The Christopher Scully Series
                       stories 16-20

Title: Latitudes I: A CRS Story
Author: Jori 
E-mail: damienma@netroenterprises.com
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. They belong to FOX,
CC and 1013. None of these songs belong to me. They belong to Jimmy
Buffett and MCA. No infringement is intended and absolutely no money is
being made by this hobby of mine.
Category: SR
Keywords: AU, family-fic
Spoilers: Up through US Season six, perhaps ignoring the season six
finale
Summary: The events of New Mexico are still haunting Mulder and Scully,
and the family takes some time away from it all.
Author's Notes: Thanks for all who have waited patiently for my next
story. I don't know what is wrong with me. I just didn't want to deal
with this particular set of characters for awhile, and I strayed. But
I'm back now. Please remember that I began to write this before US
season six ever started, so I can't control who CC killed off that I put
into a story set in 2002. And I promise this will be the last story I
set in Florida for awhile, but I had this one planned for months now.
And Latitudes II will be my last Song fic ever.

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

Volcano

"Let me hear ya now I don't know
I don't know
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
When the volcano blow"

Senate Executive Offices
Washington, DC
May 1, 2002

The tiny vial is between us, standing upright on the blotter of his
desk. The amber colored liquid is sealed tight in its glass housing, and
has no clue of the power that it possesses. Hell, knowing as little as
we know about it, maybe it does know what it is. Maybe it is taunting us
right now, and we just can't hear it. Senator Erickson and I stare at
each other over top of it, both of us needing that precious liquid.

"They said if I hand it over to them, they would return my father," he
says, as much an arrogant ass as ever.

"And you believe them?" I ask. Scully is in the chair at my side. The
piercing glare emanating from her eyes should be enough for this man to
hand over the vial, but he's not going to.

"I have no choice. Look at this way, Agent Mulder. What if it was your
sister? Would it be worth trading for your sister?" he asks. Scully
slowly draws in a long breath next to me. I once traded what I though
was my sister for her. I thought I could have everything. Just like this
man does.

"We are talking about saving millions, perhaps billions of lives,
Senator Erickson. Do you really want to be responsible for the
catastrophic losses that reproducing the contents of that vial could
prevent?" Scully asks him. Her voice is quite calm and even. I'm afraid
mine is going to blow at any moment, and rise up to the ceiling in a
yell.

"Agent Scully, what if it was Christopher? Would you trade it for him or
save millions, perhaps billions?" Erickson asks Scully. I can nearly
feel the anger roll off of her body, as her hands clench up and her
nails begin to dig into the leather upholstered side chair she is
sitting in.

We are both tired of being manipulated by people using our son as if he
is just some well place pawn. A bargaining chip for all sides concerned.
Whatever side wants something today just dangles his name out in front
of us and expects us to follow them.

"Tough question, isn't it? But that is what he is for. Nothing more than
to keep the two of you in line. That was the plan all along, right from
the moment you stepped on that plane to Louisiana. Now, concerning this
vial, it seems that if both of you would have been doing your jobs in
New Mexico instead of doing everything else, we wouldn't be having this
problem right now," Senator Erickson says, as he pulls out a envelope
and shakes out a series of photographs. They range in everything from
the two of us in the motel room to Diana and me on that hillside.

"Those are evidence in several murders in New Mexico," Scully says
bluntly, not letting the fact that this man has seen our personal lives
in full detail bother her. He spreads them out across his desk, and
looks carefully at them. Scully and I do not look down upon them. They
can't be used to control us.

"The two of you fucked this one up royal. How much easier could it have
been? Ask a few questions and find out what happened to my mother.
Instead, now both of my parents are missing, there are several people
dead and I'm having serious doubts as to whether or not you two are
competent enough to carry guns," the man says, as he leans back in his
big leather chair.

"You are the one who requested us on this case. We didn't ask to be put
in the positions we were. The X-files were closed, but still you asked
specifically for the two of us to investigate, knowing full well the
consequences of those actions," Scully nearly spits at him, her anger
starting to take hold of her, too.

The senator does nothing but shrug his shoulders.

"Who wants the vial?" I ask.

"I'm not sure who they are," he answers, clearly lying. He knows, but
isn't going to tell. He knew Diana but lied about that. He's the one who
directed us to that mountain that day, but claims he never made that
phone call.

"Your father is dead. They are playing you and you are falling for it.
You are going to give them exactly what they want," I say, my voice
rising up to a heated pitch.

"Who's fault is that, Agent Mulder? You were there when it happened. Why
couldn't you prevent it? Because you were engaged in something much
better with your former wife?" he says. Shit. What doesn't this man know
about us?

"I was not doing any such thing. We were set up. And you are going to
feel what it is like very soon," I say, standing up and walking out the
door. I'm down the hall and halfway towards the exit when I finally stop
and wait for Scully. I can hear her walking quickly behind me, trying to
catch up.

"Mulder, stop. There has to be another way we can get that vial. We will
get it," Scully says, putting her hand on my arm, trying to calm me
down.

"He is too damn blind to see past himself," I say loudly, and several
people turn to look at me.

"Let's go. I'm so tired of this and I just want to go home," Scully
says. We've reached so many points doing this job when one or the other
of us just wanted to call it quits. I think this time we both are there.
I know that I can't, though. I have to go on with this.

"Go home and do what? Wake up tomorrow, head back into work to play a
little counter terrorism with Agent Reid? Scully, I have to go back. I
have to reopen the X-files now. You know that," I say, and she looks
away from me.

We hear so many conflicting stories about what would happen to us or our
child if I reopen them. Some say his life will be in danger if I do,
others say he is protected and will be safe. He is the 'one,' as if we
gave birth to freaking Luke Skywalker or something. The one what I have
no damn clue. Opening the X-files is the only way I can find out.

"I can't do it with you right now, Mulder. I can't put both of us at
risk like that. He's so young," she says, her eyes meeting mine again.
She looks as if she is about ready to cry, but I know she won't.
Christopher is the one thing she will allow herself to cry about freely,
but not here. He is her baby. He is our baby.

I pull her into my arms, here in the hall that senators walk down daily,
and I hold her tight.

"I don't expect you to come back yet. But I want you to understand why
I'm doing this," I say. She doesn't answer me.

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

Come Monday

"And now you're off on vacation
Somethin' you tried to explain
And darlin', it's I love you so
That's the reason I just let you go"

FBI Headquarters
May 3, 2002

This office looks the same no matter what he is working on. All these
years, and all the changes we've gone through and this place remains
constant. Not even fire could strip from it what it really is. A
basement office where they put the most undesirable faction of their
operation to supposedly uphold justice.

Mulder will be partnered with Agent Reid. He's the other half of the
X-Files now. Not me. That causes a slight pang of jealousy to flow
through me, but I suppress it easily. It just isn't time right now for
me to get back into this. Besides, Skinner would probably not allow it.
He saw all too well what can happen when Mulder and Scully work
together.

I sit at Mulder's desk, waiting for him to get back from some meeting.
This week has been the week from hell for him. I can tell by the number
of sunflower seed husks spread out everywhere that he is stressed and
someone is trying to blame all the unfortunate events in Albuquerque on
him.

"Coming back to work for me, Agent Scully?" Mulder says from the
doorway, startling me out of my reverie. He is leaning against the door
frame, looking beaten.

"I think you got that backwards, Agent Mulder. You worked for me," I
say, and he almost smiles.

"So, what brings you down here to the bowels of hell again?" he asks as
he sits down across from me.

"I have a few things I need to talk to about," I say. Sometimes I am
startled by how different we have become over the years. We still
disagree nearly 100% of the time over work related issues, but now that
usually has no bearing on what happens on the outside. We've moved
beyond that.

"Like?" he says, not really focusing on anything.

"My mother wants to spend less time watching Christopher. She says ten
hours a day, five or six days a week is getting to be too much now that
he is up and walking," I say. "She and I discussed this issue when she
came over this morning. The driving and the work is just getting to be
too much. She raised her four kids, and now wants some time of her own."

Mulder sighs heavily, and closes his eyes. "Do you know what we are
going to have to go through screening potential caretakers?"

"I know. But we have to move forwards in our lives, Mulder. Some day he
is going to go to school and we won't be able to screen each individual
Christopher runs into each day," I say. I don't want to go through this
anymore than he does.

"Anything else?" he asks, as he looks at his watch. "I have a meeting
with OPR in twenty minutes."

"About?" I ask. This is news to me. So far no one has questioned my
actions in New Mexico. Just Mulder's.

"About why I was lying on some damn hillside naked with another federal
agent who is now dead. About why I let the father of a prominent senator
get abducted in my presence, though considering I was apparently banging
Diana at the time, I don't know how they expected me to stop it," he
says, his eyes still focused on his watch. Finally, he looks up at me.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay. I know that nothing happened out there. If you could have
prevented it, you would have," I say. Why would I stop trusting him now,
after all this time? At one time I would have suspected something, but I
don't know. Or at least I don't think I do. I didn't suspect anything
the last time ...

"So, we have to find a nanny that we can afford. Is that it?" he asks
me, interrupting my current thought.

"No. A friend of my mother's offered her the use of a gulfside condo
somewhere in Florida or Alabama. I can't remember. Anyway, she thinks it
would be a good idea if we all could get away for a while. We can have
it next Monday if we want it," I say. "Mom said she would come and help
with Christopher, but stay with some friends so we could ... be
alone."

He looks at me, his eyes showing no emotion.

"I don't know. This is probably not the last meeting I'm going to have
to go through. I can't make any promises," he says. After our visit with
the senator a few days ago, he has been completely deflated. That was
his last hope of making this whole fiasco mean anything.

"Can I go, and take Christopher even if you can't? I think it would be
good for us to spend some time together. A grandmother, mother and son
thing," I say. I don't want to go without him, but I would love a few
days somewhere away from all of this so I can just get out of my head.

"Of course you can go. Why do you even think you need to ask?" he says,
as he glances at his watch again.

"I didn't want to leave you alone during all of this," I say.

"Scully, I'll be fine," he answers before getting out of the chair and
leaving for his next review.


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

Boat Drinks

"I'd like to go where the pace of life's slow
Could you beam me somewhere Mr. Scott?
Any ol' place here on Earth or in space
You pick the century and I'll pick the spot"

FBI Headquarters
May 3, 2002

"Agent Mulder, we would like to know more about how Mr. Thomas Erickson
was abducted from the Sandia Peaks. Can you enlighten us with a little
more information than what you put in this report?" the one woman on the
panel asks me.

I face them, not knowing what they expect me to say. I have filled out
reports in triplicate. I have told my story over and over. I was drugged
with something that put me into a coma. What happened after that is
beyond me.

"Assistant Director Keller, I have told you everything I can remember. I
do not know what happened after I was drugged on top of the Sandia
Peaks. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital," I say
once again.

"Who, exactly, called you to arrange a meeting with Thomas Erickson at
such a remote location?" she asks, taking her glasses off and watching
me closely.

"Agent Diana Fowley took the call. She informed me of it, and we decided
to go meet Mr. Erickson. I cannot say who called her for sure. I wasn't
in her room when the call came in," I say, repeating what I've written
several times already.

"Why would they call her room, Agent Mulder?" Assistant Director Lawson
asks, as he looks carefully over the notes in front of him.

"She and Scu ... Agent Scully shared a room. Agent Fowley said they
were calling for Agent Scully, but Agent Scully was performing an
autopsy at the time," I say, directing my statement at Lawson.

"You believe that Agent Fowley might have been lying about that, Agent
Mulder?" Keller asks.

"I have no direct evidence of that besides the events that followed,
when we arrived at the mountains," I say, wishing this was over. I don't
know why I have to go through this again. I did nothing wrong.

"Why do you think Mr. Erickson would want to meet you at that location?"
another A.D. asks me.

"I don't know. Perhaps someone lured him there with an offer of
information about his wife. Maybe someone said we wanted to meet him
there. Maybe Agent Fowley arranged it, or maybe Senator Erickson
arranged it himself," I answer.

"You think the senator is responsible for this? For the disappearance of
his own father?" Lawson asks.

"I somehow think he is connected in more ways to this case than just his
missing mother," I say bluntly. I'm not going to dick around with these
people. They want the truth as I see it, so I'm going to give it them.

"The senator believes that you are fully responsible for what happened
in New Mexico," Keller states, as she digs out another piece of paper.
"He is very disappointed in your performance."

How come Scully isn't mentioned in any of this? Or Diana? Why just me?
Somebody is trying for something, but I just can't figure it out.

"We never made any promises when we went out there. Then we were faced
with a series of unexpected obstacles. No one could foresee that Ronald
Mulch was going to be paroled from prison. No one knew exactly how big
this thing was ... or is," I say, looking over to Skinner. He hasn't
been much help during this whole thing. Once again they need someone to
blame. Once again that is me.

"Agent Mulder, the issue still remains that a senator's father was
abducted in your presence. We are giving you the chance to open the
X-Files again because you think that is how you can find the answers,
but I just don't see it. I think we have given you more than enough
latitude in this case, and your judgment was apparently lacking on
several occasions. We are going to review further what the advantages
will be of reopening the X-Files for you," A.D. Keller states, as she
shuffles her papers into a stack, summarily dismissing me.

"Am I free to go now?" I ask coldly.

"Yes," she answers and turns away to talk to the man at her side. I am
out of the room and half way down the hall before I even hear Skinner
calling me.

"Agent Mulder, wait up," he calls. I stop, but don't turn to face him. I
just don't need any more shit today.

"What?" I ask as he comes around and stands in front of me.

"Take some time off. It will all be smoothed over in just a few days.
Get out of the city. Get away from Erickson and everybody else. Go spend
time with your family," he says.

"Is that an order?" I ask. I could use time, but I don't want them to
think they can force me out.

"No. That is a suggestion. You and Agent Scully went through a lot in a
short period of time. Take some time to recover from it, okay?" he says,
before he walks back into the meeting room, leaving me there staring at
my reflection on the overly polished floor.

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

A Pirate Looks at Forty

"Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
You've seen it all, you've seen it all"

May 11, 2002
Siesta Key, Florida

I watch him stand in the pale aqua gulf, up to his knees it the calm
water. He reaches down, picks up a handful of shells, and slowly pitches
them one by one further out to sea. They will roll back in on the tide.
Everything does. How much sediment has been trapped forever on the
seashore, rolling up and down in the waves perpetually? Perhaps one
shell will catch a wave out, and slip into the depths on a fast moving
current. Perhaps we are forever trapped on the same wave. Would it be
better to be pulled out in that current? It reminds me of the dream I
had while I was drugged. I felt at peace with myself as I slowly started
to drown in the sea of my dreams.

Mom opens the sliding glass door behind me and sits down on a creaky
wicker chair. We are on the second floor of this beach front condo, and
I am watching the sun begin to turn the sky into shades of pink and blue
I did not think were possible.

"Poor thing. I told Fox not to get Chris' head underwater, and now look
what happened. He can be so hopelessly stubborn. Hopefully the ear
infection will clear up before we have to get on a plane," my mother
says. He is sitting in his travel playpen, happily arranging his blocks
into something that resembles order for him. I don't turn to look at
her. I stand with my hands on the railings, looking out to the Gulf of
Mexico. Looking out to Mulder.

"Chris will be fine," I say, turning my personal mantra into my son's.

"How about the two of you, Dana? Are you ever putting that ring back
on?" Mom asks me, and I self-consciously hide my bare left hand.

I don't want this to turn into some soap-operatic chat between mother
and daughter, but it is heading that way. I haven't told my mom
everything about Diana Fowley yet. It just seems like it should be
something I should have known. I haven't put the ring back on yet
because I want him to tell me everything. My mother knows Mulder isn't
perfect. She knows he and I went through a lot to get to this point. She
always just tells me to work it out.

I turn around to face her, the sun glowing behind me. She squints at me,
waiting for an answer.

"We will be fine," I say, and wince as the words come out. Everything is
fine. That is all I say these days.

"The two of you have hardly been alone together since we got here, and I
know Fox has to go back on Monday. Why don't you go down there and talk
to him?" she says, and I turn my eyes from her.

Talk about what? Everything has been a giant mess since we got back from
New Mexico. One huge shitpile of blame and accusation. So much of it
that Mulder willingly took vacation time without having to be
threatened. And now Monday, he has to go back. To face more meetings and
reviews.

"I don't know, Mom. It is all so complicated right now," I say. She
already knows this. When has it ever not been complicated between Mulder
and me?

"I'm baby-sitting tonight. I'll take Chris and his bed over to the
Wilkinson's. Why don't you two go out. Talk about it all. Then you can
sleep in tomorrow morning on your first Mother's Day," my mother orders.
She has been so happy since we've been here. Most nights she's been
staying with the Wilkinson's, some old Navy friends she has known
forever. They retired here a few years ago, and Mom has been enjoying
their company immensely. I suppose after spending the last ten months or
so of her life watching an infant, it would be nice to just get in touch
with the old crowd.

"So, who is he, Mom?" I ask, and watch as a blush rises up my mother's
cheeks, matching the rosy color the sun is turning the sky. So this is
one of the reasons she wants to cut back her childcare duties. I can't
really blame her.

"His name is Everett Hindon," she finally answers, and her eyes light up
when she says his name. Ah, to be in love. When was the last time my
eyes lit up saying someone's name? I cast a quick glance over my
shoulder to Mulder. Should my eyes light up when I say his name?

"And how did you two meet?" I ask, as I sit down next to her in another
wicker chair.

"Everett and I have known each other for years, off and on. I'm sure you
will remember him when you meet him. His wife, Beverly, died about five
years ago, of breast cancer. It's been nice, Dana," my mother says.

"Does he live down here?" I ask, curious as to how this is going to all
work out, for my mother's sake.

"He has a little place here. And a place in Virginia," she says coyly.
My mother can say something coyly. Oh my God. My mother is having sex
with someone who's not my father.

"And ..." I say, not knowing really how much more I want to find out.

"And we will see where it goes from here. Don't worry, dear. I'm not
replacing your father," Mom says, as if she is talking to a child. I
just laugh.

"It's been a long time, Mom, since Dad passed away. I'm very happy for
you," I say, as I hold her hands in mine.

"And I would be happier for you if you would get out there and talk to
Fox," Mom says, her head nodding towards him.

"Okay. I'm going," I say to her. "Wish me luck."

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

Stranded on a Sandbar

"Now I used to go crazy for days at a time
Now I'm takin' my time with my days
Haven't found the answers like some that I know
I'm just stuck in a fairly nice maze"

May 11, 2002
Siesta Key, Florida

I feel her arms wrap around my waist from behind, and she rests her
cheek on my back. I've been out here for over two hours now, throwing
these damn seashells back into the damn sea. I'm sticky with sweat and
saltwater, but Scully doesn't seem to care.

"Hi," she says, and I drop the few shells I still have in my hand.

"Hi. How's the baby?" I ask her. We already spent two hours of our
vacation in some small clinic getting a prescription and a lecture.
Scully informed the RN that she is a doctor and didn't need anything
more than some antibiotics for her son's ear infection. That seemed to
speed the process up.

"Chris is going with Mom tonight. He will be okay. This isn't your
fault," she tells me.

"You've been saying that a lot lately, Scully," I say.

I got back to DC to have the wrath of God descend upon me about
everything that went wrong in New Mexico. The senator has talked to the
entire upper echelon at the FBI. Everybody and their agent brother
thinks I was fucking Diana on that hillside. And I can't do the simplest
thing like keep my kid's ears dry.

"Mulder, we were set up. You and I know that. The senator was probably
set up, too. He'll realize that in time," Scully says softly.

"People are dead, Scully. Perhaps three of them," I say, thinking mostly
of Diana. It hit me hard one evening that she is gone. And I might have
been able to stop it. I should have stopped it.

"Yes, Diana is dead. No one knows about Mr. Erickson. And Spender came
back from the dead before, remember? I wouldn't worry about him," Scully
says.

I wipe my sandy hands off on my shorts, and pull her so she is in front
of me.

"So, did you come out here to watch me sulk?" I ask her. She looks the
best she has looked since Christopher was born. She is slightly tanned,
in a redhead sort of way. Scully also now has a smattering of freckles
across her nose from being in the sun. She has on no makeup and her hair
is soft and wavy from her not blow-drying it into her FBI hair.

"We match," Scully says, with a smile, as if it brings back a nice
memory. We are both wearing a white tank top and denim shorts. It
reminds me of a dream I had when I was in a coma. Something about being
in Hawaii and we were all wearing flowered shirts.

"So, what is your mother doing tonight?" I ask, and Scully grins just a
little bit more.

"I think I have discovered the reason she wants to cut back her
baby-sitting duties," she says to me, as the two of us stand hand in
hand in the calm water.

"Which is?" I ask. I had forgotten all about that. My mind doesn't even
want to fathom what we will have to go through to hire someone who is
safe to watch Christopher.

"Mom has a boyfriend," Scully answers, and I didn't intend to look this
startled. It has been so many years since my mother and father got
divorced, and she hasn't ever dated anyone. Or at least I don't think
she has.

"Really? When did she find time? We always have her working," I say. I
shouldn't be surprised. The Scully women are beautiful and strong. It
should be more surprising that men haven't been lining up to ask her out
since her husband passed away. Then again, Scully didn't do much dating,
either. Or at least I don't think she has. I'm stunned by how little I
know about the two most important women in my life.

"She has known him for years. His wife passed away awhile ago, and
supposedly I know him, but his name doesn't sound familiar," she says,
sounding genuinely happy for her mother. "So, what have you been doing
out here?"

"Thinking," I answer simply.

"About?" she asks.

"How I fucked everything up this time. How I should have been able to
prevent Thomas Erickson's abduction. How Diana shouldn't be dead," I
say, and the smile disappears off of her face.

"They have you touting the party line now, too? How did they convince
you of all this, Mulder? Say it enough times and it is true?" she asks.
She has dropped my hands and shoves hers into her pockets.

"You don't get it, do you? Agent Diana Fowley was shot while I was
there. They murdered her, but not me. She shouldn't have been there," I
say to her. For some reason I feel helpless about this one issue. She
has lost a former lover before in the line of duty. She tried everything
she could do to save him. I wasn't given that opportunity.

"What I get, Mulder, is that the woman you were once married to and with
whom you were going to have a child is dead. This is a woman who
appeared again in your life years later, and I don't know what happened
then and I don't want to know ... and this can all be very hard to get
over. But it isn't your fault," she says, looking down at the water
swirling around her feet.

She knows about the baby. She knows why I married her. I never told her,
so Diana must have said something about it. Or her sister.

"You know?" I ask hesitantly. I don't want to see the same reaction that
I did when she found out the truth about Fowley.

"I know. And I wish you would have told me. You, not someone else. Not
some apparition in the desert and not Fowley herself," she says. She
told me all about the man who came up to her in New Mexico, and said he
knew everything about her. Our lives have been so well documented, that
there is probably not a thing left they don't know about us.

"I'm sorry. It just didn't seem important at the time. It happened so
long ago," I say, as I reach out and touch her arm.

"And you feel responsible for that, too?" Scully asks.

"In a way, I am," I say, as I remember the sadness Diana and I shared
over the loss of that baby. It wasn't meant to be. I tried to make up
for it years later, but I never could.

"Is there anything you aren't responsible for, Mulder? Is everything
your fault?" she says, as she moves away from my touch. Both of us are
stressed out, and this vacation has only eased the tension slightly.

"I don't think I'm responsible for the hole in the ozone, but I might
be. I did cause some damage in Antarctica. And I'm pretty sure that I'm
not responsible for professional wrestling," I say, hoping to lighten
her mood and get us back to where we were when she first walked out
here.

"Everything isn't about you, Mulder. All these years I've said that over
and over, and still you can't get it through your head that you are not
to blame for everything," she says as she starts to walk towards the
shore.

"Where are you going?" I call after her.

"For a walk. I'll see you later," she says as she heads down the white
sand and leaves me behind.

 The End 

I am now going on vacation for a week to Orlando. Vacation from what,
you might ask? I don't know. But I will have part II done by the time I
get back.

Thanks, MoJo for the beta reading and error catching!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Title: Latitudes II 
Author: Jori 
e-mail: damienma@netroenterprises.com
Rating: NC-17
Category: SR
Keywords: family-fic, AU
Archive: Yes
Summary: Mulder and Scully spend some time in Florida healing from their
ordeal in New Mexico.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. They belong to FOX,
CC and 1013. None of these songs belong to me. They belong to Jimmy
Buffett and MCA. No infringement is intended and absolutely no money is
being made by this hobby of mine. Just ask my husband.
Author's notes: Thanks go to MoJo for beta reading this while I was
resting up on vacation. And thanks for the wonderful collage.

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

Margaritaville

"Some people claim that there's a woman to blame
But I know it's my own damn fault"

May 11, 2002
Siesta Key, Florida

People begin to pour out of the hotels and condos to watch the sun make
its lazy way down towards the water's edge. Couples nestle in lawn
chairs away from the waves, and sit holding hands. Others set up cameras
to capture this nightly event. The clouds are thin, and the sun has
turned them into brilliant shades of pink and blue. A young man
playfully chases an even younger woman down the beach, and the two of
them end up wrapped in each other's arms, standing in the waves.
Newlyweds, probably. Enjoying their honeymoon and the prospect of a
normal life together. And here I sit alone.

I am so tired of Mulder's self pity. It grows old, always having to say
that it isn't his fault. Sometimes I'm so thankful that I had
Christopher because then he no longer had the 'right' to lament over my
infertility. He probably believed that was his fault, too. And in a way,
maybe it was. But it doesn't matter now.

"Can I buy you a drink?" someone asks me, as I sip on a Diet Coke. I
look up to see Dylan Keanally, or someone who looks like him and I am
speechless. Nothing in my life is private anymore. There is no escape.
He slides into the chair next to me and makes himself comfortable.

"No, you can't," I tell him loudly, and I go to get out of my chair.

"Dana, sit back down. I need to talk to you," he says. He places his
hand over mine as if I'm an old friend and it makes me apprehensive.
Does everybody know me? Does everybody have the right to approach me
just because of my job?

"So talk," I say, without looking at him. I wanted to sit at this patio
bar, drink my Diet Coke and watch the sun set the rest of the way. Why
can't I just watch a damn sunset without this man showing up?

"Don't let him go looking for Jasper," Dylan tells me resolutely. "He is
going to want to, but you have to stop him. It is too soon."

"Too soon for what?" I ask. We still haven't figured out who Jasper is
or even how we are going to find out who it is.

"Too soon to know what the future holds," he tells me. "Too soon for you
to find out."

A young woman with a dark tan and sun bleached blond hair approaches us
to get his order. His hand is still over mine, and he tells the waitress
to bring me a different drink, a strawberry margarita with sugar around
the rim of the glass. And an extra strawberry as garnish. I have no idea
why he thinks I would desire such a concoction.

"You know what the future holds?" I ask him incredulously. No earthly
creature, not even this man or whatever he is, knows the exact path of
the future.

"I know enough to guide you on the correct path now. I know you and
Agent Mulder well enough to be able to second guess what your next step
will be. He's reopened the X-files, and he is going to start looking for
the answers to the newest questions. Don't let him go," Dylan tells me.
I hear a blender running behind the small bar, and it must be the drink
he ordered for me.

"I can't stop him," I say, remembering all the times he has gone on
without me before, or gone on his own way without telling me where he
was going. He has done it so many times that I have almost given up.

"Remind him of what happened when he went off with Diana. He's lucky
that he's alive. The others weren't so lucky," Dylan says, as a tall,
rosy colored drink is set in front of me, complete with a sugared rim.

"Are you saying that Thomas Erickson is dead?" I ask, my mind hoping to
get some answers to give to Senator Erickson.

"Take a drink. Quit working for a few minutes. You need it," he says,
finally removing his hand from mine and leaning back in his patio chair.

I touch the sugar with my finger and remove some from the frosty glass.
I put it on my tongue cautiously, making sure it is really sugar.

"You are as paranoid as Agent Mulder," he says with a laugh. "Do you
think I have to drug you to get you to do what I want?"

"I'm not sure. I don't really know what you want," I say, as I take a
tentative sip from the drink. It is pretty watered down, and even though
I don't drink much, I don't think this one is going to send me into
drunken abandon.

"I want you to do whatever you have to do to keep Agent Mulder from
roaming off, do you understand?" he says, his eyes pleading with me.

"On one condition," I say, wanting to bargain with him. He looks pretty
desperate at this point, and I want to use this to my advantage.

"I don't make deals," he says, bluntly.

"Then I can't promise you anything, now can I?" I say to him, getting
more bold with this person. He can't just show up with half answers and
tell me what I have to do.

"What is your condition?" Dylan says with a heavy sigh.

"Tell me how far this goes back?" I ask. I want some clue as to how long
our lives have been plotted and mapped out to fit someone else's scheme
of things.

"A long time. The testing began decades ago. That is all I can tell you,
Dana. Enjoy your drink. I think I see your significant other coming,"
Dylan says, as he slips out of his chair and vanishes around the
backside of the bar.

I can feel Mulder's presence behind me in a matter of moments, and he
places his hands on my shoulders.

"Have I driven you to drink?" he asks, noticing the frozen drink in
front of me.

"Someone ordered it for me," I say, and he sits down in the chair Dylan
just left moments before.

"Should I be jealous?" he asks me, his face serious.

"Tell me about your grandparents, Mulder?" I ask, as I take another sip
of my drink and sit back in my chair. He looks confused by my question.
I went from being cross with him on the beach to filling in his family
tree.

"I didn't know them very well. My mother's parents were pretty old when
she was born. I think my grandfather was dead before I was even ten. My
paternal grandparents were always traveling, sending post cards from the
four corners of the globe," he says, as he stares thoughtfully over his
peaked fingertips.

"Should I ask your mother?" I ask him. His mother and I have grown
closer over the last few weeks. She is just as mysterious as her son,
and she keeps just as many secrets. Yet I have grown to appreciate the
life she lived with Mulder's father. And with this man who is her son.

"Sure. I don't see why not," he says, and someone comes up to ask if he
wants to order a drink. He places an order for something tourist but not
fruity and he looks at my glass as if I've finally lost it. The waitress
tells him she knows exactly what to get.

Within minutes he is sipping on a rum runner, while I take small sips of
my drink.

"Why did you walk off?" he asks me, placing his hand over mine.

"Because I can't spend the rest of my life telling you everything is not
your fault. That can't be my main role in your life. Not anymore.
Everything is different now. I can't be ..." I start to say, not
knowing how to express all the things I can't be anymore.

"You can't be there twenty-four hours a day to be the voice of reason?
To tell me to slow down and consider all the possibilities, not just the
most obscure one?" he says, as he settles back in his chair. For some
reason, he has on a pair of sunglasses, and the astonishing sunset is
reflected in the shaded circular lenses over his eyes.

"Yes. I can't be all those things and your ... whatever I am, too," I
say, trying to come up with a term that would describe us.

"Fiance is always a good word to use. Oh, I forgot. You haven't put
your ring back on. Lover would be another good one, but that doesn't
apply lately either," he says sharply. It hurts him and I know it, but I
haven't felt comfortable with sliding the ring back on my finger. Or
with other more intimate things.

"Mother of your child?" I snap back just as sharply. "I think that
supersedes all those other things right now."

The two of us sit in our own small envelope of silence, as the people on
the beach continue to clamor on about the setting sun. I turn my head
from him to watch it as it finally dips below the water, and disappears
quickly. Some say they can see a flash of green right after the sun
vanishes, but I've never seen it. This time I was lucky I got to see the
sun set at all.

"Tell me what to do to get us back on track," Mulder says, and I still
don't turn to look at him even though the spectacle is gone for the
night.

"Forgive yourself. No one else can forgive you until you do that," I say
softly. He doesn't say anything back for several minutes. I know he is
contemplating exactly how to annotate allow himself the forgiveness he
needs.

"But it is all my fault ..." he starts to say.

"Maybe it was her own damn fault," I state in a tone that shocks him.
"Did you ever think of that? Did you ever consider that she thought she
was getting away with something, that this would never happen to her?"

"I know she was involved, but ..." he stammers.

"She didn't deserve to die? Goddammit, Mulder. Yes she did!" I yell at
him, and people heading back to their hotel rooms turn their heads to
look at me. "She deserved it because she put herself in that position."

He sits across from me, stunned. I find it hard to imagine that time in
my life when I didn't wish anybody dead. Now the list seems to grow all
the time. Fowley's name had been on it for years.

"What in the fuck happened to you? When did you become like this?" he
asks me as he stands up out of his chair and throws some money down to
cover the cost of his drink. "I'll see you later."

This time I get to watch him walk away.

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

Why Don't We Get Drunk

"I just bought a water bed,
it's filled up for me and you"

May 11, 2002
Siesta Key, Florida

I think she said her name is Kelly. I don't know. Maybe she said Kayla.
All I know is she won't leave me alone. She is just one year over half
my age, barely old enough to be in here. She plopped herself down right
beside me immediately after walking in and checking the place out. I
must look like an easy target, a man drinking alone who would be glad
for her company.

By the time she approached me, I had already done several shots of
tequila in my attempt to drown out the preceding month. I can barely
hear over the music playing in here. I'm beginning to believe there is
some obscure law in the state of Florida stating that all tourist-based
establishments must play Jimmy Buffett at least once an hour. That, and
there are parrots in cages lining the wall. When in the hell did parrots
become indigenous to this state?

"What did you say you do again?" Kelly-Kayla asks me, as she adjusts her
top once more. What is it about young women that they are always
fiddling with their clothes? I can't remember Scully doing that.

"FBI agent," I answer simply, hoping that is the answer I gave before.
She looks impressed. I don't know why.

"Do you have a big gun?" she asks with a smile, her eyes wandering over
me. Can't she tell I'm not interested? Can't she see I have a kid and a
... partner at home? Or in this case, down the beach.

I just smile back at her, and slug down another shot. "So, what do you
do, Candy?"

"Kali," she says, correcting me. "I work down the street at the nail
shop."

For a second my tequila-addled brain tries to figure out why this girl
would work in a shop that sells just nails. Why not a whole array of
hardware? Then she holds up her hands to show me these sparkling
atrocities with rhinestones on them. I have never appreciated Scully's
hands more than I do right at this moment.

"Do you know what these are good for?" she asks, with a grin.

"Not for typing, that's for sure," I slur. This girl is trying to take
advantage of me because I'm drunk. What is this world coming to? "I have
no clue what they are good for."

She leans closer to me and whispers something in my ear. The only words
I can make out through all the noise in here are tickle and balls. I
think that is what she said.

"I can see where that would come in handy," I say, as I watch a man much
closer to her age walk in and sit down. She looks over to him, and then
back at me. Maybe this will be catalyst I need to get her away from me.

"That man is watching us. Should we go? My condo is right down the
street ..." she says, her hand going over top of mine, her long nails
tracing over my skin.

"Kali, you are a nice kid. I don't think that guy is watching us. I
think he is watching you. If you really want to take someone home
tonight, I think you better look elsewhere. I would start with him," I
say, and her expression turns sour.

"Are you sure?" she asks me, leaning closer to me. "I could show you the
time of your life."

"He's sure," the young man from the bar says. He is now standing behind
her, with his hand on her shoulder. "My friends call me Dyl. Why don't
we go somewhere quieter?" he asks her and flashes her the most charming,
boyish smile I've ever seen. Kali seems to be taken with him
immediately. Of course, I don't think it is too hard to take her
anywhere.

The two of them are barely out the back door when I see Scully walk in
the front, put her hands on her hips and look around. Her eyes make
contact with mine, but her face certainly does not light up. Maybe I
should have kept Kali around awhile longer...

"Mulder, how much have you had to drink?" she asks, as she looks at the
various glasses on the table.

"Those ... aren't all mine," I say, pointing to a few with lipstick
prints on the rim. Her eyes travel from those glasses to my face and
back again, as if she is checking me for matching prints anywhere.

"Don't like drinking alone?" she asks. She has now crossed her arms in
front of her, and several of the patrons who saw who I was with a few
minutes ago are now snickering about this. Probably thinking I just got
busted by the wife.

"On the contrary, I love drinking alone. She was trying to pick me up,
not the other way around. Then some nubile young buck came by and swept
her away," I say, and the tiniest of smiles moves across her face. She
is amused with the notion I can't pick up twenty year olds at a bar,
that I am past my prime. Well, I'll show her ...

"Can I join you?" she asks, leaning down and whispering in my ear. All
of a sudden she looks two billion times sexier than any twenty year old
ever could. It must be love.

"If you promise not to yell at me. I'm drunk and probably couldn't
handle being rejected twice in a row," I say as she sits down. "Want
anything?"

"Whatever she was having," Scully says, nodding at the stained glasses.

"Tequila?" I ask, just a little stunned. Ms. Strawberry Margarita is
going to do shots of tequila?

"Yes. The one way you can forget who you are and what you think you have
done for one night is to get you drunk," she says, taking one of the
shot glasses with some liquor in it, and downing it.

"And you are going to get drunk beside me?" I ask, not understanding the
logic behind what she is doing.

"Why not? What's good for the goose is good for the gander ... or in
this case, what's good for the gander is also ... oh, hell. You know
what I mean," she says, almost laughing. "It's just this one time,
Mulder. I don't think we will be returning to the Sunshine State any
time soon."

"Not until we bring the kid to see the Mouse," I say, and she smiles and
nods.

The waitress comes over and retrieves all the old glasses and takes our
order, questioning which one of us is the designated driver. I tell her
we are staying right down the beach, have no car and will take a cab.
That is if we can remember where the condo is by that time and she seems
happy with that answer.

Soon the two of us have downed several shots, and she is laughing like
I've never heard her laugh before. I move the strap of her tank top
over, and tell a bad joke about her tan lines. She laughs at it, and I
try to commit to memory the exact amount of tequila it takes to make
Scully laugh like a young girl.

"You wanna go?" she asks me, her eyes examining me closely. "While we
still can?"

"Sure. Let me pay the bill and we will go ... home. Or whatever the
hell it is," I say, as I settle the bill with the waitress. I got stuck
paying for Carly's drinks, too.

We walk out to the beach and both stop when we reach the white sand.

"Which way is it?" we both ask at the same time.

Simultaneously, our heads both turn to the right and to the left. I
never thought to take better notice of where we came from. Then again, I
never had any intentions of doing shots at some gulfside bar with Scully
drinking right along side of me.

"Left," she says.

"Right," I say. We both look in the direction we just stated, hoping to
find something familiar. It isn't easy once the sun goes down. It is
totally black in the direction of the water, and most of the
establishments on the beach don't shine search lights up and down it.

"Well, this time if we go straight ahead, we will drown," she says,
laughing a little.

"Okay. Then we will go right," I say, swearing I recognize that palm
tree down away from us.

"Left," she says again. "Really, Mulder. I'm right this time. I might be
drunk, but I'm right about left."

"Then left it is," I resign, following her through the thick sand down
to the wet sand near the shoreline. It is much easier to walk on the
hard, wet sand after a few drinks than it is to walk through that soft
stuff.

Soon we find ourselves faced with a sign for a park I know I didn't walk
past on my way down the beach.

"Did I say right? I meant left," Scully says, while we both stand and
read the sign. The park closed at sundown, and is empty right now. The
only noise is the wind blowing off of the Gulf of Mexico through the
Australian pine trees that fill the park. "Can we sit down for a
minute?"

"Sure," I say, and the two of us search for a place to rest. We end up
reclining against a large, uprooted tree. It has been in and out of the
salt water so often that it looks like driftwood now.

"So, did you think about going off with her?" Scully asks after a couple
of minutes.

"Who?" I ask.

"Miss Lipstick," she says. I had forgotten all about ... whatever the
hell her name is since we began our trek down the beach.

"Probably not any more than you thought about going off with Mr.
Strawberry Margarita," I answer, pulling her closer to me. What we're
wearing was fine when the sun was beating down on us, but now it is
getting cool. "The thought never crossed my mind."

"I'm glad," is all she says. "So, do you think we're getting back to the
condo tonight?"

"Ever do it on the beach, Scully?" I ask only to be answered with
silence. "Okay. Ever do it on telepathist beach? With me?"

"Sand gets in peculiar places," she says quietly. I don't want to know
more.

"We can wash off in the water. Come on, Scully. We're drunk and stuck
out somewhere on a beach. What else is there to do?" I ask her.

"Try to find our way back to the condo?" she says, in her all too
serious tone. I should have brought the tequila with us. Instead, I
choose to pull her onto my lap, so she is straddling me, our faces only
an inch apart.

"You think this is going to work?" she asks, her voice a fraction less
serious.

"This always works," I say, and I pull her closer to me, and kiss her.
Tequila, rum and strawberries are the flavor we create together,
something different than ever before. My hands pull the hem of her shirt
out of her shorts, and wander over her warm flesh, moving to her
breasts. My thumbs draw tiny circles across her nipples, and she sits up
straight, enjoying this thoroughly. "Is it working?"

"Shut up, Mulder," she says, as she puts her arms up, allowing me to
pull the shirt all the way off. Her nipples stand erect, the dark pink
flesh standing out against the pale skin of her breasts. That pale only
goes so far, and it gradually turns into a slight tan. Enough of a
differentiation in tones that you can tell she just spent the week in
the sun.

My mouth moves to her breasts, pulling in one nipple and rolling it
around on my tongue. I can have her breasts again, without any
surprises, thanks to her doctor. I swirl my tongue around one nipple,
and notice how less sensitive she is to my touch, how much more pressure
I can apply to them before she reacts. I guess I can thank the kid for
that. But I no longer have to share.

She tugs my shirt over my head as soon as I stop caressing her with my
mouth, and her tongue flows across my neck, delving into hollow under my
jaw line before moving to my ear. It hasn't even been a whole month
since we last made love, but it feels like eternity. I had dreams of her
while I was in my coma, images I barely remember. Even when we were
apart we were together. She leans into me, her soft breasts pressing
against my chest, and we just hold each other for a few scant moments.

Scully moves away from me, and stands up, reaching once again for her
shirt. She pulls it over her head, but doesn't tuck it back in. Why
didn't I notice how tightly it fit before? Or that she wasn't wearing
anything under it? My self flagellation made it so I didn't notice
anyone but myself.

"We have to be a little less obvious," Scully whispers, as she motions
for me to stand up.

"And how do you intend on doing that?" I ask her, to be answered by her
slipping off her sandals, and dropping her shorts and panties to the
sandy ground. Her shirt is long enough to cover her, at least here in
the dark.

"Come with me," she says, and I follow her, kicking off my shoes in the
process. She wades fearlessly into the water, and I try to remember that
most man-eating sharks don't reside off the coast of Florida. A few, but
not many. Besides, we've faced far worse than sharks. "Don't forget to
shuffle your feet."

No sharks, no mutants, but maybe stingrays. What in the hell did I get
myself into here? She wades out until it is past both of our waists, the
gentle waves soaking her white shirt. The water is cool against my skin.
Cool and dark. I can't even see my knees let alone my feet.

She grabs the waistband of my shorts, and pulls me to her, while her
hand slowly undoes the button and then the zipper. Tugging them down
isn't so easy in the water, but she and I manage to get them far enough
down so the essential parts are accessible without my shorts drifting
off to Texas.

The sensation of the water combined with the simple nearness of Scully
is enough cause for me to grow hard, and her hand moves under the water
to feel me.

"See, we are less obvious this way," she whispers in my ear as she wraps
her legs around me. She teases me ever so gently, rising up and down on
the waves, my cock grazing her with each crest of water that goes by.

"Oh, yeah. I bet," I say, knowing exactly what it looks like we are
doing. I watched several couples do this very same thing today in broad
daylight while I was sitting on the beach.

"Well, it makes me feel better," she says softly, as she slowly lowers
herself onto me, knowing so well the precise angle in which to settle
her body, knowing me so well. "How is this?"

"This is just fine," I say, thrusting into her, following the rhythm of
the waves as they beat out a gentle cadence against our bodies. The
mixed sensations of the cool water and the heat within her body is an
unbelievable pleasure, and I want to sink into her warmth even more. Her
legs wrap tighter around me, as if I am a drowning man and she is my
life preserver. In a way, she is.

With each thrust, we create waves of our own, adding to the serene ones
the earth and the moon are already creating. Is the tide rising or is
that my imagination? Perhaps we will drown while I am engulfed by
Scully. Perhaps I don't even care.

Her eyes look up at me and reflect the full moon above. Our only light
is that moon and the stars, but I can see her as if we were in the
blazing sunlight and sense her every move, her every need. I know her
now. There are a few things that even the darkness cannot hide anymore.

"Lean back a little," I murmur quietly, and she complies, letting
herself tilt back towards the water. I put one hand behind her back to
support her, and then lifts the hem of her shirt, so I can find her clit
with ease. Aroused already, she gasps when my fingers draw out the
patterns she likes on that part of her body. I cannot thrust into her
and do this, and the water becomes still around us with just this slight
movement.

"Yes, like that. Yes, oh yes," my usually quiet Scully utters, and I
begin to appreciate tequila and moonlight even more. "Move, Mulder. I
want to feel you move inside of me."

I comply as well as I can, trying to keep all these rhythms in time with
the waves. Trying to feel and enjoy everything, remembering every little
detail of the cool water splashing against us, of the tide rising higher
as we travel right along with it. The feel of reaching the crest of an
imaginary wave, and looking down before plunging into the darkness of
the sea.

It doesn't take much more, and the two of us are riding a current we
created on our own. I submerse myself into her deeply, sinking further
into her with every ripple her body makes. I pull her closer to me,
holding her against me as both of our bodies calm down. I can feel her
heartbeat quiet down until it, too, is matching the soothing meter of
the waves.

She moves from me, and helps me tug my soaked shorts up into place, and
she pulls her shirt down. I take her hand and she leads me from the
water, my legs struggling to walk, let alone through this soft sand. We
both drop to the ground in front of our weathered log, and sand sticks
to nearly every inch of exposed skin. And some not so exposed areas.

"Do you think we can find the condo now?" Scully asks from beside me.
I'm on my back, watching the stars in the heavens.

"Yeah. I think we go that way," I say, pointing in the direction from
which we came awhile ago.

"You sure?" she says, bantering with me.

"This time I know I'm right," I tell her, and she lays her head upon my
wet chest. Then it dawns on me, through my slightly tequila bewildered
mind. We totally forgot something while we got caught up in the moment.
I guess we get to test her theory about no more children.

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


Grapefruit-Juicy Fruit

"Grapefruit
A bathing' suit
You chew a little Juicy Fruit
Wash away the night"

May 12, 2002
Siesta Key, Florida

I wake up to the sun shining too brightly through the bedroom window. My
mouth tastes terrible and I seem to have a light layer of sand still
covering parts of my body. The sheets are gritty, and it looks like we
brought half the beach home with us. What in the hell happened last
night? I look over to Mulder sleeping naked on his stomach without any
covers. He has the same dusting of sand on him. Sand in places sand
shouldn't be.

Now I remember. Rum Runners and Margaritas somewhere. Oh, God. And
tequila. I don't usually drink. Don't have any desire to. But last night
it just seemed right. It was time to let go.

The mirror reflects back a woman who looks crazy. Not only am I covered
with sand, but my hair is standing in all directions, and feels like it
was last washed in salt water. It probably was. I notice I'm beginning
to form tan lines, although they are slight. I remember Mulder making
some smart ass comment about them at some point in the night, but for
the life of me, I can't recall what he said.

He begins to wake up behind me and I can see his reflection as he sits
up holding his head. Mulder must have the same headache I do. I wonder
if all his other parts ache as much as mine? I feel like I walked for
miles.

"Hi, you," he says, as he rubs his eyes. "Did I tell you what a roasted
turkey and a girl in a bikini have in common?"

Now I remember. "Yes, you did. Now stop staring."

"Why?" he says, not even making a move to look away.

"Because I look awful," I answer, turning to face him.

"No, you don't. You look like someone who had a whole hell of a lot of
fun last night. Or was it this morning?" he says, standing up, and
pulling me into his sandy arms. "But you are a little abrasive right
now."

"And you aren't?" I ask, as my hand goes around and brushes sand off of
his ass. It gives me an excuse to touch him there, as I slowly make sure
I get it all off of every inch of skin.

"Happy Mother's Day," he whispers in my ear. I had almost forgotten.
"Should we celebrate by doing what we did to make you a mom?"

"I know you are good, Mulder, but I don't think you can whip up a
hurricane," I tell him, smiling at the memory. It was so traumatic then,
but the hard edges have worn off of the images from that night and all
I'm left with is a thought of what occurred because of it.

"Give me a minute. Let me call some of our *friends.* I think I can
order you up a hurricane by noon," he says, and we both laugh. Our old
friends and their 'projects.'

"No, that's okay," I tell him, as he pulls me in closer. He rubs against
me, our skin grinding like sand paper. "Let's take a bath."

"We can make our own little hurricane in the whirlpool tub. Is that
close enough?" he asks, as he pulls me in the direction of the tub.

"Close enough for government work," I say, as I allow myself to pulled
along with him. Just like last night. He just asks and I follow. Have I
always done that?

The rolling bubbles soon cover us, washing away the grit from last
night. I'm sitting between his legs, and he is washing the sea out of my
hair. He has gotten good at this hair washing since Christopher was
born.

"Well, how did that get tangled up in here?" he asks, as he shows me a
tiny shell on the palm of his hand.

"That was in my hair? I can't imagine how that could have ever gotten
there," I say coyly, playing along with him.

"Were you seduced by Neptune last night? Did he talk you into following
him out to the sea, so he could slowly make love to you under the
waves?" he asks, his voice right by my ear now, soft and low.

"I was seduced into the sea, but it wasn't Neptune who got me there," I
say to him, leaning forwards a little so he can finish my hair.

"I believe it was the other way around, Agent Scully. I don't think
you've got your facts straight. I'm pretty sure it was you doing the
little seduction into the sea bit," he tells me.

"You'll never convince me of that," I say, and he grabs the small cup we
use to rinse Christopher's hair from the side of the big tub.

"Tip your head back," he says. "I don't want to get it in your eyes."

I comply, enjoying the feel of the warm water cascading down my back,
taking with it any evidence of our seaside follies.

I roll over in the water until I'm straddling his lap. The warm water is
bubbling all around us, forced into its own turmoil not by nature but by
air jets. I want to feel him inside of me, around me, no matter how bad
my body hurts right now. We must have walked a couple of miles last
night.

I stroke up and down until I feel him grow hard beneath me, yet I
continue to tease him, wanting this moment to go on. We have a tub just
like this at home. How come we don't use it more often? His eyes never
leave mine, and desire is written across his face. He watches me as if I
am the only thing he needs in life, as if I could provide his sustenance
for an eternity. I wonder how I look to him?

I lift up and lower myself on him, taking him into my body as far as I
can. He makes a sound that is half a gasp and half a growl, and I smile
at him. It has yet to get old. Every time is something new, as our
bodies come together again and again. Whether it is fast or slow, each
time is special.

He begins to move beneath me, his body seeking the wet friction that
only I get to provide now. It is hard to tell where the wetness of the
warm, rolling water ends and where my own wetness begins. It is hard to
tell where I end and Mulder begins. Perhaps we are simply one now,
joined together here under the water again.

My hands are behind his shoulders, on the edge of the tub, as I try to
leverage myself on his body. I want it faster and harder, but I don't
want it to end. Why does it matter? When this ends, I can have it again.
Anytime. He is mine now. I am his.

He pounds into me and I stuggle to meet his forceful thrusts with a
counter-thrust, allowing him to sink into my depths. Our bodies in
motion are adding to the whirlpool of water surrounding us, sending it
up and over the edge with a big splash. Who cares? Nothing else is
important right now. Not work, not parenting, not this endless struggle
we've put ourselves into. We are alone now, and for a few minutes, no
one else matters in this world. Someday we will be alone again. Will it
still be like this?

His hands are wrapped around my waist, and I struggle to match his pace.
My face is so close to his, and no words are necessary. Our eyes tell
each other what is happening down beneath the water, how close we are to
drowning in each other.

Suddenly, my body hits that point of no return, and I fall on top of
him, our wet bodies sticking together. I am coming and coming and his
hands never left my waist.

"That was a good one," he says, his voice rough with desire still. I
look at him, and he has a pleased smile on his face.

"Yes, that was a good one," I agree, my body still in spasms. "Now it is
your turn."

"But it isn't Father's Day," he says, his body still in mine, thought he
has stopped thrusting.

"We can celebrate early," I say, as I begin to rise and fall on him once
again. I am done for now and can focus only on him, watching his
reaction as I sink onto him, and hold him there, moving slow and
deliberately.

"Could you, um, move a little faster, Scully?" he asks, his eyes
pleading with me.

"You want Father's Day to come really early, don't you?" I ask, teasing
him. My hands go to his chest, feeling the wonderful wet smoothness that
is him.

"I would like Father's Day to come soon," he says, his eyes closed now,
his head back on the edge of the tub. I move with more intent, taking
him in further and further. Faster and faster. The water is still
splashing all over and I begin to wonder when my mom will be back and
can we get this all cleaned up by then and who cares? She knows what we
do. She could be doing this herself now. I smile at that thought. Mom in
a whirlpool bath with some man, fucking him hard. Well, why not?

I return my attention to the man beneath me, the only person I would
ever want to be in a bathtub with for eternity, and I move the intesity
of my movements up a notch. It is just enough to make him come, and I
sink down on him, taking even more hot wetness into me. We already were
careless last night. What will be will be.


"What would you like for Mother's Day, Scully? Do you want us to take
you out to breakfast? Do you want us to leave alone all day? Tell me
what you want," he says as he pulls his mouth away from mine.

"Mulder, the fact that I'm celebrating Mother's Day in the first place
is in itself the best gift I could ever receive. All I want to do is
spend the day with my family," I tell him. He places a light kiss on my
forehead and pulls my slick body closer to his. What more could I ask
for?

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

Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes

"It's these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
With all of our running and all of our cunning
If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane"

May 12, 2002
Siesta Key, Florida

My son toddles out to the water's edge on awkward, chubby legs. His
mother holds one of his hands, steadying him as he goes into a new,
perilous territory. The sun is setting on my last day of vacation, and
we spent most of it splashing at the beach, watching Christopher
discover everything that he can suddenly see from an upright position.
He has a new sense of freedom now, as clumsy as that freedom may be.

Can it be possible that he is walking? He is only ten months old. Are
they supposed to walk at ten months? Next thing you know he'll be asking
for the car keys to take a girl to the prom. Going away to college.
Having a family of his own. I certainly hope he will have all of those
things, that someone doesn't take it all away from him.

He reaches up towards the sun, as if he can touch that glowing ball in
the sky and make it his own. I would give him the sun and the moon and
stars if I could, but I can only give him the best life I possibly can.
Scully coaxes him to the soft waves, holding both of his hands so he
doesn't feel that he is going to be washed away on a strong current. I
watch from the beach, enjoying just being a spectator right now. I love
to watch them together.

A bigger wave takes them by surprise and Scully pulls Chris out of the
water before it can go over his head. She stands out there, with him in
her arms, both of them laughing with delight. She hugs him tight, and he
puts his head on her shoulder, his arms now wrapped around his mom's
neck. No one could ever love her more or need her more. Except another
child. Or me.

I have to go back to DC in the morning, to another review. Skinner
called and told me that most of the strong need for placing blame has
passed, and now they just want to discuss some other incidents. And to
find out what direction I'm taking the X-files. I didn't know its
direction had ever changed. I want to get back to look into some other
things, like the full identity of Jasper. It has to be important.

Scully and Christopher turn to face the beach, and I can see his eyes
trying to find me on the shore. Scully points in my direction, and
whispers something in his ear. He squeals with delight over whatever it
was she just said to him. As she wraps her arm around him again, I
notice a glint of something on her left hand. She put the ring back on.

The End

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

Title: Simple Arithmetic
Author: Jori 
Rating: PG-13
Category: SRAH and whatever else I can think of
Keywords: MSR, family-fic
Summary: The results of their journey to New Mexico are still coming in
on Mulder and Scully.
Disclaimer: Not mine. CC, 1013 and FOX's.
Archive: Yes

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

June 16, 2002

Scully's hand falters and the bone china cup of Peppermint Soother
skitters across the countertop, before spiraling downward and shattering
on the tile floor. She jumps back to avoid getting splattered with hot
tea, and then stares down as the liquid begins to travel the paths
created by the grout, like water filling in dry riverbeds, flowing
everywhere.

"You okay?" I ask, setting aside my newspaper. Christopher toddles
towards her from the pile of pots he was banging on and I pick him up
before he can get into the glass.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all," she answers as she turns to
get the broom and the mop from the pantry. "I think I have that bug
going around the office."

"Uh huh," I reply, remembering the last time she was this tired for no
good reason. Actually the reason was a fantastic one, but we didn't know
it at the time. And Scully rarely diagnosis something as 'that bug.'
Unless it really is a bug, of the insect nature.

I put Chris in his playpen and begin to pick up the big shards of china
and sop up the mess with paper towels. She fills the mop bucket and
pulls the garbage can my way. Just another uneventful day at the Scully
and Mulder household. Unless you consider the fact that we have already
interviewed fifteen potential child caretakers all before 3 p.m. and
didn't find a single one. I doubt we ever will. I am amazed at how many
people showed up for an interview on a Sunday -- Father's Day
nonetheless -- only to be summarily dismissed by Scully for some little
reason or another. Of course others were uncomfortable with the
additional background checks we wanted to run. I can't blame them. To
them it is only a job, to us it is our child's life.

"Do we have anymore interviews lined up for today?" Scully asks as she
finishes up the floor and puts Christopher's drum set away in the
cabinet where it belongs. She does look tired as she leans up against
the counter, rubbing her temples. She changed into her most comfortable
clothes after the last interview, and doesn't look like her usual all
together self. I feel the floor with my hand to make sure we got even
the smallest chip before answering her.

"Yes. Tonight at 7 o'clock. It was the only time she could come," I say,
standing up, not remembering the woman's name, only the time. The phone
rings right as I am about to pull Christopher out of his playpen.
Hopefully, it will be the evening interview canceling or rescheduling so
we can enjoy a quiet evening at home. Instead, it is Byers. They have me
on a speaker phone and I can hear Frohike and Langly chattering away in
the background in an animated fashion. Or perhaps they are bickering
with each other like usual. I also hear their recording equipment click
on.

"Mulder, can you come down here. I think we found something you would
like to see," he tells me in his ever present even tone.

"What is it, Byers? Can't it wait until tomorrow?" I ask, meeting
Scully's questioning stare. I just shrug my shoulders at her and listen
while Byers yells for Frohike to turn something off.

"I don't think this can wait. I really think this is something you would
want to see as soon as possible. We can figure out where to go from
there," Byers says, before adding an emphatic, "Please."

"Okay. I'll be there in an hour. This had better be good," I say.

"Oh, yeah. This is good," I hear Frohike say before the connection is
broken by Byers.

"I'll be back shortly. I'll take your car and put gas in it," I tell
Scully, as I wrap my arms around her. "Will you be okay?"

"I'm fine. I have to run up to the store to pick something up, but I'll
use your car," she answers. We now have a car seat in every car,
including her mother's. Her arms go around my waist, and she pulls me in
closer to her. "Just don't be late."

"Scully ... this time ... I hope you really are fine."

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

There is something very ignoble about purchasing a pregnancy test, a
package of size three diapers, and a small box of condoms just in case
all at the same time. Especially when you have your not quite a year old
baby in your arms. Some elderly lady is staring at me with her nose
turned up as I try to decide whether I want the single pack or the
double pack test. I already decided on the three pack of condoms, not
wanting to waste all that money on the 'economy' pack if I am pregnant.
I can always buy more. Besides, with our schedules lately, three will
last half a year.

She is still watching me. Perhaps it is the way I'm dressed right now,
in old sweatpants and a faded maroon t-shirt, with my hair pulled up in
a loose ponytail and not a speck of make-up, that makes her suspect that
I can't decide whether I want to populate the world with my kind or
avoid having another mouth to feed. My son just stares right back and
smiles. Just like his dad. He doesn't really give a damn what people
think of him. I want to tell her I'm a responsible adult and she doesn't
need to stare at me. I want to tell her I am a doctor and own a nice
house and car. I want to tell her to stop staring, but instead her
husband interrupts her gawking and they walk off.

I put my son back in the cart and try to convince him he doesn't want to
really chew on the red handle in front of him as I put his pacifier back
in his mouth. I wander down the cookie aisle, all of a sudden wanting
some coconut macaroons. I tell myself that since I'm not living in the
Taco Bell drive through, that I can't be pregnant. I can't be anyway,
right?

I'm so tempted not to take the test, to put it back on the shelf all
because I know I will be heartbroken if I'm not. It would be better not
knowing, and simply imagining that there is a child forming there,
nestled far under my heart. Once I thought I had come to terms with my
infertility. I could live a satisfying life without children. Then came
Christopher, like a gift from God. And now I want more gifts. I wonder
if I had used my limit of gift certificates when I had him?

In the end, I have to know, so I can figure out how and why. Perhaps my
'new and improved' chip had something to do with it. Maybe the doctor
was right the first time. You never know until you try. Or perhaps it
was simply the tequila and the moonlight. Or the warm, bubbling bath
water. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with Mulder at all. Maybe it was
something they did to me in New Mexico.

The baby department beckons me from across the cluttered K-Mart. I can't
believe how much one shops at a place like this after they have a kid.
No more checking out the local Neiman Marcus when I could sneak away
from what ever case we were working on in some strange town, buying
another Donna Karan suit to replace the one I probably just got alien
goo on the previous day. As always, I stop and look at the little girl
clothes. Baby boy clothes is nice, in its ordinary and blue sort of way.
But baby girl clothes has something to it that makes you want to stop
and look at it, to touch its soft, flowing fabric, to think of dressing
up an angel. Even under this bad fluorescent lighting.

"What do you think, Christopher?" I ask him, holding up a tiny dress
with small yellow rosebuds covering it. He says something back that only
he understands, but he smiles and giggles, shaking his head at the end
of his sentence.

"Well, it wasn't for you. What if you had a baby sister?" I ask him, and
his eyes light up as if he has some comprehension of what a baby sister
is. "Wouldn't it be nice to be a big brother?"

Of course, it could always be another boy. Now I'm getting ahead of
myself. Just because I feel crappy doesn't mean I'm pregnant. I better
not let my mind wander too far, and start decorating the nursery in
shades of pink. But I want to wander there, for there is still hope
until that test turns out negative. But maybe negative is the best thing
for now. Both will be fine, I try convincing myself.

"Let's go home," I say to my son, as I hang the tiny dress back on the
rack. He squeals in agreement.

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

"This had better be good," I say, as Frohike finally gets the door
unlocked.

"Happy Father's Day, dude," he says as I walk by him. Who'd ever have
thought I'd hear those words directed at me coming from Frohike's mouth.
"Didn't bring the little guy with you this time?"

"Thanks, and no, I didn't. So what is it I'm here for?" I ask as the
three of them stare at me, looking me up and down.

"I think you should have a seat, Agent Mulder," Byers says, pointing to
the chair in front of their largest computer monitor. Langly types in
something from one of the other computers that must be networked to this
one, and the screen starts moving through webpages.

"This doesn't have anything to do with your girlfriend?" I ask Langly,
knowing how he still feels about Esther Nairn and how he still waits to
hear from her.

"No, this has nothing to do with *my* girlfriend," Langly says. Frohike
is standing behind me, looking expectantly over my shoulder. Byers grabs
him by the arm and pulls him away from me so the two of them are
standing behind the monitor. "Ready?"

"I guess," I say, not having a damn clue what these clowns are up to
now.

"Okay. Go ahead," Byers says, nodding towards Langly. Langly types in a
few commands and a video comes streaming across the screen.

"Oh, fuck," I say, closing my eyes. The noise is fake and obviously
added in 'post production' but there is no denying who that couple is
grinding away at each other in some hotel room.

"Congratulations, Agent Mulder. Your video was downloaded 3,000 times in
the first hour it was out there," Frohike says from his place behind the
monitor.

"And how many of those downloads were yours?" I ask.

Frohike blushes just a little. "Just this one, man."

"Now how do I go about getting it off of the world wide web?" I ask,
taking a quick look at it before turning my attention the Byers and
Frohike. I don't really give a rat's ass as to who sees my genitalia,
but Scully ...

"Langly is working on that now. He has traced the video clip to a
company called 'Hot Tamale Productions,' and, assuming the two of you
did not willing agree to be video taped doing the wild thing, it
shouldn't be too hard to get it pulled off the net. You might need a
lawyer. Just in case," Frohike says, I can see he is dying to peer
around at the monitor. I'm sure he's already watched it at least once if
not a hundred times.

I can't believe someone would do this. I can't think of what they would
gain by this, except embarrassing us. How did they know we would ever
find it anyway? Langly clicks away at his keyboard a little more and the
monitor goes blank and the cheap porn music falls silent.

"A lawyer?" I ask.

"You can either get a lawyer and try to get to the bottom of this, or
ask for payment from the Tamale people," Langly says. "Of course then it
will stay on the web forever, or at least until you no longer get
anymore downloads."

Frohike hands me a CD-ROM in a case. "A copy for you. Think of it as a
Father's Day gift from us."

"How can I ever thank you?" I say snidely.

"Don't make us destroy our copy?" he says, and I put my hand out. He
hands me another CD-ROM, this one in a fancier case than the one he gave
me. Like he wrapped a present for himself.

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

I sit on the toilet lid, the test stick a few feet away from me on the
bathroom counter. I am afraid to look at the results. If it says 'yes' I
will be slightly disappointed. I would have no idea how it happened.
Christopher isn't even a year old. I just got back into the swing of
things at work. We aren't even fucking married yet.

But if it says 'no' I will be slightly disappointed. I want another one.
I don't care about being married. Work isn't everything. I think I can
handle two in diapers at the same time. I've been through worse, haven't
I?

I don't know what I want more. The answer to be yes or the answer to be
no. Both will be wrong for different reasons. Both will be right for
different reasons.

The words Dylan said to me keep flashing through my head. Keep him here.
Do anything you can. Is this why I am going through this right now?
Maybe I have nothing to do with it, but it is all another part of some
grand plan we can't even comprehend. I don't want to use a baby to keep
a man around. I'm pretty sure history has taught all women that doesn't
work.

I look at my watch, and realize the time is up. I have to check it. I
need to have the answer, and I can deal with it whatever it is.

I pick it up off the bathroom counter and look at it quickly. It is a
bright blue negative sign. No. The answer is no. I wrap it up in toilet
paper and throw the stick in the garbage can, telling myself to take it
again in the morning. Sure it says take it anytime, but even people who
never went to medical school know that hCG is in the highest
concentration in the morning. I will take it again. My mind goes through
all the reasons it could be a false-negative. It is far more common than
a false-positive. Maybe there isn't enough hCG for the test to detect.
Maybe I screwed it up myself. Yeah. I've run intricate lab test
thousands of times without error and now I think I got peeing on a stick
wrong. I can't tell how long it is after I missed my last period because
that was even before I got pregnant with Christopher. I was always
irregular, but now it is nearly non-existent.

Maybe it was the drugs they gave me in April. Carbamazepine is the only
one I can think of that may cause a false-negative result. I doubt they
would have pumped me with any anticonvulsants, let alone enough to make
it through until June. User error. That would be the only thing it could
be. They say they are 95% accurate, but that is like the effectiveness
of condoms. They are only as effective as the person using them.

I will get up in the morning and do it again. I know I'm just fooling
myself. But if that one says yes, I will make an appointment with my
doctor to find out which one is right. As long as I have another test in
the box, there is still hope, right?

No, this is a good thing. There is work. Christopher. A new childcare
person. I won't have to deal with vomiting and nausea. I won't have to
deal with considerations of another c-section or VBAC. No worry about
another bought of post-partum depression. I won't have to worry for
months about what effect those drugs might have. I won't be plagued with
the questions of how or why. Or even who. All that time I was knocked
out in New Mexico. They could have done anything.

Most of all, I'm not putting another human into this crappy world where
they will be threatened every day of their life. This is for the best. I
should be happy with what I have. I *am* happy with what I have.

If I'm so damn happy with what I have, why do I feel so much like
wrapping myself up in a blanket, turning off the lights and crying?

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

I pull Scully's tank into the driveway next to someone's VW Bug. Not one
of those newer ones, but a classic one, a convertible, all bright and
shiny. Not a family car, for sure.

Shit. We had another appointment this evening and I forgot. I stash the
CDs into the glove compartment. I will deal with that problem later.
Right now I have to go in and find a reason for not hiring this person
for the job. I have no clue how we are ever going to find someone. Maybe
I should just quit my job and be one of those Mr. Moms. Yes. I can see
me doing the vacuuming every afternoon before Scully gets home. I'll get
myself a pink apron now.

I walk into the house to find a tall, slender female swinging my son
around in the air. There is a Barbie doll dancing around my living room,
and my child is drinking it all in. He is giggling with delight and she
seems to be thrilled with him, too. A natural with children. Her long,
blond hair swings out behind her in waves of gold as she spins around,
her skirt twirling around her legs as she dances in bare feet.

"Hi!" she says when she catches me standing in the doorway watching her.
She stops whirling around, catches her breath and turns Chris around in
her arms so he's facing me. Scully is sitting on the couch looking
forlorn. She also looks just a little relieved that someone else is
doing the dancing right now. "You must be daddy. See, Kit, your daddy is
home."

"Kit?" I ask, wondering how she came up with a nickname for him so fast.
We still haven't even taken to calling him Chris all the time. Half the
time we refer to him as 'the baby.' Or the superfluous name of
Christopher, which is eventually only going to sound good when it is
yelled, followed by his middle name, last name and 'get in here, now!'

"My brother's best friend was named Christopher. We all called him Kit.
I thought this little guy looked like a Kit, too," she says, with a
smile. She appears to be rather confident around children and I can hear
a hint of an English accent in her voice. Not as if she grew up there,
but perhaps her parents are British.

"My name is Fox Mulder," I say, extending my hand to her. She shifts
Christopher-Kit around in her arms and takes my hand, holding on to it
for a few moments.

"See, his name should be Kit. A kit is a baby fox," she says with a
smile. I look to Scully who just shrugs her shoulders and gives me a
half smirk behind the girl's back. I can't tell what she thinks of this
young woman.

"And you are?" I ask.

"Soprano Brookbank," she says as she tries to untwist Christopher's
fingers from her hair. It is a lot longer than his mother's and he seems
fascinated by it.

"Soprano?" I ask, all of a sudden thinking that perhaps Fox isn't so
bad.

"My mother was an opera singer. I have sister named Aria and a brother
named Tenor," she says, sounding quite happy with her unusual
nomenclature. "Most people call me Sophie."

"So what did I miss?" I ask, sitting down next to Scully.

"Sophie is a student at Georgetown, studying early childhood education.
She is only available three days a week, but that fits Mom's schedule
nicely. She usually attends classes in the afternoon or evening, so if
we need her in the morning before my mother can get here, she says she
will be available. She also doesn't object to any extra background
checks we might want to run," Scully rattles off. I can tell something
else is wrong, but am not quite sure what it is. I don't think it has
anything to do with this potential new nanny.

"He is wonderful," Sophie says, as she sits down on the carpet and lets
Christopher bring her several of his toys to play with. She scoops him
up into her arms and plays some sort of tickle monster game with him,
singing to him in a voice that sounds like an angel.

I look down at the resume that the service sent over. They have run
several background checks, but I will do more. I will not just hire her
because she is nice and twirls my son in the air. But he does seem quite
taken with her. Scully's face is pinched up just a little, as if she is
slightly jealous of this other woman who has her arms wrapped around her
son and has captured his heart in just minutes. I can hardly wait until
he gets his first girlfriend.

We continue asking her questions until the two of us can't think of
anything else. Either she is a part of 'them' or she isn't. How can
anybody be certain?

"It was really nice meeting you," she says, as she slips her sandals on
and hands Christopher over to me. "And it was nice playing with you,
Kit."

"We will let you know," Scully says, as she walks her to the door.

We hear the rumbling sound of her car drive down the street, backfiring
a few times. Good thing this neighborhood isn't too fussy. Scully asks
me to get 'Kit' ready for bed while she does some work. With that, she
walks off into her office space.

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

"So, what did you think of Mary Poppins?" he asks me. He brought Chris
into me so I could give him a goodnight kiss, and then took care of
putting him to bed by himself. It is Father's Day, and technically, I
should be taking care of the kid while he sits in front of some ball
game, but I just don't feel like it.

"I like her. She is a little younger than what I imagined, but she seems
genuinely interested in childcare. Maybe we should just hire her," I
say, taking off my glasses and rubbing the bridge of my nose. I'm tired,
but I have some work to catch up on. Or maybe I'm just avoiding
everything.

"And wait for the day she starts jumping in and out of the artwork and
having carousel horse races?" he asks me. I thought he would like her
more. She seems weird enough to be his type. And young enough. And most
certainly blond enough.

"I will run some more checks tomorrow, but I think she is the one. We
might be hiring Sabrina the teenage witch, but she seems really nice. Of
course, she can't take him too many places with that car, but we will
work around that," I say, not even able to imagine my son cruising
around in a convertible, Sophie driving along with her long blond hair
streaming out behind her. "So, what did the boys want?"

He looks away from me, and doesn't answer immediately. "Oh, they just
wanted to taunt me about Father's Day. That was all. I'm sorry I was
late. So, how are you feeling?"

"Much better now, thank you. Like I said, I'm positive it is just a
touch of something going around," I tell him, now avoiding his eyes. I
changed my clothes and put on make-up after I dragged myself off of the
bed. I don't think I look that bad right now. I'm just not ready to tell
him. I will wait until morning, until I'm really sure one way or
another.

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking at me with a slight pout, as if I'm
denying him access to my soul. I'm in no mood to give that access to
anyone right now.

"I'm really sure," I answer, as I put my glasses back into place and
face my monitor again, avoiding him.

"Anything you want to talk about?" he asks, not letting this damn thing
go.

"No, Mulder. I'm fine. Why?" I ask, wishing he'd just go away for awhile
so I could get something done. Alone.

"No reason. I'm going to bed. Don't stay up all night," he tells me, as
he walks to my side of the desk and places a kiss on my cheek. I watch
him leave the room, and head towards the stairs. After all this time,
why are there some things I still don't want to share with him?

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

June 17, 2002

She gets up and out of bed before the alarm even goes off. I don't know
when she came to bed last night, but it was late. I found the box with
one test left in it last night, and I was going to go back downstairs
and ask but I would rather have her tell me what is wrong. Or right. Yes
or no. Doesn't matter. I couldn't find the used test. I am guessing that
the answer is 'no.'

Scully's mom should be here soon. I'm sure she will be thankful to not
have to drive here five days a week. Just Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'm
sure Everett will be glad to have her for long weekends. The two of them
look like kids in love. I wish Scully would look like that once. Sure,
she says the words, but that glow isn't there. Maybe my eyes don't
exactly sparkle and shine in her presence, either. Too many years of
going to hell and back together.

I often wonder what it would have been like had I made any kind of a
move back when we first met. She was so much happier then. I know it
probably would have fizzled out and died, but what if it hadn't? Would
we be married, would my father be alive, would her sister be alive? I
roll over and bury myself under the covers. Perhaps that was what would
have saved us all. If I only would have jumped her bones back in '93.

I hear Christopher rattling around in his cage, and I do what most
parents do but never admit to. I reach out from under the covers and
turn the monitor off. I'm sure he can amuse himself for a couple more
minutes. The day will come when he won't want to wake up before noon,
and I'll have to ride him to get the damn lawn mowed before sundown.

Scully flushes the toilet but I don't hear any movement. I have been
here before. It wasn't this way when we found out Scully was pregnant,
but it was with Diana. And then there was Phoebe. I think she only did
it to play with my mind. I wouldn't have surprised if she would have
invented a baby just so I would stay around. Diana really was no better.

The ticking of my watch is clearly audible under all of these covers. I
know it is my imagination, but I swear I can hear it counting out five
minutes. I read the box last night. Five minutes and either your life is
made or ruined, depending on how you look at it. The commercials never
show two seventeen year old kids standing there waiting for that stick
to come up with a negative, or no line or one line or whatever the hell
it is they do these days. They should make one like that. Probably
wouldn't sell the product, though.

A little alarm goes off in my head, and I know five minutes have passed.
She continues to rattle around in there, and I hear the metal
wastebasket clunk against the countertop. I can't take it.

"Scully, you okay?" I ask, poking my head out from under the blankets.
She walks out, still in her pajamas, looking at something quizzically.
"What is it?"

"Which one would you prefer to believe?" she asks, showing me two
different mathematical symbols on two plastic sticks.

the end

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

Title: Misbegotten 
Author: Jori 
Rating: PG-13
E-Mail: damienma@netroenterprises.com
Archive: Yes just keep my name on it
Category: SRA
Keywords: MSR, family-fic
Summary: Recent developments raise even more questions and help the
agents realize what is truly important
Disclaimer: Not mine. They will always belong to CC, 1013 and FOX
Author's notes: I might be a little schmoopy in this one. It had to
happen sooner or later. I promise to control myself better next time.
Also, my 'science fact checker' is being held hostage in a room by her
major professor until she finishes her thesis, so all my pregnancy stuff
came from my own wonderful personal experiences and www.epregnancy.com.
It has been a few years, so I might have gotten some of it wrong.
Thanks, MoJo and Suse for giving this the once over. I appreciate it!

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

Prologue

Washington, DC
June 20, 2002

"We don't want any of the errors that occurred with the first trial to
occur in the second trial. Are you sure nothing was left to chance?" a
tall man with dark hair asks from the shadows. He steps out of behind
the crates that were concealing his presence, and another man turns to
face him. He is younger, not quite as tall, but his eyes show that he
has seen it all and lost his soul in the process.

"Not this time. This ... specimen was virtually hand-picked, so to
speak," the younger man says, with a slight smirk on his face. He knows
all too well how the 'specimen' was procured for he did the procuring.
No one will ever no how much he enjoyed it, either.

"Then this one should be perfect?" the other man says, stepping further
out of the shadows. He is dressed stylishly, his suit costing more than
some live off of in a month. His eyes pierce the other man with their
crystal blue intensity, and his black hair is coifed into perfection.
Both men are complete opposites. The other man is dressed for a tougher
life, a life befitting black denim. His short hair is mussed, and his
eyes darker. What they share in common is their penchant for doing
business in the shadows.

"Quite possibly. It is going to be the closest to perfect that you are
going to see under these conditions. I don't see what was wrong with the
old way of doing things," the younger man says.

"The old standards did not produce the results we desired. Those results
were for the old plans created by old men who are now either dead or
dying. This is the new way of doing things. This is the way to
survival," he says, as he fidgets with something in his pocket.

"There is only one way to survive," the young man says, holding out his
hand. The other man puts a small vial onto his palm. Payment for a job
well done.

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

Georgetown Women's Health Center
June 26, 2002

"You say May? Around six weeks?" Dr. Sarah Morton asks, as she passes
the Doppler over my gel-covered belly. A boisterous swoosh swoosh fills
the room. The undeniable sound of a fetal heartbeat.

"Yes. May," Mulder says. He is at my side, holding my hand through all
of this. When the results came back as positive, we both began
questioning things faster than the doctor could answer. Other questions
will come later. More personal ones. My eyes do not move from his, as we
listen to the whirring sound of a new life fill the room. Even under
these circumstances, it is beautiful music.

"Well, folks, from listening to this nice, strong heartbeat, I'd say at
least ten weeks. That would make the date of conception sometime near
the end of April," Sarah says, as she pulls away the Doppler, casting
the room into an unpleasant silence. She notices it right away, along
with the fact that my hand gripped onto Mulder's just a little tighter
and that he shifted around uncomfortably. "I, um ... could be wrong.
Is there a problem?"

"We don't know yet," I answer quickly. "When can we determine the exact
age?"

"I could do a transvaginal ultrasound now, and maybe get an idea, or we
could wait a few weeks, and do a routine diagnostic ultrasound. If I'm
right about the age, we can do an amnio at the same time. It all depends
on how important this information is to you," Sarah says. She wipes the
goo off of me, and I sit back up, covered only by a thin gown and a
sheet of sallow green paper. She sits down in her chair and faces the
two of us. We are still holding on tight to each other's hand, and I
know his mind is going over all the things mine is cycling through.

"Due to the circumstances beyond our control ... I was held hostage at
the end of April. I was drugged, unconscious for an undetermined amount
of time and tests were performed on me. I don't know what else they
might have done," I say quickly, trying to convey to her all that could
be wrong without speaking the words. Mulder looks down at the floor, and
I don't look at him again just yet. Sarah knows about my life, what has
happened in the past. She is privy to things very few people know. Or
maybe a lot know. Who the hell can be certain anymore.

"I will give you two a moment to discuss a few things. If you are
concerned about the, um ... paternity, I can tell you that it is
certainly riskier to do an amniocentesis before the 18th week. But I'm
sure we could get that test in there when the time comes, too. That will
leave you with some other options to consider," she says, as she scans
us both carefully, waiting for the many questions we have yet to voice.
"I'll be back in a few. You can get dressed, Dana."

Getting back into that suit just doesn't seem important right now.
Mulder wraps his arms around me, and in moments the front of his blue
dress shirt is stained with my tears. I can feel his warmth under all
the dampness, and I know his hands are cradling my head, but he seems so
far away. It is as if this is all a dream, and I'm going to wake up and
find I'm still in that abandoned house with Mulch. Mulder leans down and
kisses my forehead, and I know it is not a dream. Not even a nightmare.
This is our real, waking life. I can do nothing right now but hold on to
him.

"It won't matter, Scully. It doesn't matter," he whispers, but it
matters so much to me. I don't want to be victimized in this way. I want
it to be his so badly, made from us *wanting* to be together this time.
Not some experiment, not some damn 'weather anomaly.' "Scully, she said
the end of April. We were together at the hotel during that time period
and we have the photographic evidence to prove it. We weren't that
careful."

"So many things could be wrong ... so many drugs," I say, not wanting
to go into an all out sob here. I will reserve that for later, when we
can be alone together somewhere other than this damned exam room. The
walls are decorated with pictures of pastel women in long dresses
frolicking with their fat, happy babies at the seashore. How come their
lives appear to be so simple? Because they are only paintings. One
dimensional images on poster board, not my multidimensional life. Too
many dimensions.

Mulder tilts my face up with his hand, so we are looking at each other.
"Hey, we will get through this. Everything will be fine. No matter
what."

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

Scully-Mulder House
June 27, 2002

Maggie came by early to pick up Christopher. She and Everett are taking
him to National Zoo today, spoiling him rotten while Scully and I play
hooky. I'm positive that neither of us has any sick time left, but what
are they going to do? Fire us? On days like today, that would be a
godsend.

I climb back into bed with Scully, and pull her into my arms. She was up
early getting Chris ready for the day, and then headed back to bed,
leaving the final preparations for his departure to me. Avoiding her
mother, as far as I can tell. I'm sure she will fill her in on
everything when she is ready or when we know more. Today she simply told
her she is sick.

Scully and I talked over a lot of things last evening, and cried and
laughed and just held on to each other for the whole night. Somewhere
around 2 a.m. we both fell asleep, some questions still unanswered. She
snuggles in closer to me, and rests an arm over my chest.

"What scares you most?" I ask her. I move a strand of hair off of her
face, and she carefully considers my question for a few moments.
Finally, she props herself up and faces me, her face still puffy from
the tears that flowed over night, her eyes rimmed in red.

"The only thing that scares me is that he or she won't be yours," she
says, her voice faltering as her eyes meet mine. "I can handle
everything else, but that is the one thing I've always wanted. One of
*our* own, just because I love you, not because someone else wanted them
or needed them, too. I thought this time it was going to be different .
. ."

I can see the tears form in her eyes again, and I pull her to me and
hold her as tight as I can. I will admit that I want that, too. But if
it isn't to be so, I will live with it.

"Scully, we are quite an unusual family to start out with. Christopher
was a complete surprise, and no one knows how we ended up together at
that point anyway. Was it us or was it 'them?' If this child isn't mine
genetically, it will still be yours. I will still love him or her just
because of that, and no matter what *they* did, it will always be ours.
Besides, the other option is out of the question," I say to her, already
knowing how strong her faith is and what she believes is right. I want
it to be mine, and if it isn't I will readily kill the person who did
this to us. There is something inside of me that just knows that however
they created it, that it is mine. Everyone keeps saying that is how it
must be. Why would they change the game plan now?

"I just wish ..." she starts to say something, and her voice trails
off.

"Wish what?" I ask. I want her to be able to tell me everything. I know
that she has always kept so much stuff inside, including that she
thought she was pregnant in the first place. She explained to me last
night that she was afraid of hoping for too much. And now she feels she
is going to get what she wants, but not everything she desires.

"Wish we would have known sooner, that it was going to be like this.
That there were more important things all those years when we just
danced around our feelings," she says.

"There is no telling what would have been if that would have happened.
Maybe the reason it is this way now, and we love each other like this,
is because of what we have gone through. And I will be the first to
confess that you and I have been through hell, and I'm the one that
dragged you there. I know this isn't how you imagined your life, but
since it is the only one we have, will it do for now?" I ask her.

"It will do for now," she says. Her hand moves to wipe the tears from
her eyes. We stay wrapped up in one another for a long time, the three
of us. There are so many 'what ifs' in our life. What if I would have
just told her I loved her so long ago? What if that damn bee didn't take
her away from me when everything seemed to be coming together? Who am I
kidding? Our lives come together? That will be the day.

"So, what should we do on our day off? Pick out furniture for the
nursery? Decide on a name?" I ask, knowing that it would make her smile.
Now that we are pros at it, we know how much time there is between now
and then, how much time we really have. Sometimes it feels like an
eternity. Sometimes it feels like it is coming too fast.

"I think we have other things to do first. Like plan someone's first
birthday party. And we have a wedding to plan, too," she says, looking
up to me to catch my surprised expression.

"Sounds like it is going to be a full day. Are you sure you are up to
it?" I ask, not exactly wanting to leave the comfort of this bed, and
certainly not wanting to leave the comfort of being with her.

"I don't feel that bad this time around, Mulder. Just have to pee a lot.
And I'm not really craving anything yet, either," she says, as she
untangles herself from me and gets out of bed and heads towards the
bathroom.

"That's good. I don't think I can stomach another Burrito Supreme for as
long as I live."

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

Pampered Party
June 27, 2002

"Bears or clowns?" I ask Mulder, and he looks at me as if I just asked
him to tell me the meaning of life. He goes back to scanning the
shelves, searching for something better.

"Neither. I like these, especially now that Jar Jar is gone," he says,
holding up party plates with the latest round of Star Wars Episode II
characters on them.

"Mulder, he's a baby. He doesn't even know about Star Wars, yet," I say.
That was what he suggested we do this afternoon. Sit for two hours in
the dark watching digitally created aliens talk at us. Perhaps he is
looking for one he recognizes. I'm too restless to sit that long now.
Mulder puts them back on the shelf and pouts. "Maybe we can get them for
your birthday."

"Well, then I will have to go with the bear. Clowns are frightening," he
says, as he help throw the supplies into the cart. It is a little blue
bear wearing a shirt with a big #1 on it. He's riding a rocking horse
and looks happy. Of course he's happy. Birthdays are still a good thing
at that age. I shouldn't say that. Birthdays are better than the
alternative at any age. I know that well.

"Is your mother going to make it down?" I ask, trying to figure out the
guest list in my head. We don't have that many people we can invite. Our
social circle hasn't exactly grown since Christopher was born. The
Gunmen said they would make it. Then there is Mom and Everett. Reid said
he might stop by with his new girlfriend and Soprano is going to be
helping out. Not exactly a crowd.

"She says she is," Mulder says, as he throws a package of matching
blow-outs into the cart, followed by hats. I wonder if he knows he gets
to wear one of those? "Is this everything?"

"Almost," I say, as I direct him towards another aisle. The wedding
supply aisle. Just to get ideas. I look into a display of cake toppers,
and notice our combination of qualities just doesn't exist. A
middle-aged man with chestnut hair. A red headed pregnant woman. A baby
already in their arms. Dark, shadowy figures standing behind them, one
with a cigarette dangling from his lips. I almost laugh out loud as I
wonder if we can have one custom made, or maybe we just skip that part
anyway.

"You sure about this?" he asks me, as he absently flips quickly through
a wedding invitation sample book without looking at a single one. I
didn't know he was having second thoughts at this point. Perhaps it is
only natural to question these things. Our relationship seems to always
be moving in starts and stops. I get upset at him. He gets upset at me.
Add to that the fact that we have technically been involved for ten
years now, maybe his heart just isn't in it. Maybe he isn't sure.

"Why wouldn't I be sure?" I ask back, as I continue to look at all the
happy, young plastic couples. Actually there are a million reasons I
might not be sure. Fear of what the future holds is always a reason that
looms large in my life. I turn to look at him, as he leans on the podium
holding the large, ornate tome of invitation choices. He is ignoring the
book now, but rather he is watching me with that look on his face that
makes my body tremble and my heart flutter. With so much wrong in our
world to make me unsure, there is just one reason I am *so* sure.

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

Scully-Mulder House
June 28, 2002

"How does she do it?" Scully asks as she looks out the front window,
watching Soprano run down the street with Christopher in his jogger
stroller. It is only 7:00 a.m., but she is full of energy. Sophie
bounced into the house at about 6:30 in the morning, allowing Scully and
me to get ready for work without having to take turns watching
Christopher. Sometimes I'm certain this is all too good to be true, and
that we are going to find out she was sent by the devil to groom our son
into the antichrist, but she smiles too much for that. And I haven't
seen any rottweilers hanging around.

"Youth. She is young. I am nearly twice her age," I say, as I walk by
her, looking for some files I brought home. "I might have to fly out to
Indiana today, but I should be home by tomorrow afternoon."

"Indiana?" she asks, her voice sounding half interested. It is Friday,
and I've been trying to avoid being out of town on the weekends, but
this was something I was supposed to take care of yesterday. I simply
had more important things to do. Last night we agreed to not let the
things we can't control take over our lives.

"Yes, Indiana. Bloomington to be exact. Unexplained deaths, missing body
parts, lack of suspects, lack of evidence, apparitions spotted
regularly, the whole nine yards," I say, finally finding the files I'm
looking for right where I left them. "Reid flew out there yesterday. I
told him I'd be there today if he didn't get everything wrapped up."

She follows me into the kitchen, and removes a small bottle of water
from the refrigerator. Our grocery shopping yesterday left us with a
cart full of fruits, vegetables and whole grain products. I'm just
thankful that not a single potato made it in there. The only unusual
item was a box of chocolate covered cherries that she has yet to open.

"How is Agent Reid holding out?" Scully asks. Sometimes I'm unsure
whether she is jealous of him or if she is thankful that she's not the
one flying out on a moment's notice to chase down some freak.

"After his baptism with fire in New Mexico, I think he will do just
fine," I say. He is smart and a good investigator. Amazingly enough, he
is also open to certain extreme notions that Scully still doesn't
accept.

Scully looks better today than she has in weeks, her eyes not so lost
behind a cloud of confusion. She commented briefly this morning about
all the clothes she could finally fit into again, touching each suit on
the sleeve as if she was saying good-bye forever this time. Then I
watched her pull a small outfit out of the corner of the closet, where
it has been hanging on a tiny hanger for 10 months now. It is white with
'Daddy's Boy' embroidered across the chest in blue. I could see the
emotions beginning to creep up on her again, trying to convince the
tears to start falling. I looked over her shoulder and asked if she
thought we could find one that said 'Daddy's Girl' this time. The tears
began to fall, but for different reasons.

"So, did you ever consider having a forensic pathologist join your
department?" Scully asks, shaking me from my thoughts and my files. She
takes a sip of water and doesn't say anything else.

"I don't know. Why? Do you know a good one?"

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

Epilogue

New York City
June 30, 2002

The large, black car pulls up to the curb, allowing a man to step into
its shaded privacy before pulling away. It quickly becomes just another
car in rush hour traffic. Smoke fills the back seat, making the it not
only dark but hazy as well. Another dark pit from which to do business.
A place where the destiny of man has been bought and sold several times
over.

After taking another drag from his cigarette, an older man puts out his
hand and waits for the new arrival to hand him something. On to his
outstretched palm, he carefully places a small vial of amber-colored
liquid. The man examines it closely, his cigarette dangling from his
mouth.

"Be careful. I hear it is flammable," the young man says, his voice
filled with disgust for his fellow occupant. He only laughs and puts the
vial away into a safe box sitting next to him on the seat.

"How many sides are you playing, Alex? Is there any one who cannot claim
you as their whore?" the man with the cigarette asks.

"Only those who pay the price can claim me. Only those who give me what
I want," Alex Krycek says scoffingly, his voice rough and edgy. He had
to work hard to get this small vial. It is the only thing he knows that
will get him to the bargaining table, allowing him to have what he wants
in the end. The last few years have taught him how to play all the
sides.

"And for that price, you are always willing to provide your ...
services, such that they are?" he asks, trying to rile Krycek, to lower
him back down into his place on the food chain. "What service did you
provide to get your paws on this?"

He taps the box gently, not wanting to disturb the contents now that he
is responsible for them. He lost it once, and isn't going to make the
same mistake twice. He blows a puff of smoke towards Krycek, but he
doesn't even blink.

"No. I don't kiss and tell," Alex says, his mouth twisting into a grin
that under any other circumstance would be charming. If only he had
taken a different path, he wouldn't need to prostitute himself out to
the highest bidder. He could have been in control now. In a way, he
knows he is. "So, are you ready to pay me for my services to you?"

"Why should I pay you for something that was already mine?" the man
asks, before moving his cigarette to his mouth again and takes another
slow, long drag. Krycek looks at him, wondering when this habit is going
to kill him. Maybe he can't die.

"You will pay me because you lost it. You trusted Diana Fowley to do
your evil bidding and she failed you this time. So you need me," Krycek
says.

"I was under the impression that you killed Fowely. But that hardly
matters anymore. What is it you want this time, Alex? More money?
Another job being my lackey? A night at the Plaza?"

"This time I want Mulder," Krycek says, his voice unfaltering as he
makes his demand.

The other man looks at him carefully, and takes one final drag before he
extinguishes his cigarette.

"That is an interesting request. What do you plan on doing with Agent
Mulder, if I decide to give him to you?" he asks, blowing out the smoke
he just inhaled. Once again it hits Krycek in the face.

"With that vial, you don't need him. The only people who need him now
are the one's running that sub-project of yours. The Plan B option. You
and I both know you really have no interest in the fruitless work they
are doing. I want to show Mulder everything he wants to know, show him
what his *children* are meant to be, and then I want to destroy him,"
Krycek says, his voice growing colder with each word.

"Mulder will never follow you," the smoking man says, sounding nothing
more than humored by the request. "Why do you hate Mulder so much?"

"Because you don't. Besides, we all know that if the truth beckons,
Mulder is sure to follow."

The End

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

Title: Illumination 
by Jori 
Rating: NC-17 for this part
Category: SR
Keywords: MSR, family-fic
Summary: A very special occasion is celebrated
Disclaimer: Not mine. 1013, FOX and CC still own them. I just give them
babies and make them happy.
Archive: yes
Author's notes: Thank you, Suse, for giving this the once over on such
short notice. And to MoJo for giving it a quick early read.
 
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

July 4, 2002

Christopher's eyes light up as the sky explodes around him. He jumps in
my arms every time another boom resonates across the sky Not satisfied
with being held, he struggles to get down, wanting to do his usual
exploring. Not even the loud noises discourage him. For now, at least. I
set him down on the picnic blanket and watch to see what his reaction is
going to be to the next firecracker blasting now that he is on his own.
He has hardly toddled two feet before I see the flare go up and wait for
the inevitable pop. I wonder which one of us he is going to run to? Will
it be me?

"Da! Up!" he demands, hanging around his daddy's legs. Daddy. I actually
think that in sentences now. And say it all the time. 'Daddy will be
home soon.' 'Daddy is out of town.' That is sometimes more amazing then
the rest of this. We are now two entirely different people, to each
other and to this tiny person.

Mulder scoops him up in his arms and holds him tight while pointing to
the sky and explaining why light travels faster than sound. Christopher
nods his head as if he understands all of it. Then the two of them look
toward the sky together, with matching eyes, waiting for the next
sparkle and bang to come.

He whispers something to our son and Christopher giggles happily. I am
amazed at his abounding joy with everything. Sometimes I think it is too
good to be true. No child could be this happy all the time, can they?
And then I worry about the proverbial other shoe dropping. It is coming
and always has been. But still he smiles. He smiles because he doesn't
know any better.

Of course we have yet to reach the toddler years. Maybe I won't be so
pleased with his zeal for life when he channels all his vivacious energy
into coloring the walls.

Soon the fireworks are over and we begin walking back to the car. Just
the three of us. Make that the four of us. It doesn't seem real yet.
Soon we will be four. A kid in each of our arms since Christopher will
still be a baby.

It is well past his bedtime and Christopher falls asleep on Mulder's
shoulder, nestled in close to his daddy. He looks like it is the most
comfortable place in the world and this time I have to agree with him.
That is a nice place to fall asleep. I have done it myself many times.

"Mulder, do you know anyone who is a notary?" I ask casually. I have
thought about this a lot lately and it is time. Not because of one kid
or the next, but because I want to.

"Yeah, I think Byers ... why do you need a notary?" he asks, looking
puzzled.

"I just can't imagine us getting married in a church, can you? Well, at
least I can't imagine you getting married in a church," I say and he
smiles. I have changed my mind so many times about this that it
surprises him every time I make a move forward.

"I'll ask. Can you imagine what a wedding that will be? I can already
see the blurb on the society page. 'Agents Mulder and Scully, notorious
for their exploits into the paranormal, were joined in marriage today
with one mysteriously begotten child in tow and another one on the way.
The ceremony was performed by another confirmed paranoiac while the best
man wore a fuzzy vest and the maid of honor wore his long blond hair in
French braids.' It is going to be something, Scully," Mulder says as he
shifts Chris around to get him in his car seat.

"I promise it will be better than that," I say.

"Oh, really?" he asks, curious as to how I'm going to do that.

"Yeah. I'll make sure Frohike leaves the fuzzy vest at home."

'em

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

July 9, 2002
Scully-Mulder Household

"Happy birthday, dear Christopher ... happy birthday to you," everyone
sings to our overwhelmed baby boy. His eyes are big and bright as he is
urged to blow out the candle. Scully does it for him and gives him a big
kiss on the cheek.

"Mama cake," he says, pulling his mom toward him. He is dying to get his
little fingers into the frosting and smear it everywhere. That is what
first birthday parties are all about.

Of course, ours is not just a celebration of the first year of life for
our baby, but a celebration that we have survived. Scully looks at me
and smiles, her face glowing. We have not only survived, but we have
flourished.

"That is one little tasty morsel of a nanny," Frohike says, watching
Soprano move around the table, trying to get pictures of everyone here
and of Christopher covering himself in icing.

"Why do you think I hired her, Frohike?" I say, and he looks from me to
Scully and back again. "I'm kidding. She does a great job. And Kit ...
I mean Chris loves her."

"The boy has good taste. Just like his father," he says. "By the way, we
are still working on ..."

"Shh," I say as Scully walks over to us. Christopher has two
grandmothers and one surrogate grandfather doting over him right now.
Who in the hell needs parents when you have that?

"Would you like some cake?" she asks Frohike. Frohike can't decide
whether to stare at her or look away.

"I, um ... will go get some cake," he says, not meeting her eyes.

"What is wrong with him?" Scully asks after he gets out of earshot. "He
keeps avoiding me but then I catch him staring at me from across the
room. Byers and Langly keep doing the same thing."

"I don't know what is wrong with them. Probably just not used to be
out," I lie. I haven't told her about the downloadable internet sex yet,
not with all the other things going on. Then we have been busy with
Christopher's party.

The dining room is decorated in balloons and streamers. Although I think
it is a bit much for a one year old, I let her do it. I just stood back
and said 'that looks nice' whenever I had to. At least we didn't all
have to go to Chuck E. Cheese's for a party. I had to draw the line
there.

"Dana, can I make a pot of coffee or do you expect us all to drink this
diet Faygo red soda?" her mother asks, holding up a half-empty bottle of
the overly sweet soda. I look at Scully and can see her stomach turn
from just the mention of coffee. The smell of it makes her quite sick.
As sick as mentioning red soda makes the rest of us.

She hasn't told her about the pregnancy yet. I told her to. She said she
was going to wait until after the party. This was to be about
Christopher, not about her or the next baby. And, of course, I haven't
told my mother. But I did promise her I would tell Mom before Scully was
eight months pregnant.

"Um ... yes. Go ahead," Scully says hesitantly. I'm sure this is going
to precede a trip to the bathroom. Gets her every time.

"You have red soda?" Langly asks from behind Mrs. Scully. He sounds like
an excited child and I can't wait to see him with a little red mustache.

"A whole refrigerator full of it. Let me get you one," she says and the
two of them walk off together.

"What is with you and red food? Between the chocolate covered cherries
and the maraschino cherries and the red soda, I'm beginning to think you
are craving FD&C red 40. Especially when I saw you picking red M&Ms out
of a bag," I whisper to her.

"Perhaps I'm just trying to counter balance anything that might be green
about this baby," she says with a smile. "Besides, I though you were
colorblind."

"I can read the word 'red' when it is printed across a bottle of soda so
you can't hide it from me. I'm just thankful it isn't potatoes," I say,
and she her face gets pale. It is amazing that what sustained her
through her first pregnancy makes her sick during this one.

"Don't say the 'p' word," she says, making a face. At least I don't have
to take part in her search for bizarre red food. And I can go without
mentioning spuds for a long time.

"So, where are you going to run when the coffee starts brewing?" I ask,
looking to see if she has a clear path to the downstairs bathroom.

"I am hoping this time it doesn't bother me."

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

I wash my face, brush my teeth and hope that Juan Valdez has come to
pick his damn Colombian coffee beans up by the time I get back
downstairs. I can't believe I'm spending my son's first birthday party
vomiting due to the fact that I am pregnant. Again. Oh God. How am I
ever going to do all of this? I'm just happy I made it upstairs and into
our bathroom. And away from that sickening smell.

The only time I ever panic about what is going on is when I'm alone. I'm
tired. I'm sick in the morning. And the afternoon. And sometimes part of
the evening. I expect it to be calming down after I get out of the first
trimester. I hope it does. I have too many things to take care of.

Someone knocks on the door. "Mulder, I'll be right out, okay?"

"Dana, honey. It's Mom. Are you okay?" she asks. Damn. I knew she would
come looking for me.

"I'm fine, Mom. I'll be down in a minute," I say. I don't hear her walk
away and leave the master bedroom. Instead I hear her sit down on the
bed and settle in.

I brush my hair and put on some lipstick before leaving the relative
safety of my bathroom.

Mom is sitting there on the edge of the bed, waiting for me in the
darkness of the room.

"You could turn on the light, Mom," I say, trying to change the
inevitable subject that is coming. I turn the bedside lamp on to
discover that I forgot to make the bed. I usually never forget, but I
needed a nap before the party.

"So, are the two of you going to get married before this one is born or
are you going to continue living in sin?" my mother asks with a smile on
her face. I know she doesn't really care how we live as long as we are
happy.

"That depends on whether you want to serve coffee at the reception or
not," I say and we both laugh.

"How?" she asks. "Never mind how. I know how. But how?"

"That is something we haven't been able to answer yet, Mom," I say. The
tone of my voice makes the smile disappear from her face.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, and for the first time in days, I feel
like crying again. She comes to me and folds me into her arms. This is
one of two places in the world where I feel safe.

"There are some things that we don't know yet, Mom. About the baby. It
happened while I was being held hostage in New Mexico. Or shortly before
that. One way is good. The other way isn't," I say. I feel a tear
trickle down my cheek, and I know I'm losing the composure I've worked
so hard to maintain.

"Whatever happens, it will be okay, sweetheart. What does Fox say about
all of this?" Mom asks. She lets go of me and wipes that single tear
away.

"He says that whatever happens, it will be okay," I say, repeating her
sentiments.

"And you do believe him, right?" she asks. She is never on my side or
his side, but has always been on 'our' side of any problems since we
have been together like this.

"Yes, I believe him. But so many things happened ..." I say, my voice
fading to nothing.

"Dana, it will be okay. I can't promise you that nothing will be wrong,
but I know God will never give you more than you can handle. Never. Look
at all that has happened to you so far. And you have always gotten
through it. I believe that God gave you each other so you would survive
this world that you both decided to take on," she says, pulling me in
close again.

"I'm so afraid, Mom," I say. It feels so good to say these words to
someone besides Mulder. I know underneath it all, he is just as
frightened as I am. We can laugh and joke about it, but it is there,
like an strong, cold undercurrent we can't get out of.

"You two will get through it together. I already thought both of you
were dead once this year. I was there when they brought him to the
hospital. He looked dead. He was so cold and suffering from exposure.
Then you came in ..." she stops and looks at me. "What's wrong?"

He was suffering from exposure after being found on that hillside. I can
hardly remember the report. I know it suggested that he and Fowley were
involved in something that I don't even want to think about. Why would
they think that? Something else had to be there. Evidence that I can't
recall reading about.

"Nothing is wrong, Mom. You ready to go open some presents?"

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

Christopher is playing with the wrapping paper as if he is making a
large tossed salad. It is in shreds all over the living room floor,
while the contents of all those packages go ignored in a circle around
him. We should have just bought him a roll of wrapping paper and wrapped
it -- in what? More wrapping paper?

"So, does this mean you are going to start potty training?" Reid's
girlfriend asks. Jenny is her name and she looks like she can't be any
older than 19. Of course, Reid is a lot younger than I am so I guess he
still has the ability to pick up teenage girls. I'm marrying a woman
more than 20 years her senior. And I prefer it that way after watching
Jenny fidget and primp all night. She lacks the self-awareness and
confidence of a woman in her thirties.

"Potty training? At one?" my mother asks with a hearty chuckle so unlike
her. I know what is coming next and I cringe. "We were lucky we had Fox
out of diapers by the time he was in kindergarten."

"Mom," I say sternly, and she just smiles at me, dismissing any protest
I might make with a wave of her hand. As if she is brushing away an
annoying fly. I know she is going to continue the story. Mothers always
do. She has changed a lot in the last year. It is as if Christopher has
given her a chance to start over.

"He could read before he could go potty. I think he was just stubborn
and he put up a good fight," she says. I hate it when the word 'potty'
is used in reference to adults. Especially when it is used in reference
to me. "Finally, when I was pregnant with Samantha, he gave in. Thank
God. I don't think I could stand two in diapers at the same time."

I look at Scully who just closes her eyes at that last sentence. Her
mother knows. She told me when she came back downstairs. Now I have to
tell my mother.

"Dana was trained by 15 months," Mrs. Scully says, proudly. Well, leave
it to Scully to be meticulous enough not want to sit in a wet diaper
before she was even two.

"Well la tee da. Can we change the subject now?" I ask and the Gunmen
agree. I'm sure they don't need to know any more about my 'potty' habits
than they already do. Then again, why the hell not? They've now seen
everything else, right down to watching Scully lick certain bodily
fluids of mine off of my lips. I'm sure that amused the hell out of
them.

Soprano sits next to 'Kit' and begins to show him what all his toys do.
The toys are getting more and more complicated as he grows. Now he even
has his own baby basketball hoop, thanks to the boys. As everybody
begins to get up and get ready to go home, I notice Frohike sitting with
Soprano and Christopher. I hope to hell he behaves.

"I'll see you in the office tomorrow," Reid says, and Jenny gives me a
shy wave as I escort them to the front door.

"Thanks for stopping by. And thanks for the gift wrap," I joke. They
don't get it. Well, they just aren't parents yet.

Byers is helping Scully clean up the mess while Langly is trying to
rewire the entertainment center. Frohike is engaged in an animated
conversation with Soprano even though Christopher toddled off to his
grandmother's arms. Soprano appears to be listening intently and doesn't
look like she needs to be rescued yet.

My mother holds Christopher, rocking him in her arms. He's getting
sleepy and it is time for him to get in his pajamas and go to bed. She
sings something to him and the song brings back a flood of memories. I
remember her trying to rock me even though she was very pregnant with
Samantha. I can't remember why I fled to the safety of my mother's arms.
I just remember her cooing gently and singing that song to me. I once
loved her like Christopher now loves me. With none of the expectations
and conditions placed on love as we grow older.

I still love her. But not in that way that babies do. I know all her
faults. I guess in one way it is a much better love to accept someone
with all their faults and love them anyway. I hardly know her. I know
nothing of her childhood. I was told the story of how she met Dad once.
She never told me again.

"Hi, Mom," I say, sitting next to her on the couch. She stops singing
and her composure changes slightly. She always acts as if she has to
defend herself against me. Or anything I might say.

"Coming to put him to bed?" she asks, switching a sleepy Christopher
from one arm to the other.

"No, not yet. There is something I have to tell you."

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

Mulder comes into the bedroom carrying a bottle and two champagne
flutes. He smiles, shows me that once again it is sparkling cider he is
bringing into this room, and pours some for each of us. I put the book I
was reading aside as I take the glass from him.

"So, what exactly are we celebrating?" I ask, as he lies down next to
me.

"We are celebrating that we survived the first year of the hardest job
we will ever have," he says. He clinks my glass with his. "Here is to .
. . us."

"To us and the people who decided we should be parents in the first
place," I say, taking a sip of the sweet, bubbly cider. "And here's to
hurricanes and weather control."

"Scully, they couldn't have made you have sex with me that night. Admit
it. You wanted to," he says, a lascivious grin crossing his face.

Somehow, admitting to this is one of the hardest things I have ever
tried to do. It as if that one act was a moment of weakness, and I don't
like to be weak. I should have been able to resist, no matter what they
might have done to me out in that storm. And if I would have resisted,
we wouldn't be here now. He would be sitting in his apartment flipping
through TV channels. Alone. And I would be in my apartment. Reading or
writing something. Alone. There would be no Christopher.

"Okay, I'll admit it. The thought had crossed my mind a few times before
then ..." I start to say. "We have covered this all before, remember?
The hotel in New Mexico? Or did you forget all about that?"

A strange look passes over his face with the mention of New Mexico. I
guess he still hasn't healed from everything that happened to us there.

"Scully, if I recall correctly, and I might be wrong about this because
as you know I was in a coma for awhile, but I thought we were talking
about being in love then?" he asks. He sets his champagne glass on the
table and puts his hand over my slightly rounded belly. "And I think we
discussed the first time you would have *let* me make love to you. Not
the first time you thought about it ... wanted it. Fantasized about
it."

God damn that memory of his. And now how do I get out of this?

"I don't remember," I lie. I do remember, and it is painfully
embarrassing how long ago it was.

"You do remember. Tell me, Scully. Or I'll make you name the baby
Cleetus whether it is a boy or a girl," he says, licking his lips. Yes,
those lips were part of it, too. And that tongue that just swept over
them. And this is silly because I can have him now. He is right here
wearing next to nothing bringing me 'champagne.'

"Right before my abduction," I say softly, almost whispering.

"What did you say?" he asks, trying to goad me into saying it louder. "I
really couldn't hear you."

"Right before I was abducted. Okay? Are you happy now?" I ask, wishing
he'd wipe that damn grin off of his face.

"Are you serious?" he asks, sounding just a little stunned.

"We weren't working together. I missed seeing you every day. I wanted to
see you. I think that is the first time it ever crossed my mind. But it
was just a fleeting thought. Not anything I would have acted upon," I
say. That is the truth. I remember when and where I thought it. He was
on the phone with me while he was out with Krycek somewhere. We were
discussing some case that I don't even remember. But I remember the
thought that came to mind.

"What was that fleeting thought?" he asks, his hand moving from my
abdomen upwards, under my pajamas until he is feeling the curve of my
breasts.

"It was just a kiss," I say, closing my eyes, enjoying the sensation of
his hand on my already sensitive breasts. How does he do this? How does
he get to me so completely so quickly?

"Just a kiss?" he asks, his voice softer and closer. His other hand
takes the glass I still have between my fingers and sets it aside.

"Just a kiss. And then we were doing it on the hood of a Ford Taurus. To
this day I can't look at one without wanting to smile," I finally admit.
"But it was just fleeting."

"The hood of a car? Scully, I'm shocked," he says. He can't be too
shocked because his hand is still under my top, still caressing me.

"Your turn, Mulder. Fess up. When was the first time you thought about
it?" I ask him, my mind trying to focus on both this conversation and
the sensations coursing through my body. The stimulation is causing a
warmth to spread everywhere, but it is definitely centered between my
thighs. It is almost an ache, but the most pleasant kind.

"I'm a man. I thought about it the first time you walked into my office.
But I figured if I acted on it, I wouldn't make a very good impression,"
he says, and his hand moves down to accommodate my needs and satisfy my
aches.

"You were trying to make a good impression?" I say with a smile,
remembering as all couples do the very first time we met. He was so
young, so sure of himself and what he believed in. I was so young and so
sure I could prove him wrong at every turn, trying to shoot down his
every move. And now that young, cocky FBI agent is a forty year old FBI
agent who just happens to have their hand moving in and out of my body,
ever so gently. I'm not shooting down this move.

"Yes. You did actually catch me trying really hard to behave myself that
time. If I hadn't been behaving, I would have had you on my desk moaning
my name within twenty minutes," he says. I open my eyes and look at him,
my eyebrow arched. "Okay. Maybe not on the desk, but at least up against
the filing cabinets."

"And you thought of all of these in that short time I was in your office
that first day?" I ask.

"Those and a few more. None involving any kind of Ford Taurus, though,"
he says. "Those didn't come until later."

I close my eyes again, and bite my lower lip. His fingers keep working
their magic. I know he is watching me. Even in the darkness of my mind I
can feel his eyes on me, studying me. Always trying to figure me out at
just that moment. Sometimes he does a really lousy job of it. And
sometimes he does a great job of figuring out exactly what I need. Like
right now. I open my eyes, because I take pleasure in watching him watch
me.

My hand moves to him, and he's already hard just from doing this. I slip
my fingers into his boxers and wrap my hand around his erection. He
doesn't stop looking at me, his eyes holding all the intensity that they
usually do. Now the game begins. He twists around and gets his boxers
off and throws them to the land of lost underwear at the side of the
bed.

And we continue. His hands on me, mine on him and our eyes on each
other. Long before the first time we ever were together this way, I
could read everything he was thinking through his eyes. Sad, happy,
lonely or afraid. It didn't matter. Now I can read only one thing. This
person loves me more than he loves anyone on earth, with the exception
of his love for a certain one year old tucked away in bed in the other
room.

"You like this?" he says, his voice raspy now.

"Yes," I say, and start moving my hand faster and applying more
pressure. I know what he likes. It has only been a year and nine months
since that first time, and now I know most everything about this person.
Unless he has any more ex-wives out there.

"I've never seen you come and keep your eyes open," he says, offering up
the challenge.

"And I've never seen you come without making those funny little noises,"
I say.

"If you keep your eyes open, I promise not to make any noises, funny or
otherwise," he says. I know he wants to look down to watch what our
hands our doing, but he doesn't. Those hazel eyes focus on my eyes,
unrelenting in their intensity. I pick up the intensity of what I'm
doing to him, and he matches it. It is enough to send both of us over
the edge quickly.

He comes first, silently. But that silence comes at a cost, I can see.
His poor bottom lip is now even more pouty from him biting it to control
himself. And all I have to do is keep my eyes open.

I move my hand away from his stickiness and now he concentrates solely
on me again. Really concentrates on me. Just like everything Mulder goes
after, his drive for me to reach orgasm is unrelenting. I should be
thankful. Some men just don't care.

Then it comes, washing over me and I get lost for a moment trying to
reach the surface again. And I know the blackness isn't due to a lack of
oxygen from drowning in the sensations. No. It most certainly isn't.

"You closed your eyes," he says, as he bends over and kisses each of my
eyelids.

"I'm sure you will make some funny noise yet tonight," I say to him
before I open one and then the other eye. Still he watches me with one
hand on my belly.

"I wonder what that feels like in there? Like someone rocking the hot
tub?" he asks with a smile. I never thought of it the whole time I was
pregnant with Christopher.

"Or maybe it feels good, knowing that his parents love each other," I
say softly, my hand now resting on top of his.

"Do you?" he asks. I know he still doubts it. Just as I doubt that this
will all have a happy ending yet for everybody.

"I do," I say.

I pull my hand away from his. It is still sticky from the semen that we
have yet to clean up. Still sticky and all over the place now. All over
the place. A thought crosses my mind again, that I'm missing something.
Something I don't even want to think about. Maybe they didn't tell him
everything about that night he spent out on that mountain. Before I can
ask, I hear him gently snoring next to me. I have to find out for
myself.

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

July 11, 2002
National Airport
3:35 p.m.

"Congratulations, Agent Mulder," he says, coming out of the darkness
where he resides. I'm in the damn airport parking garage. How in the
hell does he find me?

"Yeah. For what?" I ask as I throw my bags into the trunk of my car and
slam it down hard. This action causes several car alarms to go off, and
some people passing by look at us. Maybe that will keep him from killing
me this time. Then again, if that were the plan, I'd have been dead a
long time now.

He blows out a puff of smoke into the incredibly hot July air. Even he
looks like the heat has gotten the best of him. He has his shirtsleeves
rolled up and his tie looks like it has been loosened all afternoon
until he approached me.

"Several things, actually. First, for keeping that son of yours
relatively safe for a whole year now. There was that one little incident
back in ... what was it? March?" he says, and I watch some ashes drop
off the tip of his cigarette and land on his shoes. I suppose it is a
lot to hope they will cause him to combust.

"You know exactly when it was," I say to him as I move to the car door.

"And congratulations on the new one you are expecting ... in January,
isn't it?" he asks. He knows the answer to that one, too.

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me?" I ask him, as I try to get around
him. He doesn't move. He has always been a goddamn brick wall that I
keep bumping in to in my life. "You seem to think you have all the
answers."

"I can't tell you everything. But I do know someone who wants to answer
all your questions," he says. He drops his cigarette to the cement
floor, and steps on it until it is completely flattened. I would guess
that is a demonstration just for me, a show of just what he could do to
me. To all of us. Or so he thinks.

"I'm sure you do. Now, if you excuse me, I have to get home. You know .
. . barefoot and pregnant woman in the kitchen. One mouth already to
feed," I say to him snidely. I finally move by him.

"I thought you would be more curious as to exactly what ... or who
Jasper is. But if you don't care, I will just tell this other person . .
."

Now he has my attention. I only say one word. "Talk."

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

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
3:50 p.m.

"Isn't that nice," I mumble as I look at the signs on the door. Special
Agent Fox Mulder on top. Special Agent Joshua Reid right under it. New
plates and everything from the last time I was here. I let myself into
the office with my key, and flip on the lights. One half is its usual
mess. The other half is relatively tidy. I hope what I'm looking for is
on the tidy half. I don't think the occupant of the messy half even
wants to look at this again.

Luckily, it is easy to pick out. It is a large case file and one I know
hasn't been solved yet. The names Mulder, Fox and Fowley, Diana are
written across the sticker on the front. I know that the Albuquerque
police are handling this as two separate crimes. One is now murder. This
is Agent Reid's folder of information and crime scene details. He was
one of the first agents out there, after Mulder and Fowley had been air
lifted to the hospital.

I sit down at Mulder's desk, swipe some sunflower seed husks into the
trash and begin reading. I know I've seen it all before, but I was under
a great deal of stress that time. I had Skinner and Reid watching me,
each giving me their own individual assessment of what happened. This
time I want to search through this file by myself.

"Damn it," I say out loud after combing through everything for over an
hour and not finding what I'm searching for.

"Agent Scully, I didn't expect to see you down here," Skinner says to me
from the door. I look up at him, surprised at being found here in the
basement. He usually doesn't descend this far down into the bowels of
this building unless he's looking for something.

"Sir," is all I say. What does he want me to say? I am sure this area
isn't off limits to me now.

"What are you looking for, Agent?" he asks, as he leans against the door
frame and crosses his arms in front of him.

"I am trying to answer some questions, sir. Some of them are rather
personal in nature," I say. I close the folder in front of me, and fold
my hands on top of it.

"Maybe I can help," he says. He comes into the office but doesn't sit
down across from me. Perhaps that would diminish his position of
authority.

"I don't think so ..." I start to say, but he points to the file.

"Obviously, you have some idea as to what you are looking for," he says.
His eyes do not move from me and I feel like a disobedient school girl
being scolded for smoking in the bathroom.

I can either keep this up or ask. In asking, I will have to reveal
certain things. And I might have to accept answers I don't want to
hear. But I have to know.

"Sir, at the scene ... the crime scene in the Sandia Mountains," I
start and try to figure out my next words.

"Yes?" he asks "Go on with your question."

"Was there any evidence that either Agent Fowley or Agent Mulder were
sexually ... um ... I don't even know what to ask, sir," I say. I
catch him looking away from me quickly, for just a second, before
meeting my eyes again.

"Any evidence of sexual battery?" he asks, filling in words for me.

"Yes. Was any evidence ... anything on either of them or in the area
where they were found?" I ask.

He stands there in silence. Damn it. I knew they weren't telling me
everything and I was too tired to ask back in the hospital. I had so
many other things to worry about then.

"Who else knows?" I ask quietly "And why was it hidden?"

"The only people who would know are the crime scene technicians and the
hospital staff that took care of them in the trauma rooms. After that,
it wasn't to be mentioned again. Agent Fowley showed no signs of any
sexual trauma and there were no traces of semen on her. Agent Mulder . .
."

I put my hand up for him to stop.

"The order for it to be buried came from someone a whole hell of a lot
higher up than me," he says.

"Like a senator?" I ask.

"Yes. Like that. Why is this so important to know now, Agent Scully?
What are you trying to find?" he asks me. I can't believe that they
didn't tell us this earlier. What in the hell went on up on that damn
hill?

"This is important because I'm pregnant. And we don't exactly know when.
Or how. And if someone else had a hand in this," I say, and stop,
cringing at my choice of words. "If someone else did this, orchestrated
this whole thing, I would certainly like to know their purpose."

His eyes scan me closely, looking for any signs that I'm telling the
truth. It is too early for that. He will just have to trust me.

"I will send everything I have to your office at Quantico, Agent Scully.
Will that be sufficient?" he asks, as if that will make up for any of
this.

"For now," is all I say. I get up, fling the useless file of information
I can't even trust now on to Reid's desk and walk past Skinner. "Lock up
on your way out."


 The end


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