Trance to Venial Sin
(This is the sequel to A Sort of Homecoming.  Reading that fic isn’t absolutely 
necessary, but it’ll help a lot in giving this one a frame of reference.
by Lydia (xpositions@yahoo.com)  I NEVER get feedback.  I’m crying here!  Send 
me SOMETHING!

Rating: PG-13 (for mild language)
Genre: Post-Requiem-Multiple-Character-POV-Myth-arc-MSR
Spoilers: Requiem, Tunguska / Terma, One Breath, SR819, The 6th Extinction, 
Biogenesis, Amor Fati 
Disclaimer:   I not only claim no ownership of Mulder, Scully, The X-Files, and 
all related characters, I also must disclaim the following which were used 
without permission:  Slim Jims, Mountain Dew, Pantera, Heineken, and Trident.  
The characters of Steve and Dr. Walls are mine, though.  Damn.  I think I got 
the short end of that stick.
Summary:   I’m no sadomasochist, but this is the pain I’m starting not only to 
enjoy but also revel in.  This deadly hide-and-seek game I’m playing with his 
face…. Identifying bodies that aren’t his became a past time for me over the 
months I’ve been missing him.  Maybe twenty-two or three since it really became 
a habit.  I want tonight to be the night I get it right.  The night I say ‘yeah’ 
it’s him.  This time the ‘John Doe’ will be mine.
Some things to know:  Meat wagon= ambulance.  Camou dudes= security guards for a 
military base. 
_____
 
 
At twenty-one I put my faith away.  It was a surprisingly simple thing to do: 
unclasp the weakening chain, fold it neatly in the velvet box, and avoid the 
shame I believed it carried at the time.  At twenty-one, faith no longer carried 
the charm it did in childhood or the necessity it did in adolescence.  Faith was 
an obstacle…a burden.  Too much to bear in the face of infatuation, too much to 
carry into adulthood.  
Lying in bed, Daniel had reached out for me and found the necklace instead.  He 
somehow managed to latch onto the one thing that grounded with the reality that 
our affair was wrong.
Twisting it around his fingers he smiled in the glow of my bedroom lights…the 
lights we hadn’t bothered dimming in our haste…and laughed.  A slight smile and 
his knowing chuckle, the tug of that metal across the back of my neck…they were 
all the elements of a moment cheaply made, though perhaps unseen at the time.
He had kissed me lightly on the forehead, brushed my cheek with the rim of his 
nose and then his lips, and settled into the pillow by my head.  “Dana, you are 
the one contradiction I will never understand.”  
I didn’t see it then…what that moment had meant to me or how it shaped where our 
relationship was going.  I’d convinced myself that we were equals; Daniel 
appreciated and respected me.  I adored and worshiped him.  I’d told myself so 
studiously that we needed each other, but in that great need there was also 
little room for individuality.  Daniel did not understand my faith.  As 
understanding gives rise to acceptance, acceptance is the precursor to respect.  
Daniel did not respect my faith, and that night after he had slipped on his 
clothes and retreated to the night…to his home and neglected family, I unclasped 
the chain and let it hide in the corner of my drawer. At the time I did not 
respect myself for clinging to that same faith for all those years.  According 
to Daniel I was a contradiction, and in science, contradictions are 
unacceptable.
Two a.m. is an odd time to consider the past, especially when it seems that a 
future should be glowing.  I used to think of motherhood and immediately conjure 
up the familial images: chubby pink baby fingers and cheeks swollen from 
laughter and all things innately happy.  I try not to think of motherhood 
anymore; ironic now that I face it as a certainty.  It isn’t that I don’t want 
to face it, embrace it, hold it close and smell it’s baby-powder and 
strained-peas essence.  I just don’t want to face it alone.  
At such thoughts I instinctively reach for my faith but find instead the collar 
of my pajamas and beneath, only bare skin.  In a nervous habit I’ve newly 
developed, I rake my fingernails across my collarbone then trace it back again 
with the palm of my hand, missing the presence of something familiar.  I want to 
believe that I will not face this alone; that Mulder will find his way home as 
he always has.  But for the second time in my life, faith is nowhere to be 
found.  Somehow I let it slip away once again.
Truth is, I’ve been letting a lot of things slip away:  not sanity, or peace of 
mind, or anything so weighty.  It might be something like laughter or care in 
the solitary moments in life.  I’ve developed a one-track mind that is barely 
trudging along, and everyone around me is walking on eggshells.  I can feel it.
Three days ago Byers called.  There was trepidation in his voice and care with 
how he spoke…. it’s something I’m getting used to.  He’d called to say that the 
Gunmen would be out of town for a few days.  
“So if you…” (So if I what?  Need them?  Have a nervous breakdown?  Go on a 
shooting spree on the entire panel of OPR members?) “…have a lead for us to 
follow up on, you can reach us at the …”  (I could hear Langly egging him on in 
the background: “Say it dude, say it.”) “…. undisclosed number.”  ‘Undisclosed’ 
was emphasized.  Heavily.
It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to laugh but honestly, the strength 
isn’t there.  In fact I respect Byers for his tact and discretion.  It was nice 
of him to dress up his words like that but the truth of them still shone 
clearly.  They were afraid to leave me alone.  It didn’t occur to me until 
tonight that they didn’t say where they were going, why they were leaving.  Even 
now I can’t remember the exact dates.  
They probably just needed to get away from this for a few days.  It’s a 
situation primed to explode in some kind of violent radial effect, with me at 
ground zero.   I can’t say I blame them; it’s been relentless, draining, and I 
can hear it in their voices when they call.  Paranoia never sounded so 
disillusioned.  
I check the clock again, quickly; somewhat afraid of what it might say. 
‘2:15’.  There’s nothing like a slow moving night to get the mind retrospective 
and introspective.  This kind of thinking should be lulling me to sleep; instead 
I roll over with eyes and mind as alert as ever.  It’s then that the telephone 
rings, startling me with the way it seems to cut through the dead of my 
apartment.  It’s been a long time since someone has called at such an hour.  
“Hello?”
On the other end is only static, a whisper of movement, then more noise.
“Hello?”
A voice, small but definite makes it’s way back through the cellular noise.  
“Sccc…”  At this time of night I don’t have the patience or the stomach for 
perverts. 
“Hello?”  I try again.
And then it hits me.  My name.  “Sculll…”  Rapidly my mind searches the 
possibilities; the likelihood of what I’m hearing.   The brief syllabic outcry 
still hovers in the earpiece, the voice too tired but determined.  I’ve heard it 
before…my name pronounced into an indefinable night as with one final thrust and 
shudder Mulder had collapsed on top of me and breathed me in.  
With a sharp intake of breath, I close my eyes and concentrate vehemently on any 
sound I can hear.  My lips are trembling far too much to ask or speak his name.  
No matter though, my question is answered surely and confidently.  I hear a 
slight whisper of movement, followed by his voice: strong enough to be alive. 
“I’m coming home.”
 
~~~~~
 
Over the campfire, across a cooler of Heineken’s and thawing hot dogs, Langly is 
already yawning.  I could see it since we landed in Oregon.  He never handled 
air-travel well.  (‘Why can’t we just take the VW?’  ‘Because, you punk-ass, we 
want to get there before the sightings end.  Not five years from now.’)
We’d made it up to him with plenty of Slim Jims and Mountain Dew, and even 
subjected ourselves to three straight hours of Pantera.  It wasn’t until I had 
the foresight to point out that we may not hear or see what we came here for 
until it was long gone that the CD player was finally turned off and the real 
watch began.  
“Dudes, I’m still way nauseous.”
“Langly, that’s your own fault.  With the way you eat?  That had nothing to do 
with the plane-ride.”
“I get air sickness, man!”
Frohike finally spoke up, “Langly either keep on the radio traffic or go to 
sleep.”
Langly grudgingly turned back to the scanner, flipping carelessly between 
channels.  We’d all been edgy lately; even I as the straight man had come close 
to…well…getting angry.  Or maybe just a little frustrated.  At all hours of the 
night we were used to this kind of search, for conspiracies and spy-crafts and 
hidden agendas.  It was rare that it was tied to someone we knew, let alone 
someone we all cared about and respected.   
It was a relief…a tie to something normal at least, when news surfaced about 
another Soviet-style craft seen in Oregon.  It had come at a good time, when we 
all needed to get away and breathe freely if only for a day or two.  Frohike had 
been the first to voice his concerns.  (‘Maybe we should keep this from Scully.’ 
 ‘Not tell her we’re going away?’ ‘No, just not where we’re going.  We don’t 
wanna… you know…get her…’) Get her hopes up?  I don’t know.  The sentence was 
left unfinished, and we all reconciled it in our own minds.  Maybe we were tired 
of getting our own hopes up.
I had taken the task of calling her and was surprised when she never asked the 
obvious.  Where.  Why. 
She listened calmly…almost distractedly…said her ‘Mmhmm’s ‘Okay’s, and then 
‘click’ it was easy as that.  But it wasn’t all that easy.  Even as we all 
looked forward to what had been only rumored for decades we felt the ties of 
guilt that would keep her…and Mulder…in mind all week.
And here we are tonight, waiting for what we’d only imagined.  At night it’s 
harder to see…even when the subject consists of flashing lights and irregular 
movement.  There’s a certain phenomenology with regard to night visions.  The 
green, teeming imagery familiar from crime and war footage comes alive with 
breathtaking movement but to the unaided eye, the lights of the most mundane 
craft could grow surreal.  I reach over for the night vision binoculars and 
adjust them momentarily, before asking, “Ready?”
Langly shrugs his shoulders; Frohike looks up for a moment from Jane’s Resource 
Manual on Military Aircraft and nods absentmindedly.  It doesn’t take long for 
the campfire to go down; just a pile of dirt, a moment of coughing, and then the 
darkness settles in around us…deep and heavy, weighing us down from the sky 
above.  I hadn’t realized how bright the flames had been until they were 
gone…just like all things are missed when their vacancy is all you can feel.  
“Whoa, dudes.  Check it out.”  
Exhaling a visible breath in the Oregon cold, I tilt my head upwards at Langly’s 
request.  And then we see what Mulder must have seen.  Not just in that moment, 
but also for a lifetime beforehand: a universe wide and open and the infinitude 
of space.  It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to laugh and cry at the 
same time, all from the overwhelming aspect of such a thing.  Sometimes 
detaching yourself from the night sky by seeing only spy craft and UFOs, you 
forget to just see the beauty of it all.  You forgo seeing the backdrop to your 
life.  
In the darkness I can see Frohike looking at me.  “You ready with the camera, 
Byers?”
“Mmmhmm.  I have to say that a sighting three nights in a row is pretty 
unlikely.”
“You never know.”  Langly turns over in his sleeping bag. “Since the base in 
Fairmont was re-opened, the activity level in these woods has been off the 
charts.”
Frohike tosses Jane’s aside and contemplates the steaming pile of wood and ash.  
“What doesn’t make sense for me is Soviet craft.  We haven’t seen activity like 
this since…”
We all finish together “September, 1978.”
We’re like sophomores discovering Betty Page or Marilyn Monroe for the first 
time.  Three audible sighs of lust reverberate through the woods around us.  It 
was the MiG-21 that had stolen our breaths, though.  The infamous John Lear 
photographed it, an ancestor to the Lone Gunmen you might say.  I still remember 
the hazy photograph, the jumpy image; but there it was, and no doubt about it.  
It had been taken on the lake edge, just over the Groom Range five years before 
Area51 expanded their borders to keep out the Interceptors (another group of 
middle-aged men insisting on spying on the spies).  The photograph was proof 
positive that a program existed for testing aircraft captured, stolen, bribed, 
or otherwise purloined from the Soviet bloc.  It was a magical moment, seeing 
for the first time what had only been suggested at by the code name ‘Trance’.
That’s what brought us here for this impromptu campout.  Sources declining to be 
named (don’t they all?) had indicated that for the second time in history, a 
Soviet craft in US airspace had been spotted by civilians.  Not once, not twice, 
and apparently not test-flown either.  Civilian is a sketchy term, though.  Most 
of the sightings were by aircraft buffs who spent their evenings waiting for the 
activity at Fairmont to manifest itself in the night sky.  Some were lucky 
enough to see the classic and telltale doughnut-on-a-rope smoke trail.  Fewer 
were lucky to have actually seen the stealth craft itself.  It had yet to be 
photographed.
Rumors and suggestions, hints at the truth…they’d been spinning around our 
circles for the past few days.  The Soviet craft whose name roughly translates 
to ‘Venial Sin’ had been spotted in the Oregon forest near Bellefleur and the 
base in Fairmont.  It was reported to have maneuvered surely and precisely as if 
it had business to be done, and once completed it disappeared into thin air.  
There seemed to be no warning or time-schedule, and certainly no frame of 
reference either.  
What we are dealing with here is entirely new technology and groundbreaking 
information; the kind of proof that our subscribers would salivate over, not to 
mention the stiffening Internet competition.  As much as we like to share 
information, we guard it as jealously as the government itself.  It’s the irony 
we haven’t fully grasped yet.
The pop and hiss of another Heineken opening is followed by the high shrill of a 
cell phone ringing. 
“I thought we agreed on silence.  Why didn’t you mute it, Byers?”
Checking the display, I see her name and hold it up for the other two to see.  
“Because…it’s Scully.”
I answer the phone with a jittery “Hello?”
“It’s Scully.  I need you to do something for me.”
Immediately I know something’s wrong.  It must be 2:00 am in Washington right 
now, but her voice isn’t sleepy or wavering.  It’s heady and strong and the on 
the edge of it is the sound of fear.
“Of course…any...”  I can’t even finish the word as her demands fill my ear.
“I need you to run a trace on a call for me.  It came into this line about a 
minute ago.  It might possibly have been cellular, but I need you to go on the 
chance that the number might not be…”
“Uh…Scully, that’s not really something we can do right now.”
Dead silence.  “Where are you?”
“We just don’t have the capability right now.  All the equipment is back at 
the…”
”Where are you?”
“We’re in…”  
Two heads immediately turn my way, and Langly whispers, “Don’t, man.”
“We’re…uh…we’re in Oregon.”  
The silence on the other end is deafening and it seems years until she speaks 
again.  Her voice is tight and angry.  She sounds hurt.  “Oh.”
“Scully, we…”
“Look Byers, whatever you’re doing in Oregon is your own business.  I trust that 
if this had anything to do with Mulder you would have contacted me.  Don’t 
apologize.”
She says the words, but I wonder if she really means them.  It’s so hard to 
distinguish between the emotions in her voice when I don’t hear any.  Frohike 
edges closer, asking “What’s she say?”
“Scully, this isn’t something you can contact the bureau on?”
“No.  No, not exactly.”
“I really wish we could help, but it’s just that…”
“Listen, you can’t help, that’s fine.  Do you know anyone who might spare five 
minutes tracing a call from Mulder?”
“What?!”
“Just give me a number, Byers.  Anyone.”
“Serious?  Scully…god, if I’d known…”
“We don’t have all night…”
“Yea, yeah okay…umm...listen there’s someone in Maryland.  A friend of ours 
who’ll do what he can.  We’ll give him a call and we’ll see you in a few hours.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, but the line is dead and I assume that means 
she’s accepting the little help we can give.  This isn’t the way I thought it’d 
happen, though. 
I was waiting for flashing lights and tractor beams.  Like some big Las Vegas 
show where everything is larger than life and unbelievable and huge.  Mulder 
surrounded by high-kicking showgirls and a Tom Jones impersonator, and then the 
answers would arrive like shiny neon signs: This way to the Truth.
I guess I’m still sitting there with the phone up against my ear, staring into 
the darkness amazed and unnerved.  Langly is suddenly in my face, all six feet 
of his pale, stringy-haired presence.  
“Dude, where are you?”
“Byers, you gonna spill it or are we going to have to beat it out of you?  
What’d she say?”
I hand the camera and binoculars back to Langly.  “Pack it up.”
“What?  No way man.  No way I’m getting on another wild plane ride from hell.  
I’m gonna toss chunks.”
“We’re going back to DC.  Scully still needs our help, even if she won’t admit 
it.  And we’re not done looking for Mulder.”
I key in a telephone number, hit ‘send’, and in moments Psycho Spy’s phone is 
ringing soon followed by the standard message. “This is an unlisted number.  If 
you’ve reached it in error, hang up and don’t call again.  If you’re looking for 
Psycho Spy, leave a message.  All messages and conversations will be recorded 
for my own protection.”  On the tape he falters nervously, probably suddenly 
aware of his own idiocy, then ends abruptly with a silly and boyish “Bye.”
 
_____
 
 
There’s nothing to do but face my bedroom walls systematically and search the 
edge of my bed for some form of patience.  Pacing doesn’t work well, but there 
isn’t much else to do.  At least with the forward motion and the sureness of my 
steps I feel progress even if none is being made.  There’s something about 
chasing away the minutes like this that makes me feel purposeful.  It’s a way of 
cheating my mind into behaving…. my fingers into stilling their incessant 
shaking…and my heart…my heart into beating again.
I have to remind myself of all the horribly grounding things:  that there is 
every possibility I’ve been had.  That the telephone call wasn’t from Mulder.  
That the incoming line was untraceable.  That I’m going insane, and the edge of 
my reason has finally been reached.  Left alone in the night with only memories 
and faint leads, I’ve hit the brick wall of my own sanity; the men in white 
coats will be here shortly.
When the telephone does finally ring again I pounce on it with fear pouring out 
of my mouth.  “Hello?”
“Is this Dana Scully?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Is this line secure?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is the line secure?”
“Yes, yes.  Who…”
“I was asked to trace an incoming call to this number by three friends of mine.”
“Byers called you, right?”
“No names!  Look, no names.  Please.”
“Fine.  No names, just tell me what you know.”
“Alright.  I ran a trace on an incoming call to this number placed at about 2:16 
am this morning.”
Yes, yes.  I know the time damn it.  I know what you did.  Just tell me what’s 
going on.  Tell me it was him.
“The line was definitely cellular, but unfortunately the number’s been blocked.  
Not surprising, really.  It’s not uncommon for higher-end cell phones to have 
security blocks; the kind of thing the morons at the FCC just can’t…”
“Where?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Come on, location.  Location.  You must have at least gotten a geographical 
response.  At least.”
“Yea, it was difficult.  The call was international, but I traced it to Siberia. 
 Specifically Tunguska, Russia.  God knows how they got any kind of decent 
reception out there….”
 
_____
 
 
The headlights bounce nervously, like wandering eyes searching homeward again.  
I hadn’t realized how deep in the woods we were until it was time to seek 
civilization once more.  Of course there was the requisite griping…. how far 
we’d come just to turn back home…. the chance of seeing what might not surface 
again for another ten years.  They managed to put it behind them when I 
explained Scully’s telephone call.  The woods became even more silent than 
before, with only the sounds of shuffling sleeping bags rolled away for another 
time and the lid of the cooler reluctantly closing.
Langly is laying down in the back seat now, already chewing Trident like it’s 
his Lord and savior, and Frohike’s flipping through Jane’s again.  Every now and 
then I hear a ‘pop’ from the back seat and a sigh from Frohike.  He skips the 
few pages on Northrop’s YF-23, probably wondering if Venial Sin isn’t a hybrid 
program of that same plane and the YF-22.  It would have been something to 
see…evidence of its Soviet roots stretching from nose to fin like the tendons of 
a clenched fist.  In one sighting it could have given us the blue-print for a 
decades worth of secrecy:  everything from the initial 1978 project to the 
international technology swapping that apparently existed in the government 
today.  
“It would have been the definitive article, Byers.  Could have been our banner 
issue.  Now we’ll probably have to bum the info from Dan Weston, or one of those 
guys.  You know how I hate second-hand editorials.  Besides just the articles, 
can you imagine the questions it would have answered?”
“You know answers are never that forthright,” I say, looking at Frohike.  I’m 
about to say more…wistful rhetoric on trailing edge, vertical takeoff and 
landing, inward-canting tail fins…. it’s interrupted by commotion on the side of 
the road.  A shadow of a figure lingers near the edge of the road, then suddenly 
darts in front of the rental and we’re all thrown forward by the sudden stop.  I 
hear a solid thump from the backseat and I’m about to ask Langly if he’s still 
conscious but the man is already excitedly tapping on the passenger-side window 
and yelling, “Did you see it?  Did you see it?!”
“Steve!”  Frohike shouts while rolling down the window.
“Hey, the three amigos!  What a night, huh?”
I lean across the console and stare upwards into Steve Medlin’s shallow face.  
“Steve, I didn’t know you were out here.”
“Who isn’t man?  Everybody’s here for it.  Rumor’s even say John Lear is out 
here somewhere; got a base camp set up right on the edge of Fairmont.  Heard the 
camou dudes are just itching to pick up his ass for trespassing.”  He stares for 
a moment at the peach bomb we’re driving.  “Where’s the Batmobile?” 
“DC.  Came out here in a rush…kind of a last minute trip.”
“Yeah I get it.  Can you imagine missing this?”
“What, you’ve seen something already?”
Steve takes a step back from the car, incredulity bouncing from his face and 
shine of the headlights.  “Seen something?  Seen something?!  Dudes!  Where you 
been camped?  Canada?  Shit flew over here about fifteen minutes ago.  Couldn’t 
get any stills, but it’ll be something to post on our site.”
“What did you see?”
He leans over approaching the car, then rests on the rolled down window like he 
has the secret of the century.  He doesn’t want all the intruders out here in 
the middle of nowhere to over hear him.  “Just a sound at first.  That low 
humming everyone’s associated with the YF-22.  Something like a low boom…deep 
and resonant, you know?  Two seconds pass and then there it was.”  He stands 
slowly and points to a low spot on the horizon, just where the trees break and 
the peak of a larger mountain begins.  “Hovering, just kickin’ it.  Like it’s 
got all the time the world.”
“Lights?”
“Not many, just standard laser-show if you know what I mean.”  Frohike nods, and 
Steve continues. “Then it takes off.  No sound, no lights, just gone like that.”
“Steve that doesn’t sound like anything worth hanging around here for.  Stories 
like that are as prevalent…”
“No, man.  You didn’t let me finish.  About five minutes ago the sirens started. 
 It sounded like they were heading up to Greenborough, so Mike back there…”  
Steve jerks his head back towards the side of the road where a hunched over 
figure digs through a duffel bag.  “…he starts checking the scanner.”  Mike 
raises his head a moment and delivers us a half-hearted wave but his attention 
is elsewhere.  “Turns out just after the sighting a Jane Doe was found in the 
woods by a vacationing couple.  She shows up all delirious and catatonic and 
shit and ruining their little log cabin getaway.  They’re taking her down to 
Fairmont General for identification and several serious injuries.  They’re 
talking radiation burns, man.”
“So they find a girl…so?”
“Not just any girl.  On the scanner Mike hears that one of the meat-wagon 
parameds thinks he recognizes her.  Can’t make a positive identification for 
sure, but says she looks like one of the girls who went missing here two months 
ago in that mass disappearance.”  He stands up and breathes in the air, calmly 
enjoying the night.  “Authorities all said occult, right?  But I tell you…there 
was high activity that night in the woods also.  Shit flies then, mass people 
disappear.  Shit flies tonight, somebody’s coming home.”
 
_____
 
 
At night, FBI headquarters is ethereal.  In day the testosterone flows as freely 
as coffee as agents become busy little bees:  following their leads, doing 
background checks, and all the unrewarding aspects of working in the clockwork 
that is bureaucracy.  It’s difficult to stay afloat, not only as a female agent 
but also as an outsider.  It’s the extra kick in the ass when they look at you 
with the eyes of both sexism and separatism.  But here at the early hours of the 
morning it’s otherworldly.
The late shift is still here of course: telephone operators, surveillance teams, 
those dedicated agents working 24-hours on their make-or-break-a-career cases.  
And naturally, some of it still lingers…like fumes in the air that will never be 
completely purified.  It’s the permanent legacy of Hoover that seems to 
dissipate a bit more at night.  
But it always seems this way to me in the office.  While the rest of the bureau 
retires it’s misogynistic weight until the light of day, I doubt this office 
ever carried such restrictions.  It’s there that I settle myself, behind his 
desk where the nameplate still sits and his in-box as disorganized as ever.  
It’s not that I haven’t taken to using the desk myself.  I have.  But I take 
care.  I don’t want him to be lost on the x-files when he comes home.
I sit there for what seems forever, my overcoat wrapped protectively around my 
body.  It’s cold in here and for a moment I lean back and listen to the fan 
blades shifting decisively through their functions.  The cold air is refreshing 
and I think this is the first time I’ve given myself the chance to enjoy being 
here for a while.  Most times I walk in here and willfully blind myself.  
Don’t look at the diplomas.  You’ll have to see his name.  Don’t open his bottom 
drawer.  That’s where he keeps his personal things.  Deodorant.  Shaving cream 
and a razor.  Toothbrush.  Don’t sit there and wait for him to walk through that 
door.
Eventually it’s time to move, before the idea of looking for answers becomes too 
foreign to me.  It’s in the filing cabinet and I wish I could remember the 
number or even the subcategory he’d filed it under.  
He opened the x-file himself.  
(‘I know you have it in your mind to do this Mulder, but the case is closed.  
The senate subcommittee doesn’t want the investigation to continue.’  I had 
looked into his eyes, warily, trying to distinguish within myself between 
happiness at seeing him home again and my need for a fresh start.  The scab on 
his forehead was just beginning to heal and he reached up absentmindedly to 
scratch it or just remind himself it was still there.  ‘Besides, Mulder.  You’re 
home now.   There isn’t much of an x-file to open on this.’  ‘Agent Scully, is 
that all that matters to you?’  His eyebrows rose suggestively.  Lips curled in 
some kind of smile with a hidden agenda.  ‘Mulder…’  ‘Scully, just because 
questions are resolved doesn’t mean their answers should be forgotten.’)
The answers weren’t forgotten, merely placed away until new questions arose.  
What he’d told me about Tunguska was small and I’m hoping for any trace of 
evidence that might link our past to his future.  
I open the third drawer, flip quickly through the subcategories only then 
noticing the obvious:  all personal files are missing.  My breathing shallows as 
I look for Mulder, Fox William.  Gone.  Mulder, Samantha.  Gone.  I yank open 
the fourth drawer: Scully, Dana Katherine.  Gone.  Sim, Emily Christine.  
They’re all gone, and even as I slam one drawer open and rake through another, I 
know instinctively they’ve all been taken and destroyed.  I slam the last drawer 
shut, the force of it shaking the cabinet and then me.  I grasp his desk 
roughly, clenching my eyes shut, holding my breath tightly.  I’m ready to 
release it all as an occupational hazard in one relinquishing breath  (that’s 
what you get for working on the x-files) when my cell phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Scully…its Byers.  I uh, I hope Psycho was able to help out?”
“Unfortunately not; it looks like a dead end.  Interesting name, your friend 
has.”
Byers lets out a brief chuckle that he doesn’t have his heart in.  “Look, we 
were planning on catching the next flight out of here…”
“Don’t do it for my sake, Byers.  Like I said, I think this is just a dead end.”
“Actually Scully, I think you should make the trip out here.  There’s someone 
here in Oregon who you should see.”
“Who is it?”
“Well, do you know a Theresa Hoese?  She’s here at Fairmont General, and she’s 
been asking for you since she arrived.”
 
_____
 
 
“Disoriented and confused, mostly.  She’s been running a fever since they picked 
her up, and there are severe burns on both her hands and face.  She’s been 
having difficulty both swallowing and speaking:  her respiratory tract appears 
damaged, perhaps from inhaling toxic fumes.  There’s also evidence of exposure, 
but other than that she looks like she’ll be fine in the long run.  If this was 
a kidnapping or sexually motivated crime, she was left surprisingly in tact.  
She should be grateful; most young women aren’t as lucky.”
Dr. Walls folds her arms around herself and moves closer to the glass window 
that separates us from Theresa.  “The burning is odd, though.  Note that it’s 
centralized around the eyes.  Her hands as well.  They almost look like 
radiation burns, but the lab tests won’t be back for another five or six hours.  
I hate to jump to conclusions in a situation like this, especially when the FBI 
is involved.”
She turns to me with eyes embarrassed by her own curiosity.  “I understand about 
the confidentiality you must maintain, but the disappearance Mrs. Hoese as well 
as the others…. well… people are talking about occult practices.  Heaven’s gate 
and the like.  You know, carried to heaven on a spaceship?”  Dr. Walls laughs a 
quick burst of amusement before her eyes darken again.  “I just want to keep 
this on the level, if you understand what I mean.  My primary interest is this 
woman’s safety but if there’s a background of mental illness that may impede her 
recovery, I need to be informed… for her own benefit.”
I nod, unwilling to make any statement that might give me away.  “We’re all 
interested in her recovery, Dr. Walls.”  
Her look shifts from scrutinizing to thoughtful as she considers Theresa again.  
“You said your partner should be along shortly?  I think Theresa would finally 
like to see this Scully she’s been asking for.”
“Agent Scully left on the early flight from DC.  She should be arriving by 5:00 
am at the latest.”  
Dr. Walls nods, “I hope she has some insight here.  A doctor you said, is that 
correct?  I look forward to her input.  Treatment from here on out will be 
largely determined by her expertise in these circumstances as well as the lab 
results, and those I am very anxious to see.”
“We all are.  Thanks again for all your help, doctor.   I’ll notify you once my 
partner arrives.”
“Well I’ll be checking back in the next few hours.”  She turns to leave, then 
makes her way a few paces before turning to face me.  “You know, the FBI really 
doesn’t get the credit it deserves for the great services it provides.  I’m sure 
Theresa would be glad to know her case is in such capable hands as yours, Agent 
Mulder.”
 
_____
 
The 3:45 am flight was delayed, but God knows why.  I might as well have been 
the only passenger.   I should be used to it though, with all the last-minute 
travel I’d accustomed myself to: the deserted terminals and careless customer 
service.  They looked at me strangely, both the flight attendants and other 
passengers.  I wonder what they saw:  a lone woman with crazed eyes and 
disquieted look about her?  Or is it a partner, a friend, a lover creeping 
stealthily towards that logical end: the beginning.  I wonder what I’ll see when 
I have the time or self-interest to look in a mirror again.  
Briefly I contemplate my reflection in the taxicab window.  My cheeks are 
wavering and my eyes dance from the dribbling rain.  It falls with precision on 
the roof of the cab then washes down to erase my identity.  I’d considered only 
momentarily the need for casual clothes and sunglasses.  Not using a credit card 
to buy the one-way ticket.  Calling Skinner ahead of time from a small payphone 
across the street from Dulles International. 
 The secrecy and hiding of my interest in this case…the mere comprehension of it 
all angered me; that I’d have to sneak around to find my partner.  If all is 
fair in love and war, then be it the same in crime and investigation.  Byers 
said he’d managed to keep the authorities from being notified of Theresa’s 
arrival with the satiating explanation that the FBI was handling it.  So there.  
We got there first, and I’ll be damned if I give over one inch of this 
territory.
As far as I’m concerned there’s no time for motel check-ins or car rental 
agencies, so once I’ve been dropped at Fairmont General I pay the driver and 
face the wide white interior.  Slinging the over-night bag over a shoulder, I 
enter the doors that glow with dismal good fortune.   
Inside it may as well be an exact replica of Dulles in the odd hours of the 
morning.   I make my way through the hushed corridors undisturbed and 
unquestioned and find my way to the Intensive Care Unit.  Fourth floor.  I 
hesitate, waiting to be stopped at the nurse’s station with a request for 
identification.  
The station is deserted…the clipboards and files are in plain view and almost 
seem to be on display.  About to test the limits of this good fortune I reach 
over the counter.
”Scully!”  Byers voice reverberates noisily in the empty corridor, and as if he 
needs to say it again he repeats with a whisper.  “Scully.”
Down the hall Frohike and Langly are waiting on the plastic chairs that line one 
side of the hallway.  Byers walks towards me and brings a finger to his lips 
before I can speak.
”This was the only way I could think to keep them from notifying the local PD or 
the FBI.  I know its hard, but just play along if you want to see her.”
I nod reluctantly, suddenly uncomfortable with the whole situation.  I trusted 
myself not to be bothered by this but something inside won’t let it be.  “It’s 
all right Byers, you did what you could.”  I gesture at the ID he still clutches 
nervously in his hand.  He’s obviously not used to playing the FBI agent, and 
probably feeling just as guilty as I.  “I guess we’re just lucky you guys always 
seem prepared.”
He shrugs his shoulders, “Just what we’re here for.”  There’s an awkward silence 
and I begin to scan the hall for Theresa’s name.  “Dr. Walls is the doctor on 
duty; the night shift nurse has been checking in every hour or so.  I’d say you 
have a good twenty minutes alone with her.”  He points to three doors down.  
“Room 406.”
The door is open just an inch, and at eye level is the name they must have 
posted when she first arrived here: ‘Jane Doe’.  I let the light of the hallway 
drift in and myself with it.  I make my way towards the bed as Theresa turns and 
brings her hands toward her eyes.
“Theresa?”  Her eyes are deeply scarred.  It looks like the flesh around them 
has been treated and cleansed repeatedly but the effects of the bio-toxin are 
still remarkably present.  She closes her eyes tightly.  “Theresa Hoese?”
“Please, the light.”
I shut the door and give myself a moment to adjust to the darkness before 
inching towards her bedside.  “Theresa, it’s me.  Agent Scully.”
“Oh.  Oh they said you were coming, but I didn’t know if I could believe them.”  
She reaches out her hand in blindness and somehow latches onto mine.  “Please, 
you have to tell me if he’s okay?  Jacob, my baby.  I was so afraid they would 
take him.”
“He’s fine, Theresa.  From what I know he was taken by social services, but once 
you’re…”
“And Ray?”  Her breathing is difficult but she manages to murmur, “Is he home 
yet?”
“No.  No, I’m afraid not.  From what I know you are the first.”
Theresa shakes her head.  “But I’m not.  The others are being returned also.  I 
thought Ray would be home by now…I never saw him there…so I thought…”  Words 
drift off into silence, and she takes to looking at the IV drip and it’s 
systolic beat.
“The others?” I ask gently
She nods  “That’s why I asked for you.  I knew no one else would listen.”  Her 
grip on my hand increases.  “He’s still there, you know.”
“Who is?”
“Agent Mulder.  So many are dying…have died.  And the tests on him, they were 
the hardest.  I don’t think things with him went as expected, and…. and even 
though it’s been hard for him…like it was for all of us…he’s going to be okay.”
I drop her hand, needing something solid and stable to grip but nothing comes 
quickly enough.   I back into the chair by her bedside and through some miracle 
I’m still breathing even if my mind is too overwhelmed to take in any of what 
she’s saying.  
“I wanted to let you know that he’s okay.  But…”  She shakes her head, searching 
for the words or the means to say them.  “But…there’s something different with 
him.  He’s not like the others.  And the tests aren’t going well.”  She looks at 
me finally.  “He’s had visitors too.  It’s odd…no one else did, but I’ve seen a 
man who has visited him.”
“Who?”
“I…I don’t know.  I didn’t recognize his face or voice, but he was American.”
“American?  Then the others…”
“With the others I didn’t recognize the language.”  I can feel her memory coming 
to her in bits and pieces…only portions of the truth that would eventually make 
a whole picture.  Understanding the difficulty to remember, I reach again for 
her hand.  “It was…. Oh, I don’t know…foreign, but familiar.  Like something 
from a movie or…”  The thin tears roll down and she sighs with disappointment.  
“I’m so sorry.  All I really remember, more than anything, is the fear.  It’s 
not like it was before.  Even from what Ray described to me, about his 
abductions…it was nothing like that.  I know the horrible stories he’s 
shared…but I think he always felt himself when he finally came home.  There was 
always that feeling of violation, but he was still Ray.  I feel like the real me 
is somewhere else, and I don’t…I don’t like what I’ve been left with.”
I’m trying desperately to focus…to retain some amount of personal control, but 
what I’m hearing confirms too much of what I’d already suspected.  And I’m ready 
to fly to Siberia tonight.  Theresa looks at me not with the eyes of a patient 
or victim, but the strong heart of a woman who has spent a great deal of her own 
time waiting.  “They’re returning, Agent Scully.  The ones who survive will live 
longer with the strength of what they are.  Your partner…the changes I saw in 
every one else…he never got to that point.  He will be returning soon.”
“How can you be sure?”
“They’re all coming home.”
 
_____
 
 
Everything from here on out is a shot in the dark.  A pure guess or postulation 
at the truth.  The fragments we’ve been given will begin to fall into place, but 
by no more our own effort than the pure fate that directs those fragments.  It 
seems odd now, that for all the searching and hollow leads we’ve exhausted, that 
in the end it all had to do with waiting.  Maybe part of that search brought us 
here, either as a way to deal with Mulder’s abduction or as a way to reach the 
crossroads that would signal his homecoming.  In the beginning we we’re sure 
that pure determination, our leads and our sources and simply the affection that 
fueled our search would gather us at some point to welcome him home.  
We didn’t foresee the coincidence that in letting go…in releasing the stubborn 
faith and preconceptions we’d held to so tightly…we’d see tonight’s fruition.  
Of course we still believe he’ll return, but the release of that faith signaled 
something else within us all: an acceptance that the usual answers will not do, 
and in the end his return will have little part in either logic or effort.
Granted, this a small step: Theresa Hoese is apparently what Scully needed, as 
either a clue or a direct link to Mulder.   When Scully exits 46 with Dr. Walls 
just fifteen minutes later, it’s too hard to read her face.  A glance in our 
direction is brief.  For a moment I try distracting myself but turning from 
their conversation just down the hall proves more than difficult.
I catch none of the words themselves but the tone is clear.  I’ve heard that 
tone of voice in Scully more than a few times.  It’s the precursor to action; 
her last resort before she clamps her mouth shut, finds her purposeful walk, 
then sets about doing what needs to be done.  I watch from the corner of my eye 
and Scully doesn’t seem to be playing by her own rules.  
Dr. Walls’ voice is steady but biting, and Scully just stands there staring with 
her mouth slightly open.  She’s about to say something but Dr. Walls walks off.  
As she walks past us I catch a huff and immediately busy myself with the ID.  I 
haven’t known what to do with it yet.  Keep it in my pocket?  That sounds too 
much like ownership.  Instead I’ve been fiddling with it, mostly to Frohike’s 
frustration.  He looks at me expectantly, still waiting to see what I do with 
it.  He then nods towards Scully who is standing with her back towards Theresa’s 
room and her hands poised at her lips.  It was an obvious answer I should have 
come to on my own.
Scully’s still trying to gather herself when I approach; at first I thought it 
was just her anger and frustration but getting closer I see the edge of tears, 
unanticipated.  “Scully…”  I hold out his ID and wait. 
She takes it between two fingers and lightly sniffs back the tears, masking 
emotion.  Her glance is brief and after pocketing it she asks, “How on earth did 
you get away with it, Byers?”
“You display it fast enough…”  The silence that follows is awkward.  “…and 
they’ll buy it.”  I want to ask what happened in Theresa’s room, what Dr. Walls 
was so quick to dismiss, but can’t risk the insult on injury.  She looks too 
wounded already.  
“I tried explaining to Dr. Walls about Theresa, her history of abductions…She 
didn’t want to hear a word.”  Scully waits for a moment and then continues, 
“Theresa is infected with a very serious biological-toxin.  Without proper 
treatment the effects of it will continue to break down her system.  With the 
trauma she’s suffered in addition to that, and God knows what they’ve done to 
her…”  She trails off gently, her voice blending into the murmur that this 
hospital seems composed of.
“With your expertise, your background, there must be something you can do.”
“I can’t even call on the FBI.  I’ve been censured and barred from any 
investigative activity involving Agent Mulder, and I think this qualifies.”
“And Dr. Walls?”
“Will continue to treat her as she sees fit.  As a medical doctor I respect her 
position.  I probably wouldn’t listen to someone like me if the tables were 
turned.  But this isn’t about alien abductions or bio-toxins or preconceived 
notions about extraterrestrials.  This is about a mother…”  Scully’s gaze hits 
the floor hard.  “…waiting for her husband to come home.  She deserves all the 
help we can give her.”
Down the hall the chirp is initially just an annoyance until Frohike reaches 
into the side pocket of her duffel bag and produces Scully’s cell phone.  The 
sound is louder now, and he walks it over to her with care.  As I retreat I hear 
her say for the first time in a long time, “Scully.”
 
_____
 
 
“I hope you don’t assume this is just another dead end I’ve handed you.”
My heart stills as I recognize the voice.  Alex Krycek.  “Dead end?  I’m fairly 
sure of where he is, and I’m ready to leave tonight.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, if I were you.”
“Why?”  He doesn’t answer but lets the silence sit until I demand again.  “Why?”
“He’s nowhere you can find him.”
“Then you know where he is.”
“I know where he should be…. and will be, if you have enough patience.  I know 
that he has no part in these tests.  His role should have been played by 
another.”
“Who?”
”Why do you think that son of a bitch had us hunting for that spaceship in the 
first place?”
“CGB Spender…”
“He knew it was him, not Mulder that they wanted.  A surgery can do more than 
save a man’s life…. it can completely change him.”
“What about Mulder?”
“They’re beginning to regard him as a mistake, as well as many of the others.”
“Like Theresa Hoese?”
“She did well; it wasn’t her fault the tests didn’t take.  Her weakness…the 
difficulty of the program…the simple desire to go on…there are so many factors 
that go into survival.  She’ll be lucky to last the night, like Billy Miles.”
“Billy is here too...”
“Kirkland Memorial, in Washington.  Room 54.  Another John Doe, just like so 
many across America are being labeled as we speak.  He should have arrived there 
just two hours ago.”
“And these tests…what are they for?  What are they doing to them?”
“The project for colonization continues.  Not in America, but around the world.  
Here in Russia they are reaching the final stages, as the efforts for a vaccine 
have been abandoned.  They consider their only hope complete cooperation, and 
without the syndicate the US has only them to take on the project that was left 
behind.”
“What are these tests?”
“Creation.  More than just alien-human hybrids.  They are lighthouses, in 
effect.  Ambassadors through whom the colonizers can communicate and begin the 
takeover.”  
“Then it’s the rejects who are returning?”
“Some.”
”Mulder?”  Silence again.
“Perhaps tonight, maybe soon.”
“How do you know all this, Krycek?  Why should I trust what you’re saying?”
“Old alliances should never truly be severed. And I still have sources.”
“And that’s not an answer.  I need proof.”
“Proof?  Don’t you believe in fate, Agent Scully?  The happenstance that will 
bring you to his side just at his moment of need?”
”I believe he’s coming home regardless of your twisted logic.”
“Then you did get his message.  A gift from me to you.”
I’m about to slam the phone shut, but something keeps me listening, waiting for 
the one reason he called.  The purpose of this.  
“Here’s another one.  You have an hour to wait.  Lenox Hill Hospital, Manhattans 
Upper East Side.  Room 42.”
”What are you saying?”
“They have a sense of irony.”
 
_____
 
 
The instructions were simple: wait here.  And of all the directives Mulder and 
Scully have handed us over the years, this is the most difficult.  Of course 
there were no alternatives.  In Scully’s universe it is obey or be destroyed.  
At least that’s what it felt like, and after she slammed the phone shut, ran 
down the hall for her bag, and paused along the way with those two little words, 
there wasn’t a man among us who would dare disobey let alone question the logic. 
 
After all there isn’t much we can do.  I assume she wanted us to keep an eye on 
Theresa, report any more members of the suddenly prevalent Doe family who may 
turn up, or just basically keep tabs on Fairmont General.  But Dr. Walls 
apparently latched onto our little scheme after Scully flew out of here. Dr. 
Walls demanded to see my ID once again…she wanted to write down the number.  I 
passed a silent thank-you to Frohike for his brilliant idea.  Sure, it made a 
nice keepsake for Scully, but heck, the thing wasn’t even real in the first 
place.  “What ID?” was my brilliant response.  
Not fifteen minutes later four FBI agents arrived, real ones this time I assume. 
 We did what we could to stay, but eventually we decided that hanging out in the 
hospital cafeteria was not what Scully meant by “wait here”.  The only other 
option is to risk termination and follow Scully back to DC.  If that is even 
where she’s headed. 
Frohike and Langly are leaning towards the latter.  We’re all of us wondering if 
this is it.  She didn’t say who called, what was so urgent she had to leave for, 
or even that there was hope enough left to run us ragged with.  We’re trusting 
that when she gets wherever her truth is, she’ll call, but the guarantee is 
slim.  She’ll only call if this is it. 
We sit in the peach bomb draining the battery.  We wait for the phone to ring 
again.
 
_____
 
 
I passed on the idea of telling the Gunmen.  I’ve called them to the edge of 
reason too many times before.  (Look over that cliff and tell me what you see.  
That face…do you recognize it?  Is it his?)  It would be unfair.  Something 
cruel.  I’m no sadomasochist, but this is the pain I’m starting not only to 
enjoy but also revel in.  This is a deadly hide-and-seek game I’m playing with 
his face.  Identifying bodies that aren’t his became a past time for me over the 
months I’ve been missing him.  Maybe twenty-two or three since it really became 
a habit.  I want tonight to be the night I get it right.  The night I say 
‘yeah’, it’s him.  This time the ‘John Doe’ will be mine.
So it would be unfair to drag the Gunmen along.  They were trying to get away 
for the week and I don’t want to risk losing their respect or gaining their pity 
in letting them watch my hopes rise and fall for the millionth time.  I remind 
myself again and again…. this man has tricked you before…played both sides and 
so well too.  This man that you’re blindly following has just exposed your 
greatest need and you’re letting him string you along.  But I don’t think it 
will be to watch my heart break.  This may be for real. 
The three and a half hour flight lands me in New York at noon, and in half an 
hour I am directing the driver towards 100, East 77th Street.  The wait is long 
and tedious…the longest of my life, and becoming incessant is my hunger and 
fatigue.  I forget that I’m pregnant, which may sound like the most ridiculous 
thing in the world but it still takes me by surprise.  But for now it’s good and 
I’ll thrive on it.  Adrenaline fueled by anxiety is the first real emotion I’ve 
felt since that day after Mulder was abducted.  The day I told Skinner I was 
going to be a mother.
I did notify Skinner though.  When I get there, he’s the first thing I want to 
see: something real and identifiable.  The strength and stoicism that is 
categorically Skinner.  Someone I recognize and can grasp emotionally, even if I 
find that I don’t know the occupant of number 42.  He was surprisingly calm when 
I called.  It was mid-morning there, and in low tones he said simply he’d be 
there.  No work to take off or Kimberly to notify.  “Lenox Hill.  I’ll be there” 
No surprise or apprehension, as he is always filled with when this happens.  It 
has happened before.  (‘Morgan, Massachusetts?  What’s there Scully?’  ‘White 
male in his late thirties to early forties, unidentified.’  He signs me off for 
the day…week…however long I need and with no questions or hope he lets me go.)  
This time I ask him to follow and he does.  I should thank him for that someday. 
 
I should thank him for that now, but no words are out of my mouth.  Just the 
open shock to see Skinner so distressed.  Down the hallway in this featureless 
hospital, Skinner waits with his face ashen.
I’m running now, and behind him from room 42 exit three men in suits.  
“Scully…”  I hear my name, but I’m blindly trying to push in the room.  It takes 
me a while to realize I’m being held back.  
”Is it?”  It’s all I can ask.  It’s all I can think or breathe, and with every 
hard grip that restrains me is an equal urge to break free and just look.  Just 
see his face.  Please. “Is it him?  Skinner?”
It doesn’t take long for me to realize Skinner has no authority here.  Of the 
three men that block my way, one speaks.  “Agent Scully?”  His eyes are thin and 
sharp like the rest of his face.  He is entire business and composure with his 
lips drawn tightly and any emotion well hidden.  He doesn’t look directly at me.
“Tell me it’s him.  You have to let me see him.  I’m his partner.”
“My name is Agent John Doggett; I’ve been heading Agent Mulder’s case.”
Maybe I’m speaking in tongues.  Maybe he doesn’t hear me.  He looks beyond me at 
the bleached walls as I fight to see him with all I have left:  “I’m his 
doctor.”
“You have been given strict orders…”
“It is him.”  I turn to Skinner for the truth, but he looks away.  “How did you 
know?  Who told you he was here?”  
“Anonymous tip.  Came in at eleven this afternoon.”
Krycek playing both sides and well.  It should have been anticipated. All I can 
say is “Please.”  Doggett doesn’t move, nor do the agents behind him.   
“We’ve been informed that any attempts by you to impede the investigation of 
Agent Mulder’s disappearance will be handled with the strictest penalties.  I 
trust having an Assistant Director present will temper your activity.”  He looks 
me up and down calmly and his voice stills.  “Everyone knows about the OPR 
inquiry… I think you’ve got every right to come in here.”  He grabs my arm 
roughly as I step forward and try to push through them.  “Just keep the 
flying-saucer crap to a minimum.  He’s crazy enough as it is.”
I push beyond them finally, and in one gracious, godsend of a moment Skinner 
keeps them from infiltrating this…this….
And there he is. 
 If it had been long enough I may not have recognized him.  The stubble isn’t as 
bad as I expected but his eyes are darker and drawn in, his face sallow and thin 
from malnutrition.  The bloody scabs around his lips and hands have been washed, 
but there is still dirt that seems to have seeped in to his skin. It looks as 
though it lives in his bones now.  On shaky legs I walk closer, only then 
realizing they are immense bruises that cover him.  One eye is partially swollen 
shut, and his lips are parted with dryness.  I’ve seen this before.  It’s that 
vision of near-death that hurts more than all the autopsy photos in the world.  
I’ve seen this in young girls abused and mistreated or the victims of racial 
hatred; hovering near life with only the lack of hope that finally releases 
them.  A small cry exits my throat, and Mulder’s eyes finally open.
I’m at his bedside and I wait for myself to speak: to say something significant 
or moment making or something to convey the universality of what I feel.  
Somewhere deep in his eyes I see a smile as he raises his index finger.  A 
breath clenches deep in my throat.  His finger travels past my abdomen to point 
directly at me.  
His words are little more than a whisper. “ET phoned home.”
I laugh with tears and touch his finger to mine.  Then they’re entwined, his 
fingers and mine.  Deeply imbedded as he crushes my palm with a force I didn’t 
expect.  I’m crying now but I don’t feel it.  I want to crush him back.  To wait 
until our hands hurt so badly that we never let go but his strength fades 
quickly and he closes his eyes.  
This is all I can think to say, “I’ve been looking for you.” 
He nods and I see his mouth start to open but I want to be the first.  
“There is so much to tell you, Mulder.  So much has happened.”   
His arm releases from my fingers leaving them twisted and red; throbbing as the 
blood rushes back into them.  He threads his arm around my waist, drawing me 
towards his bed.  My abdomen meets his face it seems, and suddenly that’s where 
his head is.  In the stillness he presses his ear to my womb and he simply 
listens and breathes.  I don’t know if this is a hug or the sign that he knows;  
I’m still crying and trying to speak at the same time.
“So…. so much, Mulder.  And I don’t know how or why, but it has.”
He murmurs into the dark cloth, raising wave upon wave of movement up towards my 
heart, “Just tell me it’s true.”
The words seem simple then.  Suddenly it’s not so incomprehensible to me, and 
somehow I manage to let the words escape, “I’m pregnant.”
Then it is a hug, or a grasp, rough and needy and far-flung as his other arm 
reaches around and draws me closer than we’ve ever been.  He presses himself 
tightly to me and his shaking is only equal to mine and my tears.  He 
relinquishes me, my stomach, momentarily as I get down on both knees at his 
bedside.  Holding his face in mine I do what I can to look him in the eyes.  
Sometimes while making love it was too much.  His eyes don’t seem so dark 
anymore, and the returning gaze is empowering.  So this is what happiness feels 
like.  I thought I’d forgotten.  
I kiss Mulder hard on the cheek, doing what I can as far as restraint goes.  But 
in pain he never makes a sound.  He accepts and gives like I do, strongly and 
with passion and a relief.  I whisper the last whole word I know I’ll get out 
before the tears come again.  “Congratulations.”
Of course the tears fall, then it’s just soft laughter…light and calming.  
Suddenly the feral emotions have passed as we both come to the conclusion that 
this is real and there’s nothing left to run from.  Fear of loss subsides as we 
realize we have arrived, at least in this moment.  He leans back in the bed, 
dragging with him the dozens of little IV lines I hadn’t noticed before.  
Inwardly I chide myself for being so rough with him but I’m still grasping his 
hand with possession.  
He brings my hand to his lips, which seem to scratch it more than kiss it.  
All the same.  
Everything is said in his eyes which betray the happiness I’d been waiting so 
very long to share with him.  With a hand tethered by tubes he reaches into the 
top of his hospital gown and brings forth something warm and bright.  “I had the 
strength of your beliefs.”  He doesn’t move to unclasp it, and even if he did I 
would have pushed him down with insistence.  “Thank you Scully.”
I trace its tiny form against the line of his neck, unsure of what to say.  In 
truth I thought I’d lost it.  More than just the necklace or the steadfastness 
in my life that it represented.  But faith itself.  Again, as I had with Daniel. 
 Not the physicality of it of course.   I knew that somewhere across the 
universe the spectrum of my faith was waiting with my gold cross hanging around 
his neck.  But along the way, in this all-consuming search, I remembered in my 
past a night of regret, a tiny velvet coffin, and the confusion that came from a 
devastating time.   The distance between two times in my life seems that much 
greater.  I had confused that time with now.  
As I pull a chair forward with no intention of leaving his side for a long time, 
I remember a night.  And no regrets.  Mulder had reached out for me and found 
me, all by grasping that light symbol I had placed so much faith in.  I rest my 
head on his bedside where he breathes deeply, neither of us plagued by the need 
to say something that would only misrepresent the moment.  I remember a night, 
being understood, being held and holding, and discovering the beauty of 
contradictions.   I rest finally and find the gratefulness that after this 
moment neither of us will be retreating into the night.
 
 
 
THE END
 
_____
 
 
Authors Notes: Much of the Lone Gunmen dialogue about spy planes and such was 
taken from the great book Dreamland by Phil Patton.  Great resource guide for 
all things conspiratorial.  Psycho Spy is the pseudonym a real person, offering 
“excursions” to the Area 51 border.  I thought a homage was in order, so please, 
no offence to the real Psycho.  Also, Steve Medlin was named after the owner of 
the infamous “black mailbox” in Nevada.  Similar apologies to the real Steve.  
As for Theresa Nemman (ahem Hoese.  Am I the only Phile having a hard time with 
that?) and her baby, I don’t believe a name was ever mentioned so I made one up. 
 Jacob.  So sue me.  Also, I had to use John Doggett.  No real reason, I’m just 
sick of people wailing about how horrible it’s all going to be.  Come on!  
Where’s your team spirit!  Ra! Ra! Sis boom ba!  Goooo X-Files!
Special ThanX:  I can’t say enough about Tara W. and Shawen A. Greer.  Thank you 
both from the bottom of my heart.  Shawen, your friendship and feedback are 
invaluable and you are so very special to me.  Thanks for the additional info on 
Theresa.  You’re my hero!  Tara, you’ve changed me and my life.  Thanks aren’t 
enough, and I’m so sorry for that.  You deserve worlds more.  I love you both!  
Angels!  Dolls!  
 
Read more of my fanfic at Twilight Time: 
http://www.geocities.com/xxtara/lydias_fanfic.html