberley called
an ambulance--even though I didn't really need an ambulance, a taxi
would have done fine--I called him at his office not far from the
hospital.

"Golfing in Maui. Our resident OB should be in to see you shortly.
Don't worry, she's a really good doctor." Andi says, and just as
quickly, jumps subjects. "How are you doing? Can I get you anything?
Is there anyone you need to call?" She inquires all at once. 

"I'm fine, thank you," I reply, "But I do need to call my daughter.
She should be at home; the number is on my forms. Could you tell her
to use the emergency cab money to come here? I don't have anyone
available to drive her." 

Andi nods and says she'll do that for me. "Do you have a Lamaze
coach or anyone you need to contact? The baby's father?" 

If only it were that easy. "No, no, that's okay." I say. 

"All right," she says, "I'm going to go get on the phone with your
daughter and I'll be back to see how you're doing."

As she leaves, the doctor is entering. She is a relatively small,
fit, blonde woman, perhaps a few years younger than me. The first
thing I notice about her is her professional attitude mixed with a
warm smile. She has on a lab coat over blue-green scrubs and a chart
holder in her hands. She too, offers her hand with her introduction,
which I return.  

"I'm Dr. Adley," she says.

"Dana Scully," I reply as cordially. 

"Is this your first pregnancy?" she inquires. 

"No, it isn't. But it's been a long time." 

"Okay," She jots something on the chart and places it in the holder
on the open door. Then she shuts the door and grabs a pair of latex
gloves from the box beside the door. "I'm just going to check your
cervix and we'll go from there." 

I nod and bend my legs up in that characteristic fashion of
childbirth. She lifts the sheet draping over my knees checks the
dilation of my cervix and then pulls the cover back down. 

"You're only dilated to about two centimeters, depending on how
things progress we could be here for a very long time or a very short
time." she explains and then asks,  "Was your last delivery long,
short, otherwise?"        

"I honestly do not remember," I say. "All I remember is being twenty-
two and scared." 

She smiles at this, stripping off her gloves and disposing them in
the can near the box. "I'm going to get an ultrasound machine in here
and we'll see how everything is doing." 

"Okay," I say. 

All right, so I'm only dilated to two centimeters. It's still early,
the first stage of labor. Hell, I wouldn't have to be here if I
didn't want to. But Paxton told me I should probably come in even at
early onset, even thought I'm not high risk. Just to be safe. My
contractions are about twenty minutes apart. Like the good doctor
Adley says, we could be here for a long time, and the longer the
better. I've been adding up different scenarios since I got here. I
figure it'll be about four hours flight time to get there, provided
they get a flight that makes no other stops. I could be in this early
stage for hours. Let's put it this way, if they go really quickly and
can get a flight back from Phoenix today or tonight, he can make it
one time.  

And through all of this, he doesn't even know he has to make it on
time for something. Provided Skinner doesn't tell him, which I doubt
he'll do. Skinner has a hard enough time talking to me about it, and
I'm the one that told him. 

It's time for a new subject to think on. When's Grace going to be
here? Maybe I should call my mom too. She's in San Diego still. She
wanted to see Bill off to sea so she stayed when Grace and I came
back after Christmas. She said she would be back the second week of
February. Well, she's going to be late. 

Dr. Adley and Andi both return at the same time. Adley pushes an
ultrasound machine before her. "Okay, Mom," she says, bringing the
machine around to my left side. "Time to see how we're doing." 

Andi comes over and adjusts the sheet to just below the mound of my
abdomen and rolls my hospital gown over and above it. Adley takes a
seat on a stool by the bed and squirts a little of the conducting
fluid onto my belly. I flinch under the chill of the jelly-like
liquid. 

"I called your daughter. She should be here shortly," Andi tells me
as Adley turns on the ultrasound machine and presses the instrument
against my belly. 

"And there we are," Adley says as the fuzzy, moving image shows up
on the screen. 

I look over at the image and can't help the smile that lights my
face. The only word I can use to describe the image I see of my
child: beautiful. I can point out the head, the hands, and the
heartbeat. The image is upside-down and showing the back of the
fetus, showing him to be in the right position for birth. One sigh of
relief. 

"Everything looks good," Adley says, examining the screen. "He's got
a strong heartbeat, nice and active. Do you know the gender?" She
asks, unable to tell by the position. 

I shake my head, still staring at the image, seeing the steady
fluctuating of the heart and the slight movement of the baby's arms
and legs. 

Adley turns off the machine and wipes the conductor fluid from my
skin with a cloth. "Do you have a labor partner?" she inquires. 

"No," I say, "It's just me." 

"Okay," she says and proceeds to pack up the ultrasound machine, but
remains sitting on the stool she had pulled from by the corner. 
"Have you decided on the use of anesthesia or not?" 

"No, I haven't," I confess. 

I know, I know. I've heard how incredibly painful childbirth can be
for some women, and how long the particularly hard stages can last.
Nevertheless, something in the back of my head tells me that having
an epidural is the wussy way out for someone like me. I've been
battered and bruised and shot and knocked around enough for two
lifetimes. But I still haven't decided. I mean, you think about it,
I'm going to have to squeeze something roughly the size of a
watermelon out something roughly the size of a lemon, and either feel
it, or not feel it. 

"Well, you still have plenty of time to think about it," Adley
continues. "This is only the first stage of the first step. You're
water hasn't broken yet--"

I interrupt. "I thought it did, when I was waiting for the
ambulance." 

She shakes her head, "No, that was just show."

"Oh," I say, nodding. 

Show, for you laymen out there, is a thick plug of mucus or a
discharge that has accumulated in the cervix during pregnancy. During
labor, that plug has to go somewhere, and the only way is out. Sounds
lovely, doesn't it?

"So you can feel free to walk around, get a snack or something. I
encourage you to try and get some sleep though. You'll need your
strength. And once you get into the transition stage you won't be
sleeping anymore." 

I express my understanding with another nod. She smiles, tells me
she'll check up on my progress in an hour, and leaves to tend to
other patients. 

Andi does similarly, telling me that she'll be back and forth the
every so often and will make sure Grace gets in all right. 

Soon I am alone in my room again. I remain sitting in the bed for a
while; digesting the information I've just received. I look out the
large window to my left and remember doing the very same thing every
other time I have been in a hospital. Even for a doctor, I honestly
do not relish being in a hospital. I've been in this hospital, or one
much like it, far too many times than I care to recall, and very few
of those visits were in happiness. 

This visit is a little different, I can safely say. My emotions at
this point are mixed and conflicting. I'm not sure what to feel
first. Most of all, I just don't want to be alone through this. I've
been alone virtually throughout the whole pregnancy, with the
exception of Grace as the new light of my existence. And now I know
Mulder is out there, although he isn't yet home. I am confident for
the time being that he will return safely, and if God is willing, in
time.    

~26~

12:11AM

It has been nine hours and I am not so confident anymore. I entered
the "active labor" stage after seven hours of boredom, boredom, and
more boredom. I would give anything now to go back to being bored. I
liked the pace. This is moving too fast.  

Grace came in around three-thirty. As far as I know, she is now
asleep in the waiting room, having been kicked out in the fuss and
flurry of the transition stage.

Nurse Andi was with me through the grueling transition stage, as
sort of a surrogate labor coach. Active labor, as they call it,
lasted only an hour. After I became dilated to five centimeter,
things began to pick up at a steadily uncomfortable pace. I am unsure
that I am really able to do this. And I decided against the epidural.

Andi sat with me during transition, helping me to breathe when I was
supposed to, talking to me comfortingly, and reassuring my doubt. I
explained to her, in a nutshell, about Mulder, as she inquired to the
baby's father once more. She has kept me going with her own
confidence that he will make it.

Even now, as I am being transported to the delivery room, my eyes
dart all around the corridor; hoping, pleading, and praying that he
will turn the corner and be right there beside me. I think that more
than once, during the painful climax of a contraction I have cried
his name aloud, to be met only by the coaching of nurses I barely
know. 

The people around me are but a blur of noise and color as I try to
focus solely on breathing through my contractions. They get me to the
table and prepped for delivery. I am barely aware of it. 

Andi is at my side again, allowing me to grasp her hand as she mops
up the beading sweat from my forehead and cheeks. I can feel the heat
from my face alone, and can only imagine the severe look of
concentration creasing it. My skin is so alive, every sensory nerve
working full blast. Every touch sets it on fire. 

The first time Adley tells me to push, I clutch Andi's hand for dear
life, pinching my eyes shut and clenching my jaw tightly. 

"Relax your jaw," Andi tells me immediately, brushing her fingertips
along my jaw line.

'Easy for you to say,' I want to retort, but don't. 

The contraction passes and I manage to relax a little. I let my head
fall back against the pillows propping my upper back. "He isn't going
to make it," I cry as my eyes slip shut again.

"You don't worry about that," Andi says firmly. "You focus, right
here, concentrate on what you're doing." She lays her hand on an
invisible spot on my tummy. 

I wrench open my eyes and sit up, staring intently at the
nothingness on my stomach. 

Another contraction builds up again and Adley directs me to push
again. I bear down as hard as I can, trying to move through the
burning and the cramping in my lower extremities. She commands for me
to keep going and I push harder, hanging on to the edge of the bed
and Andi's hand so hard I fear I might crush her bones. 

Two contractions and an amount of lost time and energy later, Adley
announces the baby has crowned. When I look down between my thighs I
see the very top of the head, wet and matted with dark hair. Adley
rotates the baby's face toward my thigh with the next contraction and
begins to deliver the shoulders. The words, "One more time," are the
most relieving to my ears, but my strength is expended. 

"I can't do it," I breathe heavily to Andi in the midst of the three
minutes between contractions. 

"You can, Dana, you've gotten so far already," She places her free
hand over mine and smiles one of her famous smiles. 

The next contraction comes about and I push with the last of the
strength my body possesses. I blink away the water in my eyes, and
just as I fear I may give out, Adley brings the baby up and lays him
on my belly. 

"Meet your son!" She announces proudly while nurses and an intern
clamp off the umbilical cord and cut him from me. 

He is covered in a whitish and bloody fluid, he is screaming and
squirming, but he is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes
on. Another nurse scoops him up in a blue cloth and cleans him up a
little before placing him in my open arms. 

I begin to cry as soon as I look at his tiny, red face. Another
small contraction passes as the placenta is delivered, but I don't
notice it. 

I am too focused on my son. I touch his dark, velvet hair and caress
his tiny hands. He is so small I can barely believe it. He is small
yet complete, right down to his tiny chin, softly cupped ears, and
little toes. I can do nothing but blubber and coo at the sight and
the touch of him, incapable of coherent speech for the time being. 

Myself, I am exhausted, the muscles in my back and legs trembling
beneath my flesh. There are tears streaming down my cheeks and my
neck and face are flushed and damp with sweat. But as I sit here with
my son cradled tightly in my arms, nothing else in the world matters
but him and me.   

Nothing.


~27~

My son was born at precisely 12:47AM, Wednesday, February seventh,
weighing in at six pounds and nine ounces. I will never forget this
date, this time, this moment as long as I live. 

I sit now in my room again, sore and exhausted, but content to a
degree. So sore, that there were ice packs laid over my perineum to
stop the horrible burning and the swelling from strain. And the
occasional, small, uterine contractions are uncomfortable, but normal
for the uterus to shrink. 

My baby is resting comfortably in my arms, nursing for the first
time. While holding the new little infant is as natural to me as
breathing, breast-feeding is a little different. The thought never
before occurred to me that such a tiny (toothless) thing could be
capable of such a bite. Nonetheless, I got used to it fast, and I can
sit her, just watching him, bonding. I bring my free hand up and draw
it gently down the side of his small round face. They have him
dressed in pale blue pajamas (I guess that's what you call them) with
a matching knit cap. Peeking out under the cap, I can see a few silky
strands of dark hair. His eyes are a watery, unfocused blue, but I
know he can see my face. I bring my hand down to his and he grasps my
finger tightly, without letting go. I smile at this special moment,
shared only by mother and son. 

Still, I wish there was someone here to share this with. Grace is
still sleeping in the waiting room, I don't dare wake her up, she
needs her sleep. Besides, she is not the one I want to share this
with. 

In my concentration during delivery, I soon forgot about the one
missing person from the picture, and how that feeling is coming back
full force. I wonder silently what his reaction will be when he sees
our son. For now I just continue to pray he gets here safe, and wait
for him to do so.

Suddenly, I hear a loud ruckus in the hallway outside my door. I
star intently at the hall-side wall, as if it will reveal the goings-
on outside. Muffled shouting continues the disturbance, and something
in me ignites a familiarity in one of the yells.

Moments later, a single rap sounds on the door and before I can give
consent to enter, it opens. The instant I see the person entering, my
breath catches in my throat and every muscle in my body freezes. 

It is Mulder. 

It takes him a few steps to see the infant nursing in my arms, and
when he does, he freezes in his tracks. The look on his face is one I
have never seen there before: Pure and utter disbelief. 

I am struck speechless again, left only to stare at the man before
me, trying earnestly to discern if he is really there. 

His mouth forms as if to speak, but no words follow. He takes
another shaky step forward, his hands trembling at his sides. I can
tell he doesn't know what to say, so he only breathes a single word:

" . . . Scully . . . "

Still unable to speak, I bite my lip and draw my free hand to my
mouth, trying hard to stop the ecstatic tears that have already begun
to flow. 

He finishes the journey across the room and then stands beside the
bed, his disbelieving hazel eyes flicking up and down between my face
and the baby. By the way his lower lip trembles, I know there is much
he wants to say, he just cannot find a way to say it. He opts instead
to sit down on the edge of the bed, just beside my hip. He stares
long and hard at the baby and then looks back to my teary eyes,
searching for answers.

"Your son," I say, in a voice cracked and strained with sobs. They
are the only two words I manage to force from my lips as an
introduction.

With two hands, gently supporting the infant's tiny body, I offer
him to Mulder. My eyes beg for acceptance, for him to believe in me.
To believe that for once, this is real, and it won't be taken from
him as with so much else. 

At first he is unsure, only able to stare in awe of the child. I
think it is because he is afraid. He is afraid that if he touches his
son, he will fall in love, and if he falls in love, his son will be
taken from him. I can see all of this from only the look on his face
and deep in his lucid eyes. 

After I moment or two, I realize his inexperience is speaking as
well. I reach out and take his arm, showing him how to support the
baby's head, neck, rump, and back with his elbows and forearms. He
looks wary about it, but as he looks down upon his son, and the baby
opens his eyes for a second and stares back at him, his once slack
mouth curves into a smile. All at once, he begins to cry. His cry is
a mixture between a laugh and a sob, each sound so mixed between the
two, it is impossible to tell what they actually are. These soft
sounds are the same I made, when one is unsure whether to be
incredibly happy or incredibly upset. 

He looks up at me again. There are tears streaming down his cheeks.
The sight of his tears only increases the flow of mine. Figuring out
how to support the baby with only one arm, he leans forward, and
wraps his arms around my back tightly. I do the same, bringing myself
close enough to him without disturbing our drowsy son, who is nuzzled
between us. Mulder pulls his hand to my neck and kisses my forehead,
my cheek, and my lips. All while tears fall continuously from our
eyes. Then he brings his forehead to mine, and tangles his fingers
with mine. We sit like that for a long time: foreheads pressed
together, hands held, and a half-asleep child between us. All this,
and we have barely spoken three words to each other.   

~28~

We stay in teary reunion for an uncountable amount of time. Like our
phone conversation, all time ceases for us. There is no one in the
world but the two of us, plus one. 

After awhile, Mulder stands up, cuddling the now sleeping baby. The
baby's hour of wakefulness is up, and now he will sleep for a good
three or four hours. I'm not sure which is harder and more
exhausting: coming into the world or bringing someone in. 

"What's his name?" Mulder asks first as he turns with his back to
me, stretching out his long legs.

I wipe the last of the cried out tears from my eyes and sigh.
"Anything you want it to be," I say. 

He turns back to me, as if to make sure I'm being honest with him.
He looks at me a moment, and then smiles. He takes a few pacing steps
again, gazing down at the baby. Already, Mulder's a natural at
holding him. 

"What would I name my son?" He muses lightly to himself. He strokes
the baby's palm with his thumb. The baby responds reflexively by
grasping the tip of Mulder's thumb. For a moment I see Mulder's eyes
shimmer again. He glances at me once more. "When did you find out?" 

"The day after you left," I answer quietly. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed again, pure, self-hating guilt
scrawled in creases on his face. "The day after?"

I nod and say, "Please don't blame yourself, Mulder. There was no
way you could have known."

I say this to him, and then reach out and caress his cheek. I know
he hears my words, but I also know this man very well. I know he will
blame himself until the day he dies, like he blames himself for so
many other things that he could never help much less prevent. 

"If I had stayed one more day, Scully . . . " he begins to say,
instead swallowing his words. "If I had known . . . I would have
never left . . . I shouldn't have in the first place." 

"Mulder," I say. "You didn't know you were in danger, and neither of
us knew what was making me ill. It's just the way things happened."

He accepts this submissively with a sigh. One last look down at the
baby, and he hands him back to me. Then he stands up to pace around a
little more. It's his way of absorbing a lot of information all at
once. He'll have a lot more coming when I tell him about Grace. 

"Do you remember what happened to you?" I ask. 

I am curious about his experience. It doesn't seem like it was
similar to mine, considering I can back comatose and he came back
exactly the same way he left. I mean exactly. Right down to the
clothes and the five o'clock shadow. 

He shakes his head slowly. "There were no tests, I remember that.
They spoke to us, but it wasn't speaking, it was some kind of
telepathy. I can't remember anything they told us. They were cleaning
up the evidence. Packing up to get out of Dodge." 

He faces the window, crosses his arms, and furrows his brow in
thought. "The troops . . . the troops were an attempt at recovering
lost test subjects." Now he scrubs his chin thoughtfully and speaks
again, his voice slightly muffled by his fingers. "They're trying to
rebuild the Project." 

He shakes his head again and looks at me, offering a small smile. He
figures I don't want to hear his conspiracy ravings right now, but he
has now idea how much I missed them. 

"Did a lot of sleeping," he says next, changing subjects. "Lot of
time to dream." His hand goes to his throat to finger my gold cross
still dangling there. "You were with me the whole time, in my
dreams." He begins to come back to the bed, reaching behind his neck
and unclasping the chain. "I even think I had a dream about you being
pregnant, I just didn't remember it until now." 

He sits back on the bed, holding the necklace ever so gently in his
hand, as if it might break. 

"Tell me about it," I request softly. 

He thinks a moment, looking at the baby. Before he speaks, he
touches the tips of his long fingers to the baby's soft forehead.
"You were on a beach."

That first sentence jogs my memory to the dream I had of him on the
beach. However, I say nothing. 

"You were in this white dress, it looked so lovely. I was just
walking, and you were standing there, looking out at the horizon. You
were pregnant, and you were crying." He shrugs. "I don't remember
much after that." 

I had the same dream. I can't believe he had that same dream, only
from his point of view. That actually isn't unheard of . . . I mean
it's scientifically possible . . . I'm still silent about it.

Unspeaking, Mulder leans forward and clasps the ends of the gold
around my neck. "This time, it was your beliefs that were there with
me." He says, smiling again. 

I return the smile, bringing my index finger to touch the crucifix
gently, the metal still warm from his skin. The weight of it there at
my throat is foreign, but as comfortingly familiar as Mulder's
fingers entwined again in mine. 

A knocking on the door interrupts the forming silence. Mulder stands
as the door opens after receiving consent. Grace enters in a flurry
of red hair and a big grin. 

"Lemme see!" She squeals excitedly, coming towards the baby and me.

She doesn't give Mulder a second glance. And why should she? She
doesn't know who the lanky man beside me is. 

My smile stays easily captive on my lips as Grace leans on the bed,
tentatively touching her new half-brother's arm. 

"He's so little," She coos, cocking her head slightly as she
observes him sleep. "I don't think I've ever seen a baby so small."

She watches him a moment more. Then she turns and looks up at
Mulder, as if just realizing there was someone else in the room, the
looks back to me. She pokes her thumb out at him, "Who's he?" she
asks.

"Oh," I say, pretending I didn't realize they didn't know each
other. I introduce the two with an absent wave of my hand. "Grace,
this is Mulder. Mulder, Grace." 
   
Mulder just looks confused. 

"So this is Mulder," Grace says, standing to get a good look at him.
"I've heard a lot about you." She cordially sticks out her hand. 

He accepts the offer, still looking very confused. "I wish I could
say the same," he says, "But I seem to be a little behind these
days." He looks at me, knowing I hold answers to whom, exactly, Grace
is. "Scully?" 

"Mulder," I begin, choosing my words very carefully. "There are some
things that I haven't told you. Some things about my past that I
didn't want you to know until the right time." I hesitate, my mind
taunts: Come on, the time is now! I speak again, "Grace is my
daughter."

Mulder's mouth parts in a half-O.  When he speaks, he stumbles over
his words, "E-excuse me?" 

Grace gives me a knowing little smirk and crosses her arms, waiting
patiently for me to begin the story about the frat-party and the
booze, the party that makes her out to be a mistake. But Grace is not
a mistake. Grace was never a mistake. There *are* no mistakes. 

I look Mulder fully in the eyes and tell him with complete honesty,
"She's one of the best things that ever happened to me. That's all
that is important."

From the profile of Grace's face looking at Mulder, I can see her
smile widen. 

Mulder stares at Grace, stunned.

And then, surprisingly, he offers her a lop-sided smile. "Nice
to meet you, Grace." he says. 

For once I guess he trust my judgement to fill him in on the details 
at a better time.

Yet again, the sound of knuckles rapping hardly on the now open door
interrupts conversation. 

This time it is Skinner. 

I am so grateful to this man for everything he has done, seeing him
again, in a rather emotional state already, nearly brings me to tears
again. 

Mulder stands at attention, grinning stupidly. "Come on in Walt," He
says sarcastically. 

Skinner enters cautiously. He stands at the end of the bed, looking
rather uncomfortable in the middle of our little family thing. He
inquires to how I'm doing and how Mulder is as well.

I smile warmly in a fashion that I don't think I've ever used before
in front of my boss. He returns it after a moment, albeit nervously. 

I glace to my right and catch Mulder's eyes. An unspoken agreement
passes between us, and he comes forward and takes the baby gently
from me. 

"Would you like to hold him?" Mulder asks of Skinner as he brings
our son around to him. 

Skinner begins to shake his head no, but changes his mind and
accepts. He looks just as unsure as Mulder did in the first few
minutes. As he gets used to it, he stares down at the baby's placid
face and smiles again. 

"Thank God he looks like his mother," He says quietly, grinning at
Mulder. 

Mulder stuffs his hands into his pockets and gives him a 'very
funny, sir' smirk.

Along with everything else that has been on my mind, I've been
picking and choosing godparents for my son. I've only come up with
one person. I didn't discuss it with Mulder, but I think he knows I
am going to ask. After everything Skinner has done for us over the
years, he deserves to be in Mulder's and my son's life as much as
anyone. He's just another uncle. 

"Sir?"  I beseeched, claiming his attention. "I was wondering if you
would . . ." I find it difficult to start out at first, licking my
lips and starting over. "Would you do us the honor of being his
godfather?" 

My eyes dart quickly to Mulder for verification. He looks a little
shocked by suddenness, but pleased. 

Skinner looks similarly surprised. For the first time since I've
known him, he even looks a little sheepish. He looks to me, then
Mulder, and back to the baby. "I would be honored." He says, giving
us a smile. 

He gives the baby back to me, chats for a moment, even jokes with
Grace, and then excuses himself.   

The four of us remain together in the hospital room. I can see that
Mulder and Grace hit it off right away. Her teenage indifference
compliments his nonchalant humor to such a degree one could mistake
them for actual relatives. We are all together at last, and for the
first time everything is right with the world.

~29~   

Dana Scully Residence
Saturday, November 10, 2001

I wake up to nearly perfect darkness. I don't look at the clock, but
instincts tell me it is late. My arm sweeps up the side of the bed
opposite me, finding it empty. For a single, fleeting moment, I think
that everything was a dream, and I am alone as before. But those
fears are soothed to nothingness when my eyes adjust to the low light
enough to see a figure by the window.  

Mulder stands in pajama pants, cuddling our son in the darkness.
Only a bluish cast of moonlight falls over them, illuminating
Mulder's bare arms and the baby's face. Mulder holds a small bottle
to the baby's mouth as he suckles gently. I figured out the breast
pump as soon as I could so we could switch off feedings. No one
person should have to be up every two or three hours. 

After a long debate, rather heated at times, between all three of us-
-Grace, Mulder, and I--and some endless hours of searching on the
Internet and countless baby name books, we decided on the name Conor
William. Conor is an Irish name that means, "desire; wise" and--
sticking to tradition--William is a family name on both sides.  

I lay in silence and watch Mulder and Conor. It took only those
first few moments of meeting for Mulder to fall in love with Conor.
He says the same for Grace. I'm not exactly sure of Grace's feelings
for Mulder, but I think I overheard her say something to one of her
friends about him being "cool". 

The relationship between Grace and I has definitely been affected by
Mulder's return and Conor's birth. There isn't as much privacy for
only the two of us to just chat, but I think she just may like this
new arrangement a little better. She loves the idea of having a baby
brother, after never having any siblings before. Although I don't
think she has quite grasped that I am "mom", she knows she can talk
to me and she knows I'm here for her. I don't think she'll ever call
me "Mom", I'm only Dana, but I'm okay with it. I have accepted that I
am her mother, but her mom is forever dead. And yet, I am comfortable
with that. Our relationship is not jeopardized by whatever rift that
may have, and as long as there is no tension between us, things are
good. 

My relationship with Mulder is in a place that I cannot describe. It
almost seems like we're getting used to being together again. Because
of all that has happened, nothing just falls into place like it did
before. Naturally, he has spent every night he has been back here,
only returning to his place during the day to get a few things and
feed his fish. We talk only fancifully of getting a place together. 
He doesn't want to be more than five minutes away from us, and quite
frankly I don't want to let him out of my sight. I'm sure those airs
will return to normalcy eventually, but I'm just wallowing in the
attention right now. 

In these three days, I have had a lot of time to do some thinking.
Since I sleep when Conor sleeps, I do the most thinking when I'm
nursing. I don't know why, I guess it's the peaceful calm that
surrounds Conor and I during those times. 

I've mostly been thinking about Grace and my past. I told Mulder the
entire story about Grace. Needless to say he was shocked,but no more 
so than when I told him about Daniel Waterston. I can sit
now, without guilt, and look at the life I left behind. I see the
decisions I made and the effects it had on my life today. Through
this, I have come to realize that there is no such thing as a
mistake. There are only good decisions and not-so-good decisions. 

Elizabeth Kubler Ross said it best, "There are no mistakes, no
coincidences. All events are blessings given to us to learn from."   

Every day I am finding myself believing in this more and more. My
religion, Catholicism--and most religions alike--teach us that God is
the one who decides human fate. From birth to death, it is wholly and
undeniably He that decides what will become of us. Though I have
become closer to the church in the past few years than I was, I do
not believe in this. 

I believe that we decide our own fates. 

I believe that every decision we ever make could be a deciding
factor for the near and the far future. For example, if you decided
to get your hair cut on Saturday instead of Friday, it could change
your whole life. If you had gone Friday, a bus could have run you
down. You just never know in advance. All I can think is that there
must be warning signs along the way that must be paid attention. You
don't know they're warning signs, and you don't know where they are
before you see them, but they must be there. 

In the scheme of all things, life is a roadmap. A roadmap of winding
and twisting highways and dirt-paths. Of dark and desecrated alleys,
and of bright, sunlight country roads. Some decisions you make may
lead you into one of those alleys, but you must always know that no
matter how dark and hopeless it gets, it will be all the brighter on
the other side. 

If I had not gone to that party and gotten drunk, I would not have
Grace. If I had not given Grace up, I would not be a doctor. If I had
not gone to med-school and met Daniel Waterston, I would not have had
cause to change my career so suddenly. If I had not joined the FBI, I
would not have Mulder. If I had not listened to Mulder all those
times I wanted to leave, if I had not fallen in love with him, I
would not have Conor. Do you see how things work? 

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. Not taking life
for granted is taking the road less traveled once in awhile, making a
few bad choices, and seeing where you end up. It will benefit you in
the long run.

I realize now that my so-called mistakes are mine and mine alone. I
cannot place my decisions on anyone else. Not frat-party Tommy, not
Waterston, not Mulder. They may have influenced my decisions, but the
choice in the end was mine. 

I know that all of the choices I've made have been good ones. I know
that if I had the choice to go back and redo everything I did wrong,
I would do everything exactly the same. Some would kill for my life,
some would kill to get out. But as I lay here now, I know this is
where I am supposed to be. This is where I belong. 

This is mine . . . forever. 

~*x*~FIN~*x*~

Acknowledgments: I would like to thank everyone who read this in its
preliminary stages. Thank you for the wonderful feedback, you all are
terrific. I would also like to thank everyone at the
MSRficSupportGroup. What would I do without you guys? To Briehan, as
always, just thanks bud, you're the reason I'm doing this. Also, a
huge hug and thank you to all of my BETA readers: Sophie, Leslie,
Lisa, Sally, and everyone else that has helped me along the way. I
love you guys very, very much. 

Authors Notes: Yes, there's more. At first I was kind of
apprehensive about writing a Post-Requiem. Although I love the idea
of Scully being pregnant, the last thing I wanted was to become just
a drooling post-Req. writer. I'm glad you, as the reader, decided to
give this a chance. It was different wasn't it? Fooled you, didn't I?
See, I'm not lacking in the imagination department. I must say that I
love writing from Scully's POV, I feel I can connect with her better
than Mulder, although I have only written from Mulder's eyes once so
far. Much of Scully's beliefs in this reflect on my own of fate and
destiny and such. That's pretty much all I have to say except: Is it
November yet? And, now when is my muse gonna inspire me for a sequel?

Ciao till next time. ~Smurf

Legacy: The Shipper's Fanfic Archive:
http://www.geocities.com/legacyfanfic or http://everything.at/LTSFA
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