There wasn't a moment of the day that she didn't think about their son. When his father
lay there beside her in the bed, like he was doing now, she thought of him; when she passed
a pregnant woman, she thought of him; when she heard a child's playful scream
from across the street, she thought of him. She cried sometimes, when Mulder was gone. She 
didn't like to do it in front of him, though they shared everything else. She didn't like to
show him her pain when it came for William because she always suspected that he blamed her
for giving him up. He had trusted her to keep William safe so that when he returned they
could be a whole family again. And she had rewarded his trust with betrayal, with 
carelessness, with irresponsibility. 

Even if he didn't blame her, which he insisted he didn't, she hated herself for it 
anyway. Mulder hadn't had more than two days to spend with his son before he had to leave
for New Mexico; those two days had to suffice for an entire lifetime of memories, because
Mulder would never see his son again. She had made sure of that by handing him off to 
another family, another home. By giving her baby new parents she had foresworn her claim on
him and Mulder's, too. There was no way to get him back.

She felt his hand on hers and turned her head toward him. He was awake now, smiling at her
with a look of love in his eyes that she had only dreamed of seeing before. There were times
when she believed she would never see it, times when she believed that her love for him, so
strong at times that she thought it might kill her, remained unrequited. It was not like her
to be a hopeless romantic; unrequited love did not sit quite right with her, ever. When 
Mulder came back, when he admitted to the love he had always felt towards her in his heart,
she was speechless. It was as if someone had reached in and ripped her larynx and vocal 
cords from her throat. All her dreams were coming true at once---she had a family, she had
her best friend back, she had his heart. At that time, it seemed like nothing could destroy
her. 

"What are you thinking?" he asked her, intertwining his fingers with hers. 

"What do you mean?"

"It's just that you look very pensive," he replied, kissing her hand. "Is something 
bothering you?"

"No," she sighed. "No, nothing. I was just . . . thinking."

"About what?"

She drew in a deep breath. There was no reason to keep secrets from him. They were all each
other had in the world. "About our son. About how I screwed up."

"You did not 'screw up', Scully," Mulder told her gently. "You saved him. You did the only
thing you could do."

"You wouldn't have done that," she said. "You would have protected him, like a real parent."

"You are a real parent, Scully," Mulder insisted. "You were his *only* parent. What could
you have done? You protected him the only way he could be protected---by getting him as far
away from us as possible. Let's face it, Scully---we're dangerous people. We have bounties
on our heads and we are the furthest thing from a safe home for that baby than anyone has
ever been for a child. They would take him, kill him to get to us. And now he gets to live--
-thanks to you."

"I just wish it didn't have to be that way." Scully's voice trembled with unshed tears and 
she put her head on his chest in a gesture of defeat.

"Me too." Mulder kissed her head, smoothing her hair with his hand and tunneling through it
to massage the nape of her neck. "Me too."



At her new office on the third floor of the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarter Building in 
Washington, Agent Reyes sat calmly as her new *partner*, a young cadet named Kirsten Leigh,
went over the particulars of a double murder that had recently reached the FBI's attention.

"So that's about it," Leigh said, closing the file folder with a sigh. Leigh was completely
green---she had gotten out of the academy only six months ago. She was a nice girl, smart
as a whip with commendations and awards and titles coming out the . . . well, you know . . .
top of her class at the academy, ambitious and eager. Reyes had felt that her body couldn't
physically stand the sugar-shock she felt coming on when she met Leigh, but after spending
a significant amount of time with her was able to admit, to herself and to Doggett, that 
Leigh really had the makings of a wonderful agent.

"Any questions?" Leigh asked, straightening her lapel carefully and brushing invisible lint
off her brand new (expensive-looking) black suit. When she didn't get her partner's 
attention, she called, "Agent Reyes? Monica?" She waved her hand in front of Reyes' face, 
then snapped her fingers a few times before the woman finally responded.

"Yes, that's fine." Reyes stood. "Listen, Leigh, you go follow up on that witness' story---
I'm going to go talk to someone I think can help." She walked towards the door.

From behind her, Leigh called out, "Agent Doggett?"

Reyes turned slowly and looked at the young woman, who smiled at her. 

"It's all right. I don't mind. I know you two worked together, that there's some friendship
there. But this is our case, Agent Reyes. I'd like to keep it that way, if at all possible."

"Yeah," Reyes replied. "Sure." 



Doggett sat in his office pounding the keyboard of his laptop in frustration.

"Anyone ever tell you that things get broken that way?" a familiar voice said behind him.

He turned and saw his old partner standing here. "Monica," he said. 

He rose to greet her and was only slightly taken aback when she ventured to wrap him in her
arms in a friendly embrace. He still wasn't used to the whole touchy-feely aspect of being
Monica Reyes' closest friend, but he was slowly getting used to it, and getting to like it
even quicker.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, smiling. 

"A double homicide, if you're fishing," she replied, sitting down.

"How romantic." He took his seat also and leaned back in his chair with a comfortable 
casualness that he was unable to assume with anyone else, even Agent Scully, with whom he 
had had amicable relations. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Reyes had a way about her
that just made him feel like he could be entirely himself. With Scully he had had to hold
things back, things that would have shocked her or annoyed her, but he felt as though Reyes
accepted him for whatever he was.

"I never said it was romantic," she said. "A husband and wife, killed seperately and 
intentionally by what appears to be one or two assailants."

"Seperately?"

"Yes. The woman was found in her home, her head bleeding and her neck broken, sprawled under
the kitchen table. Authorities that reached the scene first believed that her husband had
done it, but that theory was shot to hell when they found him dead, too."

"Murder-suicide?" Doggett proposed.

"I'm thinking no. They found George Ruskin on the side of the road, slumped over the 
steering wheel of his truck, his neck broken in three places."

"Interesting."

"Isn't it? It gets better."

"Better?" Doggett winced.

"So to speak," she corrected. "Anyway, it turns out that the couple had a son. Only when 
authorities arrived on the scene of the wife's murder, the kid was nowhere to be found."

"Did he run off to escape the murderer?"

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because their son is not yet two years old."

"Then where is he?"

"That's a good question, John," Reyes responded. "Nobody's really asking that. They're just
kind of hoping he'll show up."

"Well, that sounds thorough," Doggett remarked sarcastically.

"That's the point. It's not. Suspiciously not thorough."

"So what's your partner think?" Doggett asked.

"Agent Leigh is concerned about the boy," Reyes replied. "She thinks, and I agree whole-
heartedly, that the kid is the link to all this. The reason he is missing might in fact be
the same reason his parents are dead---perpetrated by the same person or people."

"So you find them and you find the boy."

"Exactly. Or vice versa."

"Okay, that's all fine and dandy, but how do you go about that? Were there any clues, was 
there any evidence left by the perpetrators, or are we going on blind faith here?"

"We?" Reyes raised her eyebrows. "You horning in on my investigation?"

"Well, I'm just twiddlin' my thumbs down here waiting for somebody to reopen the X-Files or
give me another assignment, and since I think the second will happen before the first my
new assignment might as well be with you and Agent Leigh, don't you think?" Doggett stared
at her with a frustrated, penetrating look.

"They're giving you the run-around?" Reyes guessed, putting her hand on his. "I'm sorry 
about that, John. You're a great agent, and there's no reason they should be keeping you
locked up down here."

"Yeah, well, they don't exactly operate on principles of reason around here now do they?"
Doggett said. "You still reporting to Skinner?"

Reyes shook her head. "Nope. Directly to Kersch, the man upstairs." She pointed towards the
ceiling. "They want to keep as tight a watch on me as humanly possible. That's why I don't
trust Agent Leigh as far as I can throw her, although she seems like a harmless, likeable,
capable girl. She plays the perfect Ivy League up-and-coming agent, and I don't doubt that 
her main purpose is to spy on me."

"Spy on you for what? You're off the X-Files. The X-Files are closed, and they'll never be
reopened. You're no threat."

"I know things they don't want me to," Reyes reminded him. "They know that I know these 
things, they know that you do, too. They want to make sure we don't spill."

"If that was the case, then why don't they just kill us and get it over with? Dead men don't
talk, Monica," Doggett reminded her.

"But they need us," Reyes said. "They think we know where Mulder and Scully are, and they'd 
do anything to get that kind of information. They want them. And they'll do anything, endure
anyone, to get them."

"But we *don't* know where they are, not really," Doggett whispered. 

"They can't know that," Reyes whispered back. "That's the only thing keeping us alive---that's
the only card that we have to play. And I think that we need to play it with precision and 
cunning. We need to out-fox them, because if we don't, we're dead, and so are Mulder and 
Scully."

Doggett nodded. "So what's your interest in this case, anyway, Monica?"

"It landed in Agent Leigh's box this afternoon. I didn't really care about it at first---I was
going to let her handle it---but then I saw these." Reyes pushed an envelope marked "CRIME SCENE
PHOTOS: DO NOT BEND" in bold red block-letters. "They're crime scene photos from the husband's
truck and the house where the wife was murdered." As Doggett riffled through the photographs, 
she continued to talk. "There! Look at that truck. See how the door is ripped clean off? We've
already ascertained that the perpetrators did this alone, and probably without many weapons. 
How did they rip the door of a truck like that? That would take a lot of man power, a great deal
of force, like a collision. And there's no reason to it. They could have just opened the door
and killed him." He went through the photographs more, and she stopped him again. "And see that?
Look at all the marks on the front door to the house. And that picture---see how the glass is 
broken into little tiny fragments? There was glass in Elena Ruskin's hair---we're assuming that
she was thrown against the picture and the glass cut her head. That, and the force at which she
hit her head on the linoleum in the kitchen where they found her, would account for the massive
head trauma and bleeding. But do you see all this damage? And the kitchen table? It's splintered
to pieces! What kind of build and musculature must a person have to create this kind of chaos?"

"You're thinking that it was the super-soldiers?" Doggett asked.

Reyes nodded slowly. "We've already noticed that they can't control their own strength, nor do
they try. They must have barrelled into the house and grabbed the kid, simply throwing anything
that got in their way."

"But you said Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin died from broken necks?"

"That's another thing. Mrs. Ruskin was seriously injured from the abuse she received from the 
perps, but she didn't die from that. Do you know how much brute force is needed to snap a human
neck cleanly like that? The process must be so swift and so precise that another human being 
doesn't seem to have the power to do it. Any neck-breaking murders have been done using an 
outside weapon---rope, or a heavy blunt object of some sort. I have *never* come across a case
during my years at the Bureau where a person was murdered by another human being simply by having
their neck snapped in two."

"Have you said anything to Agent Leigh about all this?"

"About super-soldiers? I haven't told a soul about them, John, you know that I would never do that,"
Reyes replied.

"Right. She can't be trusted. Okay, so what do you propose? That we head out there to see what we 
can see?"

Reyes smiled. "Exactly."



"You're leaving?"

"Agent Doggett and I are going to head up the FBI investigation into this double murder," Reyes
explained, packing some file folders in her briefcase.

Leigh shook her head in disbelief. "I'm sorry, I must have heard this wrong---did you say you and
Agent *Doggett* are going to  head the investigation up? I'm sorry, Agent Reyes, but since when
does Agent Doggett have anything at all to do with this case?"

"Since I enlisted his help this afternoon, which you gave me your full blessing to do," Reyes
replied. "Not that I needed it."

"Of course not. But when you left I thought you meant to ask some advice from him, not get him 
involved in the case entirely," Leigh argued. "Where's my place in all this?"

"You stay here and see if anything new develops in the autopsies at Quantico," Reyes replied.
"I'll keep in touch."

"This is ridiculous. This is my case too, Monica!" she cried as Reyes walked out of the office. 
"Agent Reyes!"



They rolled out of bed around noon. They slept late all the time now because they didn't know 
what else to do. Sometimes they ventured out of the small apartment into Roswell proper, 
visiting small shops filled to the door with alien merchandise and paraphenalia. Their 
favorite place in the town was a small cafe called Roz's. The proprietor, Roz, had been friendly
enough without asking too many questions and gained Scully's trust over the past year. That 
was why, when the numbers in their checkbook began to grow steadily and steadily towards zero,
Scully had sacrificed her dignity to ask Roz for a waitressing job with only minimal embarassment.

Recognizing immediately that Scully wasn't the waitressing type, Roz pressed her until she 
admitted that she had a medical degree. Roz had smiled in a knowing way and directed her towards
the offices of Dr. Martinsburg, the local coroner. Mulder had been worried about her taking a
job that was even closely related to her previous employment, but Scully assuaged him by saying
that it would put them in a position to gain access to local death reports. Besides, they weren't
using their real names anyway. They were, officially, Albert and Nadine Cody, and her presence
at the coroner's office shouldn't raise any suspicions.

Scully had found Dr. Martinsburg easy to work with. She didn't mind doing autopsies and he rather
hated the job. She once asked him playfully how he got into the business. He smiled and shrugged
at her, saying only:

"A lot of people die in Roswell. I guess I just fell into it."

Dr. Martinsburg couldn't afford to hire her full-time, so she only came into the office three to
four times a week. She stayed late and came early without pay, if only to have something to do. 
She found the work at the Roswell coroner's office oddly fulfilling; she enjoyed looking for
something nobody suspected, even if her investigations yielded nothing. She found herself
yearning for the good old days at the Bureau again. Although she would never for the world give
up her relationship with Mulder as it was now, she couldn't help but look back on their first 
years with affection and nostalgia. 

This morning was one of her days off. As Mulder showered, Scully began to write in her journal. 
She did this almost every time that she was apart from Mulder, which was not very often. It was
usually short, abbreviated sentences about her life and how she was feeling. She didn't want 
Mulder to see it. Some of the entries were to embarassing for even him to read. They were her 
lifelong fantasies---wedding plans and children's names---that would never come true, as far as
things were going. Although they shared the same phony last name, they still weren't married, 
and as much as she had faith in Mulder's love for her, she didn't believe they ever would be.
Mulder just wasn't the "marriage type", as he had explained to her when they spoke of Roz's 
impending marriage to a Roswell grocery store owner.

"I never really understood why people get married at all," he had said in a moment of 
insensitivity. "I mean, look at my parents---they lost their daughter and split up---like doing
that would make the experience any less painful for either of them, or for me. Marriage is 
archaic and it doesn't work. I'm so glad I'm not the marriage type."

At the time Scully had dismissed the comments as thoughtless due to all the alcohol he had 
consumed that evening, but lately she had been thinking more and more about what he had said
and it made her want to break down. Ever since she was little she had known exactly what her
wedding would look like. She had planned the music, the food, the color of the bridesmaids'
dresses (amongst a host of other minute details) and she had wanted to live out those dreams.
The FBI and her love for Mulder had gotten in her way, but sometimes she wondered what her 
life would have been like had she decided to practice medicine instead of pursuing an ambitious
career.

The smell of soap and flesh made her close the book instinctively. Mulder was near her, she
knew it without turning around. He wrapped his arms around her suddenly and kissed her cheek
roughly. "Good morning," he whispered huskily in her ear.

"Good morning," she returned, lifting her head to give him a kiss. Then she nuzzled her 
forehead in the niche between his chin and his chest, fitting into him like a puzzle piece. 

"What were you writing in there?" he asked.

"Nothing," she lied. "What are we going to do today?"

"Scully, I'm serious. I always see you writing little sentences in there when you think I'm
not paying attention," Mulder said. There was a twinge of insecurity in his voice. A phrase
from another time echoed harshly in her ear:

*"You've been spying on me from the beginning, Scully, taking your little notes . . . !"*

She shook her head to clear the memory and looked him in the eyes. "Mulder, I'm not hiding
anything from you. I would never do that."

He settled on the bed and began to remove the towel around his waist to slip into some
boxers. "Yeah, I know. I trust you, Scully. I just---"

"I know." She sat down next to him on the bed and took his head to her chest, stroking his 
hair softly. "I know."

The telephone blared from the desk on the other side of the room. Mulder rose to get it and
Scully lay back on the bed, crossing her hands over her stomach and closing her eyes to let
everything wash over her. 

*"Am I to understand that you want me to *debunk* the X-Files project?"*

The memories were so vivid, so present to her. She remembered the first time she ever saw 
Mulder, before they had ever met through the X-Files. He was at the FBI gym, running around
the track. She pointed him out to another agent who had graduated from the academy with her 
and asked his name.

*"Oh, him?" the man had scoffed. "That's Old Spooky."

"Spooky Mulder?" she asked.

"Yeah, he comes around here about this time every day. Doesn't speak to anyone. Real loner
that guy is. I guess that's why they've got him stuck down in the basement."

"Basement?"

"Yeah." The man smiled. "He works on the X-Files now, and they've got him tucked away in an
office down in the basement. You should go visit him sometime---I've heard he throws great
parties."

She smiled at him, but inwardly scowled at his arrogance. "What are the X-Files?"

"Unsolved mysteries," he shrugged. "Stuff having to do with the 'paranormal'. You've gotta
be a real whack-job to head that one up, but I guess it's right up Old Spooky's alley, huh?"

"I guess so," she had answered. "Thanks, Scott."

"No problem, Dana. See you around."*

She continued to stare at Mulder for a while longer, appreciating his slender, carefully
crafted physique. He was one of the most attractive men she had ever layed eyes on, she could
certainly admit to that, but there had been something about him that, even then, had led 
her to believe that he was worthy of her respect and admiration. She had no idea how true that
would be.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention to Mulder's side of the conversation in progress. He was
mostly silent, nodding and "mmmmhmmm"-ing as the person on the other line, a faintly audible
hum, talked. When they took a breath, he interjected, "How do you know?" The question launched
the person on the other end into a lengthy explaination, during which Scully sat at attention
and strained to listen as best she could. The words "FBI" and "murder" were distinct, but the
rest was gibberish, to her increasing irritation. She just wished Mulder would get off the phone
and let her know what was going on. 
 
"Okay. We'll be there as soon we can."

Mulder hung up and hovered over the phone for a moment, as if he expected it to ring again.
When he was satisfied that it wouldn't, he turned around slowly and looked at her with the
strangest look on his face.

"Mulder, what is it? Mulder?" 

End of Chapter 1---continued Chapter 2