From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 24 Dec 2002 16:57:28 -0000
Subject: The Naked Kitties, Part Three: Stretched Thin by Li\'l Gusty
Source: direct

Reply To: lil_gusty@hotmail.com

The Naked Kitties, Part Three: Stretched Thin

<><><><><><>

I didn't say much to him for the rest of the night.

I knew this would happen.  I -knew- it and I let his sensitivity 
and his pathos affect me.  All he had to do was put his hand to 
my belly to feel the baby - what he believed, despite everything 
I'd told him, was -his- baby - move.  I felt something inside me 
start to melt as he looked up at me with those round, awe-filled 
eyes and then it refroze again, harder than before.

He's going to do something stupid.  He's going to try and make a 
deal or a trade or something to save the baby.  He's going to get 
himself killed.

I shouldn't have let him manipulate me like that.  I should've 
stuck to my story about how the baby belonged to someone else, 
then told him that the father and I were going to get married and 
that I had to move to some tiny island nation where they don't 
speak English right away.  He would've been hurt, but he would've 
let me go.  He'd be safe.  He'd be alive.

"Scully, did you -" He stops, staring at me.  His eyes are 
painted glass beads, shiny and bold.  "Does Skinner know that 
I'm...back?"

I shake my head, looking away from him.

He knows I'm angry but he doesn't care.  He goes into the bedroom 
and picks up the phone.

His voice is hushed and all I can hear is the occasional 
syllable, not enough to understand the words.  In a few minutes, 
he comes out again, shrugging into his leather jacket.

"I'm going out for a while," he says softly, standing over me and 
expecting me to stop him.  I don't.  Leaning down, he presses his 
lips to my forehead quickly, hand on my stomach, and locks the 
door on his way out.

He doesn't come back that night.

<><><><><><>

The next morning, I awake to the sound of something shattering 
and hushed cursing from the kitchen.

When I manage to waddle out of my bedroom, Mulder's on his hands 
and knees picking up the pieces of a coffee mug and wiping up the 
spilled coffee.  When he sees me, he winces, dropping his head 
and looking back at the floor before speaking.  "You should be 
resting," he says as he stands, throwing the paper towels and 
broken ceramic in the trash can.

I cross my arms over my aching breasts, fixing him with an icy 
stare.

"I was gonna make you some breakfast, but I don't see any 
breakfast food in here."  He opens the refrigerator and sticks 
his head in, searching for something and coming up with orange 
juice.  "Folic acid," he reads from the carton, "helps prevent 
some birth defects."  Pouring me a glass, he sets it down on the 
table and pulls out the corresponding chair.

He's wearing the same clothes he was last night and I wonder 
where he's been.

"Nice pajamas," he adds, starting to sweep the floor in case 
there are tiny shards of ceramic left.

I'd started sleeping in one of his work shirts a when all my 
pajama tops got to be too small.  The buttons were tight, but not 
bulging, and it reminded me of how much bigger than me he was.  
I'd never washed it, but a few weeks ago, it had lost his smell.  
The night I realized that, I'd cried myself to sleep.

"Do you have to take these iron pills with food?  I can go out 
and get you something."

"I'd rather you tell me where you went last night," I finally 
tell him, sitting down and turning the juice glass around between 
my hands.

"To talk to Skinner.  He wondered why you hadn't called him, but 
I told him we'd been busy.  You didn't tell me that he knew about 
this deal you made."  He clenches his jaw, sitting across from me 
and folding his arms.  "How many people know, Scully?"

"Just you and him.  My mother...my mother doesn't even know I'm 
pregnant."

He opens his eyes wide, not believing that.

"She left to stay with Bill and Tara a few months ago.  He's 
stationed in Hawaii and Tara just had a baby, so," I shrug, 
thinking that explains everything.

"A baby?"

"Yeah, another boy - Conrad Joseph.  They wanted a girl and 
they're already planning to start trying again this spring."

He nods.  "What do you want?"

I look at him, not knowing what he means.

"Boy or girl?"

"It doesn't matter," I tell the orange juice.

He stands, pouring himself a cup of coffee and not facing me.  "I 
think I want a girl.  I go back and forth.  As long as it's 
healthy, it doesn't really matter, but I'm sure your mother would 
love a granddaughter since both your brothers have had all boys."

I shake my head, feeling nauseous.

"I told the realtor that we'd meet him at the house at ten, 
so..."  He trails off, hiding behind the cup before starting 
towards me.  "I went home before I came back here - I had to get 
some clothes anyway - and I brought you this."  Pulling something 
out of his pocket, he holds his closed hand out to me.  When I 
continue to stare at the table, he sets whatever it is down 
beside the glass and says very softly, "It was my mother's.  I 
got it from the house in Chilmark after she died.  It's the 
closest thing I have to an engagement ring right now, but I think 
it'll fit."

My eyes fill with tears and, when I blink, they vanish.

"I'm going to take a shower," he tells me, disappearing down the 
hallway.

After I hear the door close and the water turn on, I pick up the 
delicate gold and sapphire ring and pretend not to be surprised 
when it slides snuggly onto my finger.  He probably had it sized 
last year, knowing him.  I want so much to be able to wear it and 
let it be faithful to what it stands for - love, companionship, 
eternity. 

I want so much to be warm inside again - since he disappeared, 
there's been sleet pulsing through my veins and heavy, dark, 
winter clouds covering my mind.  He can thaw me.  All I have to 
do is pull back the shower curtain and let his veils of heat and 
his arms envelope me.  If it were that simple, I'd stay inside 
them forever.

I slide the ring off, setting it back down where he left it.

<><><><><><>

Some time ago - I don't know exactly when - we'd gotten in the 
habit of leaving the connecting doors between our motel rooms 
unlocked and open when we had them.  It wasn't an invitation so 
much as it was a confirmation - I'm here and you're welcome.  We 
didn't even knock before entering anymore; it was unspoken that 
we could come in.

Of course, I'd never actually used this arrangement to my 
advantage after Mulder had gone to bed.  It should still stand, 
though, as long as I didn't loiter if he was asleep.

And I'm not loitering.  I'm sitting and watching.  There is a 
difference.

To say that we'd been quiet and distant the past few weeks since 
our initial sexual consummation was a gross understatement.  We'd 
withdrawn into ourselves, preferring solitude and silence to 
companionship and conversation.  Our days at work were passed by 
one of us asking simple, quick questions, giving lingering, 
concerned glances, and extending hopeful invitations to dinner 
and the other responding with monosyllabic words, grunts, or just 
head nods and vague gestures.  He knew I was concerned about him, 
and I knew he was concerned about me, but neither of us hadn't 
pushed the other beyond the daily, "What's the matter" 
accompanied by increasingly pathetic, worried facial expression.  
For some reason, I interpreted his not pushing as apathy even 
though I knew better: he probably thinks I regret having sex and 
want to forget about the whole forever arrangement.  Nothing 
could be further from the truth; it's just difficult to make such 
a drastic change one night, then act like in never happened the 
next morning.

I cared about him, but, after a while, you get tired of getting 
the same shoulder shrug and head shake and just give up.  Like 
the door, I knew he was always open, though, should I choose to 
walk in unannounced.

Like now.  I'd finally decided that I missed him too much and I 
wanted to talk.  If he regrets us finally having sex, he can tell 
me.  I would understand and, if I was a little hurt, I would 
manage to get over it.  Limited Mulder is better than no Mulder 
at all, so long as we both know the limits.

Of course, he was asleep.  I always did have great timing.  He 
has to wake up eventually, and since I can't sleep anyway, I'll 
just sit here and wait.

He'd had the curtains open when I'd come in - he claims he can't 
sleep in complete darkness - but I'd closed them until there was 
just a tiny stream of light coming through the cracks as I sat 
down at the omnipotent little table in front of the window, 
letting the soft snores and the light from the moon keep me 
company.

I can barely make out the slight rise of his hips underneath the 
mounds of covers.  His head is partially covered, too, and he's 
on his stomach, his head turned away from me as he sleeps, his 
breathing deep and even, relaxed.

I wish I could've fallen asleep as easily as he did.  In the past 
week, I don't think I've gotten more than two hours in a row and 
it's starting to grate on me.  I just can't seem to turn my mind 
off lately.

Movement from the bed, then: he huffs as he turns over, towards 
me, and pushes the covers down so that he's cool.  I can't tell 
if his eyes are open, but, if they are, he'll have to see me 
sitting here.  I wonder if he'll be angry.

"Scully?"  He asks drowsily, and I smile, wanting to hear him say 
my name in that voice over and over again.

"Yeah," I answer him, just a breath with some intonation 
attached.

"Whassamatter?"

"Nothing," I lie.

"Hmm," he sighs as he rolls to his back.  "You always sit there 
while I s'eep?"

"No."

"Then why are you there t'night?"

Caught, I look down in the direction of my feet, and close my 
mouth.

"Is okay.  You wanna lay down?"

When I look up at him again, pretending I can see his face in the 
dimness of the room, he's pretending to look back at me, waiting.  
Silently, I stand and walk around his bed, pulling back the 
covers and sliding into the warm place he left me.  
Mmm...Mulderwarm...and all my thoughts melt away into the night 
as I resist the urge to curl into a ball against him.

"Now, what's the matter?"  He asks again, significantly more 
awake.

I exhale, sounding exhausted - which I am - and open and close my 
mouth a few times before figuring out what to say.  "I don't 
know."  It's another lie, but I don't know how to verbalize what 
I'm feeling, so it's close enough.

He lets out an exasperated puff of air, then turns onto his side, 
away from me, again, not pressing any further.

For a few minutes, I try and convince myself that physical 
nearness is better than no nearness at all and close my eyes, 
trying to relax.

"Scully?"  He asks softly a few minutes later, not even bothering 
to turn over.

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever wonder where it ends?"

"Where what ends?"

"This.  Working for the Bureau, being shuffled around from one 
meaningless assignment to another."

"You mean, this arrangement?  You and me?"

"No," he says quickly.  "You know they're talking about shutting 
us down again, don't you?"

I nod my head against the pillow - I'd figured as much.

"It's just...ever since I heard that, I've been wondering where 
it ends.  When I can quit with a clear conscience and move on 
with my life."

"Oh," I breath, hesitating before he turns over and slides closer 
to me, laying his head on the very edge of my pillow.  "Is that 
what's been wrong with you lately?  You've been thinking about 
quitting?"

"I don't know.  Honestly, I don't, Scully.  I've been so 
confused...I thought that if they ever tried to shut us down 
again, I'd be angry and I'd fight them, but I just didn't feel 
it.  It's more like...I don't know, like a burden is being 
lifted, I guess.  I think I've wanted them to do this for a long 
time."

"How long?"

"Since Samantha - since we found her," he admits.  "I told myself 
a long time ago that I still needed to find the man that did 
this, bring him to justice, not just for her, but for you and 
your sister and Emily -" He hears me sniff quietly and lowers his 
voice, almost embarrassed to bring this up.  "But my heart's just 
not in it anymore.  I'm so tired of this, Scully, you have no 
idea how tired I am.  No, yes you do, I'm sorry."  He looks over 
at me for the first time, expecting me to be angry at him.

"No, I don't," I whisper secretly, like there are others in the 
room and I don't want them to overhear.  "You've been doing this 
your entire life, almost.  I can't imagine what that was like for 
you, knowing you'd devoted your life to finding something that 
was never there to find."

"It was just wasted time," he agrees sadly.  "I wasted my 
life...and now I want to stop wasting it."

I sniff again.  "Is that how you see it?  That it was wasted 
time?"

"Yes.  And I'm sorry you got pulled into it."

"I don't see it as wasted time, Mulder."

"You don't?  After everything that's happened to you, you don't 
resent me and my worthless quest?"

I slide my head closer to his, so that my lips are just beside 
his ear.  "No.  I'm grateful that I met you.  I thank God every 
night that you're in my life and I ask Him to keep you safe so 
that you'll always be with me."

He sighs, his breath watery and sad.

"If you want to be," I clarify.  "Mulder, I don't want you to do 
something that makes you miserable because of me.  If you want to 
quit, then quit."

"What would you do?"  He asks, lowering his voice to our 
conspiracy tone.

"I don't know; go back to Quantico, maybe.  They've wanted me 
back for years -"

He nods, not wanting to encourage or discourage that idea.

"- but that shouldn't matter when you're trying to decide what 
you want to do."

Maybe he wants me to tell him that it should matter.  Maybe I 
should demand that he stay by my side and fight as I try to bring 
the man who's ruined my life to justice, just as I've done with 
him all these years.  Or maybe he just wants an excuse to stay.

"What would you do?"  I ask.

"I don't know.  I have no idea," he admits.

"Well, you can't quit the Bureau until you decide," I tell him 
needlessly.

"I did, once.  Quit without deciding what I'd do after that.  I 
typed up my letter to Skinner and gave it to him without a second 
thought.  You know what he did?"  He turns his head towards me so 
that we're nose to nose.  "He tore it up into tiny pieces and 
told me it was unacceptable."

"When was this?"

"When you were in the hospital after your abduction.  Everyone 
told me you were dying and there was nothing I could do, so I 
just quit."

"You gave up?"  I ask in a stronger voice.

"No, but I couldn't keep working there.  I'd just figured out 
that the Bureau had something to do with it and if I kept working 
there, it was like I was contributing to it - even more than I 
already had."

My silence makes him uncomfortable, so he rambles to fill the 
emptiness.

"As I was walking out that day, X approached me.  He said that 
the men that were responsible for your abduction were going to 
search my apartment that night at eight seventeen - they thought 
I had information about what had happened to you - and that I 
needed to be there to kill them.  So I sat there, waiting for 
them until someone knocked on my door.  It was only seven thirty, 
though; it was Melissa.  She told me that you were getting weaker 
and they didn't expect you to live until morning - she wanted me 
to come see you and I told her I couldn't.

"Right after she left, though, I decided that being with you as 
you died was more important that killing the men responsible.  If 
I killed them, I would've been no better than they were.  I 
would've been a calculating murderer.  So I went to the hospital 
and sat with you until sunrise.  When I got home, they'd been 
there - they destroyed my apartment looking for whatever they 
wanted.  And I just sat down on the floor and cried," he finishes 
softly, his breath hitching.

"Mulder," I whisper, laying my head against his heart and sliding 
my arm around his waist, pulling him against me.

He wipes away tears with one hand and puts the other on my back, 
rubbing gently.  "You saved me that night, Scully, but sometimes 
I wonder how much pain I would've spared you if I'd been at home 
to kill those men.  I'm sure whoever had sent them would've had 
me killed shortly after that, but you would've lived anyway, so 
it would've been worth it."

"You don't know that.  I like to think that you were the reason I 
woke up."

"Why?"

"I told you, I had the strength of your beliefs.  Isn't that what 
you said to me that night?"

"Yes."

I don't elaborate, letting him ponder that revelation for a while 
before I finally say, "I'll support you no matter what you do, 
Mulder.  I just want you to do it - or not do it - for the right 
reasons."

He can tell by my voice that I'm getting sleepy again, so he 
opens his mouth to tell me thanks for letting him talk with me 
about this and go back to my room when I tighten my arm around 
him and snuggle into his side, getting comfortable.  "'Night, 
Mul'er."

After a minute of shocked hesitation, he answers me.  "Night, 
Scully," he says.  I smile slightly and, for the first time in a 
long time, I fall asleep easily.

<><><><><><>

I remember asking him once if we could just get out of the car: I 
never knew he wanted to, too.  I never imagined that he'd take 
the initiative.

"What'd you think, Scully," he whispers in my ear, kneading my 
shoulders and beaming.

I sigh and clench my jaw, not answering.

The realtor had told us that the house is almost eighty years 
old, but still strong and sturdy.  It's had four different 
owners, all who kept it up nicely.  The last owners were retiring 
and moving into a smaller house, since their children had moved 
on to their own lives.  According to Mr. Hutz, the house was 
wonderful for couples just starting out, nodding to my belly that 
Mulder had insisted I stop hiding.

"This could be the baby's room," he says, walking around the 
room, looking out the windows, and kicking the wall lightly like 
he's checking the tires on a car.  "We could paint it or maybe 
put up some wallpaper...the crib could go here...and that thing, 
what's it called, the changing table, could go here.  How much 
furniture do you figure a baby needs anyway?  More than fish, I 
bet."

He stops in front of me to see if I caught his joke.  I did, but 
I'm not laughing.

"Let's go see the master bathroom - I think it has a big tub that 
you can soak in."  He takes my hand and leads me down the hall, 
the realtor watching us with a curious expression.

"God, it's huge!"  His voice echoes in the vaulted ceiling.  
"Scully...Scully," he finally realizes that I'm not as anxious to 
pick out our rest stop as he is.  "Don't you like it?"

I nod, looking down and squeezing my eyes shut against my tears.

"Then what's wrong?"

"You're not being practical, Mulder.  Why do we need a house like 
this?"

"For the baby," he reminds me, stepping closer and dropping his 
voice.

I shake my head, my hands going to my back and rubbing where it's 
sore.

He sighs, frustrated, and pushes my curtain of hair behind my 
ears.

The realtor approaches, mumbling something about how miserable 
his wife was in her eighth month and asking if I need to sit 
down.

Mulder waits for me to answer, then does it for me.  "Can you 
show us the other house while we're out here?"

<><><><><><>

Six hours later, Mulder and Mr. Hutz were shaking hands, 
exchanging congratulations and thank yous.  I sat in the car with 
the heat on full blast, my hand pressed into my ribs, absolutely 
miserable.

"Sorry it took so long," Mulder says as he climbs back in the 
car.  "He wanted to make sure we were sure before he took it off 
the market.  I told him I'd talk to the bank and call him later 
this week about finalizing the contract.  He said he's never had 
customers who buy after only looking at three houses, but I told 
him that we really didn't have anything specific in mind."

Looking over at me as he waits for traffic to pass, he takes my 
hand and laces our fingers together.  "I thought maybe we could 
go look for baby stuff tomorrow.  If you feel like it - you look 
exhausted."

I nod and he takes his hand away, turning onto the road.

"You like the house, don't you?  I saw your eyes light up at that 
Jacuzzi bathtub."

"I just think you're moving too fast," I say, turning to stare 
out at the dimness of the evening.

"We don't have much time, Scully.  That baby's not gonna wait 
until we're ready for it."

"That's not what I mean."

"What, then?"

"Mulder, you just got out of the hospital.  You were just 
returned after being gone for five months.  You're bouncing back 
in like nothing's happened."

He nods, not really paying attention.  "But nothing happened.  I 
don't have any injuries and I don't have any memory.  They didn't 
do anything to me."

"Are you sure?"  I ask him softly.

"I'm not waiting around to find out.  I don't have a job and I 
don't have any immediate plans for the future beyond dragging you 
to the courthouse, if I have to, and settling down.  That's all 
that I'm worried about right now.  And if the baby's gonna have 
my nose," he grins.

"Chances are you'll never even see it," I say more to myself than 
to him.

"Scully, when did you get so pessimistic?"

"When I was told by an evil, vindictive man that he would take 
the baby or kill you.  Isn't that what you and Skinner talked 
about last night?  How to circumvent my decision by offering 
yourself to him?"

"If I wasn't planning to be here for all of this, why would I be 
buying a house and marrying you?"

"So that me and the baby will have everything you think we need."

He shakes his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

"I don't want you doing that.  I don't want you making any deals 
to try and save this thing.  I've made my decision and can you, 
for once, respect that?"

As we slow down for a stoplight, he turns to me, taking my hand 
again.  "Scully, look at me."  I do - his face is creased with 
worry and exhaustion, but his eyes are bright and hopeful.  "Do 
you trust me?"

I blink, my eyes burning.  "Yes.  You know I do."

"Then trust me now.  I'm not putting myself in any unnecessary 
danger, but I'm not letting you sit passively back and let this 
man continue to rob you of things that are precious to you.  Just 
trust me when I say that everything will work out, okay?  
Please?"

I look away, my breath hitching, and he eases onto the gas again, 
slipping through the night.

<><><><><><>

I remember when I was little, my mother would tell me and Melissa 
bedtime stories about our wedding days.  We couldn't have been 
more than ten, but she would regale us with memories of her own 
wedding - of walking under the swords that the sailors held above 
their heads, of our father in his best dress white uniform, of 
how much love and hope for the future she saw in his eyes as he 
waited for her at the end of the altar.  She would smile tearily, 
tucking us in and telling us about how we would understand when 
it was us walking underneath those swords one day, when it was 
our husband in the dress whites and it was love and hope for us 
we saw reflected back at us: when we married a Navy Man, we would 
understand.  Usually, those stories would be a preface to her 
telling us where we were moving to next and how long we had to 
pack and say goodbye to the tenuous few friends we'd managed to 
make.

I knew at the tender age of seven that I didn't want to marry a 
Navy Man and move all around the world.  I loved my father and I 
admire him for what he did, but I would never subject my children 
to that kind of temporary lifestyle.

Mulder asked me once, a long time ago, what it was like not 
having a hometown.  Not having any life-long friends.  He'd grown 
up in a small, posh community, graduated with the same group of 
people he'd gone to kindergarten with, and couldn't imagine such 
a life as mine.  I told him it was very lonely and that I'd 
learned early on that the only constant in life was family.  He'd 
looked wistfully at me, shook his head, spit a sunflower seed 
into his fingers, and mused about yet another way we were 
completely different.

It was a hard life - a hard way to grow up - but the one thing it 
taught me, that I've always appreciated, was how to be 
transparent to people.  How to not be frigid, but not be warm, 
and how to make superficial, fleeting friendships that you could 
always say goodbye to the next time your country decided to 
uproot you.  I learn fast in new environments and am keenly aware 
to subtle social barometers; I know how to fit in and be liked 
and I know how to guard myself against getting too close.  If you 
get too close, you get hurt.  People always leave you and, if 
they don't, you'll leave them.  Either way, everyone is 
transitory, so don't work too hard at getting attached.

It had worked well for my entire life.  Then, I met Mulder.

One night after we'd made love and I lay on top of him, him 
stroking my bare back and murmuring against the top of my head 
how he could feel every rise and dip of my spine, I'd realized 
that Mulder was the best friend I'd ever had.  He was the closest 
person outside my family that I'd ever known.  He was the most 
permanent thing in my life.  My heart sped up when I realized 
that I was too attached to him and that, at some point, he would 
leave me just like everyone else.  For the first time in my life, 
I'd let my defensive, transitory varnish drop away and left 
myself open and vulnerable to someone - and I was bound to get 
hurt.  He pressed his open palm to my back, where my heart was 
beating wildly, and asked me what was wrong.  I told him nothing 
and he laughed softly, telling me that was reason number four 
hundred sixty two that he loved me: I never whined.  I laughed, 
too, and whispered against his skin that I was afraid of losing 
him.

"You'll never lose me, Scully," he whispered back, trailing his 
lips down the soft hair along my temple.

But he lied.  I did lose him.  Not two weeks later, I was 
pregnant and alone.  I knew I had made a mistake when I let him 
get close to me, when I let him hurt me.  I knew I couldn't make 
the same mistake twice.

But oh, how I missed him.  How I wanted nothing more than to 
absorb him into my skin and never be without him again.  How I 
wanted him inside me for the rest of our lives.  How I wanted to 
wrap my arms around him and never let go.

To him, we'd just made a pact for our future: that after our case 
in Oregon was finished, we'd cut back on work and fill in each 
our lives with the other.  We'd decide what was important to us 
and how we could pursue that.  The only certainty was that we'd 
be together; beyond that, our future was open, endless.  A new 
beginning.  To me, that was six months, a forced hybrid 
gestation, and a manipulative abduction ago - we weren't even in 
the same world.

He wanted to pick up where we'd left off and I wanted to end 
everything: us, our jobs, our future.

He stays with me every night while I type autopsy reports and 
write lesson plans, making sure I eat a balanced dinner and get 
to bed at a decent time, asking me about colors for the baby's 
room ("Pastel green?  I like blue, but what if it isn't a boy?  
We really need to find out, Scully") and whether or not we should 
make the Gunmen godfathers.  At ten o'clock, whether I'm done 
working or not, he ushers me into my bedroom and tucks me in bed, 
kissing me on the cheek, placing his hand on my belly, and 
looking like he wants more.  He's waiting for me to invite him to 
stay with me, to hold me all night long, and to get me ice cream 
when I wake up at one thirty dying for some Concession Obsession.  
Instead, I rub the sore spot the baby loves to kick and thank him 
for being here, reminding him to turn out the light on his way 
home.

I know he's confused and I know I'm hurting him.  It'll hurt less 
when They come to collect on the deal I'm sure he's made.  It'll 
all be worth it then.

I have dreams, sometimes, where I have the baby.  It has brown, 
wavy hair and blue eyes and my nose and his lips.  The doctor 
tells me it's normal and it looks perfect.  They ask me to fill 
out the birth certificate and I don't even get past the baby's 
name before I realize that Mulder isn't there.  On those nights, 
I call him and he comes over to sit with me while I cry and shift 
restlessly in bed.  Sometimes, as I'm dozing, I'll feel him lay 
down beside me with his head against my stomach, murmuring to the 
baby how much he loves it and how excited he is for it to arrive.  
Once, I threaded my fingers through his hair and dreamed I smiled 
at him and he smiled back.  I get wistful sometimes.

I wonder what will happen after the baby's gone.  If he'll spend 
the rest of his life looking for it like he did with Samantha, 
thinking that if he could find it and bring it home he could 
construct his own little family.  If he'll still want to pick up 
where he left off with me and try to have a bright, happy future.  
If he'll hate me for letting Them do this.

He doesn't know what it's like to lose a child.  Everything else, 
yes, but not a child.  I hope he never does.

He does know me and he knows how hormonally emotional I've 
become.  He takes my anger with a twist of dry humor and he rubs 
my back lightly when I'm depressed.  When I ask him to stay, he 
stays; when I tell him to leave, he leaves.  He always comes 
back, though.

Tonight, he's being especially obnoxious.  He went shopping today 
and brought home six different wallpaper samples, asking me to 
choose which one I liked better.  I peaked in the oven at his 
latest concoction, swallowed the iron pill he'd left out for me, 
and propped up my swollen feet on the coffee table.  I don't know 
what he does all day, but house-husband Mulder is a little 
frightening.

"I think we need a theme, Scully," he starts, sitting down beside 
me and stretching two samples out across his knees.  "That's what 
the lady at the store said: we pick a theme and build around 
that.  Wall color, border, a mobile, bedding, decorations.  She 
was showing me this Noah's Ark thing, but that was too warm and 
fuzzy for me.  I like the stars."  He unrolls one of the samples, 
small, soft yellow stars on a pale blue background.  "We could 
paint the top of the walls this yellow, put a chair rail in the 
middle, and put the wallpaper at the bottom or vice versa.  Or, 
we could paint the whole wall yellow and put the border at the 
top.  They have this mobile thing, with a moon and some stars, 
that go with it, and the blankets and stuff, of course.  What do 
you think?"

I think I'm retaining so much water, I'm gonna float away.

"They had this baby sea animal thing, too, that has a white whale 
on it.  It's new, though, and she wouldn't give me a sample.  I 
told her we'd be back this weekend."

"You have this all planned out, don't you?"  I ask, opening up a 
random folder of autopsy notes.

"Well, someone's got to.  He's not gonna wait for us to get 
things ready for his big debut," he grins, poking my belly 
lightly.  In response, the baby kicks back, and Mulder lays his 
palm flat, wanting to feel it again.  "Where'd you go today about 
ten?  I called you, but your voice mail kept picking up."

"I had a doctor's appointment."

"What's wrong?"  He asks quickly.

"Nothing, just a monthly check up with the OB that C.G.B. hand-
picked.  I'm thirty-two weeks.  Do you know what that means?"

He closes his eyes briefly.  "Eight more weeks," he whispers, 
rubbing my stomach lightly.

"No," I correct, frowning.  "I'm eight months.  They said They're 
taking it at eight months."

He blinks twice, not looking away from my eyes.

"So you can throw all that shit away," I continue, starting to 
feel the pendulum swing into the depression end.  "I told you not 
to do this."

"Scully -"

"I have work to do, Mulder.  I need to get started."

Letting out a slow, steady breath, he stands and goes into the 
bedroom.  I hear a plastic bag rustling and a few minutes later, 
he comes out, sitting down beside me again.

"I got something for the baby today," he says softly, sounding 
upset.  "It reminded me of that puff ball you called a dog.  I 
thought we could name him Queequeg Two, The Revenge."

A small, stuffed Pomeranian appears on top of my sketches of the 
victim's lungs.  He gets blurry, and I blink back tears.

"I know you're nervous, Scully, but you don't need to be.  
Everything will be fine.  After the baby gets here, you'll see.  
It'll be perfect and we can forget that this whole thing ever 
happened.  They're not going to take him.  Not now, not ever."

"What did you do?"  I ask slowly, my voice rough and heavy.

He takes a deep breath.  "Nothing."

"What.  Did.  You.  Do."

"I didn't do anything, Scully."

"GODDAMMIT MULDER!"  I scream, throwing my file against the wall.  
The papers flutter to the ground like snow and I stand, pacing in 
front of the couch and stepping on the soft flakes.  "I TOLD you!  
I TOLD you not to do this!  You ALWAYS do this to me!  Goddammit 
WHY can't you just not second guess me for ONCE?"

He sits calmly, watching me, his eyes the only part of him 
moving.  "Scully, you weren't given a fair choice -"

"My CHOICE was to either have this THING, this ABOMINATION or 
YOU!  I chose YOU, dammit!  I made my decision!  I DON'T WANT 
THIS THING!  I WANT YOU, MUL-"  And then I sob, not able to hold 
it back.  "I want you, Mulder," I say more softly.  "They can't- 
you- I- you..."  Loud, hiccupping, diaphragm based, fetus-
upsetting sobs.  He rises, finally, standing over me and placing 
his hands on my shoulders, trying to draw me into his chest.  "I-
I c-c-can't let them take you again.  I-I can't lose you, Mulder.  
I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't..."

He wraps his arms around me awkwardly, trying not to squish my 
stomach, and hushes me quietly.  "You won't lose me, Scully.  
You'll never lose me."

I link my arms around his waist, hoping to God it isn't a lie 
this time.

"But I won't let you lose this, either.  I know you're afraid, 
Scully.  You're terrified that what the Smoking Man told you is 
true.  You're terrified that this baby will be like Emily.  I am, 
too.  I'm scared to death.  But I won't admit that I don't want 
this.  And I know, whether you'll admit it or not, that you want 
this, too.  You have to, Scully."

I shake my head, my hair catching on the light dusting of stubble 
on his throat.

"What if," he whispers, smoothing my hair down and pressing his 
lips to my forehead.  "What if the Smoking Man was wrong?  What 
if we did this without his help?  If it was normal and healthy 
and perfect, Scully.  Would you want it then?"

Instead of answering, I swallow my sobs and let my body tremble 
with the effort of holding them inside.  Eventually, I let him 
carry me into the bedroom, not waiting for an invitation before 
he lays down behind me and pulls me close against his chest, 
outlining his body with mine and holding me while I sleep.

<><><><><><>

"Hey," he whispers, lacing his fingers through mine.  They're 
cold and I squeeze them tighter, warming them.  "Have a nice 
nap?"

I sit up quickly, my eyes going wide.  "I went to sleep?  How 
long -"

"Not long.  Lay back down, the pizza's not even here yet.  You 
okay?"

"Yeah," I answer, rubbing my eyes against the dim evening light 
from the window.

I should've known that when I made Mulder my lover, I'd get a lot 
more than just a stiff dick and a few thousand "I love you's" 
every night.  Devoted Mulder, caring Mulder, sickeningly sweet 
Mulder, attached at the hip Mulder, and grinning for no reason 
Mulder all came in the package.  We've only had sex seven times 
now, but I can tell that he wasn't kidding when he made me 
promise forever.

It should've been the easiest thing in the world, making the 
change, but it was one of the hardest and most arduous things 
I've ever done.  Every word I say, every gesture I make, I'm 
afraid of sending him the wrong signal and him withdrawing from 
me.  If that were to ever happen, our professional relationship 
and our friendship would soon follow.  There was so much at stake 
that, at times, I questioned whether or not a little pleasure was 
worth the risk.  Then, he would curl up behind me, wrap him arms 
around me, and whisper that he loved me as he was falling asleep.  
Not only did it send shivers down my spine, it melted any 
uncertainties I'd had.

When he'd invited me over to do our monthly expense report, I 
knew that I wouldn't be going home tonight.  Word was that all 
divisions were being audited for extravagant spending and we were 
on the chopping block first.  We'd worked hard on the report for 
an hour before turning on the TV and ordering a pizza.  A few 
minutes later, I was asleep, my legs draped across Mulder's lap.

"Got you some Tylenol," he says, handing me a glass of water and 
moving to sit beside me on the couch.

"Thanks."  He knows that numbers give me a headache: considerate 
Mulder.

"I thought we'd finish this tomorrow."  The papers that were 
strewn across the floor and the coffee table earlier are in a 
neat stack on the corner of his desk now, the unspoken assumption 
hanging in the air.  You'll stay tonight, won't you?

"Okay."  Yes, of course I will.

He grins - for the fiftieth time tonight - and stands, walking 
back into the kitchen.

I turn onto my side and face the television - some commercial 
with a little blond girl in a ballerina outfit is on.  The 
voiceover is saying something about how special mothers are for 
loving and caring for their children.  Only the best moms give 
their children Tropicana orange juice.  By the time Mulder's back 
in the living room, tears are streaming down my face.

"What's wrong?"  Asks Concerned Mulder, kneeling beside me again.

Not answering, I reach for his hand, staring at him with wide, 
curious eyes.

He reaches up to wipe a tear track away with his thumb.  "Scully, 
what?"

"I want to ask you a question and I want you to give me an honest 
answer," I say, barely above a whisper.

"Okay," he nods.

"If we could...would you -"  I reach behind his neck, pulling his 
face down to mine.  "I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispers against my cheek, his tongue 
capturing a tear.

"If we could, Mulder...would you want a baby?"

His breath is a long, hot, narrow stream against my neck.  "Why?"

"I just...I want to know that I'm not taking anything away from 
you."

"Scully..."  He kisses my temple, tunneling his fingers through 
my hair.  "You're all that I want, Scully.  As long as you don't 
take that away from me, nothing else really matters."

"But if we could, would you?"  I persist.  For some reason, it's 
very important that I know this.

"No," he says after a long pause.

"You're lying," I whisper, starting to cry again.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to have to sacrifice that for me."

"If that's all I have to sacrifice," his nose trails down my 
cheek and over to my lips.  "It's worth it."

And I believed him.

<><><><><><>

It's dark outside even though it's only a little after seven 
thirty: I'll have to get used to the time change all over again.  
The lamp beside my bed is on, casting a warm, rose-colored glow 
over the still room and I burrow further under the covers, happy 
to be inside, out of the much-too-cool-for-the-beginning-of-
November wind.  There's something heavy and hot behind me: Mulder 
and his glasses, a book propped on his chest.

I turn slowly towards him, my stomach brushing his hip under the 
blanket.  He smiles, finishes his paragraph, and lifts his arm to 
let me snuggle closer into his chest.  I missed this: dozing with 
him as he reads or watches TV.  Our sleeping schedules never 
coincided and sleeping together didn't change that.  He'd stay up 
until one or two and lay in bed until noon whereas I liked to go 
to bed early and wake up to usher in the sunrise.

"What're you reading?"  I mumble sleepily into his shoulder.

"'Infant Personality Development: Grand Psychodynamic Models.'  
If I'd have known I'd need this stuff, I would've paid more 
attention in my development classes."

"Whassat mean?"

"That means I spent too much time staring at Phoebe instead of 
the professor," he teases.

"No, psychodynamic."

"Any theory that's based on Freud's models is psychodynamic.  
Jung, Erikson..."

"Sex?"

"It's more than that.  Don't go back to sleep, you didn't eat any 
dinner."  I hear the book close and he shifts as he sets it on 
the bedside table.  "You feelin' better?"

"No," I mouth against his skin.  He turns to face me, sliding 
down the pillows until we're nose to nose.

"What's the matter?"

I shake my head, finding that warm place against his throat.

"Scully," he says after a still moment.  "We need to talk."

I need to get warm.  Curling tighter into the arc of his body, I 
fight the urge to chatter my teeth.

"I don't like this distance you've put between us lately.  We 
were so close to working the dynamics of this out before and now 
it's like you're not even interested in it.  I know...I -know- 
how this feels to you, but you know how this feels to me, too.  
We're the only people that can understand each other right now 
and we need that.  We need to work this out.  You need to talk to 
me."

His throat vibrates against my cheek as he speaks and it lulls me 
into a light relaxation.

"And I need to talk to you, too.  I haven't been doing that."  He 
pauses as the baby shifts, rearranging his hand so that he can 
feel each subtle movement.  "I'm afraid to slow down," he 
continues in a whisper.  "I'm afraid of waiting to see how this 
turns out and having everything vanish: you, the baby.  I know 
I'm just avoiding myself but I feel like I have to move on.  When 
you were returned, I was amazed at how quickly you seemed to pick 
up where you left off - I expected you to have nightmares or 
flashbacks, but you didn't because you didn't remember anything.  
Whatever They did to you, They kept you sedated enough so that 
you were never able to consciously process what was happening.  
You had no psychological effects because there was no 
psychological trauma.

"The same thing happened to me, though.  They didn't do 
-anything- to me, so I can't have any memories or dreams or 
flashbacks.  There's nothing to fuel it.  I know that five months 
of my life have passed, but, to me, it was just like being 
asleep.  Skinner wants me to take a leave of absence and see a 
therapist and I know as a psychologist that there are facets of 
this that I'm avoiding, but there are more important things that 
I need to address right now.  Like you.  Like the baby.  Like 
where we go from here.  I'm filling up my life with other things 
so I don't have to face my own experience."

Every time I blink, his voice becomes a little more husky and his 
breathing comes a little quicker.  This time, he stops, swallows 
thickly, and looks down to see if I'm paying attention.

I am.  He's never had a more rapt audience.

"I don't mean for you to feel like I'm forcing you to do things 
you don't want to and I don't want you to feel like I'm rushing 
this.  This is just what I want and, in a way, I guess I'm trying 
to make up for these five months.  I want to marry you.  I want 
to buy a big house in the country.  I want this baby.  It just 
seems like everything is available now and I'm afraid that if I 
don't take it, it'll slip away.  Does that make any sense at 
all?"

"Yes," I tell him.

He closes his eyes, pulling me closer.  "I miss you, Scully.  I 
miss this.  Please tell me it's not too late."

"It's not too late."

"If I'd have known you were pregnant, I never would've gone to 
Oregon.  You know that, right?"

"Yes."

"I think I'll regret that for the rest of my life: not being here 
for this.  I've missed so much of your life and the baby's - it 
doesn't matter if it's not mine, Scully.  Even if it is a, a 
hybrid, I still want," he swallows again, beginning to cry.  "I 
still want to be apart of this.  This is the only opportunity 
I'll ever have to experience this and I don't want to miss 
anything.

"I guess the point of this is to tell you that you have choices.  
I'm not going to force you into anything.  If you don't want to 
get married, we don't have to.  If you don't want the house, we 
won't buy the house.  If you don't want me to have anything to do 
with the baby, I won't.  If you want to let Them take it, then 
it's your choice.  You believe that it's your baby, not ours, so 
it's up to you.  You know what I want and, regardless of the 
circumstances, that won't change.  They're your decisions."

I press my open mouth against his heart, too shocked to speak.

"Whatever you decide, though, Scully...please don't shut me out 
of -your- life.  I promised you you'd never lose me.  Promise me 
the same," he whispers.

"I promise," I finally manage to say.

He squeezes me once, then rolls away from me.  "Dinner should 
still be warm.  Do you feel like coming to the kitchen or do you 
want me to bring it in here?"

Not speaking, I rise and follow him out of the bedroom, a little 
unsteady on my feet.

<><><><><><>

Dinner was silent.  Mulder watched me as I ate, struggling to 
swallow a few bites of his own, then washed the few dishes by 
himself.  When he was finished, he stood in front of the table, 
wringing the dishrag nervously in his hands, and asked me very 
softly if I wanted him to go.

No, I told him.

He nodded, looking dazed, and waited for me to give him 
instructions on how to proceed.

I stood in front of him and guided him to my chair, placing each 
of his hands on either side of my stomach.  "Put your ear here," 
I whispered to him.

He did.

"Do you hear it?"

He nodded slowly.

"What does it sound like?"

"A heartbeat?"  He asked, his voice shaking.

I tugged his head up with my fingers in his hair, stepped closer 
to him, and kissed him softly on his lips.  "Come to bed," I 
whispered.

He'd never been nervous when we'd made love before; his hands are 
shaking now.  "You're sure this is okay?"  He asks me for the 
thousandth time, kneading my breasts with his hands the way I 
showed him.  Not too rough, but not too gently: just right.

"Yes," I moan, looping my leg over his from in front of him.  
We've never done it like this before - from behind.  Then again, 
we haven't done much of anything beyond the basics.

"I won't hurt the baby?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes," I say a little too sharply.  He presses his lips against 
the bump at the top of my spine, dropping his hands to my hips.

"And I won't hurt you?"

I pull one of his hands lower with my own, pressing his fingers 
against my clit.  "No."

Slowly, slowly he penetrated my body with his, merging his soul 
into mine.  They can't take this away from me again.  They can't, 
I won't let Them.  I won't let him.

Afterwards, we lay together, his body molded around mine while 
the cold air pushes at the windows, begging to be let in.  The 
baby complains about being jostled.  Mulder asks again if 
everything is okay, if he wasn't too rough.

Perfect, I tell him, my eye-lids heavy.  For that moment, 
everything is perfect.

<><><><><><>

Then I wake up, burning.

So hot, God, so hot.  His body behind mine is fire and the covers 
are coal.  I can't breathe.  There's something on the sheets 
that's not from us.  Not from him.

The stain is brownish-red beneath me.  My womb contracts, my 
hands going to push away the pain.  The baby doesn't move.

"Mulder?"  I call for him in the dark.

"Hmm?"  He calls back sleepily.

"Mulder, wake up."

He must hear the panic in my voice.  "What, Scully?"

"Mulder, the baby."

"What?"  He sits up beside me, hands covering mine as my womb 
contracts again.

"I t-think my water broke."

"WHAT?"

"My water broke, Mulder, it's too soon," I pant.

He's already up and dressed.  "What do we need to do?"

"They're taking it.  I told you, They're taking it."  More pain, 
deep inside me.  "Mulder!"

"What, Scully, tell me what to do!"

"Hospital."

He helps me dress and carries me to the car when I discover I 
can't walk.  In the ER, he tells them he doesn't know the name of 
my obstetrician and stays beside me while the attending physician 
searches for the heartbeat.

"How far along are you?"  He asks, looking between us nervously.

"Eight months.  I just had my check-up earlier today," I answer, 
clenching my teeth against the pain.  These aren't normal 
contractions, I know that.  They're deeper, stronger.  It feels 
like my viscera is contracting into itself.

"I'm gonna have a nurse give you a little somethin' for the pain, 
okay?  You just need to relax and take some deep breaths."

"What's wrong," Mulder asks, his face the color of the sheets.

"Her blood pressure's a little high and she's got a slight fever.  
Since her water broke and she's starting to go into labor, we're 
gonna give her somethin' to slow that down.  If we wait too long, 
there's a chance she could get an infection, so we'll try and see 
how much the baby's lungs are developed and, if we think there's 
a good chance, we'll go ahead and deliver.  If not, we'll wait a 
few days and see what happens.  We'll know more once her OB calls 
us back but, until then, one of ours is on her way down," he 
patiently explains.  "Y'all just sit tight.  The nurse'll be in 
soon to give you somethin' for the pain."

He closes the door, leaving us alone, and I grab Mulder's hand, 
holding it tightly.  "He must've done something earlier."

"Who?"

"The obstetrician.  He said everything was fine and he told me 
that I was eight months, Mulder, he was telling me that They were 
still planning to take it.  He did something to me to make me go 
into labor, Mulder."

"You said They were gonna abduct you, though.  Why would They 
abduct you from here?  There are witnesses, it's too risky."

"Mulder, They're taking it.  I told you, They're taking it.  I 
told you."

"Scully..." he glances through the glass, seeing if anyone's 
watching.  "I need to call Skinner, okay?  I'll be right 
outside."

"No, Mulder, don't leave.  Please, don't leave."

"I'll be at the nurses' desk, Scully, I have to call Skinner."

"Why?"

He sets his jaw, looking torn between me and the phone.  "I told 
him I'd call him if anything happened," he says half-heartedly.

"You did something.  You and he did something, didn't you?  You 
lied to me!  Dammit, Mulder you LIED TO ME!"  I scream, another 
pain hitting me.

"Scully, please calm down.  You're making it worse.  The doctor-"

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!  YOU GODDAMMED BASTARD!  HOW COULD YOU DO 
THIS TO ME?"  I feel more liquid start to flow between my legs 
and Mulder's face gets a little more pasty.

He runs to the door yelling for a nurse while the world around me 
gets white and hot and heavy.

"Mulder -"  I scream feebly as a nurse walks in, then turns 
around and yells at someone to page Maternity.

Mulder's not there.  No one is there when the world gets black 
and cold and light and I start to float.

<><><>End Part Three<><><>

The Naked Kitties, Part Four: But What Happens to the Bodies?

<><><><><><>

When I can think again, I'm surprised to be in a warm bed with 
soft sheets.  It's quiet around me, but there's noise outside, 
muffled by something - a door?  They have me in a room, then.

My arms aren't restrained which I find odd - surely They knew I'd 
regain consciousness and try to get away.  Or maybe They're 
watching me from somewhere, ready to storm in and threaten me

- or threaten Mulder -

if I try to move.  Yes, They're surveilling me right now.  They 
just wanted me to be comfortable while They emotionally torture 
me.

I raise one hand and feel around my abdomen - everything is fuzzy 
and tingling from my waist down and there's a bandage that runs 
the length of the area far below my navel.  The skin above that, 
where the baby was, is loose and flabby, kind of; empty.

They took it.  They really took it - it's gone.  Forever.  
Another child I'll never get to see grow up -

No, this is different.  It's not like Emily, it's...it's 
different.  I didn't want it.  I didn't need it, I couldn't have 
raised it.

I turn my head on the soft pillow, licking my dry lips and 
wondering if I even want to open my eyes.  No, I decide.  I'll 
lay here in blissful ignorance for a while.  Soon enough, They'll 
come in and tell me what They've decided to do with me.

I wonder where Mulder is.  Surely he's not here - the Smoking Man 
didn't say anything about taking him, too.  Is he still at the 
hospital, thinking I'm being treated by doctors there?  Or is he 
already a basket case, searching for me, searching for the baby.  
I wonder, if he had to make a choice between me and the baby, who 
he would choose.

Maybe I don't want to know.

God, I'm so exhausted.  My whole body aches and it hurts to even 
think.  I just want to sleep...forever would be nice, but I'd 
settle for eight hours of uninterrupted perfect unconsciousness.

There's a soft knock on the door, then someone with squishy-
sounding shoes enters, trying to be quiet.  They know I'm awake, 
why are They bothering?

"Dana," a gentle voice asks.  "Are you awake, honey?"

She doesn't sound like one of Them, not that I really remember 
what They sound like.  Maybe she's a decoy, a red-herring.

I blink my eyes open slowly, closing them against the bright, 
harsh sunlight that scorches them.

"I saw that," she says teasingly.  "You're probably still groggy 
from the anesthetic, huh?"

Laying in this weak, prone position makes me an easy target, I 
realize, and I try to sit up.  I don't get far - not only does a 
sharp, burning pain slice through my abdomen and my head get 
light, but the Decoy Nurse pushes on my shoulder, easing me back 
down.

"You can't get up yet, honey.  Lay back down and rest."  I hear 
Velcro being torn and she wraps a blood pressure cuff around my 
arm, inflating it until my whole body aches from the pressure.  
"Still a little low," she says more to herself than to me, or 
maybe it's to the surveillance cameras.  "I'm gonna page Dr. 
Thomas and tell her you're awake; she'll want to talk to you.  I 
know you're tired, honey, but do you think you can stay awake for 
a few more minutes?"  She asks, the cuff hissing as it deflates.

I don't answer, but surely she doesn't expect me to.  She removes 
the cuff from my arm and squishes back out of the room, leaving 
me in the still silence.

Dr. Thomas must be the person overseeing the experiment.  Hell 
will thaw before I'll let her touch me.

When I try to sit up this time, the lightheadedness returns along 
with black spots in front of my eyes.  The pain in my abdomen 
settles into a dull throb centered beneath the bandage.  I lift 
the gown They've dressed me in and rip the gauze away, revealing 
a neat, thin red line, the stitches pulled tight.  When I touch 
it, the immediate area around it is numb while the rest of it 
radiates fire.  Strange; I wonder what They used to make the 
incision.

Clothes, I need clothes.  The ones I was wearing have to be here, 
but I can't remember what Mulder dressed me in during his 
panicked hurry to get me to the hospital.

The tile floor under my feet is like little squares of ice; I 
can't stand.  My legs are too weak and I can't stand up.  God, 
what have They done to me.  I grip the edge of the nightstand - 
an oversight in Their staging: hospital rooms don't have rich, 
wooden furniture pieces, wallpaper, and curtains - and try to 
pull myself up, starting to succeed when another surge of 
dizziness overwhelms me and I collapse onto the bed again, 
clutching my abdomen, trying to suffocate the flames there.

Decoy Nurse and Dr. Thomas, who must've been watching all of this 
from the monitor, choose that moment to enter, both running to me 
and making some noise about how I wasn't supposed to try and get 
up yet.

Too weak to fight them, They arrange me in the bed.  Dr. Thomas 
examines my incision, tells Decoy Nurse I haven't pulled any of 
them out, and to see if she can reach my husband.  "Tell him 
she's awake," she orders her.

Husband?  I don't have a husband.

"Dana, I want you to listen to me, okay?  My name is Amanda 
Thomas and I'm your obstetrician.  I'm the doctor who delivered 
your daughter last night, but you probably don't remember that.  
Are you listening?"

Daughter?  I don't have a daughter, either.  Not one I've given 
birth to, anyway.  What the hell is she talking about?  I blink 
at her a few times, belying my confusion.

"This incision is from your c-section.  You may remember the ER 
physician telling you we were going to try and wait to see if you 
were in false labor last night or if your contractions would stop 
on their own.  Do you remember, Dana?"

The last thing I remember is Mulder screaming, terrified, for a 
nurse and telling me he had to call Skinner.

"The baby's heart rate was dropping, as was your blood pressure, 
and when your water broke a few minutes later, you went into 
vasogenic shock and we delivered to save both of you.  Luckily, 
it worked."

She waits for me to react, but all I can do is stare at her with 
an open mouth and wide eyes.

"Dana," she says, more softly, "your baby is in extremely 
critical condition in our Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.  Her 
lungs are underdeveloped and her blood sugar was very low from 
the stress of the delivery.  I'm not going to make you any 
promises, but we're doing everything we can to help her.  We've 
got her on a ventilator and some steroids to help her lungs and 
we're monitoring her around the clock.  She's got the best 
doctors and nurses in all of DC helping her.

Right now, you need to worry about yourself first - your blood 
pressure is still low and you lost a lot of blood from the 
surgery.  There was a tear in your uterus and your husband asked 
us to try and fix it instead of doing a hysterectomy if we could, 
and we finally did.  You'll be laying here for a little while and 
the sooner you rest and heal, the sooner you can go see your 
daughter.  Okay?"

No, no, no, no, it's not okay.  It's not supposed to happen this 
way - you're supposed to take the baby and return me and let 
Mulder and me pick up where we left off before this whole thing 
happened.  I'm not supposed to have to watch another child die 
and not be able to do anything about it.

Damn it, notmychild, notmychild, notmychild.  It deserves to die, 
it's a project, an experiment, an abomination.

"Your husband was upstairs, but I had Hannah call him and tell 
him you were awake, so he should be here in a few minutes.  We've 
already discussed this, so he knows everything I've just told 
you.  Do you have any questions?"

Who are you?  Where am I?  Why didn't this work like They told me 
it would?

"It's a lot to be confronted with all at once, I know.  I'm sure 
you'll think of something.  Your husband can have me paged if you 
need me.  Just rest and try not to worry too much, okay?"  She 
squeezes my arm once, smiles slightly, then leaves.

He lied to me.  Mulder did something to make Them leave the baby 
here with me.  He traded himself for it.  And what if it dies?  
Will They let him come back?  Or will I be alone?

Goddamn you, Mulder, you selfish, arrogant, son of a bitch.

Tiny, hot tears slide over my temples and disappear into my hair 
as a thought occurs to me: this time, there's nothing stopping me 
from looking for him.  That's what I'll do.  I'll get Skinner and 
the Gunmen to help me - or not, I can do this on my own - and 
we'll find him and bring down Ol' Smokey and the rest of Them.

And what about the baby?  A little voice inside my head asks.

<><><><><><>

I'm half-dozing, half-planning when the door to my room squeaks 
open and someone walks in, stopping two steps from the doorway.

I don't have my contacts in, so all I can see is a tall man in a 
dark suit - it could be anyone.  The Smoking Man himself, maybe?  
Come to collect what's his and chastise me for being so gullible 
and complacent while he took everything that mattered from me.

A few more steps towards me and the man stops again.  "Agent 
Scully?"  A deep, gentle voice asks me.

Skinner.  Is this "my husband?"  Did I fall down a rabbit hole 
somewhere?

"Scully, are you awake?"  He asks me a little louder.

"Yes," I try to answer.  It comes out as a dry whisper, but he 
hears it and approaches the bed, dropping his large hand down to 
my arm and wrapping his fingers around it, not squeezing, just 
holding.

"How are you feeling?"

"Where's Mulder?"

He makes a pained face like he knew that question was coming, 
glances behind him, and lets go of my arm.  Pulling the strangely 
out-of-place wooden rocking chair up, he sits, then simply stares 
at me, a little nervous.

"He made some kind of deal, didn't he?  Himself for the baby.  
Did They take him again or did They just kill him this time?"

"Scully," he starts, taking off his glasses and pinching the 
bridge of his nose like he's been rehearsing this scene in his 
head since Mulder called him last night and has just forgotten 
his lines.  "I can't tell you that."

"Yes, you can.  You have to.  This concerns me as much as it does 
him and I think I have a right to know, dammit.  Tell me where he 
is."

"I can't."

We argue silently with our eyes for a few seconds before he 
blinks and looks down at his hands, helpless.

"Then I guess I'll have to find him without you," I say 
flippantly, pushing the covers off and secretly dreading trying 
to stand again.

"Scully, stop.  Lay down.  You just had surgery -"

I arch my right eyebrow at him and beg him to tell me why I 
should continue to stay here instead of look for my 
partner/friend/lover/possible fiance.

"I promised Mulder I wouldn't tell you where he went or what he 
was doing.  I won't break that promise."

"He could be in danger...sir," I add icily.

He clenches his teeth, narrows his eyes, and says in a deep, 
stern voice.  "Let me assure you, Agent, that I wouldn't let him 
endanger himself without adequate support and backup."

"So he is with Them, then?  What did you do, send the entire VCS 
with him for backup?"

"That's enough, Scully!"

The dizziness comes back from my anger and he must notice it 
because his eyes soften.  He looks away while I lay back down, 
grateful to put my head against the pillow again.

"He asked me to tell you not to worry about him, just to worry 
about yourself and your daughter," he finally says, putting his 
glasses back on and gripping the bedrail tightly.

"Did he also tell you to pretend to be my husband so you could 
have access to us?"  I ask, a little weaker and breathier than 
I'd intended.

He snaps his eyes to me, deciding not to answer and further 
implicate himself.  "Agent Mulder knows what he's doing, Scully, 
we both know that.  Trust him."

"I do trust him, sir.  I just don't trust Them."

He sighs helplessly.  "He asked me to stay here with you until he 
gets back," he admits.  "He didn't specify how long that would 
be, but he made it plain it could be a while."

On either side of my hips, I clench the blankets tightly in my 
fists.

"Those friends of yours are taking turns watching the baby - just 
to make sure no one tries to bother her and that she's getting 
the attention and care she needs.  Mulder arranged that, too.  
The doctors ran some blood tests on her as soon as she was born, 
just as they do on all infants, and found no abnormalities, 
genetic or otherwise.  Other than being a little too early and a 
little too tiny, she's normal and healthy."

I look away from him, tears starting to come again.

"Congratulations, Scully," he says softly.  "I'll be outside if 
you need me."

<><><><><><>

I remember when Matthew was born.

Tara was falling asleep every five minutes, waking up when 
someone came in the room and yelling at them to leave her alone, 
that she was tired.  Bill was beside himself with his perfect 
little baby boy.  Mom smiled a lot and nudged me to do the same.

I was numb.

Down the hall, my daughter was dying and there was nothing I 
could do to help her or ease her pain.  Mom had come to me the 
night they brought Tara in and told me to come join the family.

"I am with my family," I told her sadly, looking past her and at 
Mulder, who was standing outside Emily's room, pale and helpless 
and sorry and exhausted.

Mom turned to look, too, then stood up a little straighter, not 
knowing what to say as she walked back to the maternity ward.

After she finally died that night, while I was laying beside her, 
counting her breaths and feeling her pulse, I told Mulder I was 
going to see how Tara was doing.  He asked if I wanted him to 
come with me and, when I didn't answer right away, he put his 
hand on my back and steered us towards the elevator.

I didn't realize how much time had passed, but the sun was just 
beginning to rise over the tops of the buildings outside.  
Matthew was curled up in his bassinette on display for the world, 
healthy and normal.  No one else was there looking, just me and 
Mulder.

"He's beautiful," I whispered to the glass window.

Mulder nodded, his hand still pressed against my back.

"I don't know why I tried to adopt her.  My life isn't conducive 
to a child and certainly not one as sick as she was.  I guess I 
just thought she deserved to be loved just like any other child.  
I thought I could give that to her."  Shaking my head and looking 
away, I said softly to myself, "I don't know what I was 
thinking."

"She did deserve to be loved, Scully, and you could've given it 
to her.  You did give it to her," he whispered close to my ear.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes against the tears I felt 
forming there, and exhaled slowly.  "I couldn't have done it 
alone, though.  She wouldn't have deserved that."

After a moment, he spoke again.  "You wouldn't have been alone."

Inside the nursery, a baby started to cry and a nurse picked it 
up, murmuring comforting words.

"We created a child, Scully.  It may not have been the 
romantically approved way, but we both had a hand in her 
conception.  I would've done anything I could to help you."

"Did I make the right decision?  To let her die instead of 
treating her?"  I asked, placing my palm against the cool glass 
and touching my nephew.

"Yes," he told me.

Later, he stood outside Tara's room waiting to take me back to 
their house for the night.  The nurses had brought Matthew into 
visit and Bill and Mom were passing him around, assuring an 
exasperated Tara he was the cutest baby they'd ever seen and 
arguing over who he looked like.  When my turn came, Mom held him 
out to me and I shook my head, wrapping my arms around myself and 
looking down at the floor.

The conversation ceased and everyone stared at me, wondering why 
I didn't want to hold him.  I didn't tell them Emily had died 
earlier.  They wouldn't have cared.

"I'm going home," I told them, walking out the door.

I had a funeral to plan, after all.

Later, I overheard Mom and Bill talking about me.  Bill accused 
me of being selfish and unable to be happy for anyone who has 
something I want.  Mom defended me weakly, saying he could never 
understand what it was like to be denied your role as a woman: to 
procreate, reproduce, to leave something behind for the world 
after you're gone.

I'd never understood that, either.  How children can come to 
define who you are and how you impact the world.  In a way, 
working on the X-Files - making the world a safer place - had 
become my gift to the world.  I had contented myself to that, 
pushing all thoughts of motherhood and babies who looked like me 
(or Mulder) to the back of my mind.

I wasn't lying to Mulder when I told him I didn't want this baby.  
There's no sense in wanting something you can never have, after 
all.

And then to have it and lose it again?  Would God be so cruel?

I picture Mulder in the NICU, standing beside our baby, his 
finger ringed by four tiny ones, praying she lives while I pray 
that she doesn't, just so I don't have to learn to love her only 
to have her taken away.

Maybe Bill was right.  Maybe I am selfish.

<><><><><><>

Nurses bustled in a few hours after Skinner left, smiling and 
asking me if I was ready to try and walk. 

I didn't say anything but, apparently, I didn't have much of a 
choice.  They helped me stand, told me to take some deep breaths 
and slow down when I almost fell back onto the bed as the first 
slice of fire ripped through my abdomen, and steadied me as I 
shuffled down the hall and back to my room again.

Skinner stood back, watching, a sad look on his face.

After I was back in bed, one of the nurses promised me that, 
after I rested a little, I could go see my daughter.  I shook my 
head at her, looking away.

"What's the matter?"  She asked.

"I don't want to see her," I said in a steady, deep voice.

She blinked at me, then told me to rest and she'd be back later.  
"I'm sure you'll change your mind," she added on her way out.

If she only knew.

The maternity ward of a hospital is a depressing place to be for 
those who can't look forward to going home with a healthy child.  
All the mothers, exhausted and excited, hold their babies out so 
their husbands can see, exchanging wonder and marvel and 
disbelief.

And I lay here, listening, wondering where my Mulder is and what 
kind of havoc the hybrid child will create for us in the future.

I understand why Tara was so angry when we wouldn't leave her 
alone, though.  All I want to do is sleep and be warm and without 
pain.

And not alone.

The sun sets and the nurse who promised me I'd change my mind 
never comes back.  After a shift change, a different nurse's weak 
attempts to get me to eat some dinner, and a brief visit from Dr. 
Hammond, I turn onto my side as much as I can, then close my 
eyes, willing my heart to slow down so the dull throbbing in my 
abdomen will as well.

There's a quiet sound of a door opening, then muffled footsteps 
across the tile to the bed.  A hush of denim on cotton as someone 
sits down in the rocking chair beside me.  Warm fingers reaching 
for my cold ones underneath the blankets, finding, then soft lips 
pressed against each of my knuckles.

"Hey," he whispers, smiling, as I open my eyes.

I don't know whether the tears are in anger or happiness, but 
they're abundant and scalding.  "Where were you?"  I manage to 
get out without sounding too pathetic or desperate.

He leans closer to me, pressing his lips against each of my 
eyebrows, then the bridge of my nose.  "I had some things to take 
care of.  How are you feeling?"

I lean into his warmth, not answering.

"I brought you something."  He turns on the bedside lamp and 
reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, holding a Polaroid 
picture out to me.  "This is her," he says slowly, his face awash 
with awe.

There's a mass of tubes and wires that meet in the center of a 
plastic-covered bed - a tiny, red splotch with a white diaper at 
one end and a plastic knit cap at the other.

"The nurses said you hadn't been able to go see her.  She's 
beautiful, Scully.  She's...she's so small.  She can fit in my 
palm.  Her doctor says she's strong, though.  I told him it runs 
in the family."  He leans down for another kiss on my cheek, 
licking his lips where my tears were.

I place my finger on the smooth plastic of the picture, my mouth 
agape, as if I could touch her through it.

"We need a name.  Do you have any ideas?"

My hand comes up, shaking, to dry my cheeks.

"What about Katherine.  That's pretty, don't you think?  What 
about a middle name?"

I look back at him, wondering why he's even bothering.

"I knew a girl once whose name was Anice.  Katherine Anice 
Mulder.  How does that sound?"

He smiles, then looks back at the picture, away from me.  "Help 
me out, Scully," he says, mesmerized by the tiny, red splotch.

"It doesn't matter," I whisper to him weakly, swallowing a deep, 
painful sob.

He exhales quickly, then looks back at me, his face hard, angry.  
"What's it gonna take, Scully?  She's here.  She's-she'll be 
fine.  They're not gonna take her.  What more do you need?"

"I need to know what you did.  I need you to stop lying to me and 
pretending we're a happy little family.  Mulder, I can't...you 
promised.  I can't lose you again."

"You won't," he says firmly.  "I didn't lie to you.  I didn't do 
anything."

"Then why weren't you here?  You send Skinner and the Gunmen to 
watch us and make sure no one bothers us, you tell me the deal I 
made is off now, you go out at night and meet with God knows who, 
promising them God knows what for this...this thing -"

"Our daughter, Scully.  She's not a thing, she's a baby, a little 
girl.  A normal little girl," he interrupts.  "I had genetic 
tests done: everything's fine.  I had a paternity test done and 
she's mine.  She's ours, Scully.  Why can't you accept that?"

"For how long?  How long before They decide They need her and 
take her again?"

"They won't!"

"How do you know?"

"Because, I -"  He stops, swallows, and looks down, focusing on 
the picture.  "If you could just see her," he starts again, 
softer.  "Scully, I know you're afraid, you're afraid to love her 
and get attached to her, but she needs it.  She needs you with 
her.  The more contact preemies have with their parents, the 
sooner they go home, Scully, it's a statistical fact."

I shake my head, looking out at the dark night and the few lights 
left on in the buildings around the hospital.

"Then you can lay here and feel sorry for yourself," he says, 
standing up angrily.  "I'll be upstairs with our daughter when 
you're ready to grow up and stop acting so damn pitiful and 
selfish."

I notice he left me the picture of her as he walks out the door; 
I could call him back and give it to him.

I don't.

<><><><><><>

He drug me to bed half way through an MSNBC special on the rising 
costs of infertility treatments and the various options couples 
were choosing to try and increase their odds of pregnancy.  I 
think I was still crying but, by that time, I was nearly numb to 
whatever was going on outside my body.  All I remember was him 
pulling me up and guiding me to his bed, laying me down, then 
sliding in beside me and pulling me close.

I must've started sobbing quietly again because he squeezed me 
and kissed my temple, repeated the cycle until the whimpers 
subsided.

"Why didn't you tell me, Scully?"  He whispered softly into my 
hair, trying to stop me from shaking.

"Tell you what?"

"That you wanted...this."

"I didn't know.  Sometimes it just hits me how much I want 
something I can't have.  Or maybe it's just knowing I can't have 
it if I did want it."  Logically, I know I'm no more able to care 
for a child now than I was two years ago when I tried to adopt 
Emily.  But still, I'd at least like to have the choice.

He just nods silently, sliding his legs over mine and enveloping 
me completely.

"I guess we should've discussed this before we started sleeping 
together," I finally say, breaking what is for me an awkward 
silence.

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

"How can you say that, Mulder?  You just told me you wanted it 
and I can't give it to you.  That's unfair to you and selfish of 
me," I trail off, afraid of what would happen to me if he agreed 
and ended this new facet of our relationship, pursuing a future 
with someone who could give him as many children as he wanted.

"There are other options," he says slowly, gauging my reaction.  
"There's adoption, surrogate motherhood -"

"It wouldn't be ours."

"We could make it ours."

I shake my head vigorously, pushing my face further into the 
pillow.

"What do you want me to say, then?  That you're right, I 
shouldn't have gotten involved with you when I knew I wanted 
kids?  That I'm gonna abandon you 'cause you can't give me 
children?  Do you think this is that flippant?  Do you not take 
this seriously?"

"How serious is it?"

We're silent and still for a few minutes, the only sound the 
faint rustling of the sheets as we breathe nearly in tandem.

After almost ten minutes, he speaks again, his words simply 
breath with deep tones attached.  "I've been thinking a lot about 
that, Scully.  Since they're shutting down the X-Files 
anyway...what happens next?  I know...I think we're both ready 
for it to end and I think this would be a good time for that to 
happen."

That was the night before he left for Oregon.  If we only knew 
what kind of an ending it really was.

"Scully," he whispers, turning me onto my back so he's looming 
over me in the darkness.  "Promise me that whatever happens, you 
won't end this and say it's for me.  You know what I want most; 
let me keep it."

Had I known that was the last time we'd make love for a long 
while, I'd have been more attentive and present.  He tried to 
coax me into relaxing but settled for me being moderately aroused 
and clinging to him like I was terrified he'd get away, which I 
was.

The next morning, I was sore from holding him against me so 
tightly.  He was just gone, leaving empty promises and a surplus 
damp spot on the sheet.

<><><><><><>

The NICU is softly lit, leaving most of it in darkness.  The 
young nurse who meets me at the door says it's because the babies 
aren't ready for all the sensations of the world: light, sound, 
touches, so they try to keep it as dim and quiet as possible.

We stop at a sink where she asks me to wash my hands; procedure, 
to protect against germs, she needlessly explains.

Mulder is in the back, sitting on the edge of another wooden 
rocking chair, his hand in a port door on one of the isolettes.  
The tiny, red splotch is on the other side of the door, her 
little chest rising and falling rapidly, a pastel pink blanket 
draped over one side of the plastic that's covering her.

The nurse leaves me standing there, staring at them, murmuring 
something about being there if I need her.  I don't really hear 
her; I'm not really paying attention.

He must know I'm there.  He turns around and smiles slightly, 
withdrawing his hand from the isolette and standing, helping me 
to sit and watching me carefully as I wince against sore muscles.

I know what all these machines are, I know what they do.  The 
tube down her throat to help her breath, the catheter in her 
umbilical stump to eliminate waste, the IV in her heel for food, 
the sensors taped to her chest to monitor her heart.  It's still 
scary, though, to see all of them attached to such a tiny, 
helpless thing.

Girl, Dana.  It's a girl.  Your little girl.

Mulder kneels next to me, one hand lightly resting on my back, 
the other touching the baby again.  "She likes it when you touch 
the insides of her elbows," he whispers so softly, I barely even 
hear the words.

With blurry eyes, I reach through the door, imitating his light 
strokes with the tip of my finger.

Her skin is so soft.

He must notice me shaking because the hand on my back starts 
rubbing gently: soothing.

"See how her head's turned towards us?  She wants to play."

"Is she asleep?"

"No.  She hasn't opened her eyes yet.  I'm hoping for blue."

"Most babies have blue eyes when they're born," I tell him, my 
voice thick and useless.

"Hopefully, they'll stay that way.  Like yours," he adds.  "Your 
nose and chin and I think I see a few wisps of brown hair under 
her cap."

I shake my head.  "How did we do this?"

"You're the doctor, you don't remember?"  He teases.  "She's 
perfect, though."

"Is she?"

"She is," he assures me.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, both in awe of what we've 
created until he quietly breaks the silence, still staring at 
her.  "The Gunmen brought the blanket.  Langly bet on a boy, so 
he owes Byers, Frohike, and me cheese steaks."

I nod, remembering how worried they were about me when I fainted, 
before any of this even started.

"Scully, I didn't make a deal.  I couldn't.  Skinner and I 
couldn't find the Smoking Man - we assume he's dead."

I open my mouth to ask questions, but he shakes his head, asking 
me to let him finish.

"I do remember things from when I was abducted, Scully.  The 
Bounty Hunters talking - planning, I guess.  They thought I was 
unconscious, but I guess I wasn't.  They were using the Smoking 
Man, making him think they were working together when really they 
just wanted him for his access to us.  Their plans were to kill 
him, kill me, and take you and the baby.  When I remembered this, 
I told Skinner.  We were going to try and make a deal: your 
safety - our safety," he amends, "for what I just told you.  
Saving his life so he could protect ours.  Skinner put out 
feelers, but we never found him.

"The staff here tried to contact Dr. Walker and let him know you 
were in labor, but the number for his office was disconnected and 
the rooms were empty when I went looking for him.  I think They 
realized she," he nods to our daughter, "wasn't what They thought 
she was and They tried to take everything away.  He was 
instructed to induce labor assuming she couldn't survive this 
early.  She surprised Them, though."

"What about us?"  I ask, strangely calm at his revelation.

"That I don't know.  Most likely, They'll just retreat and lick 
Their wounds."

"Planning the next wave against us?"

"I don't know.  I think we know too much about Them for Them to 
simply try and threaten us into submission, though."

"They'd just kill us instead."

"The last thing we need to do is hide from Them," he says as if 
he's been thinking about this for a while and has all the details 
worked out.  "We need to be as visible as possible so that if 
anything happens, people will ask questions."

"What about her?"  I ask, inhaling deeply for the first time in 
eight months.

He smiles.  "We take her home and watch her grow up."

I nod, sliding my finger down her arm until it rests in her palm.  
In response, her fingers curl around it, holding tightly.

"That's where I was.  I went to find Dr. Walker and, when I 
couldn't, I just went back to the house, getting it ready.  Her 
room's all fixed.  The rest of the house is empty.  As soon as 
you're ready, we can move in."

"What if I'm not ready?"  I ask him quietly.

"Then we'll wait."

"What if I'm never ready?"

"You will be," he promises.

<><><><><><>

I think I'm living in a dream now.

The baby - Katherine, I keep reminding myself - was able to come 
home after six weeks in the NICU.  She's still tiny, but her 
doctor thinks she's healthy and will grow up to have a normal 
life.  So far, she hasn't shown any symptoms of anemia or any 
other blood or genetic disorders.  Her eyes are blue, much to 
Mulder's delight, and he calls her his Katie Blue.

He insists I wear the engagement ring he gave me, saying it's 
part of the effect of the happy little suburban couple: we need 
to appear normal for the neighbors, Scully.  I know it's really 
just hopefulness on his part.  When I go out, I wear it and the 
wedding band he bought to match his.  As soon as I get back home, 
I take off both, maintaining it's dishonest.  He wears his ring 
all the time.  If I ask him why, he says it's to get used to it.

I didn't want to stop working so he didn't force me to.  Instead, 
he stays home with Katherine and, much to my surprise, does all 
the housework without complaint.  They're always waiting at the 
door to greet me when I get home and I'm always tempted to get 
back in my car and leave, sure I have the wrong house.  Katherine 
giggles as Mulder kisses her, murmuring that mommy's home and 
then kisses me, asking me how my day was and frowning when the 
ring comes off with my watch and shoes.

He sleeps beside me at night and insists it's better for 
Katherine if she sleeps in a bassinet beside our bed.  I know 
it's just so he doesn't have as far to walk when he gets up to 
check on her twenty times every night.  When she cries, he's up 
immediately and heading down to the kitchen for a bottle or to 
the nursery for a diaper change.  He says it's so I can rest and 
because I'm the one who has to get up early.

It doesn't even feel like my life.

Mulder is still Mulder, but he's happy now; content.  His 
romantic notions are obnoxious and his patience and gentleness 
with the baby are shockingly natural.  At night, after she's 
asleep, he'll tell me about a documentary he saw on the Discovery 
Channel about Atlantis, saying we should take a vacation one year 
and see if we can find it.  He doesn't mean it, though.  The next 
morning, he'll tell me very seriously he's done with that part of 
his life now; that we - Katherine and I - are his life.

He doesn't know this, but I keep a picture of them together on my 
desk at work.  When people ask me who the baby is, I say 
automatically that she's my daughter, then wonder why it was so 
automatic.

As I walk to and from my car every day, I look over my shoulder 
to see if anyone is watching and waiting to follow me home.  I'm 
still convinced that, any day now, this perfect life Mulder has 
created for us will shatter and collapse on top of us, crushing 
us under its weight.

So far, though, no one has watched me and no one has followed me.  
Katherine continues to grow and learn and amaze us with her 
infant babbling.  Mulder continues to assert that she's the most 
beautiful and intelligent child ever born, whispering to me while 
I'm rocking her that he loves me and asking me when I'll be ready 
to get married.  I continue to shake my head, kiss Katherine's 
little palm, and he continues to tell me he'll wait forever, but 
she won't.

"For her, Scully," he repeats like a mantra.

I never ask him if we'll have forever.  I just nod and refuse to 
admit she's become my life, that everything I do now is for her.

I practice three times a week at the shooting range for her.  I 
keep something we could use as a weapon in every room for her.  I 
sleep only a few hours a night, always on alert, for her.  I 
watch my rear view mirrors as I drive for her.

They didn't take her, but sometimes I wonder if I wish They had.

It would've been so much easier if They had, I think some nights 
as Mulder paces up and down the hallways as she cries, colicky.  
It would've devastated him if They had.  It would've numbed me if 
They had.

But They left her here - or maybe They never intended to take her 
at all.  The damage is done, though, regardless of whether or not 
They decided to take her back or leave her with us.  Regardless 
of whether or not she really is ours, completely and naturally.  
Regardless of whether or not I can ever convince myself of 
either.

Sometimes, I want to ask Mulder why They did this.  If They 
wanted to break us, to stop us from working and searching and 
threatening Them, They've won.  If They wanted to separate us on 
a deep, visceral level, so that we'll always wonder who the 
other's talking to on the phone late one night, They've won.

Mulder once told me that there was more than one way to skin a 
cat - he was right, but the kitties are still suffering long
after they've been skinned.

<><><>End<><><>

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