The Christopher Scully Series
                       stories 11-15


Title: XI We All Fall Down I
Author: Jori damienma@netroenterprises.com
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mulder and Scully leave Christopher behind to head to New Mexico to
investigate a twenty-five year old abduction that may or may not have
extraterrestrial involvement. NC-17/

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

The Scully/Mulder residence
April 15, 2002
5:07 a.m.

A small wrinkle around sleepy eyes. A gentle crease around his mouth. A
tiny fold of skin on his neck.

I am trying to memorize all of him, to learn every inch by heart. I
drink in his scent, not wanting to ever forget this small moment in time.

He is sleeping in my arms, nestled tightly against my breast. He
breathes softly and moves slightly to free himself from my hold. I do
not let go. I cannot let go.

His hand moves up and touches my face, yet he doesn't wake up. He
instinctively knows how far away I am from him. We've been here so many
times before. So many hours of me holding him, loving him in a way only
I can.

His eyelids flutter and he enters another dream. What does he dream
about and does he have nightmares? Am I the only person who can take his
nightmares away? What if I wasn't ever here to help him?

I know my fears sometimes border on irrational, but I can't suppress
them. I don't want to leave him, I think as I stroke his brow.

"Scully, the Land of Enchantment awaits. We're going to be late," Mulder
says from the doorway, looking at his watch.

I silently hold up my index finger, letting him know I'm not quite ready
to give up this moment with my son yet. Mulder sighs, leans up against
the door frame to Christopher's room and watches me rock our child.

Mulder has been away from us for days at a time already. Sometimes I
could swear he is happy to be away, although he would never admit to
that. I have yet to leave my son overnight, and I honestly am not ready
for it. He's not a helpless newborn anymore, but he is still a baby. He
is my baby.

I look up at Mulder. His features are softened by the tranquil light
pouring from the night light in the nursery. I look down at my son and
then back up at his father. With this lighting, I can see what Mulder
must have looked like nearly forty years ago, before childhood and
adolescence set his features. A time before this life we have led
supplied those features with tiny stress lines and slight wrinkles. He
is by no means old, but he certainly does not look as young as he did
that day I first walked into his office. He continues to stand there,
just watching me.

Did his mother rock him back to sleep as when he was a baby? Surely she
must have. I am almost jealous and scared of whatever bond she may have
formed with him in those early morning hours so many years ago. Jealous
to think at one time he needed no other person on earth besides her.
Scared that now he doesn't need her at all. I look at my son, dreading
the inevitable day that this will happen to us, like it does to all
mothers and sons.

"Scully..." Mulder says again, imploring me to put my son back to bed
and get moving.

Mulder is glad to be doing something else other than terrorism. Even
though he chose to put himself on that detail this time, I know it bores
him desperately. Only twice since he returned to it has he found the
case worthy of his attention. The rest of the time he just slides by
with even less than a minimal amount of effort.

I'm also sure this little life of 'domestic bliss' is beginning to get
to him. Everything I've ever dreamed of is everything he's never wanted.
Some days I can see it in his eyes. He looks trapped and I don't know
how to free him. Maybe that look is why I can't marry him yet. I love
him but can't give him what he needs. He loves me but that isn't going
to be enough.

I look back up at Mulder and he cocks his head towards the side. It is
his way of telling me we have to go. He doesn't understand that I really
don't want to do this anymore. Somehow, mysteriously, I've moved past
needing that life. I stopped chasing after all things elusive, but he
just can't. That particular journey with him ended for me, as a new one
began.

My own mother joins Mulder in the doorway and whispers something to him.
He just nods and walks off in the direction of the stairs.

"Dana, Christopher will be okay," my mother says as she enters the room,
"You can call every ten minutes to check on him. We won't mind."

"But will I be okay?" I ask her, my voice cracking slightly. I don't
know why I'm so upset. I certainly didn't expect to be.

"Honey, it will only be for a few days," she says, putting her hand on
my shoulder, "You will be back before you know it. I won't let him do
anything spectacular while you are gone. I promise there will be no
first steps, no rewriting Einstein."

"You promise?" I ask, smiling up at her.

"I promise," she says.

I kiss Christopher's head and take a deep breath filled with the scent
of baby shampoo. One more small aspect of him I need to remember for
however many days I might be gone. It is so silly of me, but I can't
help myself sometime. He is already growing up so fast and now I have to
miss some of those days.

Mom carefully slips Christopher from my arms and carries him back to his
crib, covering him gently with his Paddington Bear comforter. We stand
over his crib for a few seconds more before we leave his room and shut
the door behind us.

"There's enough frozen breast milk to last a week," I tell her as we
make our way through the baby gates and down the stairs, "He's only been
nursing at night before bedtime. He's been taking a bottle of formula in
the morning instead of nursing for the last few weeks. Also, his food is..."

"Dana, I do this everyday. Remember?" my mother asks me.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. It's just been awhile since I was away on a
field assignment.," I say, "I...we used to pick up and go off on a
moments notice all the time. It used to be so easy. Just get on an
airplane, leaving no one behind."

"No one ever said having kids was easy," she says to me in that mother
tone she gets occasionally.

"No one ever said it could be this hard, either," I say to her.

"Wait until he's a toddler," my mother says with a laugh, "Or better
yet, a teenager with a mind of his own. Just like his parents. Heaven
help us!"

I find Mulder standing over the kitchen sink, staring out the window at
the backyard.

"Mulder? Are you ready," I ask him and he jumps slightly.

"I'm the one who's been waiting. Let's go," he says as he walks past me
out the door.

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

We are only minutes out of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport when the plane
hits turbulence and descends rapidly. It only lasts a few seconds, but
Scully grabs my hand and holds on tight for several minutes. She
eventually relaxes her death grip, but doesn't move her hand out of mine.

I can see Agent Reid eyeballing us from across the aisle. Maybe he
thinks that at any moment Scully and I are going to go to the lavatory
and establish our membership into the 'Mile High Club.' Or renew our
membership. I'll leave it up to his imagination.

"Scully, what's wrong? You've been edgy all morning. You seemed fine all
weekend," I ask her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Did you ever think that if anything ever happened to us now, if we were
to die, Christopher would never remember us?" Scully asks, "He is the
most important person in our lives, yet he wouldn't remember us."

Well, that's a little light morning conversation for you.

"It was just some turbulence, Scully," I say to her, "We've been through
worse on flights."

"That's not what I meant," she says.

"Nothing is going to happen to us. Not on this case. We will get in
there, find out this Munch..."

"Mulch," she interrupts.

"Whatever. This *Mulch* guy did it and be home by Wednesday," I tell
her, "Thursday at the latest. In and out. I promise."

She's heard this promise before.

"That's not what you really want, is it?" she asks me quietly. She knows
that Skinner and Diana are sitting directly behind us.

Scully has always known that my quest for that indefinable proof that is
out there didn't end with the birth of Christopher. I am not desperate
enough to risk everything that means anything to her over it, but I'm
not going to just walk blindly by an opportunity when it presents itself.

"I don't know what I want," I say, lying to her, "All I know is nothing
is going to happen to us. To any of us. This isn't fertilizer detail,
Scully, but it isn't the flukeman, either. Is this what you were
thinking about the whole time you spent rocking Christopher?"

Scully releases my hand and puts her head back. She got up at three
o'clock in the morning to be with Christopher, and she already looks
exhausted. A part of me is glad she is coming along. I've missed working
with her. Yet, another part of me wishes they had honored her request
and was allowed to simply continue her assignment at the Academy and her
life as a mother at her home.

"What has happened to me, Mulder?" she asks me, nearly whispering, "When
did I become so afraid?"

"July ninth of last year," I say to her.

"When Christopher was born, I was so scared something would happen to
him. Then I began to accept that certain things were out of my control.
It was hard for me to accept it, but it's true. Now, I'm not only
worried about something happening to him, but what if something happens
to me? To us? I
don't want to miss his life. Aren't you scared that something may happen
to you out in the field?"

"What? You think some poor crop farmer is going to go apeshit and take a
shot at me over a pile of manure?" I ask.

"You've been on more serious cases than that. The one in Atlanta..."

"It's not like it was before, Scully. Have you ever thought that perhaps
the reason I haven't gone back to the X-files is exactly that? Maybe I
worry, too. I worry about not coming home to you and Christopher." I
tell her honestly, before asking, "Did you worry this much before
Christopher?"

She turns her head and looks at me.

"Yes, I worried about you. When ever you would go off on your own, I'd
worry. Why wouldn't I? You were my partner."

"I still am. For this week anyway."

"You are more than that now," she says to me.

"I hope so."

She looks out the little window at her view of the wing for a few
minutes. She hardly said a word to me on the flight from D.C. to Dallas.
Of course, we were sitting three across and she was sandwiched between
Skinner and myself. That doesn't necessarily allow for intimate
conversation.

"You can't keep doing this domestic terrorism detail forever. It's just
not you. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have given up
and that I don't expect you stay away from the X-files forever. I just
don't think now is the time. It would be like taunting them," she says
softly, leaning into me so others can't hear us.

"It's fine for now. I haven't lost anymore than you have. You never
wanted to be back teaching. Eventually, it will all work out and *we*
will be back to where we belong," I tell her.

She takes hold of my hand again and doesn't let go until we arrive in
Albuquerque.

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

Albuquerque Field Office
Albuquerque, New Mexico

The field agent at the Albuquerque office looks a little too happy as he
and an assistant deposit several boxes of material relating to Erickson
on the conference table before us.

"It's all yours," one says as they walk out the door.

I stand up and take the top off one of the storage boxes. Scully grabs
another box and also flips its lid off.

"Well, let's see what we've got here," I mumble as I take out a stack of
twenty-five year old paper work.

Skinner is in the SAC's office and Diana and Reid are waiting for my
instructions. I push a box towards the two of them, and they start
pulling out papers on their side of the conference table.

"What are we looking for?" Agent Reid asks me.

"The killer," I say to him sarcastically.

"I would assume we are looking for anything that might have been missed
in previous investigations, Agent Reid," Scully says to him.

Reid has been an agent for about six years now. How he got to be working
at headquarters, I don't know. Many have said the same about me, so I
don't question it too much. From all reports, he was an excellent field
agent and he rose to the top quickly. Reid probably won't be stuck with
me for long. I'm sure he has better plans than domestic terrorism. Hell,
I have better plans than domestic terrorism.

"Everything here is twenty-five years old," Diana says, as she starts
stacking papers.

"Everything I have is from two years ago to now," Scully says, "which
must have been when the senator got the case reopened here. Except here
is some paperwork from 1992, but there's not much of it."

"That was his first year as a state senator," Diana interjects and my
head shoots up from the papers I was organizing to look at her. I
already knew she had some background on this case, since she gave me the
senator's name in the first place. So far she has said nothing and he
denied even knowing her.

Diana doesn't say anything else and resumes pushing papers. Scully and I
both look at each other, and I can tell she's wondering why we didn't
know that. All the information we were given in D.C. only covered the
incident itself, and the more recent proceedings by the senator to get
the case reopened. I did not know he had tried unsuccessfully to reopen
the case before. I also knew he had a solid political background, but no
where in the papers we received did it say what that background was.
What I knew came from an e-mail from Frohike.

After several hours of combing through various boxes of paperwork and
the scant bit of evidence available, Skinner and SAC Philip Carmen enter
the room and ask for a status report.

"So far, nothing new, sir. We were just going to begin outlining our
plans for tomorrow," Scully says, taking off her glasses and wiping her
eyes. She must be tired. It is seven o'clock at home now and she's now
had a sixteen hour day. Somehow I'm betting we don't get to share a room
this evening, either.

"Agent Mulder, what are the plans for tomorrow?" Skinner asks me.

I break my focus from Scully and look at the assistant director and the
SAC. Carmen just stands behind Skinner with his arms crossed. Although I
get the distinct impression that the agents here are glad to hand this
over, Carmen looks as if his toes have been severely stepped on. I'm
guessing this is why Skinner came along. The two seem to know each
other. When the rest of us were introduced, he barely gave us any
recognition, except to say he had heard of my work. I couldn't tell if
that was good or bad.

"Agent Scully and I are going to go up to the prison in Santa Fe to
interview Ronald Mulch. Agents Reid and Fowley are going to try to track
down Senator Erickson's sister, Jackie. She hasn't been interviewed
about the incident since 1977," I tell him.

"Fine. Let's call it quits for the evening. We will be back here at
eight o'clock in the morning," Skinner says to the group in general.

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

The tension in this room is thick enough to cut with the proverbial knife.

I don't know which of us is the most uncomfortable. Mulder looks like
he's about to go out of his mind, Agent Fowley is just keeping to
herself, and I am suffering through the misery of a mother who forgot to
pack her breast pump. I'm tired and edgy and really just want to lie
down and get some sleep before we begin again tomorrow.

Unfortunately, Agent Fowley and I get to be roommates for the duration
of this adventure into the Southwest. Not that I care as long as I get
to have a bed and some quiet, but I must admit Mulder's expression was
priceless when Skinner handed Agent Fowley and me the two electronic
pass cards for
room 135. He's just next door in the adjoining room with Agent Reid, but
I don't think he's spent more than five minutes in his room yet. Mulder
seems to prefer moving from chair to chair in this room instead, leaving
a little trail of sunflower seed husks behind him.

I'm honestly not sure of what he's afraid of. Maybe his past and present
colliding like this is more than he can really handle. Perhaps he has
thoughts that the two of us are going to sit up all night exchanging
cute 'Fox' stories about him. I seriously doubt Agent Fowley and I even
have more than basic social pleasantries to say to each other. Then
again, maybe he thinks we will have the most outrageous cat fight in
history and he wants to be present to witness it, stop it or cheer it
on. I don't think that will happen either. Anyway, if it did, I know I
could take her bony ass. Easily.

"Mulder, I need to..." I say to him, motioning towards the bathroom. I
want to this to be his cue to go to his own room, but instead he plants
himself on the double bed that I claimed as my own and gets a little
more comfortable then he was on the last stiff chair he had been sitting in.

I lock myself into the bathroom and remove my suit coat and shirt. This
is just great, I think, as I start to express breast milk by hand into
the sink. I'm in here being Bessie while Mulder's out there in the bed
next to his ex whatever the hell she was. He never has told me. I never
have asked.

It only takes me a few minutes to relieve the pressure that has been
building up for hours. I get dressed again and go out to find that
Mulder and Fowley intently watching something bizarre on the Discovery
Channel. At least they weren't watching a girlie show together. A
documentary about satellite arrays is weird enough. No wonder the two of
them couldn't make whatever it was they had work. Two peas in a pod tend
to get boring and stale quickly.

"Mulder, I need to talk to you," I say to him. He just looks around me
to the TV set.

Well, I had wanted to do this in private, but if he isn't going to
listen, I'm not going to be nice. I stand directly in front of his line
of sight to the TV.

"What is it, Scully?" he asks me.

Fowley's eyes are on me now, too. Sometimes I feel she is always
watching me, judging me, as if I took everything away from poor Fox
Mulder, and she'd be happy to give it back to him.

"We need to go out and get something. I forgot something at home... and
I need to get a new one," I say to him, ignoring Fowley's stare and
pinched brow.

"Could you be any more vague?" he asks me.

"A breast pump, Mulder. I forgot mine. I don't need an expensive
electric one. A manual one will be fine. I just need one because I'm not
ready to wean Christopher yet and I want to keep my milk production up,"
I say to him.

"I could...I mean..." he starts to say when he remembers we aren't alone
in the room.

Agent Fowley finally looks away from us, her face slightly more pained
than usual. I don't know why. As far as I know she's never had children,
so she wouldn't know anything about babies and breast pumps.

I just shake my head no.

"Um...okay," he finally says, shaking his head as if he just made a
bigger blunder than really did, "You want to get dinner, too?"

"Sure. That will be great," I say, as I grab some papers I want to go
over with him privately before tomorrow.

"Would you like to come with us, Diana?" he asks.

I don't know what he is thinking. I'm sure he's just being courteous,
but I do not need this woman following me around Wal-Mart as I shop for
something to stick my breasts into. I just don't need it. Obviously she
can tell this by my face.

"No. Thank you, Fox. I'm fine," she says as she goes back to watching
the TV.

In the rental car, he and I are silent for a long time. I don't know how
to express my feelings about the room arrangements. I was imagining
Skinner would appreciate the situation a little more and Agent Fowley
and I would at least have out own rooms. Maybe this is his way of
controlling Mulder and me.

"Mulder, you don't have to hang around the room all night. I will be
fine," I tell him, looking at his face to see if that is what he worried
about.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his eyes scrunching up a bit. It is
bothering him.

"I don't know what you think I'm going to discuss with Agent Fowley, but
it probably isn't going to revolve around you. That is if we even do say
*anything* to each other," I say, turning my head to look out my window
as the city passes us by.

"I'm sorry about this, Scully. I know how you feel about her and I know
what she's done in the past. I know she's up to something now, but I
just don't know what," he says, as he makes a U-turn into the Wal-Mart
parking lot.

"I will never trust her, Mulder. I don't know what the two of you had in
the past..."

"It was a long time ago, Scully. There is nothing to be jealous over. It
was over long before I met you," he tells me, as if this will change my
opinion of her, as if he and I have been *together* since we first met.

"That isn't important, Mulder. I'm not jealous of her because of that.
Your past relationship with that...that woman isn't why I don't trust
her. Everything she has done to *us* in the past is why I don't trust
her. And I
hate the fact that you always end up trusting her, going off with her,"
I say.

"That isn't going to happen this time, Scully. I know you don't trust
her, but you could at least trust me. I won't ditch you for her again,"
he says, sounding so sure of himself as he throws the car into park
before it is
completely stopped.

"Yeah. Right, Mulder. You always say that."

"I don't know why this is the one point we just can't ever get over. Why
can't you trust me on this one damn thing, Scully?"

"I know you too well, Mulder. I know what you need and how far you will
go to find it," I say to him rather harshly.

"Sometimes you have no clue as to what I need."

"And sometimes I could say the same thing, Mulder," I tell him as I just
sit and watch him watch the steering wheel.

I wish I could believe him. I just know as soon as he gets an idea I
don't agree with, she'll be right there,
saying 'Yes, Mulder. I believe you,' and he will be off with her faster
than I can say gullible ass. I haven't got a clue as to what kind of
strange bond there is between the two of them, but I swear he can't
break it. Nothing I can do can break it. Love him or hate him, he needs
her to stroke that damned ego of his as they go chasing off after the
paranormal together.

"Are you coming with?" I ask as I step from the car. The night air has
turned chilly and I am wishing I had remembered to bring my coat with
for this little shopping trip. Especially considering that is where I
left my
wallet. I seem to be forgetting everything these days.

"Why? You afraid I'm going to ditch you in the Wal-Mart parking lot?" he
asks. His voice is as chilly as the night air.

"No. I need your credit card," I say, as I slam shut the car door hard
on my side.

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

After escaping from the bizarre world of breast pumps, we make our way
to the Old Town part of Albuquerque to search for a restaurant. Scully
is beyond tired and is getting quite punchy. After all that ranting she
did about Diana, I'm almost considering myself lucky that I get to spend
the night away from her. I just hope Reid can sleep with the TV on tonight.

"What in the hell do you think this Mulch is going to tell us?" she asks.

She managed to bring the file on Mulch with her, but in her haste to get
out of the room, forgot her jacket. Not that it matters to her. She's
got mine on.

"I don't know, Scully, but his name keeps coming up. I think it would be
our best judgment to actually talk to the man who has been mentioned a
million times in the last few weeks."

"I'm not questioning that...how about here?" she asks, pointing at a
restaurant.

"What are you questioning?' I ask, pulling into the nearest parking space.

"The three women he murdered don't match the Ellen Erickson case. The MO
is all off. Didn't you read this file, Mulder? I thought this profiling
part was your job?" she says.

"And your job is what? Waiting for bodies to start dropping?" I say,
getting a little tired of her mood tonight. When she pulls this mood out
of her bag of tricks, one could almost forget that on the other side of
the continent we live together behind a little white picket fence.

She gets out of the car and slams the door for the second time tonight.
I'm glad the damn thing has the extra insurance coverage on it.

I watch her stand there, waiting for me. Her arms are crossed and she's
tapping her foot impatiently.

I look away from her and mumble something about what a bitch she is being.

Sometimes I wish we could forget about that damned picket fence we
trapped ourselves in altogether. It could be so easy to get out of it,
but she would never forgive me if I made that choice. If the
consequences are what has been promised, I don't think I could forgive
myself. Reopen the X-files now
and lose Christopher, lose Scully, lose the perfect suburban life. In
the end, I know I would lose myself, too.

She grows tired of waiting for me to pull myself out of this car and she
just goes in by herself. When I catch up to her, she's talking to the
hostess.

"Your last name and how many in your party, Miss?" the young hostess asks.

"Two for Mulder," she says, then spells it out. Jesus, this is a first.
I'm sitting here calculating ways I could escape this domesticity I've
gotten myself in to, and for the first time, without even thinking about
it, she
just put herself under my last name.

She comes to stand by me, but I don't comment on it the name thing.

"What's wrong with us, Mulder? It can't all be falling apart already,
can it?" she asks, looping her arm into mine, and pulling me close. I
just want to close my eyes and enjoy this moment of public affection
from her. They seldom ever happen anymore in our busy lives, and
sometimes I wonder if she even loves me at all.

"I just think we are tired. And we aren't used to being together all day
and all night anymore. Things have changed," I say, looking away.

A few seconds ago I was imagining my life without any of the additions I
made to it in the past two years. Now she is standing next to me, asking
me questions I don't want to answer right now. I don't want to really
fuck this all up. I would be so easy to fuck everything up again with
her. We said we had to keep work and home separate now, but how do you
do that when there is no separation? I've loved her for years, but have
never had to deal with her like this. Hopefully it will all be better
when we can really get involved with work tomorrow.

"Has it changed for the better?" she asks me as she turns to look at me.
She is holding my hands tightly in hers, her eyes imploring for an answer.

"Ask me again tomorrow," I say, as I free one of hands and stroke her cheek.

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

"Okay. Goodnight, Mom. Don't forget to give him a big kiss for me," I
say, as I hang up the receiver.

I had just convinced Mulder that he could go to bed when my mother
finally called back. She had been putting Christopher to down when I
tried calling her on my cell phone earlier.

Mulder has been in a crappy mood all night. I can't blame him. So have
I. I think he's right. Fatigue was setting in by the time we got to
dinner, and all though we pulled the night out of the dark pit it was
sinking into, I'm still confused by some of the things he said before
dinner.

Agent Fowley is sitting on the other bed, reading some book I can't
quite catch the name of.

"How is your baby? Christopher is it?" she asks, not lifting her nose
from the page she's reading.

Your baby? I can play this game, too.

"Our baby is fine. I was just worried because Christopher's never gone
to bed without Mulder or me there to get him washed up and in his
jammies. He seems to be doing all right," I say, adding whatever
emphasis needs to be added on certain words.

She is silent again as I get my night clothes and toiletries out of my
bag. I can almost feel her eyes follow me over the top of her book to
the bathroom and then back again once I'm done but I don't look back.

"So, when are you two ever going to get married?" she asks casually, as
if she's a lifelong friend or family member.

"I...ah...we haven't set a date," I say, before I notice that I'm
playing with the engagement ring on my left hand.

That is what I try to tell myself. We are too busy to get married. We
have a baby. It is impossible to get married with an infant. I even
found myself thinking once that we don't have enough money to get
married, as if we are a couple of teenagers eloping at the county
courthouse. I don't think I've let my mind approach all the real reasons
why.

"Scared?" Fowley asks. She finally lifts her nose our of her book and
stares right at me.

"Me? No, not at all," I say, lying through my teeth.

"Is Fox?" she asks, as she looks back down from me to her book.

"I don't think Mulder is. He's the one who keeps asking," I tell her. I
notice she is flipping pages faster than she could possibly be reading them.

"Marriage isn't bad. It's divorce that's a bitch," she tells me, with an
edgy touch of pain in her voice.

I sit down on my bed with my lap top and turn it on. I hardly have
anything to write up in a report yet, but I don't want to appear to not
have anything better to do than carry on this conversation. I don't
think it is any of her business why Mulder and I aren't married yet. We
live together. We are raising our child together. I notice I didn't say
anything about loving each other and something deep inside of me can't
for one second believe we don't love each other. How could that be? We
do. I'm sure of it.

"You were married before?" I finally ask her, casually. She doesn't
answer for several minutes, and by the time she does, I had almost
forgotten what we were talking about, instead I'm lost in the notes I'm
typing up.

"Once. A long time ago. I was two months pregnant, and he thought he had
to marry me and I thought I had to marry him. I lost the baby, um...at
three months. There were so many things wrong with the child that he
would have never survived, but that news didn't help. None of the test
performed could determine exactly what was wrong with the baby, but it
didn't seem to be carried from me or the father. Everything else just
fell apart from there. The marriage barely lasted long enough for it to
go into public record," she says with a sigh.

I know it hurts to lose a child, even an unborn one, but it is hard to
extend my sympathy to this woman. Mulder never mentioned her being
married before, but Mulder is always guilty of omissions.

"I'm sorry. It must have been hard," I say, not looking up from my keyboard.

"It wasn't the best period of our lives," is all she says.

"Do you still talk to your...ah...ex-husband...the father?" I ask, even
though I don't care about the answer.

"Occasionally we run into each other," she says.

"That's nice," I semi-answer without thinking.

"I would have loved to have had his child, but sometimes we find out the
hard way that these things are for the best," Agent Diana Fowley says to
me before she turns out her overhead light and falls asleep.

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

Penitentiary of New Mexico
Santa Fe, New Mexico
April 16, 2002

We walk into a claustrophobic 10' x 8' cinderblock cell set aside
specifically for judicial or law enforcement interviews with inmates.
The institutionally gray walls are accented by a long gray metal table,
flanked
by cold, hard gray metal chairs and a well over middle-age Ronald Mulch.
In his denim blues, he could be anyone. He's average height and thin
with a forgettable face. Just another murderous felon serving out his time.

Mulch immediately greets us with, "Oh, boy! Feds. Haven't seen suits
like you in a few years. So whose dick did Erickson suck this time?"

"What makes you think that's why we are here?" I ask.

"Well, now let me see...I got a visit from a state investigator in
something like 1993, thanks to Erickson. Got a visit from an Assistant
DA from some damned piss ant town, Erickson again. My damned Jew lawyer
visited me many times during 1998. Erickson was cashing in favors all
over New Mexico. Now seeing as how he's the new water boy on the Hill,
I'm guessing that his cashing in favors includes blow jobs. So what's
the freaky little faggot want with me now?" Mulch babbles on, spraying
the table with spit and whistling through his ill-fitting dentures.

"We would like to just ask you a few questions about what happened on
June 13, 1977," Scully says, using her best diplomatic demeanor.

"How the fuck am I supposed to remember that? I bet you don't recall
June 13, 1977, lady?" he says to Scully, then leans back in his chair
crosses his arms over his chest and gives her a lecherous once over.

"You seem to have no problem remembering when your lawyer or a DA
visited you," Scully points out.

"Those were big events that broke up the day to day of years in prison.
Honey, it's easy to recall important things like those and like the
first time you lay a woman down and fuck her senseless," Mulch says to
Scully.

"Let me refresh your selective memory then. You were an escaped convict
on the run in Northern New Mexico in June of 1977," I say to him,
leaning into my side of table to same degree as he is leaning away. This
gets his attention briefly.

"Look at you two. What were you in 1977? Fifteen? Sixteen?" he asks, as
his eyes bore down on Scully, and he licks his lips, "Sweet sixteen and
never been kissed. Were you still a virgin, sweet cheeks?"

We don't say anything back to him, but I back away from the table and
match his pose. Scully's eyes take on that glare that makes *my* nuts
shrivel.

How many times have we been sitting across from some arrogant asshole
who never has the chance to see freedom again, yet they all play the
same head games with us? Eventually he will work his way to telling
Scully how pretty she is. Then if he is as bold as some of the convicted
criminals we've questioned in prison in the past, he might even ask if
I'm screwing my partner. Most seem to have to escape into the tough act
that got them into prison in the first place.

"Mr. Mulch, it says here that you abducted and murdered three women
between March 1967 and September 1968. You then managed to escape from
the custody of a Federal Marshall during a prison transfer in 1977 with
help from the outside. You were on the run for exactly twenty-three days
before being taken back into custody on June 14 outside of Angel Fire,
which just happens to be where the Erickson family was camping when
Ellen Erickson disappeared on June 13th. Now that I've refreshed your
memory *again,* perhaps you would like to tell us where you were on June
13, 1977?" I say to him, not backing into his games.

"I don't know where I was June 13, 1977. Somewhere in Northern New
Mexico. That's all I can tell you. I just know I didn't nab no woman
from a campsite. That wasn't my style," Mulch says.

"What exactly was your style, Mr. Mulch?" Scully asks.

"You want me to tell you what I did, angel? I'm sure you've read about
it in my confession, but I can describe all the details for you," he
slurs at her.

"Agent Scully and I would be glad to hear your personal version. You
know, while we are here anyway," I say to him as I settle into my metal
cushionless chair.

He settles back, but doesn't say anything for a few minutes. I'm sure he
thinks we will just pack up this little show and head off, but I'm not
quite that easy. Eventually they all like to brag about their exploits.
I'm sure
he is proud of his *accomplishments.*

"They was all so easy to take. Just wait for them to roll their shopping
carts out to their cars and grab them. People weren't as scared then as
they are now. Their babies would be screaming. That's what I remember
most. Take one last look at your mommy, kid. She's off to get some kicks
on Route 66," Mulch says with that certain pride in his voice that I've
only heard emanate out of the mouths of killers.

"Excuse me?" Scully says to him. I could see her shudder slightly when
he discussed the kids who would never again see their mothers because of
him.

"I know you're the type to have read everything before you got here. You
know where they were found," he sneers, but doesn't look at her.

Scully and I just continue to stare him down. He chooses to return the
stare to only me.

"And you wouldn't have killed Ellen Erickson because?" I ask again.

"Why in the hell would I kill a woman camping with her family when it is
so easy to find them elsewhere?" he damn near growls at me.

"Perhaps because you couldn't exactly go prowling around grocery store
parking lots, Mr. Mulch," Scully says, her eyebrow raised at him, her
voice as cold as ice. I love it when she does that to them.

His escape in 1977 was quite an embarrassment, but the disappearance of
Ellen Erickson helped in his capture. The area was crawling with law
enforcement, and Ronald Mulch had no where else to run. Now I'd like the
bastard to come clean about what really happened out there while he was
hiding.

"Okay. Say you didn't kill her. You were still in that area the night
Ellen Erickson disappeared. Did you see anything out of the ordinary?" I
ask.

"Yeah, I saw bright lights and dancing bears. Swooped right down and
took her away," he says with a malicious chuckle.

Scully just looks down at her hands in her lap, while I continue my
staring contest with this convicted murderer.

"If you believe in that crap, then you are nuttier than the senator
himself. He's a politician, so he at least has a defense for being a nut
case," he continues, still laughing.

There are certain people I've begun to wish alien colonization on, and
I'm adding this one to my list.

"Mr. Mulch, please, just tell us what you *really* did see," I say.

"I saw something, but I'm an old man and my memory is fading. It takes a
lot of effort getting all the things straight up here. It just ain't
worth it to expend all that energy for nothing. Anyway, I got nothing to
gain," he says arrogantly.

"You can gain one moment of decency in your life. You can finally give
the Erickson's some answers." I say.

"Did that fancy speech work the last time you used it, pretty boy? Like
I said, I got nothing to gain. So, why should I help?" Mulch drawls,
reaching up to wipe spit off his chin.

I've been faced with this particular argument before and there is no
answer. These people don't give a shit about other people and families.
If they did, they wouldn't be sitting here in the first place.

"Maybe you don't want it known that you killed a senator's mother. It
could be a tough life in here with that hanging over your head. But how
could you know so many years ago that Ellen Erickson's son was going to
grow up to be a powerful US Senator?" Scully asks to him, her voice as
cold as she can make it.

He doesn't respond to her, instead talking to me, "It hasn't been too
tough so far and the man has been in office for what? Two years now? So
you people can keep this shit up for the rest of my sentence. I'm not
telling you anything without the proper motivation."

"And what would motivate you, Mr. Mulch?" Scully asks.

He looks at her, licks his lips and gives her a wink. I want to laugh.
Poor soul doesn't know the trouble he is inviting. Usually this is where
he fun begins.

"Mr. Mulch, I am a federal agent and I would appreciate it if you would
keep your gestures to yourself while I am in your presence," Scully says
as she stands up, her voice enough to make any man shrink. I reach for
her arm without thinking and it rests there just long enough to give
Mulch ideas.

"You fucking her?" he asks as he looks straight at me and ignores her,
"Does she beg you for it? Man, I would love to see the look on her
fiancs' face when he finds out. I don't blame you, though. I didn't
know 'federal agents' came packaged like that."

We've learned over the years not to react to this. It is just one of the
hazards of a male-female partnership. But, damn it, after all this time,
it would be nice to look at one of these assholes as they head back to their
cell life as Big Jake's girlfriend and say 'Yes. Yes I am fucking her.'

"Mulch, tell me what your motivation would be, and we will see what we
can do," I say to him instead of what I'd rather say.

"I'll get back to you on that one, Agent Mulder. I'm not saying anything
else today, so you two can just go do whatever it is you do when you are
out of town together. Thanks for dropping by," he says as he stands up
and pounds on the exit door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
 
66 Diner
Albuquerque, New Mexico

"Well, that wasn't our most interesting prison visit, but just as
fruitless as most," I say to Mulder as we are seated at a booth for a
late lunch.

"I think he knows something, Scully. Now we just have to figure out a
way to get him to admit to that without giving him too many
concessions," I tell her as a waitress dressed up in 1950s attire comes
up to our table.

Mulder orders a green chile cheeseburger and an iced tea while I order a
grilled chicken salad with a side order of cheese fries and a strawberry
milkshake, which causes him to raise an eyebrow and grin at me.

"Cheese fries? A Strawberry milkshake? The salad thing I'm used to, but
cheese fries? Scully, is there something you aren't telling me?"

"You are in control of that department right now, Mulder. Is there
something you aren't telling *me*?" I ask him jokingly.

"What? You think I wouldn't tell you if there had been an accident?" he
asks me.

What I really think is that there is no way in hell I will probably ever
be pregnant again, but I have yet to express that feeling to him. Right
now I'm just enjoying the fact that we are getting along a lot better
than we did yesterday evening. It is almost as if that life on the other
side of the country didn't exist and we were back to just being partners
again. This domestic life has its good point, but it sure can have its
bad points, too. I'm beginning to understand why they wouldn't want us
working together on a normal basis. No matter what people say, it does
change everything.

"So, now that we are getting into the swing of working together again,
what are the big plans for tomorrow?" I ask.

"I thought we would take a little trip to visit with Senator Erickson's
father.," Mulder answers as he sips on his tea the waitress had just
dropped off.

"Where are we going?"

"He lives in a town called Truth or Consequences. It's south of here.
That is where he moved the family after Mrs. Erickson disappeared," he
tells me.

"Truth or Consequences?" I ask, recalling that at some point in my life
I had heard of this city.

"They renamed it after the game show. I think the locals call it T or
C," he states.

"It also sounds like the name of the city Fox Mulder would retire to
someday," I say with a slight grin, "So, what else do we know about him?"

"He moved his family to Albuquerque in 1975 so Ellen could finish up her
nursing degree she set aside in order to marry him in 1958. Why she went
to the University of New Mexico instead of New Mexico State in Las
Cruces, I don't know. They already lived in Las Cruces. Besides that,
not much is documented about him. He hasn't appeared to work since her
disappearance and I don't know what he did in Las Cruces," he says.

"Las Cruces? By the White Sands Test Facility?" I ask, already well
aware that Mulder knows about every military test site in the country,
even the ones not on the maps.

"Wouldn't it be just fitting if he worked for NASA? You know, they can
control the weather now?" he says, smirking.

"So, what do you have planned for Fowley and Reid?" I ask.

"I think I will send Diana and Reid up to Santa Fe tomorrow and let them
have a little fun with Mulch. Or let him have a little fun with them. I
want to show him we aren't giving up just yet," he says.

"I wonder if he's going to accuse them of the same thing?" I ask,
knowing already that he will probably pull the exact same power trip on
Agents Fowley and Reid. It's all a matter of Mulch trying to find control.

"Well, it is the first time a criminal has ever accused us of that where
it's been true. Maybe next time, you should leave this at home," Mulder
says as he grabs my hand and plays with the ring on my finger.

"I don't honestly care what Ronald Mulch says, but I think you'd better
warn Reid about it. Has he ever had a female partner before?" I ask.

"No, he hasn't. Some of us are just luckier than others, I guess," he
says to me.

"That's not what you were mumbling in the car last night while I was
waiting for you in front of the restaurant, Mulder. I believe I saw the
word bitch somewhere in there," I tell him.

"I'm sorry. It was a long day. I was tired, you were being a bitch..."
he says right before I kick him in the shin under the table.

"Thank you. You know, I wasn't offended so much by Mulch talking to me
like that as I was by the fact he thought I was sixteen in 1977. You are
making me old, Mulder," I tell him as the waitress shows up with our food.

"I wouldn't take it personally, Scully. When do you honestly think was
the last time he saw a woman that looked as good as you in that place?"
he says.

As I nibble at my lunch, my thoughts turn to those poor women Mulch
abducted. Not only did he abduct them, torture them and drop their
bodies off on the side of the highway, he tortured their kids as well.
His methods were all the same. He would find a young mother leaving a
grocery store, get her in her own car and leave the poor startled child
all alone in the shopping cart. Torturing two people for the price of one.

"What are you thinking about, Scully?" Mulder asks.

"I'm thinking that even though this wasn't easy before Christopher, the
difficulty has risen exponentially. It wasn't bad enough what Mulch did
to those women, but he had to destroy the child's life, too," I say.

"And that is why he is serving out two consecutive life sentences You've
always known about the predators out there, why would this one bother
you?" he asks me.

"Since I've been back at Quantico, I've only had to see the results of
the predators, not the predators themselves. I was just starting to
forget what they were like," I tell him as I thoughtlessly tumble my
fork through my salad.

"And you are worried that you can't save the world from them?"

I don't answer him, instead I just watch him eat. I know these people
get to him. I've seen it happen. Mulder didn't have anything to do with
putting Mulch away, so he doesn't seem to be as bothered as I've seen
him before. There is no bond here between profiler and criminal in this
case.

"So, how are we going to deal with him? He has nothing to gain or lose.
There isn't a judge on earth who would commute his sentence and I don't
feel like asking one," I tell him.

"We will just have to see if we can find out what he knows without him,"
he says, "Maybe Mr. Thomas Erickson knows something that he hasn't been
telling all these years. Someone knows what happened to that woman, Scully."

"So now you think the father did it? I thought you were betting on
Mulch." I say.

"No. I'm still betting on the senator's space men," he says with a smile.

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

Albuquerque Field Office
Albuquerque, New Mexico

"Well, our search for Jackie Erickson didn't result in much. She teaches
kindergarten in a town called Socorro," Diana says as we all meet in the
conference room again with Skinner and SAC Carmen.

Skinner has a flight out tonight and an early morning meeting with
Senator Erickson tomorrow. He looks like he was hoping for better news
to report, but none of us can offer it to him.

"When we visited her today, she says she really can't remember what
happened that night," Agent Reid fills in, "She was only nine when her
mother disappeared."

"Poor memories seem to be going around," I say to the group, "That is
the exact same story we got from Mulch."

The SAC looks pleased that our little group from D.C. didn't just waltz
in here and solve a twenty-five year old crime in one day.

"I was going to suggest hypnotic regression therapy to Ms. Erickson,"
Diana says, "to see if she has any memories of that night."

Scully looks away from the group and I know she is thinking I'm going to
agree with Diana. She is always so sure I'll go off on an paranormal
tangent when I'm not going to.

"I think we should follow up on some other leads before we take that
path," I say, "Besides, we never suggested it for the senator, so why
for the sister?"

"I was always under the impression that the senator did undergo hypnotic
regression therapy. That is where his memories of that night come from,"
Diana says.

"He never said anything about it to us," Scully says, "nor is it written
up in any of the notes pertaining to this case."

"I assumed you knew," Diana says, looking at Scully.

"What else do you know that you haven't filled us in on?" Scully asks
Diana while she taps her pen on the table.

"Nothing, Agent Scully."

Diana then shakes her head and jots down a few notes on the pad in front
of her and Reid doesn't look like he knows exactly what is going on here.

"Tomorrow I'd like Agents Fowley and Reid to go back up to the prison to
see if they can shake anything from Mulch. Agent Scully and I are going
to go talk to the senator's father. That will cover all the witnesses
that we know of," I say, as I try to look at what Diana is writing. She
covers it up as soon as she sees my eyes wandering that way.

"I'd like this to be wrapped up in one way or another by Friday,"
Skinner says, "And I'd like you all back in D.C. by the weekend. If it
is not solvable, certain parties are just going to have to accept that
fact."

Scully and I depart from the field office and get in our rental car.

"I want to know why Agent Fowley keeps coming up with new tidbits of
information here and there, all related to the senator. I want to know
exactly what she's got up her sleeve this time," Scully says, her voice
tinged with anger.

"You're stuck together all night. Surely you must talk about something,"
I say as I wait to pull out into traffic.

"Yeah. Her past marriage and why *we* aren't married yet. That's about
it," she says.

Shit. Sooner or later I know this was going to come up, but sometimes
you just don't tell someone something for so long that it becomes nearly
impossible to tell them. If Diana had named names, I'm sure Scully
wouldn't be holding this civil conversation with me right now.

"Mulder? Is something wrong? Traffic is clear," she says.

Scully would assume I would tell her something like this. Anybody would
tell the person they planned to marry, the person who had their child,
something this big. Anybody but Fox Mulder. Damn it.

"Sorry. Nothing's wrong," I say as I start our drive back to the hotel.

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

The home of Mr. Thomas Erickson
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
April 17, 2002

"Hello? Mr. Erickson? I'm Special Agent Dana Scully and this is Special
Agent Fox Mulder, with the FBI We spoke to you on the phone yesterday,"
I say, flashing my badge to the elderly gentleman who answers the door
of the small house.

"Oh. Yes. I forgot you were coming. Come on in," Thomas Erickson says as
he holds open the screen door.

He leads us through his modest house to the back screened-in porch where
he motions for us to sit down on an old wicker couch. He is a retiree
living all alone and his decor marks this fact well. It doesn't appear
that any new furniture has been purchased since the late 1970s, and
everything is decorated in how imagine he would have guessed his wife
would have done it if she was still here.

"Would you care for something to drink?" the man says to us, as he sits
down in an old recliner.

"No, sir. We would just like to talk to you about the night your wife
disappeared. I'm sure you are aware your son has reopened the
investigation, and we would like for it to be solved," I say.

The resemblance between the elder and younger Erickson is remarkable,
although their demeanors are entirely different. Whereas Senator Paul
Erickson was self assured and brash, this man seems to want to shrink
back into his chair and put this whole incident behind him for good.

"My son the United States Senator. Doesn't know what to keep his nose
out of. I'm sure he thought that gaining a seat in the senate would give
him all the answers he needs," the man says before falling silent again.

"Answers about what?" Mulder asks.

"His mother is gone. It has been twenty-five years. Why can't he just
let it go," Mr. Erickson say, as he fingers the remote control for the
TV beside us.

"Do you recall anything from that night, Mr. Erickson?" I ask.

"My wife disappeared into thin air," he says looking blankly into my eyes.

"Do you remember anything leading up to the incident?" Mulder asks,
trying to rephrase the question and get the man to answer.

"My kids decided to got out for a walk around the camp grounds. Ellen
got worried and sent me after them. When we got back, she was gone.
That's it. No matter what my son says or *believes* in, her
disappearance has nothing to do with any unearthly forces," he says
quietly as if he's repeated this story before. According to our records
he was interviewed just six months ago.

"What do you think happened to her, Mr. Erickson," I ask.

"Have you talked to Ronald Mulch?" he says sharply.

"We spoke with Mr. Mulch yesterday. He denies any involvement in your
wife's case," Mulder says.

"And you believe a criminal?"

"We do not have enough evidence to neither confirm nor deny his
involvement in this case. That is what this investigation is for, Mr.
Erickson. If Ronald Mulch is indeed responsible for your wife's
disappearance, then we need your help in telling us what happened that
night," I say.

Erickson says nothing for nearly a minute, just looks at the remote
control in his hand again.

"I can't help you," he finally says, "I was out looking for my kids when
she disappeared. I didn't see anything. I don't remember anything."

"Sir, can we ask you a few questions about your life before your wife
disappeared?" Mulder asks.

"Like what would you need to know?" Erickson asks with some reservation
in his voice. He finally looks up at Mulder, and curiously cocks his
head to the side.

"You had a home in Las Cruces before moving to Albuquerque. What did you
do for a living before the move?" Mulder asks the man.

Erickson sets down the remote control and picks up a package of
cigarettes from the table next to his recliner. He strikes a match and
puts it to his cigarette.

"I worked at the White Sands Test Facility," he says as he takes a drag
on his freshly lit cigarette.

"In what capacity, sir?" I ask him.

His eyes shift between Mulder and me, and he takes another long drag and
blows out smoke in our direction.

"For NASA. Not much else I can say about it," Erickson says as he tries
to straighten out an imaginary wrinkle in his pants with his free hand.

Mulder looks over to me with his eyebrow raised.

"Why did you leave that job in 1975?" Mulder asks.

"I grew disenchanted with government work. My wife wanted to finish her
degree. I wanted to get away," he says as he snubs out his cigarette and
quickly lights another one.

"What did you do before you worked there?" I ask.

"My job in research and development required extensive traveling. I was
hardly home. That is why the position at White Sands looked so good. I
could settle down with my wife and kids," he says, "But then the hours
got long. I wasn't able to watch my kids grow up. Like I said, I wanted
to get away."

"Do you talk to your son often," Mulder asks.

"We had a parting of the ways several years back. I love him dearly.
I'll even vote for him in every election, but I cannot support some of
his personal beliefs," he says softly.

I would like to believe this man, but there is something about him that
just gnaws at me. I sense there is something that he knows that he feels
he can never divulge, even if it would mean peace in the family.

"Mr. Erickson, do you believe in extraterrestrial life?" Mulder asks him.

This is always a wonderful spot in any conversation. I'm never sure
whether we are going to be laughed out of the room or are going to have
to listen to a half hour of alien abduction theories.

"No sir, I do not," he says. It is the first time he has said anything
with the self assurance that his son possesses.

"Your son seems to believe they were involved in your wife's
disappearance," Mulder says.

I let him chase this line of questioning. I have yet to ask someone
these questions without the sound of doubt filling my voice. I believe
in so much more than I used to, but I still can't do thiis like Mulder
can. He can as these questions without any doubt in his voice and he is
not worried about people calling him crazy. He's heard it for years.

"Desperate men grasp for what ever straw they think will be the hardest
to disprove, Agent Mulder. That way they are safe. No way to prove it.
No way to disprove it, either. Paul has run the gamut with every other
option. That is what he felt was left," Erickson say, as he continues to
take slow drags on his second cigarette.

Mulder stands up and so does Mr. Erickson.

"Well, Mr. Erickson, thank for your time. We will be getting back to you
if we find anything," Mulder says. I stand and follow them both to the door.

"Agent Mulder, some things in this world are just better left unknown,"
is the last thing the older man says as he shuts and locks his door.

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

"That man was so vague and obscure, I could swear he was channeling my
mother," I say as Scully and I get back into the car.

"He did admit to working for NASA, thought. Mulder, if NASA really can
control the weather, do you think they would make it rain more than
eleven inches a year here?" she asks as she expertly folds the map of
New Mexico back up.

"I want to find out what he did before he worked at White Sands. One
just doesn't end up with a job there that they can't discuss without
some kind of background in something," I say as I pull out of the cul de
sac Thomas Erickson lives on.

"The family is originally from here. That is why he chose to come back
here after his wife disappeared. Maybe there is some record on the
family here. How come in all those boxes of paperwork, there is not one
single mention of Thomas Erickson's past. Do you think he's trying to
hide something?" Scully asks.

"Here. Try to find out where city hall is or where the library is," I
say as I hand Scully a local map, "I don't think we can just show up at
the White Sands Test Facility and ask them if they remember Thomas
Erickson. He' been gone from there for twenty-seven years, and although
they probably keep marvelous records..."

"Our history of successfully navigating through a restricted military
zone is spotty at best?" she says with a slight grin.

"What we have here is Thomas Erickson saying Mulch did it, Senator
Erickson saying aliens did it, Mulch saying someone did it but he isn't
going to tell us. The only thing I think is that Mulch isn't involved
with the
abduction..."

"Abduction, Mulder?" Scully asks as she tried to figure out where we are
on the horribly drawn local map.

"Well, one way or another she was abducted. Mulch might have been there,
and he might have seen something, but I don't think he did it. Thomas
Erickson was there, was left alone with Ellen Erickson until he went
after the kids. God only knows what happened in that time. And why
wasn't he questioned more
back after it happened? Why was the finger of blame pointed at Mulch so
soon?" I ask.

"The Sierra County hall of records is down that way, Mulder," Scully
tells me as she points towards the right road.

"I'm going to call Reid and see what he can find out through the field
office about the senator's father. I'm sure they gave up on Mulch hours
ago," I say as I grab my cell phone and pull the car into a parking space in
front of what appears to be city hall, "I'll catch up with you."

I find Scully several minutes later looking through some early newspaper
archives.

"They said it would be awhile before they could pull any official
documents on the Erickson family. How did their day go with Ronald
Mulch?" she asks me as she sees me approach.

"A good time was had by all. I figure if we don't find anything here and
we get back there early enough tomorrow..." I start to say.

"Get back?" she asks, as she absently flips through an old file of
clippings about influential Truth or Consequences folk.

"Yeah. I would like to see what we can find and go back and talk to Mr.
Erickson again in the morning. I don't want to have to drive all the way
back here," I tell her as I notice the name Erickson on a society page
story she just flipped to.

"Mr. George Erickson, New Mexico State Senator and his son, Mr. Thomas
Erickson, of the State Department..." Scully starts to read the caption
beneath what is obviously a picture taken at Thomas Erickson's wedding.

"I'll be damned," is all I can say as I grab my phone to tell Reid what
I need him to look in to.

"Mulder," Scully says after I hang up, "just because he worked for the
state department in the late sixties doesn't necessarily mean anything.
He said he was in research and development. He could have been doing
anything."

"Well, we aren't going to find out tonight. Reid says there is some kind
of server hang up, so it will be morning before he can get anything for
me, and I don't want to go back to Mr. Erickson until we have something
real and concrete to ask. Is there anything else in that pile?" I ask
Scully.

"Ma'am?" a young clerk asks Scully as she hands her a pile of paper,
"These are the only records I could find. They are only birth and death
records and land deeds. Please bring them back when you are finished
with them."

"Thank you," Scully says as she and I start flipping through the old
public records.

"George Erickson died in 1975, the same time Thomas Erickson grew
'disenchanted' with government work. Apparently, George left Thomas and
his two sisters a large tract of land outside of Las Cruces, but it
hasn't been sold or parceled out yet," Scully says as she reads through
a few records.

"This has nothing in it, except the year of Thomas' birth. Nothing new
here. Should we go find a place to stay so I can make a few phone
calls?" I ask her.

"Sure. There isn't anything we can do here until tomorrow anyway,"
Scully says as she gathers up the papers to take to the clerk.

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

Charles Motel and Bath House
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

"Okay. Yes, that will be fine, Diana. Okay. Put Reid on. Hi. We will be
back by tomorrow afternoon if this information on the senator's father
doesn't pan out. Yeah. Okay. Bye," Mulder says, as he finally hangs up
the phone.

We are standing by the front desk at a small motel and Mulder has been
on the phone constantly since we left the hall of records.

"I have to tell you now that I only have one room left. One room
with...one bed," the desk clerk tells us as soon as Mulder pockets his
phone.

He turns to me with an eyebrow already up. I guess from the way we look,
she is assuming we would need two rooms. Perhaps we are being mistaken
for traveling salesmen or Jehovah's Witnesses again.

"Agent Scully, will that be okay? I will sleep on the floor if you want
me to," Mulder says with a slight grin. It takes me a moment to figure
out he's playing some cute game, so I go along with it.

"I'd prefer that you slept in the car but...," I say, trying not to grin
back at him, "well okay, as long as you promise to sleep on the floor
and keep your hands to yourself."

"Okay then," the desk clerk says, shaking her head at the exchange that
just occurred, "here is some information about our mineral baths and
other therapies we offer here. Let me know if you would like to reserve
a bath."

Mulder signs the credit card slip and takes the key from the woman. We
leave the front office and he grabs an overnight bag from the trunk.

"I would have appreciated some warning, Mulder. I didn't know we were
spending the night," I say to him as I follow him into the room.

"You can wear something of mine. You always do anyway."

"I have yet to ever have to wear your boxer shorts. I just wish you
might have suggested that we could possibly be spending the night
elsewhere. I would have liked to bring some personal items with me. Like
the breast pump I had to go out and buy," I say, sounding quite shrew-like.

"I can take care of that breast thing if you want me to. Besides, I
thought you'd be happy to be away from Diana," he says to me pointedly.

He has a point there. If I hang my suit now, it will be okay for
tomorrow, and I saw a discount store somewhere near by where I could get
some other personal essentials that would be good enough for one day.

Mulder flops down on the king sized bed and sighs loudly.

"What?" I ask.

"Do you know how many years I fantasized about going to a motel with you
and hearing them say they only had one room with one bed and no damn
roll-away. It would have been so deliciously contrived, so perfect. And
now, it finally happened and it doesn't matter anymore anyway because we
share one room and one bed all the time," he says to me, covering his
eyes with his forearm as if he is in deep thought. Or deep fantasy.

"How many years, Mulder?" I ask, curious to find out his answer.

"Excuse me?" he asks, moving his arm and looking at me.

"You said you fantasized about it for years? How many?" I ask again, as
I sit down on the bed beside him.

"I don't know..." he says, sounding like a guilty man. That is what he
is right now. I want to know how long he wished for me to be in his bed.
All this time together, and we've never discussed this. Well, no time
like the present.

"Pick a year. That is what it will be tonight. No Senator Erickson. No
Thomas Erickson formerly of the state department. No home life across
the country. No baby, no house and the X-files are still ours. Pick a
year, tell me where we are..." I say to him slowly.

We usually don't play games. We are mostly just tired parents glad to
make it through another day. What I'm not going to admit to him is how
many years I hoped for one motel room or damn sleeping bags from heaven
or whatever it would have taken to make him shake loose. Then when it
did finally happen the first time, I ruined it. I ran scared. I wish I
could change all that and take back the words I said, but I can't.

"Make it as contrived as you want to, Mulder. Pick the year. Pick the
city. Tell me what we are doing. What case it is... lets pretend it's
the first time all over again," I say softly.

"You aren't going to go batty on me again in the morning, are you?" he
asks with a smile.
"No. Pick the year you first knew you were in love with me," I say to
him, curling up next to his body. He is perfectly still, and I can
barely sense his breathing. I think I hit something here. Fox Mulder
doesn't want to
admit when he really fell in love with me.

I have fallen in and out of love with Mulder many times. I was so out of
love with him one year that I didn't even know why I still bothered and
I have no idea what force held us together. Then I was in love with him
again. Then back out of love. Now, after all this time, I simply love
him, and I assume he feels the same.

"Pick that year?" he mumbles to me, avoiding it, "First of all, I
seriously doubt if I told you the year, and this was that year, you'd be
snuggling up to me like this."

"You never know," is all I say.

He sits up, looks intently at me and says, "You want to play the game
for real, Scully? You wouldn't be doing this in 1994."

I'm slightly taken aback for a moment. 1994 was a long time ago. Eight
years ago. More importantly, the year I was abducted.

"Really?" I ask, more curious about this then I am with the game we were
playing.

"You asked me when I knew I was in love with you. It was 1994," he says
as he lies back down and covers his eyes once more, "When you were gone,
I was lost. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I meandered through the days
and I didn't know what to do. It was an epiphany really. I knew then
that I needed you...that I loved you."

"Mulder, why didn't you say anything?" I ask as I touch him lightly on
the hand that is resting next to me.

"I said lots of things, Scully. You never heard what I was trying to
say. I just never outright said "I love you" until... well, never mind,"
he says, pulling away from my touch and rolling over in the opposite
direction.

More of my blunders in life. I used to believe that Mulder's only focus
in life was Samantha. I believed it so much I didn't even notice when
his focus slowly shifted from his missing sister over to me. It just
happened. There weren't any fireworks or grand proclamations. Just one
day I became more important.

"So, where are we, Mulder? Tell me what motel only had one room that
year. What city are we in?" I ask, not wanting to ruin the game that
started so well.

"Minneapolis. You didn't go back home. You stayed with me, you confided
in me and let me help you. He never had the chance to hurt you" he says
quietly.

"Who never hurts... oh, that impish necrophiliac with a fetish
problem?," I say. This was not the easiest of cases for me. But that
isn't what this is about, "Do we make it to the football game, Mulder?"

"What?" he asks.

"You had football tickets. I remember that much," I say to him. He
doesn't reply for a minute or two, instead I just watch him. He's
thinking. Dangerous stuff.

"I might be able to remember these things better if I wasn't always
saving your ass, Scully," he says with a grin.

"I think I've saved your ass a fair number of times, Mulder," I say. I
want to be next to him, comfortable and content as we joke around with
each other.

"I gave you the year, Scully. I said you wouldn't be sitting in the bed
with me like this," Mulder finally says.

"What would I be doing?" I ask.

"Telling me that I'll be sleeping on the floor or ordering up a cot for
me to sleep on."

"Mulder, we are two adults. I think we can sleep in the same bed," I
say, trying to fall into what I would have said in 1994, "Besides, there
are enough pillows. We can just build a little pillow wall in between us."

"I'm sorry about this, Scully. We should have checked in to rooms
earlier, but I didn't know we would be staying this long," he says in a
pleading tone, "I didn't plan for this turn out like this."

"I'm fine with it, Mulder. I trust you. Now, you said there was
something in your bag I could wear? I'm tired and would like to get some
rest," I say, knowing full well something better than sleep will be
going on in this room eventually.

I dig through his bag and pull out a T-shirt and head off to the
bathroom, which is where 1994 me would get changed.

I come back and find Mulder watching ESPN while sitting on the bed. He
pulled back my side of the sheets and there is a little wall of pillows
in between us. He is also wearing just his boxer shorts and a T-shirt.
He was never as modest as I am. I used to be.

"Who won the game?" I ask as I lie down on my side of the bed and cover
myself with the blankets.

"They haven't said yet," he says as he flips off the TV, "Well,
goodnight, Scully."

"Goodnight, Mulder," I say back into the dimly lit room. The sun hasn't
even entirely set and it is filtering through the cracks in the blinds.

Mulder doesn't move. He just stays put on the other side of the pillows.
I wait for him to say something or do something, but he doesn't budge an
inch.

I watch the digital clock on the nightstand count off five minutes. He
still remains silent, with the only sound from his side of the bed being
his slow, rhythmic breathing.

"Mulder?" I finally ask, "Is this your fantasy? Just being in bed with me?"

He props himself up on his elbow and looks at me over the pillows.

"Scully, you told me it was 1994. If I would have tried anything on you
in 1994, you would have kicked my ass all the way back to D.C."

"I guess you're right. I wouldn't have been ready for this in 1994," I
say, laughing. Was I even in love with him in 1994? I don't remember.

He pushes aside a few of the pillows, instantly moving us back into
2002. Slowly, he pulls my covers off of me and traces his finger across
my abdomen. His eyes never stop watching me.

"What year would you have been ready?" he asks, turning the tables on
me, "What year would you have let me make love to you?"

I shut my eyes, trying to sort through all the ups and downs we've been
through. There had to be a time that I could have fallen into him so
fast I wouldn't have been able to save myself. Unfortunately, it just
wasn't the
first time we actually consummated our relationship, ending all those
years of dancing around the issue.

"Who says I'm going to let you make love to me now?" I say, with a grin.

In a flash, he pulls me over the pillows and onto his side of the bed,
where he positions me on top of him.

"What year, Scully? Name the place where you would have let me do this,"
he says, as he slowly kisses me and moves his hand up to caress my breast.

"In 1998. I would have let you do that in 1998," I mumble when we
release from our kiss, "Or maybe 1999."

"Where would we have been in 1998 or maybe 1999?" he asks as he slowly
moves his fingers under my, or rather, his shirt.

"I don't know, Mulder. Sioux City, Iowa?" I answer, trying to remember
any place we might have spent the night that year.

"Oh, yeah. Mulder and Scully on their way to bust yet another farmer for
purchasing a copious amount of shit. Well, we did a lot of traveling
that year, and stayed in a lot of motels," he says, his hand stopping for a
moment.

"I know. I paid for most of them," I say, poking him in the ribs.

"Hey! I bought you a house."

We are quiet again for another minute, just enjoying being together with
almost no cares in the world. At least we could try to pretend for an
hour that was so.

"What would you have done to me in 1998?" I ask, sitting up and away
from his groping hands, "What would you have done to me in Sioux City,
Iowa?"

"Scully, it probably wouldn't have been slow. Not like it is between us
now. I needed you so much...all those years I wanted you but could never
have you. Not until they did whatever it is..." he starts to say.

"You can have me now. Make it like it's the first time, Mulder. Make it
1998," I bend down and whisper in his ear, not wanting to discuss our
actual first time and the forces that made it so.

He moves me off of him and slowly undresses me, and it seems like
forever even though I am only wearing a T-shirt and panties. Another two
quick tugs of clothing, and he naked beside me.

"Scully?" he asks me plaintively as he pulls me closer to his body.

"What?" I ask back, as I can feel his hardness against my thigh.

"I didn't exactly bring protection with me to work," he says almost
sounding defeated, as if all this playing is going nowhere.

"It'll be okay, Mulder. I doubt that I will ever get pregnant again. Not
without that outside intervention we had with Christopher. The weather
looks pretty clear today."

He stops the tiny movements he was making with his hand and looks at me.
He is trying to judge my feelings about this fact that I'm slowly
beginning to accept. Christopher was a gift from somebody. Without
'them' there would be no baby. Mulder's eyes fill with pain and I don't
know whether it pain for me or pain for us.

"Besides, in 1998, I didn't think I could get pregnant anyway, Mulder,"
I say with a sad smile. None of that hurts as much as it did now that I
have Christopher. It only hurts because I don't know if I can ever have
another one.

"Scully, as much as I love this game, I'd rather have you as Scully
2002. My Scully. The one I know I can go home to. The one who had my
son. I one I know loves me back as much as I love her," he says to me,
still holding me but not pushing me to do anything.

"Okay," I say. I'm surprised he doesn't want to keep up this little
fantasy we were getting into.

"I love *this* Scully," he says slowly as a he moves a fingertip across
my tummy, "I love all that these past few years have allowed you to become."

"I love you, too," is all I can think to say, but always happy to hear
him say it. His finger is now slowly tracing gentle lines across my hips.

"I love this slightly softer belly that you are trying so desperately to
get rid of thought I don't know why. I love each and every tiny stretch
mark you got when you were pregnant. I love these breasts even though
they aren't mine right now. I love this nifty little scar you have right
here," he says as his finger draws a line across my pubic region.

"I don't believe the stretch mark part..." I start to say, knowing I
don't like the now faded stretch marks that seemed inevitable with my
pregnancy.

"None of these things would have existed in '94 or '98 and these are the
things I love about you and my life right now. I might not love my job
such as it is and some days I downright hate it, but I love you. I love
our home. I love Christopher. I don't want to pretend that any of that
doesn't exist. I love knowing you, like this."

"But I wanted to redo that awful first time, Mulder. I want to make it
better."

It is true. I have felt guilty about that for awhile now. He bared his
soul to me that morning and I couldn't even look at him. The shock of it
was too new, new sudden. He was my partner and I didn't ever expect it
to become more. Sometimes I dreamed about it becoming more, but never
thought those dreams would amount to anything. Nothing so abrupt,
anyway. So much has changed since those first few tentative months.

"First times have a lot going for them, Scully. The thrill at something
new, with everything yet to discover," he says to me softly, so
lovingly, "But there is something to be said for this. I know every tiny
crease of your
body. I know your hands, your face, even your feet, as if they are my
own. I know how to make you happy, Scully. You and I will never have
another first time with anybody else. Well, not until I die of a massive
coronary at seventy-five and you go off on one of those senior cruises
and seduce a merengue dance instructor."

"You think that is going to happen? You think I have to wait another
thirty-five years to seduce a merengue dance instructor?" I ask, knowing
full well I'm in for it now.

"You know, Scully, the flip side of knowing you so well is I know
exactly every spot you are ticklish in," he says as he damn near pounces
me, straddles my hips and holds me down.

"Mulder, stop it!" I cry out, laughing. This would look so silly if
someone was watching. Mulder, naked and on top of me, giving me the
tickling of my life.

"I love you, Scully. Don't forget it," he says as he looks down at me.
His eyes are so sure and so I honest I can't help but believe him.

"Thank you, Mulder. I needed to hear all those things. I was starting to
think you were beginning to feel a little unhappy with your life with
me." I say to him.

"I'm not unhappy with my life with you. Not at all. I'm sorry you felt
that way."

"Now, do you have any fantasies that include me and motel rooms in the
present?" I ask him as I eyeball up the top of the dresser with the
lovely large mirror.

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

She is wrapped around me, her behind up on the short side of the
dresser, her legs and arms entwining me tight. With every movement into
her, all I want to know is when she was first in love with me. I don't
care to know when she first knew she loved me, but rather when she was
in love with me. Such a subtle distinction, yet an important one. She
could love me without being in love with me. She could love me as a
partner and a friend, but that's not the same.

I fell shamelessly head over heels in love with this woman eight years
ago. I want to know when the feeling was reciprocated.

"Scully?" I ask as she throws her head back away from me, arching her
back in pleasure.

"Mmmm?" she asks. Her eyes are closed and she looks lost in the moment.

"When were you first in love with me?" I ask as I continue my slow,
deliberate thrusts in and out of her body.

Her eyes snap open and she looks at our reflection in the mirror instead
of at me.

"When?" is all she manages to say to my mirror image.

"I was just curious." I say, somewhat sheepishly considering what we are
in the middle of.

"Now is a funny time to ask. Oh, yes. That is...good," she moans, as she
finally faces me and puts her head onto my shoulder.

"You can tell me," not wanting her to be afraid if the answer is only
last year or last week or whenever.

"The first time I fell in love with you..."

"The first time? Am I, yeah, Scully, that's good...to conclude that you
fell out of love with me, then?" I ask her, shocked at her revelation,
but not fully able to express it considering the circumstance.

"Mulder, I fell in love with you three times that I can think of. I only
fell out of love with you twice," she says, her breaths almost coming
out as pants.

"Really?" I ask, not able to form a more coherent sentence than that at
the present moment.

"Really, but I knew I was in deep, yeah, like that," she says as she
pulls me tighter to her, her muscles contracting around me, making it so
hard to hold on through this conversation, "I, uh, knew I was in deep by
the end of 1998. There was no going back then."

"What made you fall?" I ask slowly.

"Mulder?" she asks me.

"What?"

"Can we finish this conversation, um...some other...time..." she says as
she thrashes backwards again.

I look in the mirror at her face. She is happy. I guess I can wait for
my answers as long as she is happy.

"Yes. I can wait. Scully?"

"What, Mulder?" she asks back impatiently.

"Ever have a fantasy about doing it in a hot mineral spring tub?" I ask
playfully.

"Not right now I don't. Oh, yes. That's it," she moans as I move my hand
to just the right spot and make slow, teasing little circular motions.

We say nothing more about love, instead preferring to act it out. I move
to the bed with her wrapped around me still and I lie down with her body
on top of mine. She does all the work without comment, and our eyes lock
on to each others. Her blue eyes appear wild and desperate, needing me
to give her more.

I once again find just the right spot, the one I know so well, and she
grinds on my hand while moving so slowly up and down my cock. She stops
moving for a brief second and moves my hand away from her clit, instead
choosing for us to hold hands as she rides the waves of her orgasm.

I watch her come above me, her eyes closed, her tongue flicking out to
lick the corner of her lips. I listen to her come, as she moans my name.
I can feel her quaking around me as it spreads from her body to mine.
Her head dips towards mine and our mouths meet, hungry for each other.

Finally, when her shuddering subsides, she breaks away from our kiss and
whispers, "Your turn, Mulder."

As she rests on top of me, I have the most wonderful view of where we
are joined and I don't think I can wait much longer for her to begin
moving again. I put my hands on her hips and show her the pace I desire
so badly. She matches what I need with ease. This is so perfect. I reach
up and grab those breasts that 'aren't' mine right now and feel the
lovely bounce of them in my hands as she continues to maneuver above me.

"Faster, Scully. Oh, please..." I moan.

She surprises me and stops.

"Wha...?" I ask.

"Shush," is all she says.

She pulls herself up and off of me and the cold motel room air rushes
in. Going from the fiery molten lava deep inside her to the arctic ice
chilled air causes a painfully erotic ache in my groin. I almost come
from sensory overload. Then she simply turns around and lowers herself
again. I have the most wonderful view of her beautiful ass now and I
love it.

Then I see what she was trying to accomplish. She now has a
all-encompassing view of us in that mirror. This is certainly new.
Scully the voyeur.

I move my hands around her small waist as she continues the pace I asked
for. I know I can't hold off much longer and I don't want to come inside
her. All the biology in my head tells me it is too late to worry about
that, and this isn't any form of birth control, but as I feel myself
beginning to topple over that edge, I pull her off of me.

"Scully, I don't wanna...inside. I'm so close," I tell her.

She wraps her hand around me and applies a firm pressure. I'm so wet
from being inside her and this feels so good. A few pulls and I spurt
cum all over my abdomen and her hand.

Scully takes her hand and smears my semen all over my stomach, slowly
rubbing it in as one would rub in baby oil. She has an evil smile on her
face and it is one I don't get to see too often.

"Protein mask?" I ask, hoping she lets me get up and wash it off before
it turns to glue.

She takes the finger that just ran a trail of cum up to my chest and
licks it slowly. She dips her finger back into the mess and moves it
towards my mouth. She traces a line along my lower lip, then leans in to
lick and kiss away her artistry. When she finally comes up for air, I
lick my lips and say, "Ummm, I think you missed some. Tastes kind of
salty and...and...something else."

She just continues smiling as we enjoy the simple pleasures of being
together.

"When I took a freshman biology course, one section was on sperm
production," she starts to say as she snuggles next to me, still rubbing
the sticky substance into my skin, "The professor was talking about all the
sugars and polysaccharides that went into the semen during production
and half the people weren't listening as usual. I think it was a Friday
before a three day weekend and we were all dying to get out of there. We
didn't care if the lecture focused on sex or not. Anyway, one poor
little freshman girl raised her hand and asked 'If semen is made up of
sugars, then why does it taste so salty.' The whole class went silent. I
was lost, because I couldn't figure out how she knew semen tasted like
salt."

I start laughing, ashamed at myself because I can feel the embarrassment
that poor girl must have felt.

Leave it to my Catholic school girl Scully to have to wonder how someone
would know what semen tastes like.

"Did she ever come back?" I ask.

"Would you?" Scully says, as she props herself up to look at me.

"Did you ever figure out how she knew it tastes like salt?" I ask,
curious as to when Scully discovered the art of the blow job.

"Obviously," is all she says with a smile.

"Scully, I've got to go wash this off or else I'm going to stick to
everything. I'll be right back," I tell her as I sit up. I don't want to
bring up that unfinished conversation just yet. I don't want to hear
about the bad times she had with me.

"Take your time. I'm going to get dressed and run up to that store I saw
before they close. You need anything?" she asks as she grabs my T-shirt
to put on again. We both go into the bathroom, but all she does is wash
her hands.

"Just you," I tell her as she goes to leave, "and some seeds. That's all
I've ever needed."

I turn on the shower water and am about to step in when I hear a knock
on the door. I shut off the water and quickly grab a towel to hold in
front of me and answer the door.

"Did you forget the key..." I start to say, assuming it is Scully.

"Good evening, Agent Mulder."

It is the nameless man from the garage, the one who talked to me after
our meeting the senator last week.

"Can I help you?" I ask

He steps around me and enters the room.

"I see you are putting your all into this case," he says. The bed sheets
are all in a tangle and strewn on the floor and there are pillows
everywhere. Besides that, it smells like a dorm room on a Saturday night.

"Well, you know, we so seldom get away from the hassles of everyday
life. Why in the hell am I explaining this to you?" I say, as I drop my
towel and put on my boxers, figuring these people have probably seen it
all already anyway. I sit down on the chair, now wishing to hell Scully
hadn't done what she did on my stomach.

"I just wanted to check in, seeing how things were progressing," he
says, not looking at all uncomfortable considering the situation he
walked into. I guess cum-covered naked FBI agents just aren't all that
threatening to underworld informants.

"So, how am I doing. Do I get little check marks for 'stays on task' and
'plays well with others'?" I ask.

"The senator's father is an interesting waste of your time," he says
sharply, turning to look me dead in the eye.

"Right. He worked for NASA, who, from what I have been told lately, are
involved in a few subversive plots of their own. Before that he worked
for the state department, whom I learned to love and trust since
childhood," I say.

"Nice melodramatic fatuity, Agent Mulder. However, Thomas Erickson was
nothing more than a mediocre research scientist. He did a rather
nondescript stint at the White Sands, but it was so short a tenure as to
be of no use to you now. Following that path would be unproductive." he
says, as he finally sits down on the edge of the bed.

"And what should we be looking for? I have a convicted murderer up in
Santa Fe who isn't going to spill his guts and cry that he did it. I
have the husband of the missing woman who wants it all to go away. I
have a senator who wants me to tell him aliens abducted his mother so he
can have a nice, simple answer that fits in his paradigm of reality. I
don't exactly have a lot to go on here," I say.

He says nothing for awhile. He just stares at me through squinted eyes,
as if I should know all the answers already. Hell, nobody is leaving me
a bread crumb trail to follow exactly. Just vague inferences and shallow
threats.

"Dig deeper into what happened that night. Give Mulch what he wants
before someone else does. Your time is running out and Thomas Erickson
is a dead end," he says as he stands up.

He walks out the door leaving it open and I can only just stare at his
back as he walks off into the night. Scully pulls up into the parking
spot in front of our door and gets out of the car.

"Who was that?" she asks.

"Our newest informant, for what it's worth. Actually, he is our newest
person telling us what and what not to touch. I don't trust him,
Scully," I tell her as she comes back into the room and I close the
door, bolting it in
every way possible.

"He's the one who said they won't touch Christopher?" she asks, as she
puts down the bag with her purchases.

"That's the one. He said we aren't supposed to bother the senator's
father. He has nothing to do with this."

She fingers through the bag and tosses me a little package of sunflower
seeds.

"And we are expected to believe him? We don't even know who he is. For
all we know, he is working against us," she says.

"I'm just going to continue on with what we were doing,
investigation-wise that is. Tomorrow we will find out more about Mr.
Erickson and figure out how to make Ronald Mulch loosen up. I'm not
going to aimlessly follow this man's recommendations. I don't even know
who the hell he is." I say as I watch her sit down in the same spot my
newest 'friend' was just sitting in.

"See how fast we get dragged back into the real world, Mulder. It is
amazing we have made it this long."

I want to finish up my conversation we started while I had her up on the
dresser, but my cell phone rings.

"Mulder," I answer.

"It's Reid. We just got wind of the fact that Ronald Mulch is being
released tomorrow morning. You might want to get back up here."

"What the fuck is going on up there?" I say, and Scully asks me what's
wrong. She puts her head next to mine to listen in.

"The warden called a few minutes ago, wanting to know if we were
responsible for the release of this criminal. I didn't know what to say.
The warden wants to meet with us in an hour. I know you can't make it
that fast, but can you get up here?" Reid asks.

"We'll be back in a few hours. Hang tight. We've got Mulch there until
morning. You and Diana head up to Santa Fe already and we'll meet you
there. Tell the warden it's our job to put them in there, not let them
out," I say as I click off my phone.

"Scully, what were you saying about the real world?" I ask my partner as
I stand up and finally head for the shower.

 The End

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

Title: XII We All Fall Down II
Author: Jori damienma@netroenterprises.com
Category: XSRA
Keywords: MSR, A/U, WIP baby-fic
Rating: R for language
Archive: Yes
Spoliers: Up to and including US Season Six
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me but I don't need to tell
you that. They belong to CC, 1013, FOX, GA and DD.

Summary: Mulder and Scully must be getting too close to the answers in
New Mexico because certain factions will do anything to prevent them
from digging too deep. The case seems to be spiraling downhill without
much chance that it could get worse. But it does.

Author's Notes: Thanks to all who wrote and got me going on this
chapter. I'm sorry it took so long. Those pesky holidays got in the way.
Also, another hearty thanks to my editor, Rachel G. who now needs to
start working on her Master's Thesis before the zero hour instead of
reading this.

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

Interstate 25
Between T or C and Socorro, New Mexico
April 17, 2002
10:35 p.m.

"What in the hell are we doing out here, Scully?" Mulder asks me, as he
fumbles with the latch underneath the hood of the car again.

"Waiting for the tow truck?" I say quietly, knowing that isn't what he
meant. It is a question we've asked each other many times, yet the
answer always eludes us.

We are stranded on the side of the road this time the question is posed.
The car mysteriously stopped running somewhere between T or C and
Socorro on I-25. After we determined that time had not disappeared on
us, Mulder checked under the hood for the first time while I called for
a tow truck.

"Why do we bother? We aren't ever going to win. Hell, we were lapped
years ago, but here we are, still in the fucking game. *Their* game," he
says, jumping back as the hood of the car goes up faster than he
expected.

"Mulder..." I try to interrupt, but he just hands me a flashlight to
hold.

"Who keeps pulling us back into the fray, Scully? The same people who
told us to get out? What in the hell do they want us to do? I knew what
was going to happen as soon as that damn senator pulled that vial out of
his desk. It was spelled out right then and there. Special Agent Fox
Mulder was going to be fucked over," he asks, as he starts to yank wires

"Do you know anything about Tauruses, Mulder?" I ask, as I watch some
cables come undone. I don't know what he expects to find this time that
he didn't find the first time he looked.

He steps back from the car and puts his now greasy hands on his hips.

"One would think I would, wouldn't they? After all these years of
driving around in one, or another crappy car just like it, one might
suspect that I would have looked into it, right? No, better yet, on the
day I graduated from the academy they should have handed me a Chilton
Automotive Manual for Ford Tauruses and said 'Take this, Agent Mulder,
because you are going to be spending the rest of eternity driving around
chasing nothing in one of these piece of shit cars.' That's what they
should have done," he says, his voice nearly rising to a shout.

"Mulder," I try again, as I look more closely under the hood "It might
be the alternator. I don't think you..."

He points a greasy finger at me, and says, "Don't start with me,
Scully."

"I wasn't trying to start anything. I was just going to explain what I
thought the problem was."

"Like you know how to fix a Taurus," he mutters.

"Actually, I do. My brothers used to take their cars apart all the time.
And it seems that you have forgotten that I do hold a degree in
physics," I say, adding sarcasticly under my breath, "prissy Oxford
boy."

"Whatever. When did the towing people say they were getting here,
Scully?" he asks, as he takes the
flashlight out of my hand and goes back to searching for God knows what
under the car hood.

"They said they'd get here when they get here," I say.

Thunder and lightening roll in the distant desert sky, and Mulder turns
to look in that direction before looking at me.

"Eleven inches of rain a year?" he asks.

"That is what the New Mexico map said. Actually, that includes all
precipitation, not just..."

"With our luck, ten inches of that will fall tonight," Mulder
interrupts, still watching the sky.

"Mulder, if that happens, chances are we will be swept away down the Rio
Grande in a flash flood," I say as I start to walk to the back of the
car. If he doesn't want my help with the car, he can just fumble around
in there all he wants. I climb up to sit on the trunk and watch as a few
cars trickle by, but no tow truck appears.

"Maybe they plan to use the weather to kill us, too. They use it for
everything else," he says over the top of the car. The hood then slams
down, causing me to slide down the trunk a little. I hear his footsteps
come my way through the gravel and debris on the side of the road, and
he leans next to me on the car.

Although my body is still humming from the sex we had just hours
earlier, Mulder looks exhausted, and keeps wiping his eyes with the back
of his hands. There is even a tiny smear of grease underneath his left
eye. I am tempted to use some saliva on my thumb to wipe it off, like I
do when Christopher has something on his face, but I don't know how
Mulder would react to such a 'motherly' gesture. It isn't like he hasn't
ever reveled in my bodily fluids before.

"Figure out what was wrong?" I ask coyly, and he just casts a sideways
glance in my direction.

"Wasn't this supposed to be a simple twenty-five year old homicide
investigation, Scully? Right down the line, that is what everyone said.
We would discover Senator Erickson is *spookier* than I am, his mother
was murdered and we would be back home tomorrow night. Friday I would be
back to work with my crime fighting sidekick, Special Agent Joshua Reid,
saving the world from the wrongful use of ammonium nitrate. That was the
plan, right?" he says, as he rolls a sunflower seed between his thumb
and forefinger.

"That was the plan. You never referred to me as your crime fighting
sidekick, did you, Mulder?" I ask, knowing he's thinking ahead of
anything I might be saying. I know he's sure someone tampered with the
car, but there will never be a way to prove it. It will just go into his
big 'I know *they* did it to me but I can't prove it' file.

"Yet, here we are, sitting between Nowhere, New Mexico and Next to
Nowhere, New Mexico, just sitting and waiting. And why are we sitting
here? Because someone thinks we are on to something, and if someone
thinks we are on to something, then we must be on to something. And what
do they do when we are on to something, Scully?" he asks, finally
placing what has to be a grimy sunflower seed on his tongue, and
cracking it between his teeth.

"You tell me," I say, allowing him to go on with his rant for awhile
longer.

"Bury it," he says, "bury it so deep we would need a fucking steam
shovel to dig it up."

"Well, let me know when you figure out what is going on. I just want to
get this wrapped up and get home to Christopher," I say to him, meaning
it fully. I never wanted to be part of this from the beginning and I
would prefer to be sitting at home with my son.

"You got any wipes on you?" he asks, holding up his hands for me to see.

"No, Mulder. I usually don't have wipes with me when I don't have the
baby along. I haven't gotten to the stage where the diaper bag is my
purse. I assumed that wouldn't happen until we had our fifth child" I
tell him, somewhat snippily, and he wipes his hands on the tissues he
had in his jacket pocket from the last time Christopher had a cold.

"Come here," I say, finally taking the tissue from his hand, applying
some spit, and wiping the grease smear from his face.

"Thank you, *mom,*" he says sarcastically.

Once this job was my life, and I was consumed by it. At first, I would
follow Mulder in an attempt to balance his whimsical conclusions with my
scientific rationale. Later, I was no a longer follower, but we worked
together as equals, trying to bring some sense to all that we had
discovered. Now, this job is no longer my life as it was before. I still
would like to know all that has happened to me, and to learn how
Christopher came into being. But I would like to learn this things
without expense to my family. Now that I have it, *it* is my life.

"Why do I do it, Scully?"

"Mulder, *we* do it because we know what the future holds and we know
the only way to prevent it is to analyze and reproduce whatever might
possibly be contained in that vial Senator Erickson has in his
possession. We keep following these trails with the desperate hope that
someday someone will slip up and supply us with the truths we have been
searching for all these years, truths beyond what you already know about
your sister, beyond Christopher. I believe that *you* personally keep
following this path that almost always ends in futility because we both
know that on the eve of this...this possible viral contagion being
spread to humanity, if you haven't done whatever you possibly could to
prevent it, well, you would feel that was unconscionable. Yet, you can't
do it all yourself. It is impossible to save the future single
handedly," I tell him, noticing he never turned to look at me throughout
my whole synopsis.

"With as many times as you used *we* in that, do you think I could refer
to you as my crime fighting sidekick from now on?" he asks.

I say nothing, as I continue to watch the traffic for signs of a tow
truck. He climbs up on the trunk next to me, and puts his arm around me,
careful not to get any remaining grease on my only jacket.

"We could just quit, Scully. Right here and now. Have you ever wanted to
visit the VLA radio-telescope observatory? It isn't that far from here,"
he asks me. I know he's not serious about quiting. It would take more
than a stalled car on the side of the highway to get Mulder to quit.

"No, I don't want to visit the VLA, because you can't be trusted there.
And don't you even suggest a trip to Roswell again, either," I tell him.

"Weather control, Scully. It wouldn't be the first incident of it," he
says to me.

"Hmmf."

"No, really. Think about it. What if they could change the weather? What
if they could make it, say, cold for extended periods of time? What do
they use the cold for?" he asks, his eyebrow waggling as if he is really
on to something here.

"Mulder, even if they could control the weather, it would have to be on
such a large scale, to create a storm that size... no, I won't even
go into it. The government cannot create hurricanes or blizzards. And
cloud seeding programs, while ostensibly effective in increasing rain
fall in small areas, have only speculativly lowered the occurrences of
hail storms in North Dakota," I say, my hands gesturing to the cloudy
heavens above us.

"The State Department, and then NASA? What if Thomas Erickson knows
something?" he asks, looking at me. The headlights of a passing car
light up Mulder's face and I can see that he is serious.

"Why wouldn't he tell his son?" I ask. Mulder only looks forward, his
eyes searching the night for answers that don't come easily.

"Yeah, why wouldn't a father tell his son these things," he says,
turning to look me in the eye.

His face shows the pain only felt by a person betrayed for years by
someone near and dear to them, someone they should have been able to
trust above all others. It is a pain I hope never to inflict on anyone,
especially my child.

"Are you suggesting that they are releasing Ronald Mulch only as a decoy
to get us away from Thomas Erickson?" I ask.

"That could be part of it, but, no. I think he saw something out at that
campsite twenty-five years ago. I think they are releasing him to buy
his silence. Now we just have to figure out who wants his silence. And
why. Mulch probably doesn't realize they will most likely kill him after
they are through with him, whoever they are," he says.

"If we don't even know who is getting him out, maybe Mulch doesn't know
either. We could use that to our advantage," I say, hoping the
information of how exactly this murderer is getting out hadn't reached
him yet.

"Yeah. If we could *only* get there," he says, putting his hands up in
frustration.

"When was Skinner getting back?" I ask, hoping that Reid and Fowley
wouldn't spoil the only possible ace we might have up our sleeve.

"According to Reid, he should be there soon. And we should be there in
time to watch Mulch walk," Mulder says, slamming his hands down on the
trunk of the car, "Damn it! Where is that tow truck."

"Here it comes," I say, pointing at the yellow flashes lighting up the
night sky as we both slide down off of the trunk.

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

Penitentiary of New Mexico
Santa Fe, New Mexico
April 18, 2002
5:02 a.m.

Prison is as bad as the uninitiated imagine. Although they aren't bad in
that classic, late night movie way where inmates slowly chip their way
out of their cells using a chicken bone and a spring from their
mattress, the feeling of oppression still permeates the air. Of course,
that is the idea. Do the crime, pay the time.

I have personally experienced being jailed from two extremes. I've been
in what amounts to the local lock-up at the county jail all the way to a
Russian gulag. In the former, I did not fear for my life, only my sanity
during that whole situation. In Russia, I felt the true fear of not
knowing how to find my way out.

I've often felt that if I had to choose between the big house for life,
or being executed, I would have to go with the latter, because I
couldn't take the captivity. I also would not be able to take the fact
that I was never alone, always being watched and monitored. Like I'm not
always watched now.

This prison falls between the two extremes I've experienced. All the
amenities are here for the inmates, but they are still captive, unable
get out as they please. All but Ronald Mulch.

There are only two hours to go before Mulch walks, and we are stuck at
the front desk while the guards change shifts. Scully is glaring at the
two men who can't seem to figure out why the warden might be in or why
federal agents might be there at five o'clock in the morning. The other
two are trying hard to explain it with the limited knowledge they
possess on the matter.

"Boys! Can we hurry it up a little. We are already late," I shout
through the tiny screen in the glass. They have our badges and one of
them is on the phone with the warden's office.

"Hold on a minute, sir. We are still trying to get you and your partner
cleared," one of the newcomers announces.

"Well, well. It's nice to see you could drag yourselves away from the
coziness of a double bed to officiate this fiasco," I hear someone
proclaim from behind us. Shit. I put on my best fake five a.m. smile and
turn to greet my favorite agent.

"Agent Spender. To what do we owe the pleasure?" I ask, and Scully
removes her glaring eyes from the guards and instead uses them to stare
Special Agent Jeffrey Spender down.

Agent Spender has been on the FBI fast track to the top ever since I got
the X-files back. He has had help, of course, and I'm sure if my
devotion to uncovering the truth hadn't gotten in my way, I could be in
his place. I would never have been able to live with myself, though.

"I've been sent here to salvage what I can of this fiasco, Agent Mulder.
I think this is a new land speed record, even for you. What has it been?
Three days, and already you're fallibility has paroled a convicted
murder thirty-four years too soon," the snide little weasel says.

"Oh, no. I'm sure I've screwed up much bigger cases in much less time,
Agent Spender. You just haven't done your homework," I tell him.

"Agent Spender, we would never petition for the discharge of an
unpardonable malefactor like Ronald Mulch. We are just here to find out
who it is working for his early parole and why. It would be helpful if
you shared any knowledge you might have into this matter," Scully tells
him in a tone that is all business.

"How the hell would I know?" Spender asks, his voice clearly indicating
he is going on the defense now. Perhaps he doesn't know why he has been
given the things he has, or maybe he has known for years.

"Maybe your cigarette smoking buddy told you before he sent you out
here. He always seems to be coming through for you, supplying you with
'gifts' so to speak," I tell him.

Spender eyes Scully up and down, before stopping at her face. She
returns his stare, her lips pursed and serious.

"You seem to be getting your fair share of 'gifts' these days, Agent
Mulder. I wouldn't complain too loudly if I were you," Spender says,
while he tries to get the attention of the guards.

"Okay, you two are cleared to go in once your weapons are checked," the
guard says to Scully and me, while handing us back our badges. We
deposit our weapons with him, and watch as he begins the process over
with Spender.

Once we are on the opposite side of the door from Spender, Scully
mumbles, "Prick."

"Scully, I don't think I've ever heard you use that word before," I say
to her as we follow the hallways to the wardens office.

"That is because it only applies to Agent Spender and it has been well
over a year since I've seen him last."

The warden's office is crowded with exhausted and confused people.
Scully and I aren't in much better shape, only sleeping during our three
hour wait for the rental agency to get a new car sent out to the auto
service center. That, and she slept on the drive up here. We both look
like hell and are still wearing the same clothes we set out for T or C
in yesterday.

Assistant Director Skinner is present as is Diana. I have no idea where
Agent Reid might be.

"Good morning, agents. Have a seat so we can get you up to speed on the
recent developments," Skinner starts.

"I'd like to hear them, also," Agent Spender says, as he appears through
the door. Skinner appears to be as taken off guard by his appearance as
we were.

"Of course, Agent Spender. I had no idea you would be joining us."

"It was a judicious executive decision, to make sure procedures are
followed during the remainder of this case," he says, and Skinner glares
at him. Skinner knows exactly how this man is getting where he is, and
doesn't like it anymore than I do.

Spender sits down, and Reid enters the room with two cups of coffee,
handing one to Diana. He also looks like he had no sleep, and he looks
like all of a sudden he is in over his head. I should have warned him
better about the troubles that seem to follow me where ever I go.

"Now that we are all here, I would like to get this started again. As
Agents Reid and Fowley already know, yesterday an order came down for
the parole of Ronald Mulch. We have yet to ascertain exactly why anyone
would want Mr. Mulch released, and the source does not appear to be
forthcoming," Skinner says, flipping through a pile of court orders.

"This just can't be a legal mandate," the warden says, "We have never
had a prisoner released without a parole hearing or writ or
recognizance. How could this be happening?"

"The men doing this don't care about laws..." I begin to say before
being interrupted by Skinner.

"What Agent Mulder is saying is that these men who pardoned Ronald Mulch
have an agenda that transcends New Mexico state jurisdiction or
authority, and as such act with impunity," Skinner says, resigned to the
facts I already knew.

"So what do we do now?" Diana asks.

"Damage control. We will have Mulch under constant surveillance until he
violates the conditions of his parole, and after interviewing him for a
short time last night, I believe that will be soon," Skinner says.

"Excuse me, sir, does Mulch know why he is being released?" Scully asks.

"I am under the impression that he does not. For all he knows, we are
doing it. And that is where you and Agent Mulder come in. You two have
exactly two hours to convince the man that this is a gift from FBI
heaven and find out what he knows about Senator Erickson's mother. I
believe he is waiting in interrogation room three," Skinner says, and
the warden nods.

"I don't understand, sir. Why did you wait until we got here to try that
ploy?" I ask.

"Because you can get into his head the fastest, Agent Mulder," Skinner
says pointedly, and I grimace at his remark. Monster boy. Golden
profiler boy. It is all the same. In two hours they want a complete
profile of this vicious killer, and they want me to know him well enough
to weed out any information I can get. Impossible expectations. I might
be good at what I do, but there is only so much I can do in two hours. I
can't become Ronald Mulch in that amount of time.

"After he walks, he will have to be observed around the clock. Agents
Reid and Fowley, you will be the first team to observe him. Spender,
you'll be next. I will get someone assigned to assist you from the field
office. That shift will be followed by Agents Mulder and Scully tonight.
Everybody clear on that?" Skinner asks.

A collective and very tired 'yes' is pronounced through the room.

Scully and I silently leave the room and find Ronald Mulch lounging in
an uncomfortable metal chair in the interrogation room. His Cheshire cat
grin stretched ear to ear, Mulch appears maddeningly smug.

"Well, the fuck buddies finally decided to show up. I wondered what you
all were doing when the rest of the cavalry arrived last night without
you," Mulch slurs before we even get a chance to sit down.

"Okay, we got the pleasantries out of the way, now we can get down to
business," I say to him, as Scully settles into her seat. Her eyes
pierce into him, and I know she won't be taking much of his shit today.

"It is apparent that you are aware of your parole and subsequent
release..." I start to say.

"I've been counting down the hours. Got all my personal things packed
and I can't hardly wait to get back to real life. I'll need to do a
little shopping before I get settled into my new place. After all these
years in prison, I got a craving for some meat. Guess I'll have to stop
by the grocery store on my way out," the asshole says, licking his damn
chops.

"Mr. Mulch, your release has been arranged in exchange for your
cooperation and information you might have about the disappearance of
Ellen Erickson," Scully tells him, sounding rather perturbed by his last

statement.

"My Jew lawyer said you guys didn't have nothing to do with my getting
paroled," Mulch says.

"We had *everything* to do with your parole. Even a jail house lawyer
like yourself should know that the Parole Commission is run by the
Department of Justice. Do you know what other agencies are within the
Department of Justice or do you need for me to educate you?" Scully
tells him, and he still ignores her.

"Here comes my lawyer now. We'll just have to see what that damn Jew has
to say about all of this," Mulch says, as the door swings open.

Ronald Mulch's 'Jew' lawyer is actually a Native American man wearing a
cheap blue suit.

"I'm Joseph Greystone," he says, as he extends his hand to both Scully
and myself, and we exchange introductions, "Anything you ask my client
needs to be asked in my presence."

"Mr. Greystone, can we have a word with you outside?" I ask.

"Of course. I'll be right back, Ronnie," he says as we walk out into the
hallway.

We all stand watching Mulch through the glass, and I make the first
statement.

"Your client isn't being very cooperative. He is getting his freedom.
All we need is some information on what he saw several years ago,"
Scully tells him.

"He does not want to risk his release by implicating himself..."
Joseph Greystone begins to say before I interrupt.

"How can he implicate himself? We are convinced he was not directly
involved in the abduction of Senator Paul Erickson's mother. Can you
talk to your client and see if he will at least let us know what he
saw," I say, "Maybe he will be more willing to work with you."

"Willing to work with me?" the lawyer says with a grin, "After ten
years, the man is still convinced I'm Jewish because I'm a lawyer, and
you think he is going to cooperate with me? Okay, I'll try. Give me a
few minutes," Mr. Greystone says, as he goes back into the room with
Ronald Mulch.

Scully and I watch them through the glass for a few minutes until the
lawyer signals for us to come back into the room.

"My client says you can ask whatever you would like to ask as long as
I'm present," Mr. Greystone says, and Scully and I take our seats again.

"What did you see on the night of June 13, 1977, Mr. Mulch?" I ask,
getting right to the point.

"Nothing but dancing bears," he says.

"In our previous meeting, you said that had nothing to gain by
cooperating. Now we have given you your freedom and would like
information about what you saw on the night that Ellen Erickson was
abducted," Scully says, obviously agitated with the man.

"Hey, the bitch demands attention, don't she? I suppose you'd learn how
to be a bitch real fast working with all these cocksuckers. Well, let me
see what I have to say after I've been out for a few days. Are you
hangin' around town, sweet cheeks? Maybe we can get together and discuss
this further and maybe you can ditch the prick you hang out with..."
Mulch starts to say, pointing a crooked finger at me, the 'prick.'

"Ronnie, please. You are talking to federal agents," his lawyer says,
grabbing his arm.

"I'm talking to a faggot in a fancy suit and a dyke who likes to fuck
G-men on the side," Mulch says to his lawyer.

"Ronnie, just tell them what you saw," Greystone says.

"I ain't gonna say nothing. My papers are already signed, sealed and
delivered. I'm walking outta here today and there ain't nothing anybody
can do about it," He says, leaning back in his chair, and smiling.

"We will be watching your every move, Mulch. You can trust me on that
one. And before you know it, we will bust your smug ass back to prison.
Your type prefers it in here, can't live without the prison environment.
Hell, you'll probably miss your 'girlfriend' before the week is out and
miss meeting your parole officer just to get put back in here," I say,
not breaking eye contact with him.

"You can't watch me forever, fuckrag. You might not have a life, but
she's gotta boyfriend or girlfriend that she's gotta get back to."

"We aren't the only agents who can watch you. I'm just telling you to be
careful with your surprise gift of freedom," Scully tells him. I look
over to her, and she looks tired and worn from all of this crap.

"I'm always careful."

"You weren't too careful when you murdered those women. Man, you were
picked up pretty quickly for those. What a screw up as a criminal you
are," I say to him, hoping to elicit anything out of him.

He doesn't budge. Anyone can tell you what this man is going to do next.
All we will be able to do is watch and wait and hope we can prevent him
from doing any more damage to any more lives. Finally, someone comes to
out process Ronald Mulch, and Scully and I can do nothing but watch him
get up to leave the room.

"Hey, don't forget that there's more than just a father and a son. Never
forget the holy ghost," Mulch says to us as he goes to leave the room,
fluttering his hands like a crazy man at us.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask, but Mulch says nothing
more as he's led away. He just gives us a malicious wink and a smile.

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

Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 18, 2002
3:25 p.m.

"Fox, get up," I hear someone say, and suddenly realize Mulder and I
fell asleep on the same bed in my room. I open my eyes to see an
exhausted Diana Fowley shaking Mulder's shoulder, trying to rouse him,
probably in an attempt to throw him out of the room so she can get some
rest.

We got back to the hotel from the prison hours ago, and after making a
quick call home, we both were asleep within minutes. Agents Reid and
Fowley were the unlucky ones to draw the first surveillance shift.

"Mulder, come on, get up. Agent Fowley wants to get some rest. You've
got to go to your own room," I say, poking him in the ribs.

"He's never been an easy one to wake up once he's out, when he does
sleep, that is," Fowley says, and I begin to wonder why in the hell she
wants him out of the room at all, considering she takes every
opportunity to let me know they have a past.

Finally, he wakes up and stumbles off to his own room, mumbling
something incoherent.

"I'm sorry. I'm just exhausted," Fowley says, as she flops down on her
own bed, not even bothering to put on night clothes. Not that it
matters. Neither did I.

"So, did Mulch do anything interesting?" I ask, as she buries herself
under the blankets.

"Someone picked him and brought him from Sante Fe to Albuquerque. We
don't know why. He then went to the liquor store and then checked
himself into the Rosewood Inn and Efficiencies. That was it. Didn't
leave there all morning," she says right before she falls asleep.

After several more hours of sleep, Mulder comes back to wake me up so we
can go to the field office and do some more research into Thomas
Erickson.

We sit in the conference room, studying all the information that Mulder
requested yesterday while we were still in Tor C. So far, nothing about
the man is remarkable, if you ignore the fact that his wife vanished and
his son would eventually be a U.S. Senator.

"Average man. Average job. Average family...well, average for a
political family. Nothing in any of these files points to anythin but
'average.' Don't you find that strange for a man who's father had
political power, who's only son rose to have a great deal of political
power? He did that quickly I might add. It is just odd that this man who
held jobs with the government agencies he did is and who's wife vanished
into thin air, never amounted to anything. We are missing something
here, Scully," Mulder says, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his
eyes.

"I don't know, Mulder. A lot of times in families the extraordinary
talents skip generations," I say.

"So if Christopher is brilliant, I'm..." he starts to say.

"The father of a brilliant kid?" I add, smiling, "Mulder, we aren't
going to find anything in these folders. This stuff was white washed
before it ever got to us, and we are both *brilliant* enough to know
that. Can you imagine what your father's real file would say?"

"So what now? We follow around a criminal for a few days, with the hopes
we catch him for petty theft before he kills someone? Come on, Scully,
one of these field agents could do that. Someone is keeping us here, and
sending out Spender to make sure we stay," he tells me as he throws all
of the information on Thomas Erickson into a storage box.

"Well, that may be so, but we are the ones who have to go follow him
around in five hours. Any ideas as to what we should do until then?" I
ask.

His head snaps up and he looks at me with a cute grin.

"I was thinking more along the lines of finding something to eat,
Mulder," I say.

"And who says I wasn't?"

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

Outside the Rosewood Inn
Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 19, 2002
2:06 a.m.

"Take a nap if you want, Scully. I won't fall asleep," I tell her after
she lets out a long yawn.

"No, that's okay. I'll make it another... five hours," she says after
checking her watch.

"I can't believe this has come to this," I say, as I crinkle the bag of
sunflower seeds on the dash.

"Hmm," is all she utters, as she turns her head to look out the window.
I'm not sure whether she wants me to continue with my diatribe on why I
can't believe this has come to this or not, but I'm going to assume she
could care less about my opinion right now.

We are parked across the street from the Rosewood Inn on the outskirts
of Albuquerque, the newest home of Ronald Mulch. He paid for his stay in
advance, and is now the proud resident of one efficiency until the end
of May. The source of his money is unknown.

"Sunflower seed?" I offer her.

"Not in this lifetime," she answers without turning her head from the
window.

Not another word passes between us for half an hour.

"I'm going home Saturday, Mulder, whether this is wrapped up or not. I
can fly back here on Monday, but one of us has got to go home to see
Christopher, and since I'm the one who is lactating, I guess it should
be me," she says to me, finally turning her head towards me instead of
watching the road.

"That's fine," I tell her. This thing is never going to be wrapped up by
the weekend, not with this whole Mulch ordeal. So much for planning.

I miss Christopher, too. Yeah, me, who said they would never settle down
to this normal life. Fox Mulder, who some days still can't believe this
is his life. I still find the love I have for my son amazing. I knew I
would love him the moment Scully told me she was pregnant, but I also
*like* him. I like being with him, watching him grow and become a
person. I love the idea that someday my son and I will play catch and
talk about football and girls and cars and normal things. Or whatever is
the newest thing sixteen years from now. Until then, I will do
everything in my power to make sure he and I have that future, even if
that means sitting in a car with his mother watching the front of a
cheap motel on the damn whim of a United States Senator.

Scully is silent, as she just watches the few cars trickle past on the
access road in front of the Inn. Now would be as good as time as any to
ask her a few things, I figure. We are rarely ever alone like this
anymore.

"So, when did you know for sure?" I ask.

"Know what?" she asks back.

"That you loved me and that you weren't going to fall out of love with
me. Again," I say, and I hear her sigh and shift in her seat a little. I
break the silence that follows with a crack of a sunflower seed.

"Mulder..." Scully says, her tone begging for me to let her out of
this.

"You said you fell in and out of love with me several times. When did
you fall for good?" I ask, reaching for another sunflower seed and
brushing up against her in the process. She pulls back a little, and I
wonder what is up with that.

"I loved you for a long time, Mulder. Love, as in friendship. Now, as
far as being *in* love with you..." she says, then stops.

"Well? Yesterday you said something about 1998?" I ask again after she
says nothing for a few minutes.

"I guess I knew it was for real, for forever, when I was pregnant, and
all you did was sleep on my couch. You didn't push me into anything,
didn't try to dictate how I should live my life. Every night you showed
up faithfully and camped out on that uncomfortable couch, while I went
to bed. It was sweet," she says.

"Uh huh," is all I can think to say. I was hoping she was in love with
me when our child was conceived, but I guess that would be a lot to hope
for in our case.

"One day, I woke up, went into the bathroom to vomit, and when I came
out, you looked so concerned, but you didn't coddle me or baby me. You
treated me with respect, instead of hovering over me..."

"Well, you did smell pretty bad through some of that morning sickness
crap, Scully," I say, smiling at her.

"I looked at you that day, and I knew that even if you were to disappear
from my life at that very moment, after all we've done and seen, my last
thought this side of the grave would be of you and our child," she says
seriously, her eyes so expressive and full of light.

I can say nothing to that, for no words justly express what is shared
between the two of us. I love her and it doesn't matter who fell first
or the hardest.

"I love you, too," I finally say, leaning over to kiss her lightly. She
smiles at me and looks out the window again.

No other words are spoken for the rest of the night until my cell phone
rings at 4 a.m.

"Yeah. Mulder," I answer.

"Agent Mulder, we've got a problem. I suggest you get down here right
away," Skinner tells me.

"Problem?" I ask, not having any idea what he's talking about.

"Agents Charno and Mosely will be there to replace you and Scully in a
few minutes. I need you two at a crime scene. And we need to know
exactly what you two have been watching for the last several hours,"
Skinner questions.

"Sir?" I ask. Scully is looking at me quizzically, and I realize I
haven't said more than three words in this whole conversation.

"It would seem that Ronald Mulch is suspected in the murder of one Tina
Ahrens. Her friends say she went out to a convenience store about two
hours ago, and never returned," he says with a sigh.

"Agent Scully and I have been watching the motel all night. He hasn't
come or gone. Do you want me to go knock on his door and see if he is
still there?" I ask, my mind not able to fathom what exactly Skinner is
implying.

"The field agents will take care of that. I need you here before this
gets out of hand," he says as he gives me the address of the latest
victim. Her body was dumped off on what is now historic Route 66.

After the other agents arrive, we make it to the address Skinner gave me
within twenty minutes. By then it is a full-blown crime scene, and we
flash our badges as we cross the police tape.

"I'm looking for Assistant Director Skinner?" I ask a crime scene
technician, and she aimlessly points me in the direction of an
investigative unit truck.

"What's going on, sir?" Scully asks first, while Skinner grabs several
evidence bags holding what appears to be photographs out of a box.

"Come with me. We don't need any more people involved in this," he says,
and leads us away to his rental car. We are illuminated only by the
flashing blue lights and an old flickering street lamp over head. No one
else pays much attention to us as they go about the tedious work of
gathering evidence from the scene.

"I need to ask you both some questions first. At any time did you see
Ronald Mulch at all tonight, or any thing that would indicate that he
was ever in his room? A light going on or off, a shade being pulled?"
Skinner asks.

"The room was dark when we arrived for duty, but it was eleven o'clock
at night, so we figured he was just in bed by that point. No one came in
or out of his room at all, and only one car came into the motel all
night. A couple checked into a room down from Mulch's, but that was the
only activity we saw," I tell him.

"Agent Spender confirms that he saw Mulch leave his room at nine p.m.,
go to the vending machine and return to his room. He never saw him leave
again. Agent Charno just called in to report that Mulch is no longer in
his room, and appears to have packed up. So, what I want to know, Agents
Mulder and Scully, is how exactly he got out undetected?" Skinner asks.

I look to Scully, who now has her eyes shut and her hand up to her
forehead.

"And I would like to know how these ended up on the victim," he says,
handing me a pile of evidence bags, each containing a single photograph.

I lay them all out along the trunk of the car, and Skinner turns away as
not to look. Scully comes over and I hear her gasp. Scully and I are the
main attraction in each of the five by seven glossy, black and white
photographs.

The first shot was most likely taken from between the blinds of the
hotel room in T or C. It is the most revealing of the photos, leaving
nothing to the imagination. She is propped up on one arm next to my
naked body, looking me in the eye, her index finger on my mouth. I know
exactly what moment that picture was taken, and I'm sure anyone else
might be able to guess that we weren't discussing the Yankees' pennant
chances.

Another one shows us sitting on the trunk of the car on Interstate 25,
my arm around her. The last two photos are even more recent. The two of
us fast asleep on the bed in her hotel room, fully dressed. We are
holding each other intimately, my arm draped over her. And last but not
least, a blurry, telephoto lens shot, of me giving her a kiss in the car
just a few hours ago, with the Rosewood Inn glowing in the background.

Scully puts her hands on her hips and turns away from the images. Her
lips are pursed and I'm sure she would have plenty to say if that first
photo didn't exist.

Skinner reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out another bag. He
holds it up and what looks like a compact disk shimmers under the street
lamp.

"Would either of you venture to guess what this is?" he asks.

I reach for it, and turn it over in my hand, looking at the
manufacturer's label. It is the only identifying mark on it.

"It looks like one of those recordable video disks..." I start to say,
and Scully and I both look at each other nervously.

"That is exactly what it is. It's amazing how much information can be
stored on one of these, and the picture quality is excellent; great
clarity and fine resolution. Would either of you care to guess what was
on this disk?" he asks, quietly.

"I'm guessing it isn't the lost episodes of 'The Honeymooners,'" I say.

"Not unless you and Agent Scully got married in Truth or Consequences
yesterday and forgot to tell me. If it were up to me, I'd make this one
disappear. Unfortunately, Agent Spender was standing behind me watching
as it ran," he says quietly, so no one can overhear that he suggested
evidence should ever disappear.

"Ran, sir?" Scully asks, a bit of panic rising in her voice.

"Agent Scully, I assure you it was only on for several seconds, until I
told them to turn it off. The agents watching it are professionals and
have handled sensitive evidence before. The two of you should have no
problem with them. I made that clear," Skinner says, suggesting that he
already implicitly told them that there will be no problems or else.

"What the hell does this have to do with Ronald Mulch? He did not have
the capability to take these last pictures or that video or to put it to
disk. He was still in prison when these were taken," I say, gesturing at

the first two photos in the series.

"It has everything to do with Ronald Mulch. The murder victim was
apparently abducted from an all night convenience mart between two a.m.
and three a.m., then a road crew came upon her body at four a.m. It's
Mulch's style, right down to leaving her body on Route 66. Why would
these compromising photos of the lead agents show up on the victim?"
Skinner asks, and I'm not sure whether he is questioning us or
attempting to work up a defense for us.

"If Ronald Mulch is indeed the murderer, the photos and video had to be
planted on the victim by someone other than Mulch," Scully says.

"Yeah. Those images showing the two key agents on this case otherwise
occupied. Doesn't look good, does it?" he asks, his eyes flickering down
to the photos quickly before meeting my eyes again. He has yet to look
at Scully.

"We weren't working when three out of four of those were taken, and the
last one was nothing. It isn't like this is some secret affair, sir. On
the other side of the country, we live together and have a kid. We are
not partners anymore and our relationship certainly does not interfere
with our ability to fulfill our duties," I say, the pitch of my voice
rising as I gather the pictures back up, putting the most sensitive one
on the bottom of the pile.

 Someone has been that close this whole time. Close enough to look
between the blinds of a hotel room. I know the one person who was.
Unfortunately, I don't know him at all, don't even know who's side he is
on.

"Don't even bother with concealing that one, Mulder. The patrols that
showed up first on the scene already passed them around, followed by
homicide. Then when they finally figured out to call us, the agents that
first arrived identified the *subjects* of the photos and that is when I
was called out. At least they had the good sense not to stick the disk
into anyone's laptop computer" Skinner says, his voice displaying
embarrassment. Whether he is embarrassed for us, himself or the FBI, I'm
not sure.

"Sir, I think now would be a good time for Agent Mulder and myself to
back out of this whole mess. Someone doesn't want us here..." Scully
begins to say quietly, before he interrupts her.

"Yet, Senator Erickson does. So the two of you will remain professional
at all times from now on, and for God's sake, shut the damn curtains,
okay? It isn't like you haven't been paranoid about being followed half
your life, Mulder," Skinner says, a smirk crossing his face for a
second.

"Yes, sir. We'll be more careful in the future," Scully says, and he
looks at her for the first time since the pictures were presented to us.

"I have to return these now. I want both of you out here. I think this
mob has it covered. Agent Scully, we are trying to arrange for an
autopsy bay for later this morning. I will call you when your services
are needed. And then you two are scheduled to watch the Rosewood Inn
again tonight, in case Ronald Mulch doesn't know he killed someone and
decides to come back home. Can the two of you handle it?" Skinner asks.

"Yes, sir," I tell him.

"Good. If someone is trying to use this as a ploy to split the two of
you up as partners, it isn't going to work. I'll see to that," he says
to us as he heads back to the crime lab truck, evidence bags in hand.

Scully and I head back to our car, my hand on her back, leading her in
some gesture of support. We both cross under the gazes of Agent Spender,
who is looking quite pleased, and Diana, who looks slightly amused. They
are standing side by side, whispering something to each other. God damn
partners in dirty work again, for all I know.

"I'd call that a land speed record if I've ever seen one. Nothing faster
than minute man Mulder. And what had you so preoccupied that Mulch got
by you?" Spender calls out as we walk by.

"Are you talking about the case again or that video you got the pleasure
to see? Because if you are talking about that video, Agent Scully can
testify to that *not* being my land speed record. Christ, Spender you
really got to do your homework more often," I say to him, wishing I
could punch that damn grin off of his face.

"Mulder," Scully says, as she pulls me to the car.

As we leave the crime scene, and head back towards the hotel, Scully is
the first to speak.

"I wonder how long until the video makes it onto the 'Busted on the Job
part XI'?" she asks.

"I really thought we'd be featured on the Justice Files first, Scully.
Well, maybe that is a little too lofty. At least we might have made it
to Strange Sightings before we were relegated to a Thursday night spot
on the Fox Network," I tell her, hoping to lighten up this *crisis.*

"Until then, I'm sure it will be the screen saver of the year for some
creep down in evidence," she says. I look at her and she does have a
slight smile on her face. Of course we will survive this, too.

We both have known for a long time that nothing we do in our life goes
without notice. We live in a fishbowl simply because of what we do, or
used to do. As much as we watch *them,* they watch us. They just seem to
have a little more control over what we do than we can ever gain over
them.

"I'm surprised you didn't ask for a copy," she tells me.

"I didn't want to do that while you were there. I'll have to get one
from Skinner later," I say back to her with a wink, glad that this
didn't upset her too greatly. She looks at me, slightly shocked.

"I'm kidding," I tell her.

"Seriously, Mulder, who is it?" she asks, the playful tone totally
absent from her voice.

"I think my *informant* is up to no good, Scully. I think it is time he
and I had a little chat about exactly who he is working for," I say, as
I try to figure out exactly how I'm going to find this man. I guess I
could try by opening up the window blinds and seeing if he is there.

"Let's just let the storm pass on this one for now. I have an autopsy to
do this afternoon, and then you and I get to spend the night in the car
together again. Just don't look at me this time, okay?" she says.

"Yes, ma'am," I say as we pull into the hotel parking lot.

Scully and I try to catch up on our sleep, in separate rooms this time,
until Skinner calls Scully about coming down to the morgue to perform
the autopsy. She looks exhausted as she leaves me behind. Two hours
after Scully leaves, Diana knocks on my door.

"What do you need, Diana?" I ask, hoping she wasn't here to comment on
the way this investigation is going or the latest evidence found this
morning.

"I just got a call in my room from Senator Erickson. He was looking for
you or Agent Scully. He says his father wants to meet you, this
afternoon, at the Sandia Peaks Tramway," she tells me, as she walks past
me into the room, holding a scrap of paper with her notes on it.

"Let me call Scully," I say as I walk over to the room phone.

"Fox, I really think you two should go separate ways on this one. You
don't need any more photos showing up on a victim somewhere, do you? I
will go with you to talk to Thomas Erickson. Besides, Agent Scully has
got to get that autopsy done, since she's the only one who can do it.
The meeting is set for in an hour. It is just a simple interview," she
tells me, her eyes as pleading as they ever were.

"A simple interview, on a mountain? There is no such thing, Diana," I
tell her, trying to figure out exactly what she is planning. She isn't
worthy of trust, not after what she has pulled over the last several
years, and I *should* know better. I should call Scully, tell her to
postpone the autopsy. I should not follow this woman.

"Fox, come on. The man knows something and is scared of them finding out
he's talking to someone. He obviously trusts you. That is why he wants
to meet with you. That is why he doesn't want to meet in public" she
says, and I know down to my core that something isn't right.

"Why up here in Albuquerque? What is he so afraid of?" I ask.

"Senator Erickson said his father feels someone is following him, that
his life might be in danger He told his father to come up here to where
we were, so he'd be safe. The senator told his father to contact you,
and you would know what to do to help him," she says.

"Um, okay. Let me get dressed and I'll let Scully know where I'm going,"
I say, and the look on Diana's face lets me know she wishes I didn't
call Scully.

"We've got to go," she says, as she walks towards the door.

"I'll be there in *one* minute, Diana," I tell her as she shuts the
door.

I start to get dressed in my G-man uniform and dial Scully's cell
number.

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

Bernalillo County Medical Examiner's Office
April 19, 2002

"Scully," I say, picking up my cell phone after disposing of my gloves
into the biohazardous waste can.

"Scully, it's me. I've got a meeting with Thomas Erickson in half an
hour," Mulder says, and he sounds like he's in a rush.

"I can't be there that quickly, Mulder. I just started on Tina Ahrens.
There was a big mess-up here and I didn't have an autopsy bay until a
few minutes ago. Can you schedule it for another time?" I say, leaning
up against the locker doors and looking up to the clock.

"No, no... you just finish up there. I've got this end taken care of.
I just wanted to let you know. If I don't catch up with you before hand,
I will meet you at the Rosewood Inn at eleven," he says, his voice
moving away and closer to the phone as if he is getting dressed.

"Mulder?" I ask, as I watch Agent Joshua Reid enter the room. He was
helping me straighten out the problem of finding Tina Ahrens' body after
it went 'missing' for a few hours.

"Yeah, Scully? I've got to get going," he tells me.

"Who are you going with?" I ask, already knowing the answer to the
question. Someone is trying to divide us, and it is working. The photos
and now this. Mulder is going to follow Agent Fowley. I can feel it.

"Um, nobody so far. I'll try to meet up with Agent Reid," he says.

I look up at Agent Reid, who is standing by the door waiting for me to
hang up to answer a question or sign some papers.

"Okay," I say, holding the tone of my voice as even as I can.

"I'll see you tonight, Scully," he says as he hangs up on me.

"Agent Reid, were you supposed to meet Agent Mulder for a meeting this
afternoon?" I ask, setting down my phone and digging more gloves out of
the box.

"Not that I know of," he says, as he comes forwards with those papers in
his hand.

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

Outside Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 19, 2002

"What exactly did the senator say?" I ask Diana as we head for the
Sandia Mountains right outside of Albuquerque.

"He said his father had something to tell us, and that since you talked
to him the other day, he thinks he's being followed. That was it. He
didn't get too specific," she tells me, as she flips through some case
files. And I'm following her based on this? I have followed her before,
with more than that to go on, always with disastrous results.

"How did you get involved with Senator Erickson, Diana? You never did
tell me how you knew I should contact him when I found you in Miami," I
ask her. She turns to look out the window, so I can't determine if her
answers are going to be true or not.

"He came to me, Fox. He wanted help and somebody told him I used to work
on the X-files in late '90s. I don't know why he didn't contact you
first. I mean, they've always been yours. He told me he wanted help
finding out what happened to his mother. I never took it any further,
and then you showed up, asking me who was behind trying to re-open the
X-files again. I guessed it must have been him," she tells me.

"He told me he never met you, Diana," I say to her.

"Why would I lie about it, Fox? When you asked me for his name, I had
met with him several times. I have no idea why he would tell you
otherwise," she says. Do I believe her? I don't know. I don't know which
of the two is less believable.

"Do you have the notes on where to meet Mr. Erickson?" I ask as we get
to the entrance to the park.

"I've got them right here," she says, as I park the car.

She tells me he is meeting us at the top of the tramway, so we purchase
our ticket and enter the car for our ride up. There are several tourists
with us on the car, but it is not overly crowded. A perfect place to
meet someone who is paranoid.

"Can I ask you something, Diana?" I ask, needing to know what she said
to Scully the other night.

"What?" she asks, not looking at me, instead looking out at the view as
we ascend.

"When you and Scully were discussing married life the other night..."
I start to say.

"Don't worry. I didn't let any of your secrets out of the bag," she
says, placing her hand on my arm.

"Thank you," I say.

"You've got to tell her, Fox. I know it was a long time ago, but she
deserves to know," Diana tells me, her hand still placed softly over my
arm.

"I know. I will as soon as we get back home," I say, moving away from
her slightly to break any contact we have. Nothing else is said between
us until we are almost near the top.

"Why is somebody going to all this trouble?" she asks, "Why would
somebody murder someone to plant those pictures?"

"The only thing I can think of is to make us all look bad. Maybe to get
Scully and me split up. I didn't know we were that close to anything. I
was just hoping that Mulch would come clean and tell us what he saw, and
we could get this resolved," I tell her, as we approach the top of the
mountain.

"Maybe the senator's father will be willing to tell us something," she
says, "Maybe he has known what happened all the time. It wouldn't be
unheard of for a father to lie, would it, Fox?"

"Let's go," I tell her, as the tram stops and the few other passengers
start to get out.

"He gave me directions for what trail he wants us to meet him on," she
says, looking at a scribbled on piece of paper.

"Diana, a trail? What in the hell is going on here?" I ask, as I begin
to grow just more than a little suspicious.

"Good afternoon, Agent Fowley. And I believe it is Agent Mulder,
right?," someone asks from behind us, and I recognize the voice
immediately, "Don't turn around. You know I'm armed. I need for you to
put your hands where I can see them and then follow those directions
given to you to the letter. Do you understand me?"

I cast a glance over at Diana, and fight back the urge to say 'I told
you so,' but I'm the idiot who went for it.

"I don't understand. I thought we were supposed to meet with Thomas
Erickson. Is he here?" I say to the person behind us as we walk down a
trail.

"You are going to meet him in a minute. I'm taking a few security
precautions here. Now just keep walking," he says.

"Diana, next time you arrange for one of these nature hikes, let me know
so I can dress appropriately," I say and she looks over to me quickly.
She is either just as confused as I am, or a damn good actress. I look
around, hoping someone would notice this, but it is between winter
season and summer season, and there are very few people here in the
middle of the afternoon on a weekday.

"Okay. Stop there," he says as we reach a small, but we secluded
clearing, "Now, put your hands on your heads. Thank you."

He takes both of our weapons and frisks us both down before taking my
gun out of my ankle holster, too.

"You can turn around slowly. If you try anything, this meeting will not
happen. Do you understand?" he asks.

We both turn around and I discover it is who I had guessed it was by the
voice. My 'friend', informant, personal photographer. Whatever. I also
discover Thomas Erickson on the ground behind him, bound and gagged. So
the meeting wasn't bogus after all, but somebody really doesn't want us
to find out what that man might have to say. Just like they don't want
us to find out what Mulch has to say and gave him his freedom to assure
that we never would.

"What in the hell is going on here?" I demand, stepping between him and
Diana.

"You want to know what he knows? Here is your chance," the man says,
before walking over to Thomas Erickson and pulling the tape off of his
mouth.

"Why are you doing this? Why did you call me here?" is the first thing
to come out of his mouth. He is talking to me.

"We didn't call you, Mr. Erickson. We thought you wanted to meet with
us," Diana says and all of our eyes go to the man who brought us here.

"You are wasting time, Agent Mulder. Ask what you need to know," I'm
instructed.

"Before any more people die, what happened out there that night, Mr.
Erickson?" I ask, and his eyes snap shut. He still doesn't want to talk
about it, even though we might all be dead any time here.

"Come on, Mr. Erickson. You can tell him. Just don't get too specific on
the details leading up to that night," says my 'informant.'

"They did it. Those bastards that my father had me work for did it. They
made me do it because they thought I knew more than I did," he says
quietly.

"What did they do, Mr. Erickson?" I ask.

"They made me deal. I had to choose. Ellen couldn't so they just took
her," he says, as tears begin to stream down his face.

"Choose what?" Diana asks.

"Between my children, my wife or myself," is all he says, "All to save
my father's reputation."

My eyes go shut, realizing that he had to make the choice my parents
made. Only he was presented with more choices. Then again, maybe my
mother could have gone, too, but was too selfish. Or maybe not. I'll
never know. All I do know is that Samantha wasn't her choice anyway.

Finally, I look at the man who arranged this meeting in the woods, and
ask, "Why have you been working so hard to keep me from finding that
out? What else does he know?"

"I know exactly how far Project Weather Control goes back," is all he
says.

"Shut up! Now!" the other man snaps, as he puts the tape back on his
mouth.

"What in the hell is Project Weather Control?" I ask, "And what do you
have to do with it?"

"I'm not who you think I am, Agent Mulder. There are more of us. I know
that you have been talking to another one, and that he has been steering
you in certain directions. Unfortunately, he has steered you far from
home, where you should have been looking all along. Now I'm here to
solve everybody's problems. Quickly and efficiently," he says in voice
filled with no emotion at all.

"How do you intend to solve our problems?" I ask.

"By neutralizing them," is the last thing I hear before I feel
incredible, searing pain rise through my body and my world turns black.

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

Outside the Rosewood Inn
Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 19, 2002
11:10 p.m.

"Damn it, Mulder, where are you?" I say out loud to myself. I glance at
my watch to discover it is exactly thirty seconds later than the last
time I checked. I look down at the newest picture to be found on a body
of a young woman discovered earlier this evening. I was called to the
crime scene from the morgue and spent several hours there. The other
agents and homicide detectives kept silent around me, and I'm sure most
of them have been privy to a quick view of the photos of Mulder and
myself. I just did my job as always.

I put off the autopsy until morning, hoping to catch up with Mulder at
some point, and let him know he's being followed and photographed. I
never did find him.

The latest picture is another blurry, black and white telephoto lens
shot, only this time I'm not the woman featured in it. Actually, from
the distance and angle the shot was taken it is almost impossible to
tell who the woman is, but I know. I certainly know who the man is. How
could I not?

I told Skinner that Mulder had a meeting with Thomas Erickson, and I had
no idea where it was scheduled. He told me that the picture was of
Mulder and Agent Fowley on the Sandia Peaks Tramway, and that just
sounds so much like Mulder. Can't meet with the guy at the local coffee
house. No, he has to go sightseeing, too.

I turn the overhead light on and hold the picture up. Mulder is looking
at Agent Fowley intently, and her hand is on his arm. I haven't a clue
as to what they would be discussing that would require such contact.

I'm sure Mulder will be here soon. He said he'd be here by eleven and it
is only ten minutes after eleven. I should have never sent the other
agents off as quickly as I did, as I realize how desolate it is at this
time of night around the dive Mulch called home for a day.

Actually, it doesn't look that far off from any of the long strings of
dives Mulder made us stay at over the years. It even looks better than
half of them. That life seems so long ago now. Everything has changed.

Except for the fact that Mulder apparently ditched me to go mountain
climbing with Agent Fowley. He could have told me he was going with her.
Agent Reid and I were busy. I would have understood, but some things
never change. His trust in her never changes, even after everything we
know about her. I just don't get it.

If he isn't here in the next half an hour, I'm going to call Agent Reid
and tell him to get out here with me. After working with Reid for the
first time today, I discovered he's smarter than Mulder made him out to
be, and I'm sure that if he gets away from Mulder soon, his rise in the
FBI will be inevitable. I wonder who he ticked off to get assigned to
Mulder? That is sad that I have to think such things. What if I had
gotten away from Mulder years ago? Where would I be sitting today? Of
course, it couldn't have been any other way. *They* would have never
allowed it to be any other way, and now it is up to me to figure out
why.

The car Mulder was driving earlier today pulls up in front of me, lights
shining in my eyes. I can barely make him out in the driver seat and he
doesn't make a move to get out, instead fumbling with something under
the passenger seat. Probably dropped a bag of sunflower seeds. I flip
off the overhead light in my car, get out and walk over to him.

It is too late when I realize that it isn't Mulder, just someone who
looks startling like him. There is also a weapon trained on me, pointed
at my head.

"Put your hands where I can see them, Agent Scully," the man says as he
steps out of the car, never failing to keep me in the sight of his
weapon.

He roughly pushes me against the car, pats me down and he takes my
weapon, depositing it in his own pocket.

"Where is Agent Mulder?" I ask, realizing that this is indeed the car he
was driving. His trenchcoat in the back seat. I can hear the panic begin
to fill my voice, and a hollow opens up in the pit of my stomach.

"That is inconsequential now, Agent Scully. I want you to follow my
directions to the letter. Do you understand?" he says, as he pushes me
harder against the car.

"Yes," is all I can say and the little bit of hope I might have had that
Mulder is going to show up fades quickly. He isn't going to be here. I
don't know where he is. Damn it, Mulder. Please show up. Someone, please
just show up.

My head begins to spin with the realization that Mulder could be dead,
and I may soon follow. This wasn't supposed to happen this way.

The man reaches for something in his coat pocket, and roughly binds my
hands together with tape. I hear a deafening *rip* signaling he is done,
and he pushes me towards the back of the car.

"Not the trunk," I plead, the thought of being taken away somewhere in
the complete darkness of a car trunk bringing back too many memories.
This can't be happening again. This just *can't* be.

"Get in the car. I don't want to hear a thing out of you. Do I make
myself clear, Agent Scully?" he says to me, talking to me as if I were a
child. Mercifully, he opens the door to the back seat.

"Yes," I say, knowing I cannot escape right now and not expect to be
gunned down in front of this dirtbag motel. I will have to go along, and
pray that my opportunity for flight comes before long.

He locks the back doors and gets in the driver's seat. I move towards
that familiar trenchcoat, and pat it down behind my back. Damn it.
Nothing in it that could help me get out of this. Not even a spare key.
Nothing except that little package of tissues from Christopher's cold.
Christopher. Mulder. Me. This can't be happening. I need to get home to
my baby. This can't be happening to both of his parents. Jesus, Mulder,
what in the hell did we get dragged into? All because of some damned
nosy senator. I'm never going to see my baby again over some woman who
has probably been long dead.

I contain an urge to scream that so powerfully has risen to my chest
with the thought of not going home again. I know it isn't the way out. I
shut my eyes. I want to be home. I want to be with Mulder playing with
our baby on the living room floor. I want to be back just a few days
ago, rocking our baby in my arms, Mulder standing at the door watching
us.

I hold back any tears that come to my eyes with the thought of
Chrisopher. I will not let this man think he's gotten the better of me
yet.

I reach again for the coat behind me. You can't be dead. No. Not after
we've come this far. I will get out of this. I used to have so much to
fight for, but now there is so much more. I will get out of this and I
will find you, Mulder. We will get home.

In the dark of the night, we head silently into the desert.

The End

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

TITLE: XIII Abandoned Spaces 
AUTHOR: Jori damienma@netroenterprises.com
RATING: NC-17 for sexual images and language content
CATEGORY: SRA
KEYWORDS: AU, Baby-fic, MSR
ARCHIVE: Yes
SPOILERS: Up through and including US season six.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Sadly, I am slowly coming to the realization that
they never will be. Well, I guess I just have to play with them quietly
and get them back by Sunday.

SUMMARY: Held captive, Scully once again has her mettle tested, as she
undergoes unknown experiments and wild dream states.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I did write the little courtside action sequence in this
piece before "Two Fathers" aired. Really, I did. Ask my editor. It has
been on her hard drive for over a month. I also came up with 'weather
control' before "Rain King" aired and Mulder and Scully were trapped in
my hurricane with far better consequences well before "Agua Mala" aired.
I also began writing this before CC killed off the syndicate and
Spender, so if they appear here and there, well, I just can't go around
killing people all that quickly. Once again, a special thanks goes out
to Rachel for her editing and help searching for proper drugs.


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

The room is so large I can't make out the other side. Large, white and
bare. The light filters in as if through an early morning fog, and I am
unsure of the source of either the light or the haze. It isn't warm, nor
is it comforting. It is merely there, like overhead lighting in a train
station. No one cares about it; they only pass under it.

Mulder and I face each other, each of us sitting on our own
uncomfortable, ladder back chair with only a few feet separating us. I
want to reach for him, but my arms won't move off of my lap. He doesn't
reach for me, either.

I am unsure as to how we both ended up together in this room. My mind is
almost positive that he wasn't with me when I first arrived at this
place. He is trying to say something to me, but it is as if he is
talking through a radio I just can't tune right. No matter how hard I
try, I keep passing by the words that would be his. All I know is my
head hurts and I can't tune in Mulder.

"Scully, I ca... " he starts to say, but once again the end of his
sentence is lost. Focus, Dana. If I focus more, I will be able to hear
him. Maybe he has all the answers to how we ended up here together.

"Mulder, I can't understand you. Help me understand," I plead, as my
head starts to throb harder.

"Scully, I can't save you," he says, and I don't understand what he is
supposed to save me from. We are together, and we appear to be safe.

My head hurts so much, and he just keeps trying to talk. I look at him
and he sounds far away. So very far away.

"Mulder, my head hurts," is all I can say, and I want to move my hands
up to caress my temples, but my arms are glued to my lap. The more I try
to move them, the heavier they become.

"Scully, you've got to figure out how to save yourself. Play his game,
let him think he's in control, all the while you maintain the real
control," he says, and instead of sounding far away, his voice has grown
incredibly loud.

"I don't know what you mean," I say, wishing he'd get to the point
before my head splits. Mulder never gets to the fucking point, and when
he does, half the time it makes no sense. Especially not when my
headache is now approaching the size of Texas.

"One of us has to live. For Christopher," he says, and then he falls
silent. No off tune humming, no static. Nothing but peaceful silence.

"Christopher?" I ask, as it slowly dawns on me that we have a child. How
could I forget?

"I have to go now, Scully," he says, his voice booming and echoing
around the white room again, "You can do it."

He is gone off of the chair. Just gone, as if he vanished into thin air.

"Mulder!" I cry out, but he doesn't come back.

Instead I feel someone kicking at me. I can't see them, and am only able
to feel their actions on my body. My arms finally move and grasp at what
feels like sand. I know Mulder is close for I can feel him near and I
recognize his now familiar scent. Why doesn't he stop this person from
kicking me?

My eyes flicker open, and I realize the white room was all a dream.
Mulder being here with me was a dream, and the only reason I felt he was
near is that his trench coat is folded up under my head, serving as a
pillow. I can only hold my eyes open for a second, wanting so badly to
go back to that room.

"Looky here. The bitch is finally waking up," a voice says from over me,
and I can feel the panic rise in my throat. 'Save yourself. Play his
game' echo through my head again and again, and I fight to open my eyes.

"Mulch," comes out of my parched throat, making barely more than a
creaking sound.

"Give her something to drink, Mulch. I'll be back in two hours. Make
sure she is out again by the time I'm back. And don't touch her," a
voice says. The voice is familiar, yet I cannot place it. It could be
the man who brought me here. My headache wasn't part of the dream, that
is for sure. What did that man inject me with? I vaguely remember being
given an intramuscular injection, through the material of my pants, in
my left thigh. The pierce of the needle quickly faded as the drugs
washed over me and drowned me in sleep.

The list of possible sedatives ticks through the narcosis; possibly a
benzodiazepine, barbiturate, opiates, maybe even propofol. The nausea
associated with high doses of narcotics isn't present, so I mark that
one as unlikely. Propofol can cause livid dreams, but I've got a
headache. I'm disoriented... has to be a benzodiazepine. Any second
year med student would know that benzodiazepines are the hypnotic of
choice.

Everything is spinning and blurry, and I try to wipe my eyes only to
find that I have handcuffs on. Probably my own. My legs are also now
bound and I feel like hell. I don't know where I am or how I got here. I
struggle to sit up so I can face Mulch directly.

"What did he inject me with?" I ask, wondering how long this muddled
haze would carry on in my brain.

"Couldn't pronounce it if I tried, but it looks like some mighty good
shit. You know, with the way you were moaning and screaming. Jesus,
woman. You see him every God damn day at work and you dream about him.
Is he that good of a fuck?" Mulch asks, and I realize I must have
screamed out Mulder's name.

"May I have some water?" I ask, too tired and weak to parry his
antagonism.

"You gotta beg for it," he says. I can see him through my clouded
vision, teasing me with a water bottle. My head is really pounding too
much for this crap.

What now? Do I say please, and see what he requires of me next? Do I
just go thirsty until whoever that was gets back and gives me water?

Damn it. Mulder is so much better at dealing with these hostage
situations than I am. 'Play his game' rings through my mind, but to what
end? My own death?

"Please," I say flatly.

"Only if you do to me what you do to him," he says snidely. My vision is
slowly clearing and I can see him looming large over me.

"Mr. Mulch, Agent Mulder and I have been partners for many years and
have been in many dire situations together, so I would naturally call
out his name under duress," I say, hoping he believes the half-truth I
tell him.

"And I have bridge to sell you in New York City," he says, as he pulls
up an old folding chair and plants himself squarely in front of me.

I begin to survey my surroundings, trying to get my bearings as to where
I might be. The structure looks like it has been long abandoned, and
reddish sand has filtered in and covered the floor. There is no
furniture, except whatever Mulch and my abductor brought in. All the
windows are broken out, and torn, faded curtains flutter in and out of
them. The sun is starting to trickle through the shattered panes, so I
must have been out for several hours. The only other house I can see
through the nearest window is in the same stage of disrepair.

"Just give me a sip so I can talk to you without sounding hoarse," I
say, and am surprised when he actually hands me the bottle. I gulp down
as much as I can before he swipes it away from my hands, before any
thoughts of bathroom facilities enter my head.

He retreats back to his chair and I scoot up against the wall, trying to
use Mulder's jacket as a backrest. We face each other, contestants in
some game of wills.

"Here's how I see it," he starts, taking a swig out of the bottle I just
drank from, "You are fucking this Mulder guy, because, well, hell, I
don't know why. I thought he was a God damn prick but maybe he's a great
piece of ass. Anyway, you fuck him on the road. And I think the man who
gave you this is named Christopher."

He holds up his little finger, and my engagement ring is on it. My heart
sinks in my chest at the thought of that man wearing it. I never
appreciated it the way I should have. I never appreciated exactly what
it meant until now. Mulch doesn't even know who it came from and I
can't tell him.

"So, who in the hell is Christopher?" he asks.

I must have called out Christopher's name, too. I'm not telling him I
have a child. This man tortured those women's children, too. He would
have no sympathy, just more questions.

"Why do you care so much, Mulch? Was prison that lonely that you need to
hear about my life?" I ask.

"Nope. That's not it at all. I always like to test the waters before I
take a dip," he says to me, and slowly licks his lips.

"How long do you expect this to go on, Mulch? I'm sure people are
looking for me by now," I say, hoping he realizes the consequences of
his actions.

"Not your boyfriend, though. Oh, no. He ain't gonna be looking for your
sweet ass no more," Mulch says, laughing.

"Why should I believe you?" I ask. How would this man know where Mulder
is?

"I've got this," he says, as he holds up Mulder's badge, "And this."

Mulder's weapon. My mind tells me that it doesn't mean anything. He's
lost his gun before. I've even had my weapon taken from me. It is an
embarrassing thing to have happen and requires a truckload of paperwork
explaining the incident.

"And I thought this was a fucking hoot. I always wanted to get me one of
these," Mulch says, pulling up the hem of his pants, showing off an
ankle holster.

My head reels for another moment, but I still tell myself it means
nothing. Mulder could be in another house like this. He could even be in
this one as far as I can tell. They have my weapon, so I'm sure they
would have his. That is why he didn't meet me. They met up with him
first. And Fowley. They probably have her weapon, too. Skinner has got
to know we are all missing by now. Someone has to be looking for me, for
us. My car would be found by the next shift in the morning. It would be
eight hours before anyone even noticed I was gone if Mulder was taken
first.

"What do they want, Mulch?" I ask.

"You know, they never really said. Not that I'd tell a Fed bitch like
you," he says, making himself more comfortable on his little metal
chair.

"They must need me for something, and they must need you, too. Do you
think these people do anything without expecting something in return?" I
ask him, and he just glares at me.

"I've been waiting for these fucks to pay me back for years. They owe
me, not the other way around," he says, as he stands up and walks over
to a shattered window.

"What do they owe you for, Ronnie?" I ask, hoping my use of his first
name might loosen him up a bit. My best judgment says I need him to
think I'm his friend. Is that right? I can't remember.

"None of your fucking business," he says to me, obviously not wanting to
give me his 'friendship' in return.

He doesn't say anything else, just leaves me be sitting against an old,
dilapidated wall in some run down house in East Rat Head, New Mexico. I
will have to ask to go to the bathroom soon. I'm sure he will love that.

My breasts are also getting heavy. That is just what I would need right
now. If I start leaking breast milk, Mulch will start to figure out more
than he needs to. I take my arms and try to press against them as best I
can with handcuffs on. Come on body, don't let me down now. It is bad
enough I'll probably never be able to nurse my baby again. I might not
ever see my baby again. Even when I do, I have no idea what drugs they
are using or how long it might stay in my system.

"So, how long have you been cheating on your fianc?" Mulch asks.

"Come on, leave it alone already," I say back to him, not wanting to
deal with this man and his pitiful questions anymore.

"Listen, bitch. I hold your life in my hands. I will ask you whatever I
fucking want to ask you," he yells at me, spit flying out of his mouth.

I retreat, and do not make eye contact with him again. All I can do is
sit there and listen to him until I'm rescued or drugged or whatever my
fate may hold.

"Mulch, I really need to use the bathroom before you dope me up again.
Did any of you think of that?" I ask.

"Of course we did. We didn't want you pissin' all over the place," he
says, as he comes towards me.

"Thank you," I say as he unbinds my feet and pulls me up so I can walk
to where ever it may be he is taking me. Where he takes me is into this
tiny, dark closet near the back of the house. They have provided me with
a bucket and a roll of toilet paper. Lovely. It will have to do until I
can get out of here. I'm surprised Mulch doesn't watch me as I figure
out how to do this with cuffs on. Mercifully, he shuts the door, leaving
me and the bucket alone in the dark. I still haven't figured him out,
but I sense he doesn't really want to hurt me. Either that, or the other
man's orders not to touch me have some strong consequences behind them.
God, I hope so.

"You almost through in there?" Mulch says as he bangs loudly on the
door.

"Yes. One second," I call back, as I stuff toilet paper into my bra,
hoping it isn't too noticeable yet that it is enough to contain any
leaks that might occur.

I walk out and he escorts me back to the spot I was in before. He grabs
a roll of tape and binds my ankles again. Where in the hell do they
think I'm going to run to? Mulch doesn't seem to interested in me right
now, so I lie my head down on Mulder's jacket, and shut my eyes. My
headache has abated as the drug I was given has run its course through
my body. I know they are going to drug me again. Mulch is going to
inject me. Maybe he will let me do it myself.

I am nearly asleep when Mulch rouses me with his foot again. I open my
eyes to see him above me with a needle.

"Listen, don't give any trouble with this, you hear?" he says to me.

"Mulch, do you know what you are doing?" I ask, as I try to back away.

"Never shot up myself. Watched my cell mate do it all the time," Mulch
says, as if that qualifies him.

"I'm a doctor. Will you at least follow what I tell you?" I ask him,
hoping he will go along with me.

"If you are a doctor, why are you wasting your time in a pathetic career
like the FBI? I don't believe you, bitch," he says to me, and comes
closer with the needle.

"I am a forensic pathologist. I do autopsies. I search for evidence that
criminals didn't even know existed on the dead bodies they leave behind.
Like those dead girls you left behind," I say, and he stops his
approach.

"Did you find anything?" he asks, without even a hint of remorse in his
voice.

"I might have. Now just listen to me," I tell him. He stops and listens
to my careful instructions on how to inject whatever the hell that might
be into me.

It doesn't take long for everything to go all hazy again.

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

I am standing center court in what appears to be a high school
gymnasium. There are signs up wishing the home team good luck, but I
can't make out the school's name or mascot. It certainly isn't where I
went to school. The bleachers are empty and all is quiet. I just stand,
waiting. From out of nowhere, I hear a basketball being dribbled behind
me.

"Hi, Dana," Mulder says, as if it is perfectly normal that we would be
in this place and perfectly normal for him to call me by my first name.

"Hi, yourself," I say, looking shyly away from him as if I'm back in my
teen years. Back to the years when I might have been on a high school
basketball court talking to some guy. But this isn't just some guy. This
is Mulder.

He is dressed in shirt and tie, and that seems incredibly out of place
here. He starts playing with the ball, spinning it on his finger as if
he was a damn Globetrotter. Mulder has turned into fucking Meadowlark
Lemon.

"You cuss a lot more in your head then I thought you would," he says to
me as he tosses me the ball.

"How do you know what I do in my head?" I ask, unsure of whether this is
reality or not. I'm also not sure whether he expects me to start
dribbling the ball around and between my legs before passing it back to
him. I will have to assume he wouldn't.

"Because I know. I'm here right now, aren't I?" he asks.

"I don't know. Are you?" I ask back, tossing the ball so hard it thumps
him on the chest. He starts to dribble around me, before running to a
basket and making a lay-up shot.

"Nothin' but net!" he shouts, childlike, as the ball hits the backboard,
clumsily circles the hoop several times before finally sinking through.

"That was more than net," I tell him as he walks back towards me.

"Nothing gets by you."

"Mulder, what are you doing here?" I ask.

"I should be asking what you are doing here, Dana. Or do you want me to
call you Scully even in your own head?" he asks. I nod yes, not wanting
to cross into any more unfamiliarity.

"Why wouldn't I be here? Where is here?" I ask, as I try to read the
signs better.

"You, Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, are smack dab in the middle
of my high school gym," he says, as he starts to dribble the ball again,
"And since I didn't know you in high school, I don't know why you would
be here. Especially wearing that. We didn't have uniforms, though after
seeing you, I wish we did."

I look down at myself do discover I am now wearing my Catholic school
uniform from my days at St. Mary's. Jeesh. How embarrassing, especially
with Mulder leering at me. It isn't even a replica of my uniform from
high school. No, I'm stuck in my little girl uniform whose hem falls
well above my knee.

I look around again. This could be any gym in any American high school
from the time Mulder and I were in school. There is no telling if it is
really the one he went to, considering I can't make out the damn signs
on the wall clearly. What in the hell high school did Mulder go to,
anyway? For the life of me, I can't remember right now.

"Don't believe me, do you? That's okay. You never do," Mulder says, as
he tries to make a shot from mid-court.

"I believe in you, Mulder. I just don't believe in *this,*" I say, as I
point around the room.

"That's okay. I remember it. I remember everything, of course," he says,
as he retrieves his basketball and stands with it tucked under his arm
against his hip.

"Mulder, can I ask you something?"

"Anything you want," he says.

"Are you dead?" I ask bluntly.

He is silent. Or I am silent. I don't know who is doing the talking
here.

"I don't really know. I hope not," he says.

"I hope not, either," I tell him as I start walking towards him.

"Want to play a little one on one?" he asks me, tossing me the ball.

"No. You don't want to be humiliated by having a Catholic school girl
kick your ass," I tell him, as I start to dribble the ball.

"Come on, Scully. It might be our last chance," he says, and I miss the
next beat of the bouncing ball. It slowly makes its way across the
court, coming to a stop against the bleachers.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask. Maybe this isn't just some
figment of my imagination. Maybe it is Mulder trying to tell me
something. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything. I just like being here with you,"
he says, as he walks over to get the ball again.

"Mulder, if this really was our last chance to do something together,
why basketball?" I ask, finding it puzzling.

"I don't know. I'll try to come up with something better next time. Not
that I'm entirely to blame here. It is your dream," he says, as he
throws me the ball again.

"Well, I guess we have to make the best of it," I say, as I make the
mid-court shot Mulder had just missed a few minutes ago.

"Jesus, Scully. Is there anything else I don't know about you?" Mulder
asks, looking shocked by my basket.

"Hang around. Maybe you will learn something."

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

Mulder and I are sitting up high in the bleachers in a dark corner of
the gym, like errant high schoolers hiding out from all authority
figures. Actually, he is leaning back against the bleacher behind us
while I straddle his lap, grinding into him teasingly. I remember
walking in on my best friend and her boyfriend doing this once when I
was a freshman, long before I ever had a boyfriend serious enough to
risk expulsion for.

Like a couple of kids, we are passing a piece of sour apple candy back
and forth, from my mouth to his, with every kiss. We don't close our
eyes during this game, instead choosing to up the intensity by watching
the exploration of each other's mouth, searching greedily for a square
of sour candy. Our kisses are getting more fevered, the combined heat
melting the clear green candy smaller and smaller. His tongue darts into
my mouth, searching for the tiny, sugary prize, sweeping it back into
his mouth with ease.

"You've had more practice using your tongue," I say, as I lean back away
from his mouth. The lower part of his face is now sticky and wet with
melted candy and my saliva, and he teasingly offers up the candy to me
again on the tip of his tongue. How can I resist? Finally, our game is
through, for the little square of candy becomes too small to find
easily. Mulder crunches the sour remains of it away as I gently wipe at
the corners of his mouth with my thumbs. I find myself tracing across
his sticky bottom lip just a little longer than necessary.

"Thank God for these skirts, Scully," Mulder says, as I begin to grind
against him once more. I can feel him, hard underneath me, and I am so
sure he is here with me. He has to be, right? I can feel *him* through
his pants.

"This isn't what I wore in high school, Mulder. If I did, I might have
tried this more often," I tell him.

He pulls back and looks at me, startled, but smiling.

"Okay, I might have tried this at least once," I say, a blush rising up
to my cheeks.

My white cotton school girl panties have been cast aside a long time
ago, but Mulder is still all zipped up. Why doesn't he make the move to
free himself from those pants? Why don't I make the move to free him.
God, I'm so confused.

Finally, his fingers move down between my thighs, and he finds just the
right spot. Mulder has to be here, where ever here is. Slowly, his thumb
circles my clitoris, and I involuntarily moan out his name. I can hardly
think, and my head is pounding under this new found rush. His fingers
sink into me, and I find myself bouncing up and down on his hand,
wanting more, not caring how foolish this looks. Maybe he can't give me
more. I look into his eyes, and he is here, yet somewhere else at the
same time. So far away. An orgasm rips through my body from the
stimulation, and my cries echo through the hallow gymnasium. I fall on
to him, my chest heaving, trying to catch my next breath.

"I certainly never did that in high school," I whisper to him.

 "We need to talk before I have to go," he tells me, his tone becoming
serious.

"About what?" I ask, still trying to catch my breath.

"Are you okay?" he asks, as he slowly buttons my blouse again. I can
feel him under me, and I can feel his fingers tug my white, cotton
blouse shut, but he still feels far away. Even while I'm kissing him.

"So far, I'm okay. I'm sure I'll be fine, Mulder," I say.

I hope I don't have to go back. I want to stay here with him. It is safe
here, where ever we might be.

"I can't stay," he says, as if reading my thoughts, "and you can't stay,
either. You've got to get out, so you can get back to me."

"I will, Mulder. I will try," I tell him, as I lean forwards to kiss him
again.

He pulls away from me and looks at me thoughtfully.

"Do you know what to do, Scully?" he asks me.

"Play his game?" I ask, vaguely remembering the last time I was with
Mulder.

"Do what you have to do to stay alive, okay?" he tells me.

"Mulder, where do you go when you leave me?" I ask, hoping he knows.

"I don't know," he says, casting his eyes away from mine.

"Are you safe?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer.

"I've got to go now. I will be back. Soon. I promise," he says to me as
he helps me stand up off of his lap. I sit down on the bleachers and
watch him as he makes his way down and out one of the doors of the gym.
I dress myself completely, though I'm not sure why. Who is going to
catch me in my dreams? My head begins to pound from more than the rush
of sex.

What if I were to follow? Where would I end up? I can hear other voices.
Oh, God, I don't want to go back there. The drugs bring Mulder to me.

I slowly open my eyes to see Mulch standing above me. It is dark outside
and I realize I've lost a whole day. There is a old black and white TV
blaring some static-filled dialogue, illuminating the room with
flickering light. So we are close enough to something to pick up a TV
station with an antenna. That's good to know.

"Mulch, what in the hell are they doing to me while I'm out?" I ask. My
whole body aches. At least the headache isn't as bad as the first time I
came to.

"A couple of men showed up and did some tests," Mulch says, as he moves
over to his chair, "I don't have a fucking clue what they are doing,
really. I just like to listen to you moan."

I will have to live with his filthy mind. Or mine. I can't control the
images that come to me while I'm out. As I struggle to sit up I can tell
I've been moved since I fell asleep. God only knows where they might
have taken me or how long I was out.

"What kind of tests, Mulch?" I ask, as I try to figure out what hurts
the most.

"I don't know. They took this little piece of shit metal out of your
neck."

My heart misses a beat as I feel the panic rise through my being. My
neck. I can feel a bandage over that spot. *The* spot.

"Mulch, can I get a drink?" I ask, my voice cracking with each word.

Mulch is too wrapped up watching some overly dramatic night time soap
opera on TV to fight with me. He brings me a water bottle and
haphazardly hands it to me, allowing me to grab his wrist with my cuffed
hands.

"Listen to me, Mulch. You are going to find out what in the hell they
are doing to me and when they are going to bring that 'piece of shit
metal' back and insert in my neck again. You are going to find that out
for me, or so help me God, I will figure out a way to kill you myself
before they finally do it," I shout at him, and a look of shock washes
over his face.

"Christ, woman!," Mulch exclaims as he jerks away from me, "That thing
must really be worth something. You got anymore of them on the body of
yours?"

He grabs my arms, touching them slowly, as if he's going to find a
goldmine under my flesh.

"You will, Mulch. You will find out what they are doing. You will tell
them to put that implant back," I say to him, and he stops touching me.

"What do I get in return, sweet cheeks? I seem to be holding all the
cards right now, and I've already got the only thing of cash value off
of your body," he says, holding up his hand to show that he still has my
ring.

I have nothing I want to bargain with willingly. Not with this man. He
isn't holding any of the cards. Someone is holding the cards and playing
with my life, but it's not Mulch.

"I, uh, have..." I start to say.

"Well, you take sometime to think about it, you hear," Mulch says as he
walks back to his little TV set.

I have nothing but time. Or maybe I have no time at all.

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

I awaken from a light sleep to find Mulch sleeping in his corner of the
room with the TV still on. I can only speculate as to what threat they
are holding over his head that keeps him from touching me. It must be
one with severe consequences, for although he threatens, he has not
harmed me. I do not believe he will.

My body still aches from whatever they did to me this morning. Then
again, perhaps it just aches from being restrained on the floor for hour
after hour.

I stare ahead into the darkness, wishing I could find the sleep and
dreams brought to me so easily by those drugs. At least then the
thoughts of my mortality would not rest so heavily on my mind. Do those
men know that they signed my death sentence by removing that implant? Do
they care?

A barely audible news blurb comes over the TV, detailing the search for
a man wanted for questioning in three homicides and an ongoing search
for a missing FBI agent.

*A* singular FBI agent. One. Either Mulder and Fowley are okay or they
are dead. The news makes no mention of them. Only of me and three dead
women. Three? The last I knew there was only two. Either someone is
setting up Mulch, or he's having one hell of a time while I'm out.

Mulder. How many times have you been *dead* before? At least we planned
for it now that we have so many more responsibilities. My mind begins to
ponder the smallest details of what every parent dreads. I know Mulder
made out a will, leaving Christopher the house. If I die at the same
time or near the same time, my mother is given guardianship of our son.
He will be fine. He will grow up knowing only of his parents that which
his grandmothers choose to tell him. He will not know personally of us
as Mommy and Daddy, but rather a second-hand tale of what his parents
were like so long ago.

I might not ever see Mulder again. I might not ever see my son again.

"Mulch! Wake up!" I yell, and he lurches up with a start.

"What in the fuck is it!" he yells back at me.

"Tell me. Is Agent Mulder dead?" I ask. I have to know. I have to know
now.

"I don't know. Go the fuck back to sleep. Now," he says, as he settles
himself back down.

"I have to go to the bathroom. Now," I demand, mocking his tone, and he
obliges. I want to be alone for a few moments, out of sight of Mulch. I
resist any urge I have to break down and cry. Mulch would be able to
tell if I did. Instead, I flip the empty bucket over and sit on it. I'm
tired of this hell I keep getting dragged through. I just want to be
home, with my child, with Mulder, and safe. The price of our quest for
whatever the truth maybe now has gone too high. I don't want to pay it
anymore and not get any answers.

"Come on. I haven't got all day," Mulch says, banging on the door. I
decide I had better actually use my seat for better things before
heading out there.

On our way back to the main room, he asks me a question.

"Do you really think they are going to kill me?"

"Mulch, in the years I've been in the position at the FBI that I am
operating in now, I've learned that one thing holds true no matter what.
They do not care about anyone else but themselves. The death of millions
means nothing to them. The death of one man will not even make them
blink."

His face shows concern for the first time since that first prison
encounter.

I say no more to him, preferring to let him sit and think about what he
has gotten into and how he's going to get out of it.

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

"Dana is dead now, Fox. You have to get on with your life," Diana Fowley
proclaims over a fresh grave.

Mulder is by her side, holding our son, yet he says nothing. He lets the
flowers he is holding in his other hand cascade one by one into the
gaping hole in the earth.

"I'm not dead," I try to utter, but the words will not come out. I am
stuck in the crowd of faceless, gray mourners and can't make it to the
front to yell to him that I am alive.

"We can make a life together. I will help raise your child. It will be
our child, like it should have been," Fowley says to him, as she pulls
Christopher out of his arms and clutches him as if he were her very own.

"No!" finally tears from my throat, echoing and echoing for the whole
world to hear.

"Hey! Get up?" I hear, and I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, "You were
dreaming something wild. Man, I've not heard someone sob like that
since..."

Mulch cuts it short. I'm sure I don't want to know when the last time
was he heard a woman sobbing with grief, fear and panic.

My dreams are not the same without the drugs. I am not a participant in
them, nearly a bystander watching in. My subconscious fears are starting
to get the better of me.

"They'll be back soon," Mulch says, and I begin to realize that it is
daylight.

"Do you know who they are, Mulch? Do you have any idea what you've
gotten into?" I ask, as I pick up the bottle of water he now just leaves
by me.

"Not a damn clue, angel. I just do what they ask," he says as he turns
the TV off for the first time since yesterday.

"Well, try to figure it out so I can figure out how to get us the hell
out of this," I say, and he looks at me stunned.

"*Us?* Why should I fucking care if you get out or not?" he asks me,
staring at me through slit eyes.

"I'm your only way out alive, okay? Don't you understand that yet? They
are only interested in me and you mean nothing to them. I would imagine
being alive in prison is better than being dead out here," I say to him,
gesturing to the deserted land that surrounds us.

"Alive in prison? You ain't never been to jail, have you?"

"I've been locked up," I tell him, trying to gain any sympathy I can
with him. I want him to believe I'm the only one on his side, that I am
playing his game.

"You? What for? Bettcha it had something to do with that prick partner
of yours, right?" he says. My eyes do not waiver away from his glare, do
not betray the truth.

"Just figure out what they want with me and that metal chip, okay?" I
tell him, and he merely nods his head.

I can see him preparing another dose of the drug for me. I am not sure
whether I'm happy or not about this. It is an all too easy escape. I
need to gain his confidence enough to eventually talk him out of
administering the dosage before *they* arrive. I don't know what plans I
may have, but that seems to be my only option. I have to face them.

"You wanna do this?" he asks, as he hands me the hypodermic needle.

"Yeah," is all I say back.

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

I am in the arms of someone else, yet it is all too familiar. He holds
me tight to his chest, and I know by the scent of his cologne and the
texture of his dress shirt that it isn't Mulder. I know these arms, that
smell, this place. I know for sure this man isn't Mulder. He was just a
substitute for words yet unspoken then, for emotions we were unwilling
to share.

"Dana," he says with the nervous laugh of a person on a first date,
"it's all better now."

I look into Ed Jerse's eyes, and see that they are lacking that wildness
that was there the last time I saw him. Perhaps it was the wildness that
attracted me in the first place, an escape from my proper self. But why
now? I have Mulder, and I am now allowed to be free with him. The words
have been spoken, and the unwritten prophecy fulfilled. The plans
someone designed for us were realized with Christopher, and that is how
it was always to be. There could be no one else.

"What is all better now?" I ask, as he continues to hold me tight.

"We are. Everything is all better now. You'll see," he says, as he
places his mouth over mine. His kisses are harder than what I am now
used to, and his tongue darts into my mouth, reaching into me for more.

I want to pull away, but something keeps me there, holding on tight to
him. I should break this fiery kiss, but I can't. This is an escape from
it all, Mulder included. Mulder who has brought me nothing but pain and
grief. Mulder who has brought me nothing but the greatest love I've ever
known.

He finally breaks his bruising kiss, and stares at me with eyes that
appear far more innocent and playful than they should. The madness is
gone, along with the wildness. He is so ... normal. It could have been
so normal.

"I don't belong here," I say nervously. I belonged here way back then.
This was only about me that time. Now there are so many other people
involved.

"Come on, Dana. This is only in your head. You must want it if you are
here. There are so many things you want that you're just afraid of," he
says. He begins to nuzzle my ear, his tongue tracing the contours and
crevices.

"I'm no longer that person, Ed. I have realized what it is I want, and I
have obtained most of the goals I've set for myself," I tell him
seriously, as I try to gently push him away.

"Then why are you here?" he asks me. He doesn't allow me to slip away
that easily, instead he envelopes me in his arms even tighter, while his
mouth makes its way back to mine. He certainly could kiss then. He
certainly *can* kiss now.

Why am I here? This isn't where I want to be, but I still can't move
away. Something burns deep inside of me, urging me on. This isn't real.
It isn't abnormal to dream of past lovers, the mind going to places
where the body no longer can.

"You're still trying to escape that father-figure, aren't you?" he asks
me, as he hold my face in his hands. His thumbs trace my jawbone slowly,
carefully. Unfamiliar fingers now touch my lips. They are soft and
inviting and I want to lean into his touch, to lose myself again.

"Actually, that father-figure is now really a father," I say to him with
a smile, but he doesn't ask more.

"This is all about you, Dana. Not about him. It was never about him," he
says to me.

"No, Ed, it isn't anymore. Nothing can be all about me. I will never
again have that day back," I tell him, for it is the truth. Motherhood
stamps that thought right out of existence. Every move I make effects
another life now, and nothing will be done for the rest of our lives
that does not have consequences on the other.

"With me, Dana, it is always about you," Ed tells me, teasingly. I know
it isn't about me. This man tried to kill me, and I don't know why I'm
standing here. I can feel his fingers move towards the buttons on my
blouse, and a tiny part of me screams out for me to stay, let it be
about me. Another part tells me I must move on. That part wins out this
time. Even in the safety of my own thoughts, I am the ever faithful Dana
Scully.

"I have to go," I tell him, as I maneuver from his arms.

"Where?" he asks, looking lost without someone to hold.

"I have to go find Mulder," I tell him, as I walk out the door into
someplace else.

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

I am standing at some distant shore, watching the waves roll in around
my feet. It is dark, with only the moon offering up its silvery light.
There is only the water, the sand and me. I am no longer confined by the
walls of Ed Jerse's apartment, no longer held by arms and wishes that
can never be fulfilled.

This place is familiar, but I'm not sure why. The hills in the
background remind me of when my father was stationed in Hawaii and we
went to visit him over our summer break. It was one of the few times we
didn't move with him, by my mother's choice. I have never discovered
why, and never asked.

"The shirts are a bit much, Scully," Mulder says from behind me.

I don't know why I'm surprised to see him here, where ever here is. I
was expecting him. What I wasn't expecting to find was him holding
Christopher in his arms.

I look at the three of us and laugh. We are all wearing identical
multicolored, flowery Hawaiian shirts, including the tiny one
Christopher has on. We look like a family who's trying to avoid getting
separated and lost at Disneyland.

"How?" I ask, nodding towards me sleeping son. My arms are desperate to
hold him, to caress his tiny form.

"I don't know," Mulder answers, "You want to hold him?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation, and I take him from Mulder's arms.

Christopher is more beautiful than the last time I saw him, if that is
possible. I could stand here holding him forever, ignoring the tides and
the moon and the stars.

"Where are we, Mulder?" I ask.

"Well, geography has never been my strong point, but I'd have to guess
Hawaii," he says, as he reaches a hand out to stroke the auburn hair on
our son's head.

"That's not what I meant. I meant where are we that this is possible. I
want to know how *this* is possible, us together like this?" I ask him.
The drugs are influencing my mind in wild ways, moving me from Ed Jerse
to Mulder in a matter of seconds. This place is more comfortable. This
is where I belong.

"They took the implant out, didn't they?" he asks me out of the blue.
His eyes are placid and calm. Mulder isn't worried about what they have
done. I am locked in his confident gaze, but I feel my confidence
waning.

"Yes," I say, and I can feel the tears well up in my eyes, ready to
spill over. A salty tear finally makes it way down my cheek and
splatters on my son's face. He doesn't move, but lies there in peaceful
slumber. Mulder reaches up and catches the next tear before it can make
its way to Christopher's face.

"I believe they are going to put it back in, Scully. They need you alive
and they know that is part of what keeps you here," Mulder says, so sure
of his declaration.

"Why do they need me alive, Mulder? Why have they ever kept either of us
alive?" I ask, not so sure of these men's intentions.

"I believe it is because of him, what he represents to them," Mulder
says, nodding towards Chris. He has grown heavy in my arms, settling his
sleeping head against my breast.

The water is lapping up higher on my legs and I have the urge to just
stand here, and let it pull us out to sea. It is so peaceful. Perhaps
that is what my death is going to be like. I will just drift out on a
current, lost forever at sea.

"You aren't going to die, Scully. You know that," Mulder says, as he
steps in closer and wraps his arms around the two of us. I want this
back so badly. It has only been a few days, but it feels like forever.

"I can't die, Mulder. Not as long as Christopher is alive," I say, as I
bend down to kiss my baby's head.

"We have to go," Mulder says, taking Chris from my arms. Even the loss
of this dream form of my baby causes my heart to ache, and my arms to
fall limp at my sides.

"I love you both," I say, as I watch them walk off down the abandoned
shore. Mulder doesn't turn back.

My heart aches from the loss of them, as I feel the ocean pull at my
feet. I feel as if I could just dissolve into the salty waves wrapping
as high as my knees. Once again, it would be just be easier to go with
the tide than to live without them. I can feel the tide rising faster,
lapping higher and higher. I have yet to move, but the water is rising
rapidly and I cannot fight it.

I finally do let it take me, pulling me out further and further out on
its blue-green tide. The moon is the only witness to this and it stares
down at me like one single glassy eye. I am wrapped by unseen arms, and
pulled down into the murky depths, yet I do not panic. I am hopelessly
tangled up in sea grasses, and cannot free myself. An eerie calm
overtakes me and I want to give up, but I know I can't. I never can. As
calm as this feels I must make it to the shore.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"They put it back in," are the first words I'm greeted with when the
haze begins to clear my mind.

"What?" I ask, trying to reach around to the back of my neck. My arms
feel as if they are weighted, and it is a struggle just to lift them.

"It is a different one, but they put something back in your neck,"
Ronald Mulch tells me from the other side of the room.

Different? Oh, God. Different how? Do these men know the architecture of
the what keeps me alive? What if they missed one slight nuance in the
structure of the implant and it no longer has its powers?

"Why are you telling me this?" I question Mulch, suspicious of
everything he might say.

"They told me to tell you. I didn't have to, sweet cheeks. I could have
just left you sit there and panic," he says, as he absent-mindedly flips
between the two TV channels he has available.

"What *are* you getting out of this, Mulch? Why are you doing this for
them?" I ask, as I struggle to sit up. My wrists are sore from being
cuffed, and my body permanently aches now from whatever they are doing
to me. I feel as if I have been pulled from the depths of the ocean, and
then remember that I was.

"My freedom. That is why they I'm doing it. They promised it years ago,
and I served my time," he says.

"You took her for them, didn't you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
It is dawning on me that it was far too convenient for him to be at the
site from which Ellen Erickson disappeared only to be connected with
them again twenty-five years later.

Mulch's attention switches from the television set to me, and he seems
at a loss for words. Well, that's a change.

"I had nothing to do with that, you stupid bitch!" he says, his temper
growing fiery, as he springs up from his chair, sending it flying.

"That is what they owe you for, isn't it? It was all set up, but
something went wrong and you got caught. When in actuality, you weren't
ever going to go free. They always intended for you to get caught. Then
they bought your silence for all these years with a promise of release,
and now they are using you again," I tell him, unmoved by his angry
pacing.

"You don't know anything," he says, as his pacing abruptly halts in
front of me. He expects me to cower under him, but I have faced far
worse adversaries than Ronald Mulch. If he kills me, they will kill him.

"What did they need Ellen Erickson for, Mulch? What kind of test did
they do on her?" I demand of him.

"I don't know what the fuck they did to her. The only thing I ever heard
was them calling it 'weather control,' like they do with you. I don't
know nothing else," he says, as he turns away from me.

My breath catches when he says that popular phrase. Weather control.
What in the hell are they doing now? I always thought their last
projects were based on human/alien hybridization. Or that mystery
vaccine that once saved me. Now what would weather control be?

"Where did they take her, Mulch, after you handed her over?" I ask him.
He says nothing for several minutes, but just watches a black television
screen.

"I don't know," he finally answers before getting up and leaving me
alone in the room.

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

Hours pass before Mulch returns. My mind tries to put all the pieces
together, but too much is missing. Mulder and I must be a part of this,
as is Christopher, but how far can it go back? As far back as Mulder
claims, all the way back to Roswell? Or back further than that?

"Here. Eat this," Mulch says when he finally returns to the room,
handing me some over-ripe fruit and a sleeve of stale crackers. This is
all I've been offered to eat since I've been here, but I haven't seen
Mulch eat anything. Or course, I've been out most of the time I'm here.

"Can you undo these for awhile?" I ask, holding up my wrists, "Or at
least undo one of them if you don't trust me? My wrists are getting
really sore."

He pulls the key out of his pocket, and releases my wrists, apparently
trusting that I couldn't get by him if I had to. Unfortunately, with the
way my body feels, I probably couldn't.

"Happy now?" he asks sarcastically as he walks away from me.

"Overjoyed," I respond, as I bite into a tart plum.

"So, why did they choose you to do this shit to?" Mulch asks me after
watching me devour my meal.

I don't know how to answer him. Because a decade ago I was assigned to
be Mulder's partner, making me a prime candidate for victimization? I
think Mulch already has enough imagined ammunition against Mulder,
without giving him something real.

"I don't know why they do these things to me. I don't know why they ever
started doing these things to anyone," is all I can answer.

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

I sleep for hours without any drugs, and dream of nothing. I am almost
glad for it, afraid of what I might dream of next. Sinking, dying,
losing. Those seem to be the common theme.

"Agent Scully?" I hear, as I'm shaken from my half asleep state.

"What?" I ask, as I open my eyes all the way. Mulch is the only person
in the room. He called me Agent Scully. I have no idea why.

"I have to get these back on you before they come back. Plus I figured
you might want to use the bathroom before you have to be put out again,"
he tells me, careful to put the cuffs on me before letting me go off on
my own to the bathroom.

"Thanks," I say, as he helps me off the floor. I use the bathroom
quickly. My breasts are starting to hurt less and less after the initial
engorgement passed, not that I could even feed my son if he was here.
Bad enough his mom is drugged.

"Here. Take a sip," he says, handing me a bottle of sugary fruit juice.

"I'm cold," I tell him, as he takes the juice back out of my hands. He
carefully wraps me up in Mulder's trench coat, and helps me lay back
down onto my makeshift bed of musty blankets.

"Anything else?" he asks.

"What are they going to do with me when they are done?" I ask him, not
sure if he even knows the answers.

"I don't know," he says, as he begins to prepare another injection.

"What are they going to do with you?" I ask.

"I'm going free," he says, with unfounded confidence.

Does he know they are setting him up? Those dead girls, plus being
involved with holding a federal officer hostage? I almost feel sorry for
him. Almost.

"Here you go," Mulch says, handing me the needle. I look at him warily,
and his eyes do not meet mine. He doesn't believe he's getting out of
here alive anymore than I believe he is. I wonder what is happening
while I'm out that is making him believe this?

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

I am standing in an empty smoke-filled cantina somewhere... somewhere
but I don't know where. The room is lit only by the light that can
filter its way through the opaque windows and the glow from an old
jukebox. The wooden plank walls are covered with curling, old pictures
of men I don't recognize and a Coca-Cola calendar left over from 1952.
The head of a buck hangs over the screen door entrance, someone's old
hunting trophy standing guard over this tiny establishment.

The large, hazy mirror behind the bar displays my startled reflection.
My hair is longer than it has been in years, and is pulled back in a
tight pony tail. I have on a gauzy black dress, covered in a print of
tiny pink flowers. It buttons down the front, but the top and bottom few
buttons are undone, and I can see that I have nothing on underneath it.
I go to cover myself with my hands, before realizing I'm alone here in
my mind.

I take a step towards the bar, realizing that my feet are in
unaccustomed shoes. I look down to discover I'm wearing old, worn cowboy
boots. Where in the hell am I?

Bottles filled with amber colored liquid take up every spare inch behind
the bar. I find a half empty bottle of tequila, pour myself a shot and
slug it back. I could get used to this other life of mine.

The jukebox beacons for me to come explore what it contains, and I clomp
over there, still getting used to these shoes. I lean against it, trying
to make a decision for what would be right for this place. I feel as if
I've seen this bar before, and that there is a song that would be just
right. Now if only I could find it.

I hear the screen door squeak open on its hinges, reminding me of summer
days at my grandmother's house years ago. Someone steps in, and the door
squeaks shut behind them. The wooden door hits the wooden frame, and I
jump from the sudden loudness. Still I don't turn around.

This other person comes up behind me, and places his hands on my hips,
pulling me back into him. I know who it is, without even looking,
without them even saying a word. I only fit with one person just like
this, oh so right.

He peers around me and hits a button on the jukebox, making his own
selection. His hand returns to my hip, and he begins to sway to the
music, softly urging me to go along with him. How can I do anything but
follow? I always have.

Finally he turns me towards him, and I am met by his hazel eyes. They
never move from my own, and I can do nothing but trust him. I always
have done that, too.

"Hi," he says, as he pulls me to the middle of the dusty, wooden floor.
His hand goes up and frees my hair from the ribbon holding it, letting
it cascade down my shoulders to places it hasn't reached in years.

"Hey," I say, finally looking down at the rest of him. He's not dressed
as ridiculously as I am, as he is attired in a chambray shirt and a pair
of old jeans. He doesn't have boots on.

"You said you wanted better than a basketball court," he says. The
Tennessee Waltz plays behind us, softly telling the story of a love lost
to another.

"So you picked a setting similar to one from "The Right Stuff?" I ask,
as I feel his fingers move to my uppermost buttons.

"Who picked it? Does this seem like it would be one of my fantasies? And
would I ever dress you like this?" he asks, as he leers down at me,
making me blush. Mulder's stare causes a warmth to settle down low
inside of me and I pull my body in closer to his. I feel one of my
buttons come undone, followed slowly by another and another.

"I would guess you might consider it," I say with a slight gasp, as he
slips a hand into the top part of my dress and cups one of my breasts.
His other hand pulls me into him by my hip, moving me in as close as we
could possibly be with this much clothes on. We sway in time to the
music as his fingers work their magic on my breasts. He finally
withdraws his hand, and we both look down to see his handiwork. My
nipples jut out against the sheer fabric that remains over them, and the
friction from it feels good. He had unbuttoned my dress all the way to
my waist, but left me covered.

He pulls me to his chest, and I place my head over his heart, only to
hear it racing. He seems so calm, yet this is always the tell-tale
giveaway to how he really feels. I catch our reflection in the bar
mirror, and we fit together, just as we always have.

He pushes me away from him, and kneels before me, as he slowly,
languidly unfastens the rest of the buttons starting from the bottom and
meeting in the middle. The wisp of a dress falls off of my shoulders,
leaving me bare except for the boots.

Mulder rests his head against my abdomen, and just holds me there. I
want more. I want to taste him, touch him, love him. Slowly he draws a
line down my stomach with his tongue, over all the scars I obtained
through the years, and down further, delving in for more. It is as if he
is worshipping my body with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, setting me
afire with each movement he makes. I relax my stance a bit, feeling his
tongue dart at my clit with the movement of butterflies. I want more
than this, I want all of him.

 I pull him up off the floor, and our mouths meet passionately, as if we
might never meet again. I feel so incredibly open and naked against him,
but I don't care. One of his hands moves down between my thighs and I
gasp as he makes contact with me again, so much harder now, and he pulls
away from our kiss. I am standing there without support while his hand
flutters away at my center. All I have to hold me up is his hand, his
hand that is darting over and around me. His fingers that are making
their way into me.

"More, more, more," I plead in a whisper, as I feel my body begin to hum
with electricity. My hands fumble towards him, reaching for what I want
more of. I have his button fly jeans undone in seconds, and he never
stops touching me, working me over.

"Where do you want it?" he asks, his breath growing shallow, and he
finally moves his hand from my center.

I pull him backwards with me to the jukebox, glad it isn't one of those
upright Wurlitzer types. It is much easier to fuck on one of the ones
with the flat glass tops.

"Here," I manage to say, as I pull myself up onto the glass surface. I
lean back as far as I can and open myself up for him. He stares at me,
his eyes moving from my eyes down to the nether regions I'm offering up
to him. He watches me with such a hunger, as if this is going to be the
first time. This is my head. I guess I could make it the first time. Or
the last time. Or the only time. Whatever I want.

He pulls his jeans and boxers down, kicking off his shoes in the
process. Mulder doesn't make a move to remove his shirt. He is hard and
ready, and that seems like a waste of time. He moves towards me, and I
wrap my legs around him, pulling him in, demanding that he get even
closer. My feet are still clad in those old boots.

He reaches down and guides himself easily into me, knowing each other so
well now. I can hear him let out a sigh as he begins to slowly,
teasingly move in and out of my body. Mulder's need for more prevents
him from keeping it slow and his thrusts begin to get more desperate too
quickly.

"Hold on there, cowboy. Let me catch up," I tell him with a smile, and
he stops moving. Instead he once again moves his fingers to me, while we
remain intimately joined. His eyes are locked on mine, waiting for them
to indicate when he can start moving again. It doesn't take long and I
can feel myself approaching the edge quickly. I just nod to him, and he
begins his hard, deep thrusts again.

"Now?" he pleads with me, and I nod yes again, as we both topple over
into that fiery hot ecstasy we've been working towards. I feel his body
empty into mine, and we are both wracked with electrifying orgasms so
intense, we cause the needle to scratch across the old jukebox record,
not stopping its noisy journey until the song begins again. He buries
his face into my neck, as we both ride out our body's pleasures to the
melancholy lyrics.

We stay like that, not ready to let all we can have of each other go. It
is inevitable, though. He pulls out of me, and all I am left with is a
sticky, wet emptiness where he used to be. I watch him dress, and then
Mulder offer his hand to help me down. He hands me my dress off of the
floor and after I slip it on, he slowly buttons me up, all the buttons,
from top to bottom, once again ending up on his knees before me.

"Was that our one last time?" I ask, my voice betraying all the sadness
I've kept buried in my heart.

He doesn't answer me, as he kneels before me, clutching me tightly to
him. My hand are entwined in his hair, holding him closer, afraid to let
him go. I can feel his chest rise and fall with each shallow, sad breath
he takes. I don't want for it to happen, but we must move.

I can hear rain begin to fall, as it plink plink plinks on the old, tin
roof. I steal a quick glance at Mulder as he stands up and walks over to
a hazy window. I swear I could see tears forming in his eyes, tears he's
now trying to hide.

"The rain will keep the dust down." Mulder says, as if this should be
important to us, "it will make you easier to find."

"I think I have his sympathy," I tell him, walking to his side and
holding his hand, wanting desperately to pull him into me again.

"Mulch? Will he let you go?" he asks me, wrapping his arm around me. We
smell of sweat and dust and sex. How can one smell sex in a dream?
Smells cannot be brought up out of memory, yet here it is.

"I think he knows they aren't ever going to let him go. He knows I'm his
only way out. They put something back in my neck," I tell him, and he
holds me out at arm's length.

"Something?" he asks curiously, but still without meeting my eyes.

"I don't think it is the same implant as before. I don't know what they
are doing," I say, wanting him to look at me, to share what he is
feeling.

"Maybe it is better than before."

"Or maybe it is worse. Maybe this one won't keep me alive," I tell him,
pulling him closer, not wanting to waste our precious few moments on
something I can't control.

"I'll find it if it isn't the same, if your cancer comes back. I will
help you find the right one, I promise," he says, as he nuzzles his face
into the top of my head.

"You have to go now, don't you," I ask him, knowing already that he
does. He can't stay with me in this unknown place forever. I pull him
closer, my body pleading with his for him to stay.

"Take care of Christopher, okay?" he tells me wistfully, the sense of
loss filling each of his words.

"I should be saying that to you," I tell him, for I'm in no position to
take care of anyone.

"He will grow up in the blink of an eye. Such is life. It passes without
us noticing..." he says, his voice cracking on the final word.

"Mulder, fight this, what ever it is. We've got to raise him together,"
I plead with him.

"I have to go," he says, "I have to go and I don't know when I will see
you again."

"Why?" I ask him, not wanting to lose him ever again. I try to fight
back tears, knowing they will make no difference now.

"That is just the way it is," he says, placing on final kiss on my
forehead.

He pulls away from me, and walks towards the old screen door. As he
pulls it open, Mulder finally turns to look at me, and I can see one
singular tear trickle down his cheek.

"I need you with me soon, Scully. I don't know how much longer I can
wait. I love you," he says as he steps out into the rain, letting the
door slam again.

I walk to the door, and press my hand against the dusty screen. He is
walking away in the rain, moving away from me again, not turning back.

"I love you, too," I whisper, knowing his ears can't hear me through the
pouring rain anyway.

The music still continues to play without him. 'Now I know just how much
I have lost' rings through my ears and around my head, settling heavily
in my heart. This is what a broken heart feels like. I remember it all
too well. He is lost and I don't know how to find him. He has left me
here.

I am left alone in this unfamiliar place, left alone with the scent of
Mulder, me and years of lost tequila dreams. The rain starts pouring
even harder and the roof sounds like someone beating on pot with a
wooden spoon, but lacking any sensible beat. It is growing louder and
louder. I look up in time to see the roof tumble in on me, leaving me
alone under a pile of rusting metal and cold rain. I am buried yet the
noise still doesn't stop. I am still alone.

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

I struggle to get out of this drug-induced haze, fighting to find out
where all that noise is coming from.

I hear familiar shouts in the backgrounds. Requests and shouts I have
made. I'm still too tired to process what they are and what is going on.

"Scully?! Are you in here?" I hear a voice calling to me. So familiar,
yet not the voice I want. It is coming closer and closer.

I can barely open my eyes, and through the drowsy slits that I can
maintain open, I can see a form coming towards me, trying to rouse me.
It isn't the usual Mulch kick in the ass wake up call. He looks so
familiar, yet his stride isn't Mulder's overly confident gait.

"Mulder..." I mutter, hoping against all hopes, before my eyes go shut
again. I'm not supposed to come out of the drugs this soon. I've never
felt like this. My mouth is cotton, and words are so hard to form.

"No, Agent Scully. It's Agent Reid. You've got to stay awake. The
paramedics are right behind us. Can you keep talking to me?" he demands
of me. I sense other people, a lot of people rushing around the room,
but all I can see are passing blurs.

"Mulder?" I ask, this time making it a question. My mind still needs to
know what happened to him, why he isn't here.

Reid doesn't answer me. Doesn't make a sound. If he is dead, I don't
want to wake up. I have to, I know. I have to wake up for Christopher no
matter what has happened to his father.

"Agent Scully, can you hear me?" a much more familiar voice asks me,
"Scully? The paramedics are here. We are going to airlift you and Mulch
to the University Hospital. Do you understand? Scully, you've got to try
to stay awake. Come on. Can you do that for me?"

I nod my head yes, trying to figure out what happened to Ronald Mulch.
There was lots of noise. That is all I know.

"Mulch? What happened?" I ask, finally seeming to be able to fight the
drugs. I can feel someone grab my wrists and free them from the
restraints.

"He has been shot, Agent Scully. We are still trying to ascertain
exactly what happened here. I'm going with you to the hospital," the
voice says. I open my eyes to see Walter Skinner standing over me. I can
sense that paramedics are around me, but I can't feel much of anything
yet.

The sunlight burns even through my eyelids as they roll me outside, and
someone shades them for me. Someone else holds my hand. Or maybe it is
the same person. I can't tell yet.

"Mulder?" I ask again, only to not receive an answer again. "God Damnit!
Tell me what happened to him!"

"Agent Mulder is already at University Hospital. He is comatose after
being exposed to an unknown drug. Both his and your mother flew in
yesterday afternoon along with your baby. They are all waiting at the
hospital," Skinner says to me, his voice not wavering, nor giving me any
clue as to how serious it might be.

"Fowley?" I ask, barely remembering those photos of them together.
Something about a mountain. I want to remember, but it is so hard.

"Agent Fowley is there, too," he says, never letting go of my hand. I
finally manage to get my eyes open, and can make them stay that way. He
looks away from me quickly and I slowly realize it is probably worse
then he's letting on.

"They're waiting for you," Agent Reid yells to Skinner as he points
towards a helicopter.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Scully. It doesn't look good. For either
of them," are the last words I hear Skinner say before he is drowned out
by helicopter blades.

I can't stay awake any longer after we are up in the air. I want to
prepare myself to face what I'm going to find when we get to our
destination, but am too tired, too drugged. I drift away, aware only of
the oppressive droning sound of the medivac flight I am on and that
someone is still gently holding my hand.

THE END

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

Title: XIV Sand Trap
Author: Jori damienma@netroenterprises.com
Category: SR
Keywords: WIP, MSR, Baby-fic
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Yes
E-Mail: damienma@bellsouth.net
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to 1013, FOX and CC. This is just what
I do for fun. No money is made from this hobby of mine.
Author's Notes: Special thanks to my beta readers, Michele and Rachel.
You are both great!

Summary: Tired from her ordeal, Scully learns more than she wants to
while waiting for Mulder to recover.

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

University Hospital
University of New Mexico
Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 23, 2002
10:21 a.m.

Another hospital, another bedside vigil. Had I realized exactly how much
time I would be spending in hospitals, perhaps I would have just
considered the traditional path of a medical school graduate. I was
positive this way was the right way, though. I was going to help save so
many more people doing this. Maybe I have. It's days like this, though,
when I don't know. Maybe I just would simply have saved myself.

"Dana, honey, do you want to take a break?" my mother asks. I didn't
even hear her walk into the room. I'm still tired and run down from all
the drugs, but other than that, I've been given a clean bill of health.
For now at least. No one can promise me tomorrow or the next day right
now. Nobody knows what a different implant will mean for my well being.

"Hi, Mom. I didn't hear you come in," I say, as I pull myself up in the
chair. My muscles still ache from my captivity and I haven't been able
to sleep well since coming out of my last drug-induced slumber.

"I thought maybe you'd like to get out for a few minutes. Christopher is
up from his little nap," my mother says. She comes over to me and wraps
her arms around my shoulders. She's always been there when I needed her
most. When Christopher was in the hospital and Mulder was out wandering
the countryside, my mom was there. Another bedside, another chair, the
same comforting arms wrapped around me.

"Where is he?" I ask. The reunion with my son was glorious. I had
moments with Mulch out in that abandoned house when I never thought I'd
see him again, and when I finally had him in my arms, I didn't want to
ever let him go.

"Teena has him in the lounge. He just finished a bottle of formula and
had some cereal just a few minutes ago, so he shouldn't be too
annoying," my mom says, knowing that I can't breast feed him again. It
was hard losing that without it being my choice, hard knowing that
particular bond is gone. One of the doctors I saw said I could start
again when the drugs were out of my system, but I have no idea what else
those men did to me while I was in their 'care.'

"I, uh..." I start to say, not knowing which way to go; being pulled
by too many forces. I look over to Mulder. His condition has improved
drastically from the time he was brought in to the hospital off of the
top of the Sandia Mountains. Why he remains comatose is a mystery to his
doctors, but at least he is off the respirator now and has been moved to
the neurology floor from ICU. Agent Fowley, on the other hand, is in the
Neurosurgery ICU unit, after receiving a gunshot wound to the head and
surviving. Why Mulder was spared the same treatment and was not shot is
a mystery to us.

"I'll stay here with him. Don't worry, okay? I'll come get you if there
is any change or if that neurologist ever shows up," she tells me,
although she knows changes probably won't come that fast. I give Mulder
a kiss on the cheek before leaving, always hopeful that he will just
come out of this right now, and everything will be back to normal. I
guess this is the wish of everyone around a comatose patient.

"Hi, toots," I say, as I pick up my baby boy off of his grandmother's
lap, "How's he been?"

"He's getting a little restless. Probably wishes he was at home and not
in this boring, old hospital," Teena Mulder says, as she stands up to
stretch her legs.

Christopher's grandmothers have been great through this whole crisis,
both to them doing their best at tag-team grandparenting while they also
try to take care of their respective children. I'm just fortunate that
my hospital stay lasted only a few hours.

"No, no, honey. Mommy can't help you there," I say as Christopher
snuggles in against my chest. Even though he was weaned down to nursing
once a day, our separation seems to have sparked a bigger interest in
him. I was hoping he'd forget. I was wrong. Must be something men never
forget no matter how young or old they are.

"Sometimes being a parent isn't easy," Teena Mulder says. I'm sure she
has many tales to tell about the difficulty of parenthood, if only she'd
tell some of them.

"No, it isn't," I answer back. I'm glad my son willingly takes the
pacifier, allowing him to focus on something else besides me for a
minute.

"Sometimes being a wife is harder," she says, and I don't know what to
say back.

 I am sure her marriage was not easy, but I've always believed a
marriage never fails just because of one party. I understand what she
means, though. It isn't always easy, being accountable to a person,
caring for them, loving them. And it being your own free will to do so.
With the baby, it is so different. I couldn't stop loving him if I
tried. Could I stop loving his father?

"I'll go relieve your mother. This one's my kid. I should be the one
sitting in there, not her," she says, as she picks up her handbag and a
magazine.

"I don't think my mom sees it that way. She loves him as if he's one of
her own," I say. It's true. My mother has always been that way with any
of her 'in-law' children, even if in this case they aren't technically
married to her own child yet.

"It takes a strong person to love that one," she says as she heads down
the hall.

"It does indeed," I say to no one.

Sometimes I even question my own strength when it comes to loving
Mulder. That isn't to say I don't love him. I have in one way or another
for years. But to love that man is more than a commitment of mind and
body. It takes all of your soul, too. There are no half truths with
Mulder, and there is no loving half way. All those years we tried, and I
still tried even after our first night together. I was so afraid of what
loving him might mean. What I've discovered it means is that things can
only get better with the two of us together. God knows, there are days
they can't get any worse. I think this is one of them.

In all the years I've known Mulder, I don't think his mother has ever
shown up at his hospital bedside. I don't know why, except perhaps that
would be an admission of need or love or something else she just doesn't
want to venture into. Perhaps the same admission that held me back all
those years. My mother called her up, desperate for help in getting
Christopher across the country. My mother said she seemed willing only
because of Christopher.

It is quiet in the lounge today. No family tragedies being played out,
no tough decisions being rendered by shocked children or parents. Just
my son and me playing with the baby toys Mom packed for him. Christopher
cruises between the couch and the coffee table covered with magazines.
Despite his recent injuries, he's trying his hardest to be an early
walker. Just what I need. A toddler already.

"Dadadadada," Christopher gurgles out in a long string, and although I
know he doesn't associate that sound with the person yet, I answer him
as if he is asking a question.

"Daddy is doing better, Christopher. Perhaps a little later, we can
sneak you in there again to see him. I'm sure daddy likes it when you
are near, doesn't he?" I ask him, his hazel eyes as bright as can be, as
if he understands every word I say. He coos his answer back and giggles
his magnificent baby giggle.

My son beams a bright smile at whoever it is I hear entering the room
and without turning around, I guess it is one of his grandmothers.

"Agent Scully, I'm glad to see you are feeling better," Assistant
Director Skinner says from behind me. I turn around to discover him
standing in the at the doorway with Agent Reid.

"Thank you, sir. Did you come to see Mulder? My mother and his are in
there right now, but you can back there," I say, as I hastily pack up
Chris' toys into the big bag.

"That's not why we are here, Agent Scully. I was hoping you were feeling
up to answering some questions now. If this is a bad time, we can come
back later this afternoon," Skinner says. He's fumbling around with one
file, while Reid has several others in his hand.

"No. Hold on a minute. Let me get my mother back in here to watch
Christopher. Can you hold him for a second? He's *officially* not
supposed to be back there," I ask, and both men look slightly
dumbfounded, "I promise he won't do anything weird while I'm gone."

Skinner hands over his single file to Reid and holds the baby, facing
him away from his suit. He looks uncomfortable yet amused at the same
time.

"You know, you look just like your dad. You better not try to pull any
of the same cr... er, stunts your old man does while your mommy is
gone. Am I making myself clear?" I hear him say as I walk out the door,
and Christopher answers with a loud, joyful peal of laughter.

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

University Hospital Cafeteria
10:58 a.m.

"I don't understand," I say, as I read over the report one more time.

"What don't you understand, Agent Scully?" Reid asks me, sounding
slightly frustrated that I said such a thing. Like I give a damn what he
feels right now.

"I just... don't... understand," I say.

I understand everything in this report, all the details and particulars
that can be found at any given crime scene. I just don't understand who
would go to such lengths to set up something like this. Why were we the
target? Again.

"They weren't found until two o'clock in the morning. Luckily, they were
closing down the lift for spring maintenance and one of the men out
there to facilitate the repairs noticed the number coming down didn't
match the number of people who had gone up. After searching, he came
across Agents Mulder and Fowley in a clearing and immediately put a call
in to 911," Reid explains to me again, sounding as if he just repeats
the words one more time, I might understand it all.

"Sir, can I speak to you privately?" I ask Skinner. With the nod of
Skinner's head, Reid gets up and goes to get another cup of cafeteria
coffee.

"I know that how they were found is rather... compromising, Agent
Scully," he says, as he takes some of the notes and places them in a
folder.

"Does his mother... or my mother know about this? Were they filled in
before I was found?' I ask.

"No," he says, as he waits for me to tell him something. I wish I really
had something to tell.

"What do you want me to tell you? That Mulder and Agent Fowley were up
there for some sort of tryst that went bad? That they got caught by
someone who tried to kill them? I don't think that is what it is," I
say, resigned to believing that couldn't be the case. It is all too damn
contrived.

"I don't believe that, either. I just don't understand the whole
incident, yet, and I wish someone would enlighten me as to what exactly
they were doing up there and what in the hell went down. I have one
agent near death, another one in a coma. I had one of my agents held
hostage by the paroled convict she and her partner had just interviewed
days before. I have an agent still missing. And to top it all off,
Senator Erickson's father still hasn't turned up, either. I'm having one
hell of a week, Agent Scully, and I would really love some answers,"
Skinner says, looking at me as if I should know what happened.

"All I can tell you is what happened to me while I was held by Mulch,
and I already covered all that. As much as I would love to be able to
tell you what occurred with Mulder and Agent Fowley on that mountain, I
can't. All I know is that Mulder was going to meet Thomas Erickson. I
don't know why he choose the Sandia Mountains. I don't know why Agent
Fowley went with him. I also can't tell you where Agent Spender might
have gone," I say, growing weary of this whole damn fiasco. I read over
the reports again, and then one more time, still not believing this mess
could get any worse.

I close the folder back up and stare at the assistant director. He knows
as well as I do that none of this could possibly be true. If Mulder and
Agent Diana Fowley had wanted to 'reminisce' about old times, they
certainly wouldn't have had to go to the Sandia Mountains to do it. They
had plenty of opportunity to do whatever they wanted to do in the hotel
after I left to do that autopsy. Damn Mulder for trusting her again.

"How is Mulch doing?" I ask, hoping to break this uncomfortable line of
questioning.

"He's much better. He should be transferred back to prison in a day or
two, now that he seriously violated his parole," Skinner says.

"Did he kill those women?" I ask, wondering how I got so lucky as to be
spared.

"We don't know, but we don't think so. Some things just don't match up
right in the time frame of it all. In the search of the house we never
located your ring, Mulch didn't have it in his possession, either," he
adds, looking down and away from me.

"How did you find me?" I ask for the first time since I've been in a
coherent state.

"An anonymous call was put in pinpointing your location. We still
haven't determined who made the call," Skinner says.

I merely nod my head. I don't know what happened while I was drugged any
more than anyone else could possibly know. With the exemption of Mulch,
that is, and he's not talking. He was so sure no one could put him back
in prison. It seems the men who made such promises betrayed him once
again.

"This was supposed to be an easy one, sir. In and out. It wasn't
supposed to end like this," I say.

"I didn't know you and Mulder ever did anything the easy way, Agent
Scully," Skinner says, as he motions for Reid to come back over. Skinner
seems to be protecting me a lot these days, whether it be those photos
now in evidence, or detailed discussions over Mulder and Agent Fowley's
discovery.

"I have to go back to DC tomorrow morning, Agent Scully. Agent Reid will
be staying on here for a few more days, but basically it is going to be
handled by the field office," Skinner says, with a sigh.

"What about the senator?" I ask.

Someone wants this buried. I can tell. Senator Erickson's father is
still missing, yet they are trying to cover it all up. I wish I knew who
was behind it all.

"Senator Erickson regrets deeply what has happened here. He believes his
father just took off again. He's been known to do that," Skinner
answers, adding, "Or at least that is the official word we are getting
from the senator's office."

"Right," I say. They, whoever *they* are, must have been afraid he was
going to talk. He obviously knew more than he was letting on.

Agent Reid has avoided eye contact since he sat back down. He looks like
he has aged in the last few days, gained experiences he never imagined.
He appears to be a man who got tangled in something totally
incomprehensible.

"The neurologist was going to be in soon. I had better get back up to
Mulder's room," I tell them, wanting to walk away from all these reports
and files, to walk away from what everyone is thinking now.

"Agent Scully?" Walter Skinner calls as I walk away.

"Yes?" I say, stopping but not turning around to face him and Reid.

"We will get to the bottom of this," he says.

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

University Hospital
11:25 a.m.

"The neurologist just left, Dana. Would you like me to see if I can
catch her?" Teena Mulder says as I rush into the room.

"Damn it," I mutter. I knew this would happen. Isn't this what always
happens?

"She said that they would be running more tests in the morning if he
doesn't come out of this. She also said she really sees no physical
reason as to why he would still be in a comatose state. The drugs are
out of his system, his kidneys are functioning normally again, the
swelling around the brain is completely gone, and his liver appears to
be undamaged," she says, relaying as well as she can the highlights of
what Mulder's doctor went over.

"I'll check his chart in awhile. I didn't see Dr. Dresden out there, but
I'm sure she had other patients to see," I say, as I settle into the
chair at Mulder's bedside.

"Did the assistant director have any new leads?" she asks me as she
makes her way to opposite side of the bed from me.

"No, not yet. He just wanted to go over what happened to me while I was
... detained," I tell her, as I watch her touch her son's arm, slowly
moving her hand from his wrist up.

"Motherhood never ends, you know? No matter how old they are, or how
much they think you don't love them, or how much they think they don't
need you, it is still there. That bond can't be severed," she says
quietly.

I am now in the position where I can agree with this. I have a child,
and from the moment I heard his first cry, I knew I would give my life
if it meant he would live. Not only that, but I would have no second
thoughts about it.

"He's going to be okay," I say to Teena Mulder, and watch as she pulls
her hand stiffly away from Mulder's arm.

"Fox is always okay," she says, a tinge of pain cracking through her
voice. Both his mother and mine have lost a child over this God forsaken
'project' Mulder always speaks of. Because of this project and more just
like it that I'm sure exist, they could lose another child at any given
moment. Or I could lose a child and know the grief that is singularly
theirs. I don't want to visit that particular place where they have once
dwelled and returned from. I don't know if I could return.

"I'll stay with him if you want to go. I know my mother mentioned that
the two of you planned to take Christopher out to lunch. Just makes sure
he doesn't eat anything too spicy," I say with a weak smile. She smiles
back, and rests her hand on my shoulder before finally leaving the room.

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

University Hospital
4:14 p.m.

"Hello?" a female voice says from the doorway, after knocking softly a
few times.

"Come in," I say, as I pull myself up in my chair. Many people come and
go out of this room all day, but most don't knock. I look at the tall,
dark haired woman entering the room and hazard to guess that perhaps she
is a law enforcement officer sent out here to get a statement. She
doesn't look like a doctor. Then again, people say that about me.

"Hi, you must be Agent Scully?" she says, more of a question than a
statement of knowledge. The automatic blood pressure cuff goes off on
Mulder's arm at the same time she says this, causing both of us to jump
slightly.

"Yes," I say, extending my hand to this stranger. She is taller than me
by several inches, her brown hair pulled back into a business-like clip.
She is wearing a suit, and an expensive one at that, complete with
subdued jewelry. Perhaps my assessment of law enforcement was wrong.

"I'm Carol Fowley-Osgood. When I talked to the assistant director
earlier, he told me Fox was down here, and that his partner would
probably be here, too," she says, releasing my hand and looking over at
the bed.

Fowley-Osgood. Diana's sister. Skinner had mentioned they were trying to
find her next of kin, a sister who lives in Manhattan, but weren't
having any luck. I guess someone got lucky and came up with a sibling.

"Nice to meet you," I say, knowing my voice sounds more curt than I want
it to. It is the voice I seem to take on whenever Diana is mentioned.

"God, it's been years since I've seen Fox," she declares, as she walks
over to his bedside and places a hand on his still arm.

"Yes, well..." I start to say. What am I supposed to say? "How is
Agent Fowley... Diana doing?"

She looks like she is about to cry at the mention of her sister, but she
fights back the tears. I know the prognosis isn't good, for I was up to
see her myself early this morning. Whatever they did to Mulder, they
added a gunshot wound to the head for her. The first time she was shot
years ago, she pulled out of it miraculously. No one thinks she will be
that lucky twice.

"The doctors had me fill out a DNR order. It is the hardest thing I've
ever done in my life," she says to me, a tear finally escaping and
trailing down her Lancome Porcelain Beige cheek.

"There's always hope," I tell her, knowing how many trips to the
hospital Mulder and I have survived, even when we shouldn't have.

"They don't think she will make it through the night," Carol says in a
voice so soft I can barely hear her.

"I'm so sorry. My sister was murdered several years ago. It is a
horrible thing to go through. Let me know if I can help you in any way,"
I say, without putting much feeling behind my words. I'm so tired right
now, with Mulder and the baby. And myself. I don't think I can help too
many more people.

She looks down at Mulder and away from me, and I know she doesn't want
to talk about her sister any more than I do right now. I can also guess
by the way she referred to me as Agent Scully, Mulder's partner, Skinner
didn't tell her any more than that. The assistant director has always
graciously respected our privacy that way. As long as it didn't effect
our work, it didn't effect him.

"I haven't seen him since their wedding. They both looked so happy that
day, so much in love. Too bad it didn't last," she says out loud, but
not really to me.

Wedding? What wedding? Diana mentioned being married before. Being
pregnant and getting married. Pregnant, wedding, married, divorced.
*Their* wedding. Oh, shit. Mulder and Diana's wedding. God damn him. He
didn't tell me something *that* big. A hollow pit the size of Cleveland
opens up in my stomach, and I wish I could just fall into it.

"I, um, didn't know they were ever married," I say, my voice cracking
slightly with the last word. I can make it through this. I've made it
through worse. I can maintain my composure until this woman gets the
hell out of here.

"I didn't last long. I'm sure it would have lasted longer if..." she
starts to say, but catches herself before she possibly reveals too much.

If what? If she hadn't miscarried her... their child? Mulder, why in
the hell didn't you tell me? That would have explained so many things
over the past few years, made some of your actions so much clearer. I've
watched as the two of us have nearly been torn apart by Fowley's actions
and he never explained why in the hell he trusted her so God damned
much. He could have just told me years ago, put aside so much doubt I
once had in our partnership.

 I know this Carol woman is watching me closely. I can feel it through
my closed eyelids. I rub my temples with my fingers, feigning a
headache. Maybe she will just leave and this will just all be over. Yes.
I will open my eyes and this will all be over and I can figure out how
to deal with this new information...

"Dana, honey? I just stopped by to see if you were ready to go back to
the hotel for awhile and to sneak Christopher in to see his daddy...
oh, hello. I didn't know you had company. We can come back," my mother
says, holding my fussy baby in her arms.

"No, come in. Mom, this is Agent Diana Fowley's sister, um... Carol
Fowley-Osgood. This is my mother, Margaret Scully. And this little guy
is Christopher, my son," I say, taking him out of my mother's arms.

Carol's eyes go from my face, to my son's, to Mulder's. She doesn't say
anything, though. There is nothing to say, really. My mother already
said the magic word 'daddy.'

"Nice to meet you," my mother says, as the two of them make polite small
talk for a few moments.

I sink back into my chair with Christopher on my lap. I'm torn between
the desire to shake his father up out of this cursed coma he is in and
demand to know why he never told me, or to just be glad that the
decision is mine to just let it go. Sometimes that is the only thing
that can be done with the truth once it is obtained.

The past is the past, right? What difference does it make now? He
doesn't know everything about my past, or even my life outside of work
when that life didn't contain him. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't
matter. But somehow it does.

"I should be going now. It was nice meeting you, Agent Scully. Fox will
be in my prayers," Carol says, placing her thin hand on my shoulder.

"Keep us informed about your sister, if there are any changes," my
mother says back to her. She is from a much more polite generation than
I am. Of course, she just didn't have a huge surprise dropped on her a
few minutes ago. The father of my child, the man I spent ten years with,
day in and day out, never once said 'You know what, Scully? I was
married once.' That's all he would have had to say back then. Now I want
to know more. Not just the facts but the reasons behind his actions.

"I will," she says as she walks out of the door, not knowing she changed
things forever.

"She seems nice enough," my mother says, walking over to Mulder's
bedside, and stroking the same arm that everybody keeps touching. I
wonder if that bothers him or if he wishes everybody would stop.

"Where is Teena?" I ask, as Christopher tries to maneuver his way to the
floor and to freedom.

"She is back at the hotel, resting. Don't forget that she's a few years
older than me, and not used to chasing after 'his royal highness' all
day like I am," Mom tells me, as if I was questioning Teena Mulder's
motives.

"I don't think parenting was ever her forte, Mom," I say, struggling to
contain my child on my lap.

"I don't know, Dana. She appears to be genuinely concerned for you and
Fox. And for Christopher. She is very nice..."

"You say that about everybody," I snap back at her, tired and defensive.

"Listen, we all just have to get through this. It isn't easy on any of
us. Do you know how many times now I've gotten that phone call all
parents dread? Do you know how many of those calls have been about you?
All of them. Even when it was Melissa, they said it was you. Dana, I
know you are tired. I know this is stressful on you, and I know you went
through a lot this week. Maybe you need some time off from sitting at
his bedside. Perhaps you need to clear your head a little," my mother
says to me, her hands on her hips, as if she is talking to a impudent
teenager.

I can feel the tears forming in my eyes, tears I would not cry in front
of anybody else but Mulder or my mother. I'm so tired of all of this.
The games, the lies, the never ending search for a truth Mulder will be
content with. I want out.

"Mom, can you take care of Christopher for awhile? I really need to get
away from all of this," I say, as I stand up and hand my baby over to my
mother.

"Where are you going?" she asks. I know she deserves an answer, but I
don't even know where I'm going.

"I'll be fine," is all I say, as I place a kiss on my son's head and
walk out the door.

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

VLA Radio Telescope
Plains of San Augustin
Outside of Socorro, New Mexico
7:02 p.m.

The sun is setting over the New Mexico landscape, filling the sky with
shades of pink and gold I've not seen in years, not since city life has
taken hold of me. I can feel the uncomfortable darkness creeping up
behind me, in the direction I do not choose to look. All I do is fathom
the immeasurable space before me. So much of it a person could get lost.
So much of it a person might want to get lost.

I watch as two men finish inspecting a large satellite dish structure,
and then head off in their Jeep in the direction of a small building.
They are too far away to notice me, yet I notice them. It is hard not to
out in this emptiness. They drive off, leaving a trail of dust looming
large behind them and I wonder what they discovered today, if anything.

I look away from the sun burning its way down towards the horizon, over
to the objects of those men's interest. I don't know why I'm here,
sitting on the trunk of my rental car. This would be some place Mulder
would want to go to think. He even said that, while we were stuck on
Interstate 25. Maybe that is why I am here. Some connection with someone
I should be mad at.

All of this time spent listening out into space, mapping the universe. I
almost feel like running out to that building, knocking on the door and
telling them to turn those large dishes back at themselves, that maybe
the map of heavens already lies within each of us.

So I sit and watch and listen as the sky begins to turn indigo around
me. I'm not much different than the people listening out into space,
looking for their own brand of truth. I just listen closer to home,
limit my search of the universe to a different realm of possibilities.
Mulder's realm. Now mine.

And I wait for the truth, and wonder why I always get the truths I don't
want. Mulder and Diana Fowley. Somewhere in the back of my mind I
suppose I suspected something. Just not this. A child. His child.
Christopher isn't the first. I would have liked to have known that.
Maybe since the child didn't make it full term, Mulder never really
considered it an issue. But I just can't imagine that, not now. Not
after Christopher.

I don't know how to feel right now. Angry? No. Not yet. Mulder has been
known for his omissions in the past. Confused? Certainly. Why else would
I be sitting out in the middle of New Mexico watching a Very Large
Array? Stupid name.

I need to go back. I always go back. Dutiful. That's me. I'll go back
and sit by his bedside, waiting for him. Then I'll wait for him to tell
me what I know already know. I look down to my left hand, to where my
ring should be. Dutiful Dana. Dutiful partner. Dutiful mother. Dutiful
*spouse.*

They split up after they lost the baby. Why? If I had lost Christopher,
would I not be sitting here, pondering making my way back to a hospital?
Would it have ended everything for us, too? I would hope that this
inexplicable bond between us goes deeper than that. Maybe Diana felt
that way, too.

I hear a vehicle pull up behind me, but do not turn to look. I saw the
khaki colored Jeep circling its way over here after leaving one of the
men off at a building. The engine stops, and clanks a few times as the
driver steps out of the Jeep. I hear his footsteps approaching through
the sandy gravel.

"Miss? This isn't the best place to be hanging out at after dark. One
never knows what is lurking out there," the man says to me, and I
repress the urge to laugh out loud at his statement. If anyone knows
what lurks behind darkness, I surely do.

I turn to look at him, and I assume he's probably a visiting radio
astronomer working on a project. He's quite a bit taller than me, taller
than Mulder actually, and my guess would place him in his late twenties
or early thirties. He pulls a red baseball cap off of his head,
revealing a tussle of sandy blond curls.

"I'm sorry. I was just thinking," I say to him, as if he cares.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" he asks, as he comes a little bit closer to
me.

"Yes, it is," I say, sliding away from him slightly. I have my weapon
hidden neatly under my coat, as usual, but I'm not threatened by this
man.

"I like to come out here at sunset, too. The only place it is more
beautiful is over the Pacific Ocean. Have you ever seen the sunset over
the ocean?" he asks me politely, striking up a conversation of small
talk.

"Yes, um, my father was in the Navy, and we lived in San Diego for
awhile. Do you go to school in California... um?" I ask, prompting me
to supply his name.

"Dylan. Dylan Keanaly. I went to UCLA for my undergrad degree. Now I'm
at MIT, finishing up my doctoral work," he says, as he leans back on the
trunk of my car, yet keeps a comfortable distance. I can tell he's
watching me, as I look out at the last bit of the sun.

"And what are you researching out here, Dylan Keanaly?" I ask.

"Nothing that interesting. You know, the mysteries of the heavens and
what's out there," Dylan says, probably assuming I wouldn't understand
his studies anyway, "Angels in the architecture."

"Paul Simon?" I ask in response to his last words.

"Him and my Grandma Maiser. That's what she used to call it when we try
to find miracles in the ordinary. Like trying to figure out why we are
here by studying what's out there, that which man has been gazing at for
our entire existence," he says, pointing up at the first stars to appear
in the evening sky.

"So, what is out there?" I ask, as I pull my jacket tighter around me to
fend off the chilly night air.

"We don't do SETI work," he says in a matter-of-fact tone. I'm sure he
gets that question all the time. We say nothing to each other for
several moments.

"Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?" I ask him
offhand, just to see what he says to this question once posed to me.

"Using everything I know about science, I would have to say no. The
distances from here to there would be too great, and if they were here
already, surely someone reputable would have seen them, right? I mean,
could our government really cover up something that large?" he asks, and
my expression doesn't change one way or another, "But knowing the
vastness of space like I do, it is hard for me to believe that is all
just for us... that God made all this room, and we are the only
occupants. Then it would seem logical that perhaps there are others.
Also it just seems selfish to believe that we are the only ones God
could love so much."

"God?" I ask.

"Yes, God. I'm sorry. I grew up in the Bible belt. Somehow or another,
God seems to always be coming along with me where ever I go," Dylan says
almost apologetically.

"No need to be sorry. I was raised Catholic. And I'm also a scientist,"
I tell him and he gets a surprised look on his tanned face.

"Really? You just kind of looked like a tourist," he says.

"Thanks. No, I'm a physician. I did my undergraduate work in physics," I
say, actually enjoying this conversation. It doesn't concern Mulder or
Diana or the crimes against all of us. This was all I needed, a
departure from it all for just a few minutes.

I feel Dylan's eyes watching me closely, as if he is scrutinizing my
face.

"Hey, I know why you seem so familiar. Your picture was on the news a
few nights ago. You're that missing FBI agent, aren't you?" he asks,
bringing the rest of the world back to me quickly.

"Mmm hmm. Special Agent Dana Scully," I say, nodding my head yes.

"You aren't still missing, are you?" he asks.

"No, I'm not still missing. Like I said, I was just out here thinking.
I've had a rough week," I tell Dylan.

We are both silent for a few minutes, and he looks up towards the stars.

"Would you like to go get something to eat?" he blurts out suddenly.

"Dylan... thanks for the offer, but my partner, fianc actually, is
in the hospital back in Albuquerque, and my mother is baby-sitting my
son..."

"Your partner. Fox Mulder," he says as if it would be natural that he
knows this. I stiffen up a little, and he must notice. "He was on the
news, too."

"You watch a lot of news," I say.

"I had heard his name mentioned before," he tells me.

"Where?" I ask.

"Around. Dana, you need to go back to him," this person who calls
himself Dylan says to me.

"Who in the hell are you?" I ask him, sliding off the trunk of the car,
and fumbling through my jacket to get my gun.

"You don't need that," he tells me calmly, "I'm just here to listen to
you. You seemed to need that right now."

"Tell me who you are?" I ask him again, as I begin to back away from
him.

"Not everybody is out to get you. There's more sides to this than you
know, and some of us are actually on your side," he tells me softly. He
doesn't approach me as I back towards my car door.

"Then explain it all to me," I demand from him.

"It's not time for that yet. Explanations will come later," Dylan says.

"I want some now!" I say to him, "I've had enough waiting. A whole
decade of it!"

"It's your son, Dana. Sooner or later, everybody is going to want to
find out why he is so important, why they needed him to exist so badly.
You need to find out first," he says, and I stop moving.

"Do you know?" I ask.

"No. I don't have your answers. All I can tell you is the answers lie
within you. And Agent Mulder and your son. And what ever other children
you may have. Yes, Dana, there will be more, soon..."

"Excuse me?" I ask, "How would you know that?"

He looks at me and just shrugs his shoulders. "There has to be more. And
they have to be his and yours. They could never have been any one
else's. That's why it didn't work with that other woman."

"Diana?"

"Don't worry about what ever happened with Diana. It could never be, but
she never understood that. She wasn't part of the group," Dylan says.

"Group? What group? You mean the abductees?" I ask him, my weary mind
trying to absorb everything coming at me.

"No. Before that, you were chosen. They took you to find out why we
needed you. They stole your ova in an attempt to stop the project, but
we circumvented their plan. Actually, their rash maneuvers have been to
our advantage," Dylan says, but offers up no information as to who 'we'
or 'they' are, and what in the hell project he is talking about.

"Then why not Diana? Why me? Why do this to my life?" I ask, on the
verge of holding this man at gunpoint if he doesn't give me a clear
answer soon.

"Only you, Dana. It's been planned like that for years. Longer than you
even imagine. Christopher had to be. Him and the others," he says, his
voice cool in the night air.

"Others?" I hear my self say, but my head is reeling already. Others, as
in the future, or others as in children like... "Emily?"

"No. Emily had nothing to do with our work. Your children are indeed
human," he says.

"Why are they so important, then? Why all of these secrets and lies?" I
demand from him.

"Just trust me. Your children... your child is important. He is
important because of what he is. He will be protected. There are more
like him out there, scattered for protection. More parents that were
chosen, but most don't know. Only you know," he tells me.

"Why? Why him? Why me?" I demand again, knowing I'm not going to get the
answers I need.

"I don't have your answers. You have to find them. Go back to Mulder. He
needs you. Always has," he says as he walks away from me back to his
Jeep. Dylan climbs in and drives off into the darkness, leaving me all
alone.

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

University Hospital
11:47 p.m.

Mulder's condition still hasn't changed. I didn't really expect it to,
seeing as though I wasn't gone that long. I checked on Christopher at
the hotel. He was sleeping peacefully tucked in next to his Grandma
Mulder. I arrived at the hospital and sent my mother back to the hotel.
She asked no questions, just gave me a hug before she went on her way.

So now I'm back to watching and waiting and wondering who isn't a part
of this thing we are involved in. It seems as if every question we ask
is simply answered by more questions.

The gentle beeping of Mulder's heartbeat played out electronically is
mesmerizing and calming. It reminds me of this heartbeat teddy bear
Christopher has at home. He hasn't wanted that played for him in months,
no longer needing the sounds of the womb.

I wish I could dream of Mulder again, like I did with the drugs. I wish
I could ask him the things I want to ask so desperately. So much is more
important right now then his past. Like finding whoever did this to us
and finding out what answer it is that lies within us. I want to tell
him what that man out in the desert told me. I want his help. More than
that, I need his help. This concerns both of us and the life we created.
They created. Whoever created it, he is ours now.

We've got to survive this. Survive and get back home to our 'normal'
life. We will never have a normal life. Even if we tried, something
would just step in and make it all topsy-turvy again. That is just the
way it is with us.

I pull the hospital blanket up around me, hoping to catch a few hours of
sleep before the barrage of hospital staff make their way in here in the
morning. One more time in my life, I fall asleep to the sound of
Mulder's heartbeat.

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

University Hospital
April 24, 2002
7:15 a.m.

"Scully? Where am I?" I hear a raspy, voice call out quietly, shaking me
out of my dreamless sleep. I'm out of my chair and over to Mulder's
bedside quickly.

"Mulder? It's me. You're in the hospital. I'm going ring for the nurse,"
I tell him, as I fumble through a myriad of wires, unable to find the
call button. I look up at the clock. It is 7:15 in the morning. I slept
a lot longer than I thought I would, exhausted from the previous day.
The nurses should have started coming in to his room already this
morning.

"She's dead," he says flatly, with no emotion in his voice at all.

"Who is, Mulder?" I ask him, watching his eyes try to focus on me in the
dim light.

"Diana. She's dead," he says. This is not the first conversation I
wanted to have with him, but so be it.

"No, Mulder. She's here in this hospital. You're going to be okay. I'm
going to go get the nurse and see if she can get your doctor in here. .
."

"You're my doctor..." he says, reaching out for me with his other
hand. I'm glad to see his memory is still intact and I am surprised at
how rapidly he came out of the comatose condition he was in.

"The neurologist, Mulder. Her name is Dr. Dresden and I'm sure she'll be
as glad to see you as I am. Now don't try to talk. I'll be right back,"
I tell him, as I gently squeeze his hand.

I have been standing at the nurses' station for about five minutes when
Agent Reid approaches me, looking more tired than he did yesterday. I
remember that he had to drop Skinner off at the airport incredibly early
this morning and he must have come straight here.

"Agent Scully..." he starts to say.

"Good news, Agent Reid," I say, "Mulder just woke up. The nurse is
paging the neurologist and... what's wrong?"

"Agent Fowley just passed away about ten minutes ago. Her sister wanted
me to come down and let you know," he says, looking down at his feet.

I look at the clock on the nearby wall. Ten minutes ago was exactly when
Mulder woke up. He knew she was dead. A chill runs down my spine. He was
with me when I needed him. Was he with her when she needed him? No. That
isn't possible. It just isn't. But that is so Mulder. He loved her once.
He wouldn't let her be alone. He would do the same for me tenfold.

"Tell, um, Carol that I will come see her as soon as I get Mulder taken
care of," I say. Reid watches me closely, trying to read my expression.
I'm sure he's figured out that there was no love lost between Fowley and
me. I can't honestly say I plan to shed a tear.

"I'll be down to talk to Mulder later today, to see if he remembers
anything," he says.

"Give us a day, okay? We have both been through a lot," I say sharply,
walking away from him and back to Mulder's room.

I sit on the edge of his bed, and hold his hand in mine. It is too soon
to tell him the news Reid just delivered, too soon to tell him
everything that has happened over the last few days.

"Scully, I had the strangest dreams about you," Mulder says, his voice
less raspy the longer he's been awake. A nurse is busy at the other side
of the bed, but she doesn't disturb us.

"Do you remember them?" I ask, curious as to whether they were as
strange as mine.

"Just one, really. It had something to do with you and a piece of really
sour candy. We were...playing basketball and..." he starts to say,
stopping when he sees the startled expression on my face.

"Was it a good dream?" I ask, forgetting for a few moments all about
Diana and the rest of the world.

"Oh, yeah. A very good dream," he says with a smile. I brush the hair
off of his forehead, and put my hand on his cheek. We will deal with the
rest of the world later.

THE END

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

Title: XV Past Perceptions 
Author: Jori damienma@netroenterprises.com
Rating: PG-13 for language
Category: SRA
Keywords: MSR, baby-fic
Spoilers: Anything through all six seasons, mostly Anasazi and The
Blessing Way
Archive: yes, please
Disclaimers: Not mine. They belong to 1013, CC and FOX. I'm just playin'
Author's Notes: Thanks to Rachel and Michele, my wonderful beta readers.

Summary: It is time to come to terms with the past

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

University Hospital
University of New Mexico
Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 24, 2002

"One of these years, we are going to meet under better conditions, Agent
Mulder," a familiar voice says from my bedside, rousing me from sleep. I
feel a rough, weathered hand on my arm, and my mind quickly places the
owner of the voice. It was with me during bad times before, and now it
has returned.

"Albert. Nice to see you again. Or maybe it isn't. I'm never sure if I'm
going to live or die when you appear," I say, opening my eyes to find
the older Navajo man standing by my side.

"Agent Scully wasn't too sure either when she called me last night. New
Mexico is never kind to you. But from what I can see, it looks like you
are going to survive this one," Albert Hosteen says, as he sits down in
the hospital recliner.

"Scully called?" I ask, surprised that she hadn't mentioned it. Of
course, the morning was long, with doctors coming and going. And then
there is Diana. Scully said I woke up claiming she was dead, but I don't
remember doing this. All I remember is Scully at my side. Reid wants to
talk to me later, and Skinner already called here when he got off the
plane in DC, anxious to find out what I remember. Unfortunately, that is
very little.

"She called me yesterday evening. Agent Scully said you were comatose
and the doctors couldn't pinpoint a reason. I thought I would drive down
and see if I could offer any help. Of course, I had already heard about
the two of you on the news," the man tells me.

"I'm sorry. She should have called you back to tell you that I pulled
through. Again," I say.

"I don't mind. I did get to meet your son. I saw Mrs. Scully with him in
the lobby, waiting for her daughter. Congratulations," Albert says, his
eyes steady on mine. I can tell by his look there more that he wants to
say, but isn't sure how.

"Christopher. He is something, isn't he?" I say, smiling. I've already
had Chris in here to visit me several times today. He has been the only
little bit of sunshine during the whole day. Scully has been withdrawn
since this morning, since she told me everything that happened to her
after I went with Diana to the Sandia Peaks. The news about Diana still
hasn't made a complete impact on me yet. I know I'm still in denial
about it, even though I know for a fact that it is true. She is dead,
and the injury that caused her death happened while she was with me.

"He's the one," Albert says, shaking me from my revelry.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"I didn't understand it until I saw him. Didn't understand what it all
meant. But now I think I know," he says. He sits quietly in the chair,
and just watches me. I know that he has everything from that defense
department report somewhere in his head, but most of it didn't mean much
to any of us, and was beyond anything we could comprehend once it was
translated.

"You know what?" I ask, curious as to what he is getting at.

"It goes back further than you thought, Agent Mulder. And there's more
sides to it then I think they even know. Many women documented in those
reports died, yet Agent Scully survived. Someone allowed her to survive,
and someone has allowed you to have that child," Albert says.

"Albert, was there anything ever called 'Project Weather Control' in
anything you translated?" I ask, hoping the answers are closer than we
ever imagined.

"No. That wasn't in there. There were mentions of opposing projects, but
they said they effectively eradicated them," he says.

"But what if they didn't? What if it was a false report, made by someone
they trusted, someone . . " I start to say, and then realize my he
doesn't understand the complexity of any of this. He just knows the
words, not the people behind them.

"Agent Scully also had some questions. About visions. Do you know what
she wanted to know?" Albert asks.

"Scully had questions about visions?" I ask, surprised that she would
mention such a thing to anyone.

"She said that while she was held hostage, she felt 'connected' to you,
through a series of dreams. She believes that you shared some of those
dreams," Albert says, as if this is a perfectly natural topic for
hospital conversation, and perfectly natural for Scully to bring up. I
have tried to maintain contact with Albert Hosteen for the last several
years, and he knows the differences between Scully and my 'ideology,' so
to say.

"I only remember vague and fleeting images. Not much of anything,
really," I say, for that is all they are. Fleeting bits and pieces of
Scully and myself in strange places.

I also had dreams with scattered images of Diana, of being with her
somewhere, but I'm not sure where. I remember less of that than I do of
Scully. I talked briefly to Diana's sister already this morning, trying
to console her, but failing miserably. Scully told me the news of
Diana's death only a few hours ago, and then Carol stopped by. She was
already flying home late this afternoon and wanted to know if I would be
attending the funeral. I told her I would try to make it. I probably
won't. I could tell by the look on her face that she knew I wasn't going
to be there. Not after this.

"It is to be expected. There is a bond between the two of you now that
cannot be broken. You have a child together," he says, and I wonder if
that is what held me to Diana, also. "But that bond has been there
longer than that. Something ties the two of you together, child or not."

I wonder if Scully knows about that bond between Diana and me now, of
that child lost years ago? From the way she reacted to Carol coming to
visit, I'm guessing she has a clue, and now I have to deal with it all.
Plus, I now have to add to that whatever Albert is trying to tell me,
about more factions.

"That child is apparently quite valuable to someone. Besides us, that
is. Now we just have to figure out who that someone is," I say, looking
out the window.

I'm ready to go home. I can come back here later and try to figure more
of this mess out, but right now I want to be home with Scully and my
son. I want to find out what in the hell Senator Erickson really knew
before we ever set foot in New Mexico. I want to know what connection he
really had with Diana, why we were set up the way we were. And I want to
know what is in that vial he has.

Hopefully, I will be released in the next day or two. Scully is even
more eager to get home than I am. Of course, she never wanted to be here
in the first place. Now not only did we not answer the questions we came
here to answer, we have had more questions heaped on top of us. Plus a
death of an agent that I was supposedly in a 'compromising' situation
with. Nothing like reading a crime scene report in which you've been
caught with your proverbial pants really down.

It has been one hell of a day. I returned to the world to be greeted
with this crap.

"Let me know if there is anything I can do for you, Agent Mulder,"
Albert says, as he stands to leave.

"Thank you for coming all this way, Albert. I appreciate it a lot," I
say.

"Just promise me that you will take better care of that little boy than
you do of yourself," Albert says with a smile, and visions of
Christopher's recent hospital stay flashes through my mind, causing me
to wince. I never want to relive that.

I can hear a small, familiar giggle in the hallway, moving in this
direction. Christopher is so always so happy. It is almost as if he
possesses all the happiness his parents were missing over the last few
years; as if he is where we misplaced our smiles.

"Oh, I can almost guarantee Christopher is going to be well taken care
of," I say, as Scully enters the room holding him in her arms.

"I see you've witnessed Mulder's 'miraculous' recovery," Scully says to
Albert, with a warm smile.

"I wonder how many more of those miraculous recoveries Agent Mulder is
going to be able to pull off?" Albert Hosteen asks, as he places a hand
over my son's chubby little fingers.

"I ask that myself all the time, Albert," I say, feeling every bit my
age right now. Sometimes I'm certain that at forty I have no business
trying to do what I did at thirty and hoping I have all the answers by
fifty. Or at least sixty.

"It was nice seeing you both again. If you need anything ever again,
please don't hesitate to call," Albert says, before he leaves the room.

"Why didn't you tell me you called him?" I ask Scully, as she sits down.
Christopher is trying to wiggle his way towards me, but Scully manages
to keep him confined to her lap.

"When you woke up this morning, I forgot all about it. Besides, I'm sure
it was nice seeing him again," Scully says, as she untangles her hair
out of Christopher's small fist. He turns to me and smiles, revealing
those few baby teeth he has, and a trail of drool rolls down his chin.

"Yes, it was. I'm just a little surprised you mentioned your dreams to
him, Scully. Living life on the edge these days?" I ask her, and receive
only a slight grin as a response.

"I was just thinking," she starts to say, not looking at me, "that
perhaps the reason you were in a coma so long is because you were
somehow 'connected' to Diana, that you knew she was going to die, and
couldn't leave her to die alone."

Usually, it is Scully's eyebrow who spikes up when such statements are
uttered from my mouth. But this time I know mine is about to hit the
ceiling.

"I can't tell you the answer to that question, Scully. I don't remember
enough of anything to be sure," I say honestly.

"That is your nature, Mulder. You would never abandon anyone if they
needed you, someone you loved. That is ..." she stops suddenly, and I
know she knows. I don't want to discuss this here, not now. I want to be
able to explain the unexplainable to her somewhere besides this hospital
room.

"When are we going home, Scully?" I ask, and she looks squarely at me
again.

"Soon, I hope," she says, as she continues to bounce our son on her lap.

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

Albuquerque International Sunport
Albuquerque, New Mexico
April 26, 2002
11:45 a.m.

"Where is he?" Teena Mulder says impatiently, looking at her watch one
more time. The question pertains to her son, who is late meeting us at
the airport. Our flight leaves in twenty minutes, and we haven't heard
from Mulder in hours.

I don't know where he was going today. He said he had things to take
care of before we left New Mexico for home. I'm sure we will have to
come back eventually, to wrap this whole disaster up, but we both wanted
to get our son home. He also said that if he didn't make it to the
airport, he'd catch the next flight to DC. I was hopeful he'd make it
here to help with Christopher.

Mulder took Diana's death better than I though he was going to, knowing
what I know now. It was if he already knew she was dead. He doesn't seem
ready to talk about it yet, and I honestly don't think I am ready to
talk about it either. Whenever I try to bring up the questions I need to
ask, I choke up.

I know he spoke to Carol Fowley-Osgood in the hospital, but I don't know
what was discussed. She flew back to New York the day Diana died, to
prepare for the funeral. I told Mulder he should attend it, but he
declined, saying they would understand due to the trauma he just went
through.

Mulder also filled me with his version of events that day in the Sandia
Mountains. He knows or remembers so very little, but he was able to
place the senator's father there that day. His doctors were just glad
that he recovered so quickly and completely, showing no residual effects
from the coma.

I have yet to tell him about my 'visitation' in the desert. I have no
idea who Dylan is, and no explanations seem to be forthcoming about how
he knew me so well.

"You seem awfully quiet, Dana," my mother says to me. She is rolling
Christopher back and forth in an umbrella stroller, hoping he doesn't
get too fussy before the flight. "Is everything all right, honey?"

"After all of this, I bet you and Fox can't wait to get back to your own
house with Christopher. It will feel good to get back into your old
routine," Teena says, and I give her a weak smile. How can we ever get
back to the old routine? I know something he obviously didn't want me to
know. And now I have to wait for him to tell me. I want him to do it.

"Come on, sweetie," Mom coos to Christopher, "Why don't you sit with
your mommy while Grandma checks on when they are going to begin
boarding."

I push the stroller gently back and forth with my foot, trying to pacify
a tired, cranky baby. It will be good to get him home.

"What's wrong, Dana?" Teena asks me, as she sits down in the
vinyl-covered chair adjoining mine. "Did something happen with Fox?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe you can explain him and the things he
does," I say to her.

"Me? Explain Fox? That's laughable. I think you know him better than I
do. They say no one knows you better than your mother, but in this case
I don't think that applies. You two share everything," she says, as she
leans back into the chair and takes over the stroller pushing duty.

"How much do you know about his life when he first started working for
the bureau. Or when he first opened the X-Files?" I ask. I don't want
ask anything directly about his marriage to Fowley, in case his mother
never knew about it either.

"I don't know much of what he did then. He was young and ambitious. I
would hear from him every once in awhile, but not like now. And he
didn't speak to his father at all. I don't know anything about his
personal life then. All I know is I doubted the day would ever come that
he would have a family, that I would have a grandchild. He seemed so
involved with work," she tells me.

I nod my head, wondering what she would say if she knew we were all
'involved' with his work, somehow tied together because of it.

"If he had been seriously involved with someone, would he have told
you?" I ask, wondering why he might have kept quiet about this for so
long.

"Probably not. But then again, he didn't tell me the two of you were
having a baby until you were eight months pregnant. That is just the way
Fox is with me. He always has been like that. He will only let me so
close," she says with a deep sigh.

I watch as my son begins to nod off from the constant rocking. We've got
to get him into a carseat yet on the plane. I was really counting on
Mulder being here to help.

"Sometimes I just don't know what to say to Mulder," I tell his mother,
and she puts one of her hands over mine.

"Dana, I can tell you honestly that there are no other people on earth
that Fox loves more than you and that child. No one. I know I'll never
be able to explain my son and some of the things he does, but I do know
how much he loves you," Teena Mulder says, my hand still under hers.

"They are going to start boarding people with children in about two
minutes. What do you want to do?" Mom asks me, as she looks at her
watch.

"He said to go on ahead without him if he didn't make it time. He can
catch a later flight," I say, as I begin to gather up all the baby's
stuff and walk towards the gate. I'm sure Mulder will find his way home
again.

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

Penitentiary of New Mexico
Sante Fe, New Mexico
April 26, 2002
10:47 a.m.

"Where's Agent Scully?" are the first words out of Mulch's mouth as he
is escorted into the same old cinder block interview room we've crossed
paths in before.

I nod at the two guards with him, indicating that they can leave. I
don't mind if they observe through the window, I just want to be alone
with this man when I question him. I want him to realize the mistakes
he's made over the past few days. I want him to know exactly how fucking
alone in the world he is now.

"Agent Scully has better things to do than waste her time questioning
you, you piece of low life shit," I say, coldly. He sits down in the
chair, while I remain standing, hands on my hips, wanting the bastard to
feel threatened. I look up at the clock held behind a wire cage, and
guess that Scully is probably getting ready to go to the airport. I'm
never going to make it from Sante Fe to Albuquerque on time.

His whole demeanor has changed since I saw him last. He's no longer the
cocky con getting out on an unfair parole. Oh no, he is so much more
reticent now that he realized whoever his own personal savior was has
abandoned him. Like they were ever going to take him with them. Not only
did they abandon him, they left him caught red handed with a missing FBI
agent, made a trail of homicides that matched his MO, and then got his
parole overturned before any other charges could even be thought up. And
to top it all off, they shot the fucker in the ass and left him to bleed
out in some New Mexico ghost town.

"I'm the low life shit that called the FBI and saved Agent Scully's
life," Mulch tells me. This is the story he keeps repeating but so far
no one has been able to verify it.

"You just keep saying that, and sooner or later you might convince
someone," I say. The staring matches we had last week have eased
slightly, and he is clearly shaken up by this betrayal.

"Why in the hell else do you think they shot me? They found out what I
did," he says emphatically.

"I think they shot you just to get rid of your stinking self. I'm sure
they never really planned to do anything else but kill you. And if you
think otherwise, then you are more stupid than I thought," I say,
shuddering with the passing thought that this man feels responsible for
saving Scully's life.

"I can't be too stupid. You obviously need something from me or your Fed
ass wouldn't be sitting in the same room as my stinkin' self," Mulch
says, crossing his arms in front of him and settling back into his hard
metal chair.

"I want you to tell me exactly what they did to Agent Scully. All of it.
You seem to like her, so for her sake, you are going to share with me
everything you know. Going back to Ellen Erickson," I say, and his eyes
shift away from mine with the mention of that name. Scully remembered
his story, that he was involved with the whole Erickson disappearance,
just not in a way that most people imagined.

"I didn't do nothing to that Erickson woman. I just handed her over to
them. I don't know nothing more about what happened to her after that,"
he says, and I believe him. They used him then, like they used him now.
He got to do the dirty work.

"And Agent Scully? What did they do to her?" I demand.

"Tests. I don't know what kind. They had a van they would come in ...
one of those big, custom jobs. They would take her out, do whatever it
is they did, and bring her back looking just like she did when they took
her out. The only thing I ever saw them do was mess with her neck,"
Mulch says. I don't know how much of his narrative I can believe right
now. It is just giving me a background I can fill in later.

"What did they do to her neck?" I ask him.

"They took something out of it, and put something else back in. They
said that should take care of the problems they'd been having. That is
the only time they ever said anything in front of me. I swear," he says,
as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Who in the hell are they, Mulch? You've been dealing with them for
years. You must know something," I say, watching him closely.

"I don't know. They don't have names and they all look alike. That
seemed fucking bizarre at first, but I got used to it. They call
themselves the project, but I don't know what in the hell that means.
Something to do with weather control..." he starts.

"What does it have to do with 'Weather Control,' Mulch? Did they ever
say? Think long and hard and don't fuck this one up," I interrupt, my
voice demanding answers.

"Something to do with kids. That's all I ever heard. Someone called
Jasper," he says, shrugging his shoulders at me.

Kids? Kids like Christopher? Who in the hell is Jasper? Is that why this
was done to Scully and me, so they could find out what about Christopher
made him 'have to be,' as everyone keeps telling us? This whole fucking
thing is a cloudy mess, and it isn't getting any clearer with time.

"Anything else you'd like to tell me, Mulch?" I say, as I lean against
the table, standing over him.

"No," he answers back.

"Okay, now to some personal business. Agent Scully had a ring on when
she fell into your hospitable care, and she says you wore that ring the
whole time she was there at Chez Mulch. Now it seems that ring is
missing. Do you have any idea where it might be? What pawn shop you
might have taken it to when you realized they weren't taking you with
them, so you could make a quick buck?" I ask, as calm and collected as
possible.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Mulch answers back bluntly.

"Are you saying Agent Scully is lying about the whereabouts of her
engagement ring? Do you really think a woman would lose track of a ring
like that and make up a story about it?" I ask again.

"I'm saying that it is none of your fucking business. I'm sure the prick
who gave her that ring took insurance out on it. I don't see why you
would care anyway. It ain't like that ring was yours," Mulch says, with
a smug smile across his face.

"I am the prick who gave her that ring, you son of a bitch, and I want
to know exactly where you pawned it off so I can go get it and place it
on her finger again. So I suggest you answer me before I reach over that
table. If that happens, you will have a whole damn string section
playing that fucking diamond music out your asshole for the rest of your
life," I yell at Mulch. His jaw drops with the realization that I'm not
just 'fucking' Agent Scully on the side, but I am the fiance who put
that ring on her hand. The asshole guessed wrong the whole time and
never caught on.

"You cocksucking lying son of a bitch! You figure out where I left it
yourself," he spits at me, surprise resonating through his voice.

"I already know where it is. I just wanted to see that look on your face
when you found out she's mine," I say to Ronald Mulch, as I bang on the
door for the guards to let me out, hoping I don't have to see this man's
face ever again for the rest of my life.

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

Scully-Mulder House
April 26, 2002
8:47 p.m.

"Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a fairy princess and a
dashing young prince," I tell my son, making up a bedtime story as
Christopher drinks his nighty bottle. We are back in his room,
comfortable in the rocking chair, like it should be. He is getting so
big, yet when he is in his pajamas and all snuggled up in my arms he
still looks so much like my baby. He always will be my baby.

"The fairy princess was quite beautiful, far too beautiful for just any
man. Oh, no. There was only one young man in the entire kingdom good
enough for her, and there was only one young woman good enough for him.
They were destined to be together. They just didn't know it yet," I
continue, and Christopher smiles up at me and then continues with his
bottle.

Christopher's eyes have finally picked a color to be. Well, as much as
anyone could call it a color. Hazel brown with sparkling flashes of blue
and green. Is that a color? He looks up at me, his small hands wrapped
around his bottle, holding it himself. That is the only way he is
satisfied, when he is doing it himself. Christopher has a horribly
independent streak. I wonder where he got that from? Certainly not me.

"One day, the prince saw the princess and they eventually fell in love,"
I say, wishing it was all really as simple as fairy tales make it out to
be. Boy meets girl, girl falls for boy and everybody rides happily off
into the sunset. He will learn the hard lessons himself someday. He
doesn't need to know otherwise right now.

"Right when the prince was about to confess his undying love to that
beautiful princess, the evil sorcerer kidnapped the princess, taking her
to his Ice Palace," I tell him, and watch as his eyelids begin to get
heavy.

I hold him tight to my breast, and the bottle begins to slip from his
mouth. He should be tired, after what he has gone through the last
several days. Cross country trips, living between a motel room and a
hospital, missing parents. Too much for someone only nine months old to
have to deal with.

"But that young prince wasn't going to lose his princess that easily. He
followed the evil sorcerer to that Ice Palace, and risking life and
limb, he found his princess frozen in some form of biostatis ... um,
frozen in a block of ice," I say, as his eyes finally shut for the final
time, and his fingers release their hold of the bottle.

"And he rescued her, and she saved him, and they lived as happily ever
after as a frosty fairy princess and a brave young prince could possibly
live," I say, as I place a kiss on his forehead, and rise to put him
into his crib.

I wind up his musical stuffed animal, and tuck it next to him, letting
him drift off to where ever babies go in their sleep, and I shut the
door to the tinny sound of "You are My Sunshine."

With a sigh, I go downstairs. I have some reports to finish before I
return to work again. Mulder has yet to get home. He hasn't even called.
I can only imagine what detained him in New Mexico. It had better be
good, though. Christopher cried most of the trip, and nothing any of us
did could soothe him. Not that Mulder would have been able to, but it
just would have been nice to have someone else carry him around for the
forty minute lay over in Chicago.

I enter the tiny corner off the kitchen that was supposed to be a
breakfast nook, but instead is my office area. Mulder has his room
upstairs, I have my nook downstairs. I prefer mine. It is surrounded by
bay windows and looks out over the big back yard.

While my lap top is downloading the mail I haven't checked for days, I
pour myself a glass of red wine, and turn on my small stereo near my
desk. I can have a glass of wine again. No more worry about
breastfeeding, even if I still leak whenever my son cries. The doctor
assured me that would be over soon.

I carefully put some CDs into the tray, and hit the play button,
adjusting the volume so I can hear if Chris cries out, or if the phone
rings, or if Mulder comes in the door.

On the flight, between struggling with my son, I tried to figure out how
I'm going to deal with this deluge of information that has been dropped
into my lap over the last few days. Christopher is the one, and I have
to figure out why. I'm the only one who can have Mulder's children, even
though I'm not supposed to have children at all. It could never be with
Diana, and there is a failed marriage to prove it. A marriage I never
knew about, one that didn't even show up on Mulder's FBI records.

I take a sip of wine, and put my glasses on. I'm tired and should just
go to bed, but I wanted to wait for Mulder. I slowly pick through my
mail and delete most of it, having already missed most of the meetings
they were telling me about. Only one catches my eye. I don't recognize
the sender, and I click it open.

There is only one line of text. No signature. No indication as to whom
it came from.

'Jasper is the key,' is all it says.

Who in the hell is Jasper and why is he the key?

 The piece of e-mail is saved off and I send the address off to Frohike,
hoping maybe he can trace it back to its originator. I doubt it, though.
It would never be that simple.

I begin the tedious duty of filling out reports concerning the incidents
of the past week. How could one week seem to have lasted so long?

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

Scully-Mulder House
April 26, 2002
10:20 p.m.

This place sounds like what I now consider home, with the wash machine
whirring in the laundry room and the dishwasher clicking into the next
cycle in the kitchen. Hard to believe it has only been a week since we
left here. Hard to believe that the two of us are returning in one piece
again.

I can see the soft lamp light coming from Scully's corner office space,
and an opera aria plays quietly out of her stereo.

A soprano belts out 'Un bel d vedremo,' feeling the character's pain
of betrayal and lost love.

Madama Butterfly. I drop my bags at the entrance to the kitchen and
watch Scully working. Her brow is furrowed as she types away at
something, and she doesn't notice me here.

"Is that supposed to mean something?' I ask, nodding at the source of
the music, remembering a scene from 'Fatal Attraction' years ago.

"Not at all," she replies, without looking up from her lap top monitor.

"Everybody get home okay?" I ask, not really knowing which direction to
take this conversation.

"Your mother is staying with my mother, and Chris and I are okay. And
since you are now here, I guess we all got home okay," she says, still
not looking up at me.

I sit down, on the opposite side of the antique oak desk from her, and
just watch. Sooner or later she will say something. I know she will.

"How was your flight?" I ask, as I shove my hand into my coat pocket. My
fingers feel the box her engagement ring is in, and I don't know whether
to offer it now or not. I don't want it flung at me, but I want to know
how she feels.

"Our flight was fine," she says tersely.

"I'm sorry I missed it. I had to take care of something before we left,"
I offer up to her, but she doesn't ask what it was I might have been
doing.

She just types away, and the CD shuffles to another song. It is some
piece of classical music I don't recognize, but it is an improvement
over sad opera arias.

"So, are you returning to work tomorrow?" she asks, as her fingers
finally stop typing.

"I'm not sure. I would like to talk to Senator Erickson ..." I start,
but stop when she finally meets my gaze. She doesn't say a word, just
sighs and takes her glasses off. Her eyes betray nothing, not one scrap
of information in which to gauge how she feels. This can only mean that
she is pissed.

"Sounds good," she says, as she shuts her eyes and rubs the bridge of
her nose.

Scully doesn't move her hand away from her face for several moments, and
I wish to hell she would just say something. Scream. Yell. Throw pencils
at my face. It would be easier than this. This half-silence has gone on
since the day I came out of that coma. She teeters between happiness and
sorrow.

"It's not like you don't have a past," I say after a long silence,
hoping to start something. I would even prefer her anger to this.

"Yes, Mulder. You are right. I do. And so do you," she says, her eyes
piercing into me.

"I don't know everything about you," I offer, knowing that their is
nothing in her life that would compare to what I didn't tell her.

"No, you don't," she says calmly.

"But now I'm ready to tell you," I say, only to be greeted by the
coldest look I've ever seen.

"I don't know, Mulder. Why don't you just wait until *we* are married,"
she says, as she starts to shut down her computer.

"Diana and I were married. It was a mistake. I didn't love her enough to
marry her, didn't love her enough to have a family with her," I say,
closing my eyes to the memory of losing that child so many years ago.

"So that's it? The big secret? All these years, Mulder ..." she says,
her words trailing off as she closes down the lid of her lap top.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," I say, not knowing what else to offer to her.

"It just explains so much. It would have been nice to know, a long time
ago. It would have explained why you trusted her in the way you did. Or
maybe you just felt sorry for leaving her," Scully says, as she turns
off the banker's lamp. We sit opposite of each other, the only light
coming from the kitchen behind me. The stereo is still playing what
seems to be an endless, droning piece of music.

"It hurt a lot, Scully. It was something I just wanted to get past and
forget. Then she showed up again," I say, remembering that miserable
year. 1998. If it could go wrong, it did.

"Mulder, it's just that after all of this," Scully says, her right hand
raised in the air to indicate her surroundings, *our* house.

"All I can do is say I'm sorry," I say. I can't change what I've done. I
don't even know if I would want to.

"I just don't know what else you never told me about, what other secrets
you're keeping," she says to me.

"And you don't have secrets?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level and
calm. Any other 'secrets' I might have been keeping don't matter now,
anyway.

"Such as?" she asks back, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

"Did you? With him?" I ask her, not really knowing why. It is something
I've wanted to know for years, ever since I came to see her in that
Philadelphia hospital. Diana was before I ever met Scully. *This* was
while we were partners, because of something I did or didn't do. I loved
her even then, yet she went elsewhere.

"Yes," she answers back, not even having to ask who I'm talking about. I
know she doesn't want this to hurt, but for some reason it does. I'm
sure this hurts just as much as it did when she found out the truth
about Diana.

"I always wondered," I simply say, not knowing what else there is to be
said at this point.

"That has nothing to do with this, Mulder," Scully says, ending that
line of the conversation.

We sit quietly in the shadows, and her CD player finally spins to a
stop. The house is silent now, except for those customary *house*
noises.

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask for the second time since our child has
been born. I close my eyes, not really wanting to hear the answer. I
have my apartment, but I don't know how I could go back to that.

"No," she says, as she gets up from her chair and tucks it in, scraping
it across the tile floor.

"Scully?" I ask her, as she stands behind her chair, her face turned
down.

"What?" she asks back, sighing heavily at the end.

"Will you marry me?" I say, as I hand her the little velvet box that
contains her ring.

She holds it in her hand for a few moments, and flips it open. Her eyes
register nothing. They are void of all emotion right now, and I can
hardly blame her for feeling this way. Our lives have been sent into a
tailspin in the last few weeks. Both of us are exhausted, and the
thought of what we have yet to go through only compounds it further.

She snaps the box shut before setting it down on her desk.

"Ask me again tomorrow. Right now I'm not sure," Scully says, as she
walks away from me and from her ring.

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

Scully-Mulder House
April 27, 2002
2:21 a.m.

Reaching out into the darkness, all my hand finds is the other side of
the bed. Empty. I run my hand down the linen sheets, and find them to be
cool to the touch. He didn't even come to bed. Our bed.

He is probably sleeping on his couch, in his study. That is how he
escapes me, I guess. I'm not that angry. Just disappointed. He really
should have told me, and in a much better way than he did this evening.

Yes, I have a past and I know he does, too. But somehow, names from my
past don't come up in conversations with strange figures in the middle
of nowhere. Diana was a part of this whole thing, though I'm not sure
how. Just as I don't know how we all fit into the picture yet. I'm also
sure her death wasn't an accident. Mulder would also be dead if that was
the case. They let him live, and let her die.

After turning on my bedside lamp, I discover that he was in here. His
bags are sitting near the closet, and the clothes he had on today are
piled up on the laundry hamper. I don't know why Mulder wouldn't just
come to bed.

I quietly walk out into the hall, and open the door to his study, fully
expecting to find him sprawled out over his couch. Instead, I find the
room empty and dark. Nothing has been touched in here for over a week. I
close the door again, and stand in the hallway, the only light spilling
out from a tiny nightlight plugged in near the floor.

The gentle creak of the rocking chair in Christopher's room is the only
noise in the house. I go into our son's room, and find Mulder sitting in
the chair, facing Christopher's crib. He is just watching our son sleep.
I've done this myself in the past, but I didn't know he had any desire
to do this. I thought this was something only mothers did, watching
their baby breathing in the night.

Perhaps he is thinking about the child he created with Diana. I don't
remember if she ever mentioned the gender. He could have a
pre-adolescent son right now, going to football games and playing catch.
But as everybody has said recently, that could never be. I wonder why
they let it go so far, if it could never be?

I stand beside him, and Mulder stops rocking. I place my hand on his
shoulder, afraid to speak, concerned about waking up the baby. He puts
his hand over top of mine. We both watch the little person in the crib.
The person we created together. No matter what happened in the past, he
is the future.

Somehow we just have to get by this. There are so many more important
things than what we did in the past. His past might even be the answer
to what is going on now, and it shouldn't have been hidden. It is too
late to worry about that now. Tomorrow we have to figure out how to
explain what went on this past week. It is going to be a long day.

"Come to bed," I whisper, leaning down to his ear.

We both leave our son's room together, and go to our own.

"It's tomorrow, Scully," Mulder says, his voice heavy with sleep. I know
what he is asking. He wants to know whether or not I'm going to put that
ring back on before we go to work.

"Yes, Mulder," is all I say, before we both climb into bed together for
the first time in over a week and our shared exhaustion pulls us into
sleep.


              The end


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