TITLE: The Great Beyond AUTHOR: Buckingham E-MAIL: buckingham15@yahoo.com CLASSIFICATION: M/S, AU SPOILERS: up through the end of S8 SUMMARY: A few days in Mulder's new life DISCLAIMER: I have no rights to these characters. I'm not so sure CC, 1013, and FOX should either, but the law's on their side. NOTES at end For Michelle, whose patience, kindess, and honesty are invaluable, and who misses Mulder as much as I do. The Great Beyond by Buckingham ****** He doesn't know where on earth he is, if he's on earth at all, but he keeps running anyway. There is a roar in the distance, tinny and faraway, like an approaching train, but when he looks up, all he can see are bright, flashing lights, too pure for a U.F.O. He doesn't think as he slides across the ground, stomach scraping dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust and sweat. Momentum gives way when his fingertips scratch against solid, white plastic, and he lies still, breathing in sod, chalk, and salt. The umpire, stocky and red-faced, gets ready to make his call, but Mulder is distracted by a woman in the stands, swaying on her feet and holding what looks like a birthday cake, its top thick with chocolate frosting and glazed cherries that blister under the hot arcs of light. She waves her free hand in a fury, a twitchy, white blur, and Mulder recognizes her, Scully's mother trying desperately to get his attention. He struggles to make eye contact, but there is sweat dripping down his forehead and one of his fingers feels like it's jammed and the umpire is screaming and spitting in his face. Mrs. Scully opens her mouth to speak, to tell Mulder this thing he suddenly realizes he *has* to know, but a thin, choppy wail drowns everything out -- Maggie, the umpire, the crowd's rumble and roar -- and the baseball stadium falls away, leaving Mulder failing on his stomach in a tangle of warm sheets. He opens one sticky eye, and tries to remember again where the hell he is, what he's supposed to be doing. There are dim patches of blue light here and there, and his face is smashed into a pillow, the fabric damp and glazed where he has drooled or bitten it. He lifts his head, opening his other eye, and receives enlightenment from the small, still form beside him, lost in the oversized comforter, with bright tiger hair, messy and soft, bursting over its edge. His dream still lingers, in bits and pieces, but Mulder remembers where he is. Scully sleeps on beside him -- like the dead, he thinks perversely -- and the silence is broken again by a low, steady whine. He checks the alarm clock as he pushes himself out of bed, and it comes as no surprise that it's already after four. He vaguely remembers Scully getting up an hour or so ago, the mattress rippling in ocean-like waves as she climbed out and he watched her move across the room with half-closed eyes. She was so quiet and calm, but her eyes were wide and alert as she settled herself in the chair by the window, where a stream of ghost-white moonlight made her look like she was from another world. She rocked gently and hummed under her breath, and he fell back to sleep listening to her husky voice making up a song all its own. There's no sense waking Scully now if she hasn't roused herself -- she always senses a cry for food and wakes herself before Mulder can even roll over. This crying now, low and broken, is for something else, something that doesn't require her specific attention, so she barely stirs, only her hand moving across the mattress and searching in Mulder's direction as he crawls to the foot of the bed. In his bassinet, the baby scowls, his tiny face scrunched and red as he continues to cry and shake his fists. It's no secret that William bears a fairly strong resemblance to his father, and Mulder wonders if he ever looks like that himself, wears that same pouty, outraged expression when he wants something badly enough. He reaches out for William, carefully pulling the baby against his shoulder. "Shh, shh. Come on, big guy," Mulder whispers, patting William's back. "Your mom needs some sleep." When he closes the door behind them, Scully hasn't moved, still burrowed under the comforter like she's hibernating a long, cold winter away. ****** The baby is a sucker for music, and has rather eclectic tastes, everything from classical piano concertos to twangy country sob stories. He seems to prefer live renditions to recorded stuff so Scully's apartment often echoes with off-key droning, singing-in-the-shower-only voices trying to fake their way through. Mulder doesn't know any real lullabies himself, so William is treated to loose renditions of Eagles, Doors, and Fleetwood Mac tunes. "Go Your Own Way" seems to be his favorite, though Scully always protests, a tiny furrow forming between her brows as she complains that it doesn't seem appropriate to rock a baby to sleep with such a bitter song. So in typical Mulder-fashion, he delights in the fact that the baby usually falls asleep before the second verse, though Mulder still hams it up when he gets to the "Packing up, shacking up's all you wanna do" line for Scully's benefit. Tonight he massacres "Hotel California" as he and the baby walk the hall. His voice is rough and hoarse from sleep, but William doesn't seem to mind, curled up against Mulder's chest, soft and warm, snuffling quietly now that he's being held. Scully's former guest bedroom has been converted into a nursery for William, simply done, but clean and bright, as Mulder imagines any baby's room should be. The walls are still the pale blue they were when the room held Scully's spare bed, but now there are neat white stars stenciled across the top and bottom of the walls, painted by Mrs. Scully's careful hand. One afternoon when Mulder stopped by to visit, he passed by the room to find that the stars had bloomed there, not gaseous and shining, but warming the room anyway. He wonders if the stars were Scully's idea or her mother's but still hasn't asked, hasn't pursued the mystery that far. In the far corner by the window, there is a crib, made of sturdy light pine, that William has yet to sleep in it. Both Mulder and Scully have felt better having the baby in the same room with them, just steps away from the foot of the bed, where his every cry, sniffle, and coo can be observed, cataloged in memory. Neither one of them will admit that they're still afraid, that they still listen for footsteps in the darkness, watch for lights outside the window, wait for the doorknob to rattle when the rest of the world has gone silent. Without a baby to sleep in it, the crib is piled high with stuffed animals, teddy bears and fluffy, oversized puppy dogs from friends and family to welcome William to the world. There is also a mobile hanging over the crib, a large plush baseball dangling in the center, surrounded by a handful of small bats, that plays "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" over and over again when it's wound up. This was one of Mulder's few contribution to the room's decor, and he's rather proud of it, looking forward to when the baby actually sleeps under it, falls asleep to the corny strains of an American classic. Mulder stirs the bats as he passes the crib, and for a moment he remembers his dream, that the umpire's eyes were black -- black and dead. He contemplates that for a moment before William whines again in his ear. "Okay, buddy, we're almost there," he murmurs, and sets the baby down on the changing table, gingerly unbuttoning the tiny snaps that close his pajamas. It frightens Mulder sometimes, how good he's gotten at this. When William first came home, diapers were just another mystery to confront, like psychokinesis or spontaneous human combustion or how Scully is able to put on lipstick perfectly while driving through rush hour traffic. For one thing, the tabs confused the hell out of him, and he always seemed to use too much powder. The diapers would come loose and slide down William's chubby legs in a burst of white dust, so he watched Scully perform the task over a dozen times, and finally it all came together, like a math problem he'd been hammering away at for a while. He's some kind of pro now, getting the kid clean, dry, and freshly diapered in just about two minutes. He wonders what the gossip hounds at Hoover would think of this, Spooky Mulder diaper-changing expert. Forget aliens and vampires -- Fox Mulder has demystified the age-old Pampers vs. Huggies dilemma. ****** The living room is dark, but there is silvery white moonlight from the window that renders everything smooth as pearl. Mulder brings the baby into the light, and looks down at his son, slumped warmly in his arms. His own skin seems so dark and rough, like weathered leather, compared to William's soft pink baby skin. On impulse, Mulder leans down to kiss the baby, a light touch on his smooth cheek, but William howls in indignation. "Hey, come on," Mulder soothes. He rubs gentle circles on the baby's back. "My breath can't be that bad." Mulder tries to persuade the baby with a gentle, careful rocking motion, a little flat humming, and William gives in (it surprises him sometimes how reasonable his son seems to be, but then maybe it shouldn't. He can only hope the kid inherited Scullers temperament.), thin eyelids, pale and translucent like tissue paper, fluttering, small, delicate fingers uncurling from their fists. He cradles the baby's head in his palm, and marvels again at how small it is. In his years with the Bureau, he often saw the skulls of children, the bone smooth, almost polished sometimes, so intellectually, Mulder has that knowledge, that a baby's head could fit in his hand like a large softball. It's strange to actually feel it though, soft downy hair tickling his skin as he slides his hand around the back of William's head. He pushes back the curtains, and stares down at the empty street, the long stretch of glittering sidewalk and neat row houses. A car appears, and slowly makes its way down the road, headlights bright and sweeping as it eases across the blacktop, someone already up and out at four a.m. The world doesn't stop for the middle of the night, he knows. He is well acquainted with the wee hours of the morning, moving through them quietly and carefully while everyone around him slept, dreamed new lives without guilt. It never bothered him because he was too busy hunting monsters, uncovering secrets, saving lives. At the window, waiting for dawn, there's just one small person whose needs he's answering, one corner of the world that he's trying to keep safe. He tells himself that he's simply narrowed his focus, but that doesn't seem entirely honest. "You know," a soft, slightly rough voice says from the shadows. "I think he likes you better than me." Scully steps forward into the bright path of the moon, and smiles, looking like she's come fresh from a dream herself. She is white and pink in the pearly light, soft and rounded in silky pajamas. Mulder smiles. "You've just walked in on some male bonding, Scully. That's all." He pats William's bottom. "He was telling me who his favorite SI swimsuit cover girl is. He seems to prefer Kathy Ireland, while I'm more of an Elle McPherson fan myself." She laughs, short but sweet, and shakes her head, a gesture he still remembers from the basement, her hair swinging in that musty office. He takes a ridiculous amount of pride in making her smile these days, though if he admits it to himself, he's always gotten off on seeing Scully happy, laughing and bright-eyed. Now he also takes pride in soothing the baby, as if it says something about the quality of his character that often he's the only one who can get William to stop fussing, even when Scully herself is ready to give up. He doesn't think she ever imagined he'd be skilled that way, never imagined it himself. "Is he asleep?" she asks. Her warm hand presses against Mulder's back as she peers down at their son. "Don't want to jinx it, but it would appear so." Scully lays her head on his free shoulder, and the universe contracts for a moment, the window in front of him no longer showing him the outside world but simply their reflection, smooth and shiny. "Thanks for getting up with him. I feel like my head just hit the pillow a minute ago." "Well, there's only so much I can do for him," he smiles, eyeing her breasts for a moment as they strain against the buttons of her pajama top. "I like to help out when I can." "He shouldn't be hungry for another couple of hours." Scully yawns gracelessly, but covers her mouth as an afterthought. "We should try to get some sleep." He follows her back to the bedroom, and watches silently as she straightens blankets and fluffs pillows. Scully lies down, and finally he moves, settling William in his bassinet, trying not to jiggle him too much. The baby doesn't even stir as Mulder lets him go, so he bends down to kiss his son's velvety forehead, smoothing peach-fuzz hair flat against his head before backing away. He crawls into bed knowing that Scully has been watching the entire time. She lies flat on her back, propped up by a mound of pillows, but her smile blazes in the darkness. She gets shy when he studies her too closely, and lowers her head, plucks at the blanket across her lap. "Hey," he whispers, sliding closer across the bed. "Want me to throw you over my shoulder and rock you to sleep too?" Neither of them laugh, though that is what he intends. With her serious, blue-flame eyes and shy, crooked smile, she looks like a woman who has gotten everything she ever wanted. He thumbs her cheek, her eyes lifting to his, and feels a coil of guilt unwind in his gut. Scully doesn't say anything, just presses her face into the curve of his neck and rubs her lips, dry and warm, against his collar bone, again and again. "Come on," he murmurs. "Get some sleep." ****** When he wakes, groggy and stiff, the bedroom is empty, blinds drawn to close it off from anxious sunlight and zippy bird songs. It is like some underwater grotto, indigoed and quiet, with cool, rolling shadows that press weightlessly against his skin. He feels himself closed off from the rest of the world, where all is bright and shrill, but still his hand reaches across to pat the cool blankets for confirmation. Seeing isn't always believing, Mulder knows too well, but he is definitely alone in bed. Pinching the bridge of his nose pushes the feeling to the back of his maze-like brain with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. He'll try to find it later, and get detoured a handful of times for his trouble. But he checks the alarm clock, agrees that it must be after nine, and stretches, toes flexing against soft sheets. A year ago, he never would have been in bed this late. He rose with the sun then, always in hurry to get to the basement, to go one more round with Scully in their intellectual sparring match, to find another mutant before lunch. He couldn't agree with clocks then because they always seemed to be running ahead, ticking away faster than his heart could keep up. Now, when he opens his eyes, the world is limping along, molasses slow, and if it wasn't for the baby, he'd probably stay in bed longer, maybe drowse until noon, like he did back in college when his only responsibility was keeping his mind open to the powers of higher education, when he drank hard and read long into the night. It comes as no surprise that Scully still has the internal clock of the gainfully employed, and Mulder knows that even if William weren't around to crow at dawn, she'd be up, eating her bran flakes and reading the newspaper in time to see the garbage trucks rumbling down the street like a circus parade. There is an ache in his arm, cold and tight, as he stumbles to the bathroom. He remembers that he could sometimes feel rain coming by the soreness in his shoulder, a gift for forecasting courtesy of Scully's perfect aim, but it's probably just a knot from carting William around, rocking the baby to sleep in his clumsy, full-armed way. In the shower, under a stream of barely tolerable hot water, he washes himself briskly, trying to shed a layer of cells, find something new and raw and alive underneath. His skin glows blotchy and pink when he rubs away the steam from the mirror and studies himself. He doesn't bother to shave, though he isn't so far gone that he neglects to brush his teeth. Flosses too, with waxy, minty string until his gums bleed. Someone's in the kitchen with Scully, he thinks as he dresses. Silverware chimes against plates and water sprays from the faucet in an angry hiss. Through the closed bedroom door, Scully's distinct alto, cool and clean, also carries from the kitchen, followed by bright bursts of laughter, that deep, belly laugh that only William seems capable of inspiring on a regular basis. There is another voice too, hesitantly cheerful, as if selecting its words with great care, that fills in the silent gaps. Like he's trying to crack a case, Mulder analyzes the cadence and pitch, searching for clues. Female, he decides after just a snippet of conversation, in her forties, maybe fifties. His mind goes blank after that, tightly coiled and frenzied, so he busies himself making the bed, trying to nail down the corners in the same neat, sharp way that is Scully's trademark. His signature is apparently lumpy corners and a top sheet that dusts the floor all the way around. And while Scully likes to alternate throw pillows blue, white, blue, white, Mulder thinks blue on each end, two white in the middle is the way to go. He throws the last pillow at the bed, sloppy and hurried, like tossing a basketball with his eyes closed. ****** At the kitchen table, Scully sits with her mother, sipping tea and smiling dreamlike in the clean, muted light. Her mother holds William, rocking him gently and cooing like a bird. "Good morning, Fox," Mrs. Scully says when she sees him, with a coolness in her voice that conveys the absolute formality of her greeting. "Good morning, Mrs. Scully. How are you?" "I'm fine, thank you," she tells him, distracted by William's pumping fists. "Isn't that right, sweetie?" Mulder's shoulder throbs again for some odd reason, and all he can think about is finding his running shoes and ducking out for a good, long jog. He wonders if that's allowed, if he should ask permission, but doesn't bother to find out, sitting down beside Mrs. Scully without glancing at the front door once. Since his return, he's wondered more than once what Scully has told her mother about their relationship, if she's told her anything at all. Maggie Scully is not a stupid woman though, so even if Scully hasn't confided the details, played confessional with her mother, the fact that she has recently given birth to his child and has shared a bedroom with him for over a month now probably tells Maggie all she needs to know. Still, he sees the questions in her eyes, almost like tears, as the three of them sit at the table and smile over William. It feels like an interrogation, just to be sitting there with her, like he's back in high school, taking a girl out for the first time and having to pass her parents' inspection. She's probably thrown off track by the fact that Mulder still has an apartment of his own in Arlington, which he goes back to once in a while to migrate a few more of his belongings over to Scully's place (by his calculation, three more trips should complete the transaction, save for major appliances and furniture), but then, most people outside of Mulder and Scully's circle of two would be confused by that. By now, they have both grown so accustomed to the idiosyncrasies and dysfunctions of their relationship that nothing seems out of the ordinary any more -- not the fact that they technically maintain separate residences, not the fact that Mulder has gone to the ends of the earth to save her but still waited seven years to really kiss her, not the fact that he shook off death to return to her and the baby but didn't feel comfortable assuming the role of daddy right away, not the fact that they have a child together but haven't even broached the subject of marriage. It makes a strange kind of cosmic sense to them, and them alone. He watches as William's tiny fingers curl around Maggie's thumb, and she pulls back a little, teasing the baby. Mulder can't see William's face, but pictures his wide eyes, the small, round mouth opening and closing like a fish. Scully slides closer, until she's almost in Mulder's chair with him, and leans over to stroke the baby's cheek. William wiggles in Maggie's arms, and Scully laughs, ringing in her seat like wind chimes, vibrating against Mulder. Her tight blue sweater feels as soft as the fuzzy skin of a peach against his arm. For a moment, sitting beside her mother, he thinks about peeling it away and tasting her, sharp and sweet, but he knows that's probably not going to happen anytime soon. It's been the recommended six weeks since William was born, but given Scully's birthing experience, he doesn't have the guts to bring it up. It doesn't even feel like a real option anymore. Since the last time they touched one another, he was abducted, Scully got a new partner, he spent three months in the ground, and William made his grand entrance -- they only look like those people they were in that brief period when the physical was an actual possibility, when Mulder could throw back the blankets on his bed in the morning and think, "I could be inside Scully at some point today." He'd cut off his right arm to touch her like that again, to relive one of those bright, hot moments when his body spoke for him, more articulate than his jittery mind was capable of. He'd only told her that he loved her once, in a psychopharmceutical haze, but she knew when he held himself inside her, barely moving, and met her eyes -- she knew just as surely as she did when he agreed to father her child, to give her what she wanted most in the world. And in the end, it was how he gave that to her as well, how he opened her world to the most stunning miracle. The pressure builds as he sits at the breakfast table with Scully and her mother, but still he won't say anything, won't ask anything that might make her uncomfortable. "Do you want some coffee, Mulder?" Scully is asking. She rises from her seat, grabbing Mulder's usual dark blue mug from the table where she probably set it out to wait for him. "Sit," Mulder tells her softly. "I'll get it myself." He takes the mug from her, and dangles it from his long finger by the handle, pretending for a moment that it's about to slip free, just to make Scully smile. She does, faintly, before turning back to her mother and son. ****** From the counter, he can hear Maggie cooing to William again, soft, unintelligible sounds, like someone whispering secrets in a foreign language. The coffee is fresh, still hot, and he pours with care, only spilling a couple of drops when he feels a warm hand on his back. Scully materializes beside him, passing the milk and holding out a spoon. "Why didn't you wake me?" he whispers, conspiratorially, as if they still live in the basement and every word between them is grave and urgent. "Or tell me that your mother was coming over?" She pats his back, fingers spread wide like she wants to hold all of him in her palm, and smiles. "You were down for the count, Mulder. I don't think I could have woke you if I tried. God knows William couldn't. And..." She turns quickly to check that her mother is still too consumed with the baby to overhear, then flashes a coy grin. "I like to keep you on your toes." Her fingers take a quick detour to the waistband of his jeans before she drops her hand to her side. Mulder smirks, banging the spoon against his mug like he's sounding a bell in the cool kitchen. "Thanks for the coffee, *honey*." Scully smiles as she tears open the top of the milk carton, and flattens it. "We need to get more milk today," she says, empty cardboard tossed into the trash from four feet away. "And Tide." Mulder nods, the coffee hot against the inside of his mouth as he swishes it around mouthwash style. "I swear, he looks just like you did at this age, Dana," Maggie finally chimes in, and both Mulder and Scully turn to watch her making silly faces at the baby, her eyes squinted and mouth opened wide like she's about to get a filling. "Most babies bear a certain resemblance to one another when they're only seven weeks old," Scully says flatly, but Mulder sees her smile with barely concealed pride. "Besides, I'm not sure the Scullys can lay claim to this." She leans over her mother's shoulder and taps the baby's nose. Mulder smiles over the rim of his mug, taking a long sip, as both Scully and her mother watch him carefully. "It gives him character," he says mock-defensively, his warm, coffee-scented breath blowing back in his own face. "I'm telling you, he was the best looking kid in that doctor's waiting room the other day. Hands down." Across the table, Scully's eyes spark, bright and wet behind serene blue. She sits down again, and reaches out one neatly manicured finger, polished baby-skin pink, for William to grasp onto. The baby begins to make happy little sounds, not laughter but a precursor to that. Maggie hands him off to Scully with an ease that comes from years of experience with grandchildren. "So what do you three have planned for today?" she asks, playing with her tea cup and saucer, drawing slow circles inside the delicate china with her spoon. "William has a very busy day planned," Scully says, cradling the baby in her arms and watching him as his eyes follow a beam of dancing light. "Lots of eating and sleeping to be done." "Dana," Maggie sighs, impatient. "You know what I meant. Do you have any appointments you have to keep? Places you have to be?" Maggie's eyes dart quickly to Mulder, as he sits himself slowly at the table again. She doesn't watch him for too long, as if she feels it isn't appropriate or maybe just too pointed a gesture. For years, Mulder failed to meet Maggie Scully's standards for proper company for her daughter; certainly, he didn't meet the criteria as a suitable candidate for fathering her miracle grandson. He is moody, reckless, and invites danger like a dirty mutt attracts fleas. He is hapless and hopeless. He isn't Catholic, doesn't adhere to any organized religious tenets. He is prone to near-death experiences, even had one very real death experience. He's anti-social and too smart for his own good. Maggie has always held him at arm's length, admiring his furious devotion to her daughter but afraid of it at the same time, at what it might mean for her baby girl, how it might shape her future. He's always had two strikes against him, and it seems both he and Maggie have been waiting all along to see exactly how he'd go down swinging. It almost comes as a disappointment that he's done in by something so ridiculously mundane. You just don't win most eligible bachelor titles while unemployed, without a visible means of supporting your family. It's a practical concern for Maggie, and he's looked at it that way himself, all bank accounts and health insurance forms. He's also taken the time to examine it selfishly, in more personal terms. At what it means for his sense of self, as the psychologist in him might assert. Either way, under pragmatism's cold light or ego-centered and indulgent, it doesn't look good. Mrs. Scully doesn't know about the nest egg he's got in the bank, though. Enough money left from his parents for he and Scully and the kid to get by for a while, until they figure out what comes next. He's always thought of it as rainy day money, to cover another confrontation with mortality, another trek to Antarctica, maybe even bail. He imagined a deluge, a downpour. He never considered the possibility of a steady, persistent drizzle. Maggie is coughing, dry and bored, to break the silence, but Scully just busies herself with the snaps on William's onesie, and Mulder fiddles with a plastic rattle laying on the table. "Well, Fox," Maggie announces, turning toward Mulder. "If you don't have any plans, would you mind if I took Dana to lunch, maybe out for a little shopping?" She looks at Scully, smiling tightly, with lots of teeth but nervous eyes. "You should get out for a while, honey. You haven't really been out without William since he was born." In her seat, Scully squirms, almost imperceptibly, but Mulder catches it. He knows Scully would rather spend the day in the usual way, curled up on the couch with Mulder and William, the television playing quietly as she feeds the baby, listens to Mulder explain some ridiculous soap opera plot to him in the same tone used to narrate winsome slide shows, tragic tales of lost love and haunted Christmas houses. Napping together, elbows in ribs, toes pressed to thighs, when William is quiet. "I think that's a good idea, Mrs. Scully." Mulder smiles at her. "We're starting to get sick of her around here anyway." Scully studies him, flashing telepathic messages. *What the hell are you doing?* *Trust me* he stares back. William is a tight bundle against her chest, and Scully tilts her head, nodding finally, her mouth a tight, even line. "Just lunch, Mom," she relents. "I'm really tired, and William will get hungry if we're gone too long." Maggie's head bobs, lips curling in satisfaction, and Scully sighs. The connection between mother and son is fierce, real as any umbilical cord, as William starts fussing in Scully's arms, mewling with ire, as if he senses his mother's attitude. Moved, Mulder reaches for his son, and Scully looks up with such open tenderness that he is taken aback, smashed to pieces in a kitchen chair. "I'll put him down," Mulder tells her, and she nods. ****** In the bedroom, he zigzags with William, from the foot of the bed to the window to the closet to just inside the bathroom and back to the bed. The baby becomes heavy and still in his arms before Mulder has to resort to song, and through the open door, he can hear Maggie and Scully again, talking at the table. "Fox is good with William," Maggie is saying quietly, her voice sounding like it has to squeeze the words out from some place deep inside her. "Your father was always so afraid that he'd break you all when you were that young." "Yes," Scully murmurs, and he has to strain to hear, perched in the doorway to catch her mellowed tone. "Mulder is wonderful with him." She sounds like she's still half-asleep, like she's still whispering secrets into the darkness, barely aware that she's letting them slip away unguarded, and it makes him feel slightly uneasy, pressure building like a headache. Failure isn't an option, half-assed attention when he's in the mood isn't going to cut it, not when Scully is speaking with dreams in her voice, with perpetually damp eyes and a half-smile. William is sound asleep, so Mulder sets him down in the bassinet, and sits on the edge of the bed, where he can watch the baby sleep for a little while, counting toe wiggles and baby snores. Sometime later, he's not sure how long, Scully comes in to tell him that she and her mother are leaving ("We'll only be gone for a couple of hours," she is sure to assert). She bends down over the bassinet to kiss William's warm forehead, then turns to Mulder. He tilts his head back, anticipating her kiss. ****** The baby sleeps, the apartment is empty, and Mulder doesn't know what to do with himself. He's read the newspaper cover to cover, even the personal ads, which left him more disturbed than amused, checked his e-mail three times, and skimmed a couple of chapters in a book on cryptozoology that Frohike gave him just after he left the Bureau, telling Mulder that now that he had so much free time on his hands, he should catch up on his reading. Mulder smiled back tolerantly, biting his tongue and flipping through the crisp pages. The book is interesting, and in the first fifty pages alone, Mulder has made connections to several creatures he came across on the X-Files, mythical beasts he spent hours debating with Scully in rental cars and diners. For a moment, he forgot himself, and was about to call her cell phone, tell her that they should check out the Big Blue file again, compare it with some of the new information he'd come across. He already had them booked on a flight to Georgia in his head, remembered the name of a paleontologist at the Smithsonian he could ask to tag along, help dredge the lake for evidence. He reached for the phone, but saw a pair of pure white baby socks laying across the arm of the sofa. The book closed with a thud, its spin barely broken in. He walks aimlessly around the apartment, inventorying the items in Scully's possession that surprise him: a half-empty bottle of tequila in the back of a kitchen cabinet, a collection of stacked plastic pots of glossy lipstick, all bright, glittery colors that he's never seen her wear, a short black sundress with thin spaghetti straps and a low, teasing back, the Baseball Encyclopedia, brand new and tucked onto the top shelf of her bookcase, Madonna's "Like a Virgin" CD, a tarnished mood ring that is a murky gray-green color when he warms it against his skin, and a Black Dog T-shirt, a faded, many-times washed blue, that he brought her from the Vineyard once, but that he'd never seen her wear, not once in five years, and he'd assumed she'd gotten rid of. Scully is still full of surprises. Somehow, this comforts him, allows him to believe that maybe his odd, worn belongings aren't totally out of place in her apartment. Their books can peacefully coexist, her pristine couch doesn't seem to mind his basketball, scuffed and losing air, and even her wine glasses seem happy enough with his Scooby and Shaggy juice glasses. He and Scully share a wonderfully cluttered, incongruous existence. Very cluttered, he thinks as he trips over his running shoes and stubs his toe on William's car seat where it sits in front of the fireplace. They should buy a house, rent a bigger apartment. They should get married, or at least get engaged. They should have sex, or maybe just talk wistfully about all the sex they'll have when Scully is feeling up to it and William cooperates. They should decide what they're doing when Scully's maternity leave is up -- they can't both be housewives. Neither of them is really cut out for domestic engineering, he thinks, but they don't talk about that, not even at night with the lights gone out, when they don't have to meet one another's gaze. ****** On the mantel, Scully has lined up the cards that have come in, all in a neat row. They're colored with shades of blue, uniformly pastel, and have bottles, rattles, and ruby-cheeked cherub babies sketched on them. Most are from people he's never heard of, and, he suspects, people that Scully hasn't heard from in quite some time. But still, she has them on display, looking out across the living room cheerfully, like blue ribbons from a fair. Not a single one of these cards has Mulder's name written inside, is meant for him, but then he can hardly be upset about that since neither he nor Scully made his place in William's life common knowledge before his birth, and even as William hits seven weeks old mark, they haven't sent out birth announcements proclaiming his paternity for anyone who might be interested. He imagines that would be a significant number. Even the Gunmen have tiptoed carefully around the subject, Frohike addressing his card to the baby himself, and Langly and Byers leaving out a greeting all together, just well wishes and their names scratched out in neon green and black ink respectively. They are a family though, and would be even if William had turned out to be some Frankensteinian Superbaby, with x-ray vision and the power to heal in his touch. Mulder doesn't feel the need to formally declare it to the world, like some sort of proof of his virility or his value as a human being. It might make things easier, though. It might stop anyone from questioning his place. One rainy Tuesday, just weeks ago, Skinner stopped by to visit, bringing Scully flowers and William his fifth teddy bear. The baby fussed, spitting up and whimpering, so Scully took him into the kitchen, sparing Skinner from sugary baby-talk and regurgitated breast milk. It surprised Mulder how little he had to say to Skinner without the pull of work to tie them together, without someone's life on the line, some dark conspiracy hanging low over their heads. They sat there, silent, respecting one another too much to resort to small talk, able to loosen up when Scully headed back for the living room, William settling down and quiet in her arms. She still cooed to him as they walked toward the sofa, soothing him with her low, husky voice. "Want to see daddy?" she whispered to William. "Do you want daddy?" It's almost certain that Mulder wasn't even supposed to hear those sweet, low words, but he did, along with Skinner, who sat back watching him with a look more careful than any he'd ever leveled from across his desk at Hoover, eyebrow arched discreetly. Of course, I'm his fucking father, Mulder wanted to scream, still wants to scream. Why the hell else would I be here twenty-four hours a day, living here, sharing her Goddamn bed, kissing her when no one else is around, getting up with the baby in the middle of the night, if I'm not William's father? What is he at all these days if he's not William's father? He takes one of the cards back to the sofa with him as he sits down. A big blue bear stares back at him, holding a star burst of balloons as large as basketballs, and neat block letters beneath the smiling bear declare "Congratulations on your New Addition!" Inside, someone named Claire has signed it with all her love, a small smiley face sketched beside her name in smudged blue ink. She has written a few more lines, but they are also smeared and Mulder can't make out all the words. He thinks there is a mention of a "blessed event" and maybe a "bundle of joy," but he can't be certain. He tosses the card onto the coffee table, and closes his eyes. He is blessed, is cursed, is joyful, is miserable, is saved, is damned, is here, is gone. From the bedroom, William cries out, a pained wail carrying down the hall, sharp as nails on a chalkboard. Mulder is on his feet instantaneously, stomping down the hallway as if there might be a fire. "Hey, hey, big guy," he coos in a soft, high-pitched voice, feeling only slightly self-conscious as he hoists the baby out of the bassinet. "I'm here. It's all right." Once William realizes that he's being held, he quiets down, reaching for Mulder's earlobe with his tiny, pinching fingers. "Want to keep me company out in the living room, big guy?" Mulder bounces the baby against his shoulder. "I don't think we've missed too much of 'All My Children.'" When they get out to the sofa, William is half-asleep again, but Mulder turns on the television anyway, ready for an hour of last minute courtroom confessions and hair-pulling cat fights, all colored with the bright strokes of melodrama. ****** He is running away again, but for once, he does the considerate thing, and lets Scully know before he leaves. Her smile is cut off by the closing door, but he thinks that he even has her blessing. It's been several days at least since he's given serious thought to the outside world, so Mulder is almost surprised to discover that it's raining when he gets down the front steps. He stretches quickly under a tree, only because he knows that he should, that his muscles will thank him later, not because it feels good. He's eager to get going, to get moving again, so he crouches in the runner's stance he remembers from his high school track days and sprints to the corner. Run further, run faster, run longer, his body demands, and he listens because he doesn't want to consider the alternatives. He runs circles around Scully's apartment building, panting loops through a neighborhood that still makes him feel like a visitor, a guest allowed in only because Scully has vouched for him. But he is tethered to that second floor apartment, and he feels himself pulled back, with rubber band speed, if he strays too far. On Wisconsin Avenue, there is a fender-bender, and a cop in a yellow poncho tries to get the facts, just the facts, from the drivers. Outside the corner deli, college kids, with their books and cell phones, watch the action, idly amused, while they decide where tonight's party will be and who'll bring the beer. They hold newspapers over their heads to block the rain, but the wet shreds of political maneuverings and baseball scores only stick to their wrists, inky black trails of water sliding down tattooed arms. Further, faster, longer. Mulder says the words aloud, lips barely moving in a whisper. Under him, the concrete moves, cracking and creaking with sharp precision, but he doesn't slow down. His shirt clings to him, sticky with rain and sweat, and he tries to pull it away from his body while he vaults over sidewalk puddles like an Olympic athlete. A pair of old ladies smile and laugh at him from under a ruby colored umbrella, but he pulls his cap down over his eyes and turns the corner. One more mile, he thinks. Further, faster, longer. A couple of blocks from where he started, Mulder passes a grocery store, bright and crowded in the unexpected rainstorm. He sees paper bags grow wet and flimsy, breaking apart in the arms of women dashing through the rain. One loses her tomatoes, the plastic bag spilling across the wet pavement, and they bruise into bloody pulp, almost like a crime scene or an autopsy. He watches for a moment, and stops to catch his breath against a parking meter, but all he remembers is that the Gunmen are expecting a call from him sometime this week. He runs a circle back to Scully's apartment. ****** Just inside the doorway, he drips all over her pristine white throw rug. He tries to minimize the damage by shaking in the hallway like a Labrador, but his running shoes leave muddy footprints before he thinks to take them off. He expects a patented Scully-glare, but just like last week when she caught him eating peanut butter directly out of the jar, she only smiles indulgently, hiding it with the back of her hand. She is crumpled on the sofa with William, who swings his fists like he wants to get at her nose. He settles for a hand full of her hair, and tries to shove it all into his mouth. Mulder works as a distraction, dangling his keys over the baby's head, and Scully pries open his small fingers. "Good run?" He tosses his baseball cap at the coffee table and nods. "Finally back at a seven minute mile. Even in the rain." He stretches in front of the door, arms bent over his head, bouncing on his toes so his calves twinge, hot but loose. He could go another mile, he thinks, maybe even two. He straightens up, and Scully's eyes flash, hot and knowing, as he uses the edge of his T-shirt to wipe at his wet forehead. It is as close to a promise as he's going to get, but he'll take it. "My hero," Scully says, absolutely unimpressed. She wipes at some drool on William's chin. "You make fun, but try to find another guy who was six feet under just two months ago and can run faster than that." He sinks into the free corner of the sofa. "Can't be done, Scully." She stiffens beside him, and William yelps like a high-pitched dog. It doesn't take Mulder long to get with the program. Zombie jokes are a mood killer for sure, but he can't help himself sometimes. He should learn -- William doesn't even seem to like them, and he cuts Mulder a lot more slack than Scully ever has. "You're impressed, aren't you, buddy?" Mulder strokes a finger against William's damp cheek. "You think seven minutes is pretty good, right?" The baby yawns, and pushes his face against Scully's breast, mouth gaping. She just barely stifles her laugh while Mulder glares with mock-indignation. "That's not fair, Scully. Distracting him like that." She shakes her head, shifting William into a more comfortable position for him to feed. "I wanted to apologize," she says, leaning back against the sofa. "For surprising you with my mother this morning. Next time I'll give you ample warning." He nods, but doesn't really hear her, too busy watching as she carefully unbuttons her blouse and William latches on. As usual, her body is angled so that Mulder can't really see what's going on, as if she is embarrassed for him to see her body, to see how it all works, as if he doesn't already know, hasn't seen it all before. Scully's never been vain so he can't believe that she'd honestly think an extra ten or fifteen pounds could make a difference to him, not when it all seems to have settled in some very promising places. Usually he'd let it go, let her have her privacy and carefully avoid what's happening beside him on the sofa. But he's in some cranky afternoon funk, sweaty and damp from the rain, and pushing the issue comes naturally for him anyway. He sits on the coffee table directly in front of her because there he can clearly see William's firm, greedy mouth closed around her breast. Her skin is just as pale as he remembers, so thinly white that her veins are visible, but just around the edge of William's lips, it's chaffed, raw and red. Still, he can't believe how beautiful she is, how well she has taken to this new life. She doesn't turn away or block his view, but won't take her eyes from William's drowsy face and look up either. This may be new territory for them both, but Mulder knows her well enough to understand that touching her right now is out of the question. She might very well jump out her skin, and William certainly wouldn't appreciate the interruption. Mulder sticks his hands under his thighs, so his twitching fingers won't get any ideas. "Did you eat something while I was gone?" she asks quietly, sliding her own fingers along the baby's cheek, and Mulder wonders if she is as desperate to touch him. There is a joke, bristling on the edge of his tongue, about waiting in line for his turn after William, but he's not sure that either of them are ready for that. Timing is everything, especially where Scully is concerned. "I think I'll shower first," he says, on his best behavior. He doesn't move though, waiting until William is finished and Scully is buttoning up her shirt before he heads for the bathroom. ****** They revisit Thanksgiving in the middle of a summer afternoon. Mulder eats a turkey sandwich, piled high on the plate so mayo and lettuce and shreds of turkey slip loose, and Scully drinks a tall glass of cranberry juice, worried about urinary tract infections. William is full and groggy after his lunch, and dozes off and on in Scully's arms. She doesn't seem to want to put him down for long. The television is still on, but the soaps are over, so Scully has turned to some cooking show, where tuna steaks and whole peppers are grilled with flair. They've been watching the Food Network a lot lately, though neither of them particularly enjoys cooking. They're in it for the ascetics probably, or the thrill of seeing gourmet meals that will never grace a Mulder-Scully kitchen. Whatever the reason, Mulder knows the whole lineup from three o'clock on, when a year ago he barely knew the channel existed. "Why can't you cook like that?" Scully asks, nodding at the TV chef, who is discussing marinades in a heavy New York accent. She smirks in Mulder's direction. "Man can't exist on sandwiches alone." "This one can," Mulder tosses back, licking a drop of mayo from his finger. "Provided they are supplemented with pizza and Chinese take-out of course." He watches Scully shake her head, smiling at him just like she did at William yesterday afternoon when he tried to stuff his entire hand in his mouth. Maybe she's looked at him that way before, when he was haring off on a particularly out-there tangent, and he probably smiled back, happy to have her attention. He crumples his napkin, and presses it into a pool of mayonnaise, oily and thick. He wants to change the channel, tell Bobby Flay where he can stuff those damn peppers, punch the wall, hold a gun, slam the door. But he just takes his plate to the sink and washes it, brings the bassinet out from the bedroom and sets it on the arm chair across from Scully without saying a word. She scratches through his hair when he sits down, and he lets her. When she finally puts William down to sleep, Scully lays her feet in Mulder's lap, but shyly, almost covertly, inching them across the sofa in subtle shifts, like easing into cold water, a little bit at a time until they're planted firmly between his thighs. He looks at her wiggling pink toes like they've come to life in his hands. He massages them with care, feeling her warm skin and hard bones as if he might be tested on their texture and shape later. She doesn't make a sound, doesn't move, and he checks to see if she's fallen asleep. She is still watching the television, where cookies are being baked, salads dressed and tossed, pasta cut and boiled. They don't speak at all, and Mulder finds himself dozing, lulled by William's even breathing, the gray rain falling against the windows, the silent buzz of the television. He lays his head back against the sofa, Scully's bare feet still in his hands. He doesn't think it's even five o'clock yet. ****** She rolls toward him in the darkness, pressing her side against his as he stares up at the bare, silvered ceiling. The room is hot and so damnably quiet with William sound asleep again. She strokes lightly at Mulder's stomach, nails ruffling the thin patch of hair there, and his heartbeat increases, a loud, primal drumbeat in his ears. "Mulder," she breathes in a sleepy, sensual voice that is perfect for the middle of the night. Her lips are moist against his neck, and he can smell the cinnamon tea she sipped while feeding William. His entire body stiffens, and he can't move, which may be just as well since Scully will probably be more comfortable if she's allowed to set the pace. Quickly, he tries to remember the last time she touched him like this. Long, long ago, he thinks. Certainly not since he's returned. She hasn't sounded like this either, like she's ready to melt down and reshape herself around him. He wonders if it's okay to do this with William sleeping just a few feet away. The baby won't have a clue, but it still feels strange to him and he worries that years from now William will be confessing deep-rooted intimacy issues because of some vague memory of his parents screwing way, way back in his subconscious. Like the kid won't have enough to deal with. Scully is still stroking his stomach in a tickling motion that makes his entire body feel as if it's been pricked with pins. He's come to rely on Scully's sense of propriety to steer him in the right direction, even if he doesn't always listen, so if she's okay with this, it must be safe to go along with her. Later, if he feels guilty, he can even tell himself it was all her doing. But he'll just try to keep very quiet and not think about it. "Mulder?" she says again, and he realizes that he's still just lying there, still as stone, while her hand moves like she's painting strokes of heat across his stomach. He runs his fingers through her hair, teases the back of her neck. "Hmmm?" Her hand stops on his stomach, palm flat, and she pats him, a low, hollow smack in the otherwise quiet room. "We forgot to get the milk." He closes his eyes, fingers feeling numb like he's had a stroke or they've lost contact with his nervous system. "Tomorrow," he says tightly, tightening his jaw and breathing deep. He rolls onto his side, trying to ignore how warm Scully is, even across the bed. ****** There are lessons to be learned every day, from scrambled eggs congealing on a plate, a Crate & Barrel catalog used as a place mat, mismatched socks rolled into a tight ball, a jug of detergent with only three drops of soap left. Scully eats whole wheat toast with raspberry jam, a sticky, sweet gloss on her upper lip. Mulder watches her nibble on the crusts with delicate precision, while his eggs sit untouched under a haze of cracked pepper. He isn't used to eating a full breakfast on a regular basis, but Scully spouts the old line about it being the most important meal of the day and he goes to the trouble of pushing the greasy, firm yolks around, running tracks through them with his fork so it looks like he's tried. When he takes their plates to the sink, Mulder looks for a pattern in the crumbs she's left behind, like he's reading tea leaves, but the spray of water washes them away before he can make any sense of them. In the bounded world they live in, their differences can play themselves out through things as insignificant as breakfast plates and laundry habits, and Mulder feels their weight as surely as he does their theological disagreements, their disputes over the validity of out-of-body experiences and astral projection. The little things should be so easy to ignore, but his daily routine has become riddled with insignificance, one mundane day bleeding into the next without variation, without surprise, while his actions seem to yield consequence after consequence -- marginal cause giving way to profound effect. That's how he sees it all. There must be meaning everywhere. Mulder considers the evidence one more time: Scully prefers liquid fabric softener like Downey or that one with the noisome little bear on its label, but he is used to the spider web thinness and delicacy of dryer sheets, thickly scented with flowers not found anywhere in nature, fighting their valiant battle against static cling. Scully adheres to some complicated color scheme when it comes to separating clothing, not just darks and whites like most diligent washers but some elaborate system that harkens back to kindergartner days of learning the primary colors, ROYGBIV and a box of sixty-four Crayola crayons (blue, periwinkle, sky blue, blue-green, cornflower, aquamarine, midnight blue, cerulean -- the list grows almost daily). Mulder's always figured that if he kept any trace of red out of his whites, he was safe, but he's even tempted fate a couple of times, threw a red T-shirt in with a bunch of dress shirts and no blood was shed. There are also irreconcilable differences about filling the machine -- Scully follows the instructions, loosely packed, just a few items of clothing at a time so it takes several loads to get a couple of day's laundry done, but Mulder's always been the jam-it-down-in-there kind of guy, able to get two weeks worth of laundry in a single load with a little ingenuity and well-applied upper body strength. A silent agreement has been made, and Scully's well-thought, thorough methods will reign. He knows when to pick his battles, when to smile and nod. Mulder may be slow where Scully is concerned, but eventually he catches on. She has the stereo on in the living room, and low folk rock filters into the kitchen, with trembling guitars and mellowed, aching voices, but he just watches Scully in a buzz of empty noise. She is as methodical about this as she ever was about work, her hands as steady as when she sliced through a body with a perfect y-incision, eyes as determined as when she stared down a suspect on a cold, dark street. It's just laundry, just stacks of soft baby clothes, Mulder's worn, faded T-shirts, pairs of Scully's slippery pajamas, but she is in the zone, caught up almost unnaturally with the bright bath towel she folds. Mulder is supposed to be helping, folding his share, washing the breakfast dishes and taking out the trash. But he just sits and watches as Scully drops a pile of clothing from the table back into the empty laundry basket. She hums along with the music, something wistful and poignant, but her tone is light and easy and he wonders if she even knows what song she's purring along to. She should look harsh and aged in the wake of broken sunlight from the kitchen window, but all Mulder notices is the bright flare of her eyes. He tries to distract himself by looking around the kitchen, at the glasses, mugs, and dishes stacked in the cabinets with dollhouse perfection, the well-stocked wine rack and open package of Oreos on the counter, the bright white slip of paper tacked to the fridge that bears the grocery list in Scully's neat print. It's all straight from some lobotomy-induced dream, with the leading lady changed and absent of thick, stale cigarette smoke. "Scully, I was thinking," he says suddenly, sounding loud and melodramatic in the kitchen's early morning brightness. One of William's small T-shirts is crumpled against his palm, and he twists the fabric between his fingers to keep his hands busy. Scully looks up, and tilts her head. There is a pair of Mulder's boxers in front of her, waiting to be folded, and she drums her fingers against the table through the thin cotton, asking a question with the muffled rap of her nails. "Do you think we'd be doing this if it weren't for William?" he asks softly, almost hoping the words will be lost in the music so neither he nor Scully will have to acknowledge that he's said the words. "Doing what?" she asks, blinking back the things he's yet to say. Her eyes are wide open, though, when he raises his hand and sweeps it across the room, capturing their life in his open hand. "This," he says softly. "All of this. Together." He rubs the embroidered elephant on the front of William's T-shirt, and his fingertips feel gritty and warm. When he risks a look at Scully, she does not flinch. Her face is hard and closed-off, but in her steady gaze, he sees something break. "We do have William," she says, her voice careful and low, sounding both confused and hurt. She folds Mulder's shorts with disturbing finality, pushing them toward him. As always, Scully gets to the heart of the matter, and he watches her leave the table, too stunned, shamed, to stop her. The bedroom door closes, and he imagines her lifting William out of the bassinet, holding him to reassure herself. "Fuck," he laughs mirthlessly, banging a fist on the table like a caveman's exclamation point. He waits a moment, then folds the rest of the laundry himself. ****** In the hallway, with his hands full of groceries, cheap plastic bags digging into his skin, a box of Special K in danger of escaping to the floor, and his keys buried deep and out of reach in a back pocket, Mulder has an epiphany. The grocery store was nearly empty in the middle of a weekday morning, so he wandered the wide, sticky aisles alone, pushing a rickety cart and mumbling to himself like a drunk. Somewhere in the frozen food section, a baby cried, and like the dense, frosted air pumped in for the good of ice cream sandwiches and TV dinners, it chilled him. He could remember hearing William cry for the first time, in a dank, rundown cabin with Scully's arms trembling around him and a helicopter growling outside. He'd had doubts for months, about what had been done to Scully, about what had been done to the baby she carried, about who they all were to one another. But when he saw William wriggling against Scully's chest, he received the sudden perfect knowledge that this little person was his son, his flesh and blood, inheriting some fucked-up DNA, a less than perfect profile, and a soft spot for know-it-all redheaded scientists. Mulder could have cried at the grateful way that Scully looked up at him when she realized he'd arrived, like he was a genius, a hero, for finding them, for giving her William, for sticking out the long, inert months until she'd given birth, when she'd been moody and he'd been so confused. He remembers her expression again while juggling the groceries in an attempt to reach his keys, and realizes what it was that she'd conjured up in him with those tired, beholden eyes. It wasn't everyday that Fox Mulder felt worthy; you'd think he'd be able to recognize it when it finally happened, but it's not until he's about to open Scully's door and call out, "Lu-cee! Little Ricky! I'm home!" in a horribly butchered Cuban accent, that Mulder gets it. He can hear the low murmur of conversation from inside the apartment, and he can hear Scully in his head, speaking matter-of-factly to William. "Sometimes your father will just run off. Without warning, without reason. But he always comes back, if you just wait long enough," she will tell the baby, who'll listen with wide, patient eyes. At least Daddy's coming home with gifts this time: milk, fresh strawberries, honey in a bear-shaped jar, everything Scully had on the list and a few things she didn't. With moves that a contortionist would envy, Mulder gets the keys out of his pocket and pushes the door open with his raised knee. He expects Scully's vacant, fragile stare and William's chorus of gurgles, but Agent Reyes, in a dark gray suit, sitting beside them on the sofa, and Doggett, slouched in one of the arm chairs, tapping his fingers against the stack of manila folders in his lap, are certainly a surprise. William reaches a hand over Scully's shoulder in Mulder's direction, waggling sticky fingers with no shame, and she smiles thinly as he squirms. "Hey buddy," Mulder says to William, waving a fist full of keys in the baby's direction. "We've got company," Scully says inanely. "I can see that." He juggles the bags again, trying to get a better grip. "Hello Agent Reyes, Agent Doggett." "Need some help there?" Doggett asks, starting to stand up. Mulder holds out a hand, and almost drops the carton of eggs. "I've got it, thanks." Scully fusses with William's T-shirt, Doggett digs some dirt out from under his fingernails, and Reyes grins smartly, like there's something she wants to say but is holding back. Mulder and the groceries head for the kitchen. ****** If he'd known they were going to have guests, Mulder thinks, he would have baked some fucking cookies. His mother, before her life became tainted with State Department secrets and alien abductions, stained with the yellow fingerprints of cigarette smoke, always had a tray with tea biscuits and sugar cookies ready for company, so it must be in his breeding to think that everyone would feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if there were doilies and shortbread present. Behind him, the living room is in a state of suspended animation, still and quiet as a church. Scully's profile is beautifully dour in afternoon shadow, and Doggett holds himself stiffly in his seat, eyes downcast, as if he's about to be punished. William and Reyes are bold enough to move, and she coos at him, completely without self-consciousness, while he kicks through the dusty air and light. Mulder is tempted to grab a handful of strawberries and disappear into the bedroom, but he gets the distinct impression that they're waiting for him. He's not sure that he can stomach polite, petty conversation, not on a playing field that he's still unaccustomed to, so if he's going to be on display, Mulder wants a prop. He brings a glass of water out with him, wrapped in white knuckles. Scooby smiles against his palm, with the watery prism behind him that almost immediately gets William's attention. "So what's up?" Mulder says to no one in particular. He starts to sit down in the chair opposite Doggett, but the seat is blocked by something soft and pliable, crushed under his partial weight. Reaching down, he finds a large, blue stuffed whale, with cool, glassy eyes and a gaping toothless mouth. "That's a gift from Agent Reyes," Scully tells him, patting William's back. Reyes smiles, easy as a politician's wife, and Mulder has to wonder if she's ever felt uncomfortable a day in her life. "Cute," he says, holding the toy up for some face-to-face evaluation. It's more original than a teddy bear and he appreciates it for that alone. Immediately his mind flashes on Scully's fondness for Moby Dick, and wonders about the sorts of secrets women share when in the midst of an alien-run birthing episode. "I'm sure he doesn't need any more stuffed animals," Reyes says, in her hurried, sunny way. "But I just couldn't resist." She and Scully exchange a knowing look, smiling at one another before both gazing at William, who likes the attention and plays to it, pumping his fists and spitting bubbles out the corners of his round mouth. "He's a good looking kid," Doggett says suddenly, smiling jovially and seeming relaxed for the first time all afternoon. Mulder nods automatically, his head moving like the bobbing-head Yankees doll in William's bedroom, and Scully smiles, proud and gracious, as she strokes the baby's head. In Reyes' eyes, when she turns to look at Doggett, Mulder sees a sudden, bright awareness, and he finds himself wondering too, if Doggett is thinking of another child, of creased baby pictures and an orphaned teddy-bear. "So," Mulder ventures. "Is this just a social call, or are you here on Bureau business?" He nods toward the files resting on Doggett's knee. "Well, we wanted to see the baby, of course," Reyes quickly says. "He's gotten so big already." She holds out a finger, gleaming with dark nail polish and a chunky silver ring, for William to grab. "But we were also kinda hoping you and Agent Scully could give us a little professional insight," Doggett finishes, tapping his thumb against the stack of folders. Mulder huffs out a small laugh, and looks down at himself. His T-shirt is stained with William's drool and spit-up milk, and he smells of talcum powder, lemony dish detergent, and cold produce. There is a blue, plush whale in his lap, and a rattle on the table in front him. From his chair, he can see Doggett's gun resting at his hip, beneath the neatly cut jacket of his suit. His badge, all black leather and gleaming brass, probably rests in his pocket, and Doggett only has to flash it for people to know that he means business, that he's FBI. In his pocket, Mulder has an expired coupon for diapers, some loose change, and a pacifier, with lint probably stuck to it. "We've got an X-File here," Doggett says. "And we're thinking it might match up with a couple of cases you and Agent Scully investigated a few years back." He rifles through the folders, through crime scene photos and notes written on yellow legal pads. Several feet away, Mulder can still recognize his own sloppy handwriting, the quick bursts of writing here and there when he was in the midst of a breakthrough. He remembers the work. "Tell us about it," Scully says, calmly rocking William in her arms. ****** Doggett tells a story. It starts with two murders on Long Island, the bodies washed up on the South shore, with deep bites taken out of the flesh that seem to match human teeth marks. Someone else has just gone missing from the beach, and now there are sketchy, but unsubstantiated, as Doggett hurries to clarify, reports of some sort of half-man, half-lobster creature, stalking the beach and shallow waters with a taste for sunbathers and swimmers. It is vaguely familiar, like something from a bad sci-fi movie, but Mulder is enthralled. Certainly he would have told the tale with more flair, with meaningful pauses and a sharp, infuriating smile, but even Doggett's no-frills recounting has him juiced and ready to go. Reyes interrupts every so often to add her own thoughts, more fanciful and open-minded than anything Doggett has to share, and her sentences are like bird chirps, stacattoed and bright. Together, they paint the picture in the tag-team, skeptic-believer manner that the X-Files seems to cultivate, thrive on. Mulder, listening carefully, knows immediately which X-Files Doggett hinted at earlier, could even recite their case numbers if necessary. His mind jumps through all the old hoops, no atrophy there. He is distracted slightly by William's hopeful squirming in Scully's arms. The baby's hands jerk in the air, and Mulder gets the impression (or chooses to believe, but he's not willing to look at it all too closely) that he's looking for dad. Scully seems to notice too, catching Mulder's eye, and moving to the edge of the sofa to hand him the baby. "May I see the autopsy reports?" Scully asks, as Mulder takes William. While Scully reads over the file, Mulder looks down into William's cool, squinty eyes. He does seem happy to see his father again, pounding his foot against Mulder's stomach like a peppy drum beat. Reyes watches them together for a moment, with the trained, unrelenting eye of an investigator, and Mulder finds himself clutching William more tightly against his chest. Doggett is a bit more subtle as he looks around. Mulder watches the way he scans the apartment, taking in the kitchen and mess of grocery bags on the table, the laundry basket sitting empty in the hall, a stack of Scully's scientific journals bundled and ready for recycling beside the front door, a bottle of multi-vitamins and a tube of lipstick on the coffee table, an official Major League baseball still in its box on the front table (Scully laughed when he bought it, told him that he needed to read the child development books again if he honestly thought William would have any use for it in the immediate future), Mulder's glasses on the end table underneath a newspaper, William's baby book on the floor beside the fire place, crammed full of pictures, his hospital ID bracelet, a plastic sandwich bag with a sprinkling of Georgian sand from the road in front the cabin where he was born, all waiting to be affixed to the heavy, white pages. Mulder wonders if Doggett is looking for something in particular, some incriminating piece of evidence or a clue to what goes on in this apartment behind closed doors. Maybe Doggett's just bored -- he's never seemed all that excited by the X-Files, by the truth they might reveal. Mulder feels the sudden, irrational urge to punch him, or at least force him to look forward, keep his gaze steady, focused on the square of floor in front of him. The past few weeks haven't left much time for thinking about Doggett, but face to face with him, Mulder thinks about the basement office, about territory and rights, about his desk and his poster and the way the overhead lights in the back corner of the room blinked, perpetual fluorescent lightening, and made him listen closely for thunder. He thinks about how easy it would be to punch Doggett, square on the mouth, right here in Scully's living room. Mulder looks down at his son, asleep in his arms, and shakes his head. In a calm voice, he begins to make suggestions, about suspects and leads they should pursue, some experts they might want to consult with. Doggett looks both overwhelmed and incredulous, but Reyes listens intently, hanging on Mulder's words like a teenager with a crush, writing notes on a small pad and nodding her head every so often. Scully chimes in, cool and formal, with her medical perspective, and it is an unexpected gift when Mulder realizes that her observations actually back up his theories. Doggett seems more at ease now that the goddess of science and reason has spoken, and he jots a couple of lines in pencil on one of the folders. "You've still got it, Agent Mulder" Reyes says, with a teasing smile. He knows she catches her slip up with his title but no one mentions it. "You too, Dana. You guys are a wealth of information." "Yeah," Doggett agrees. "Thanks for your help." He shuffles the files into some semblance of order, and taps his foot against the floor. Mulder wonders if he can leave now, take William and disappear into the bedroom for a little afternoon nap. He doesn't move though, sitting with the others, all awkwardly silent like strangers at a dinner party, wishing Doggett and Reyes would take the files and notes, and go solve their case. Best he can figure, they're still on the government's clock, tax payer dollars at work and all that. He tries to feel outrage at the two of them sitting in Scully's living room, in the middle of the afternoon, when there's work to be done, but since Mulder's not even bringing home a pay check, it's hard to work up to that. William starts to snore lightly, chip off the block that he is, and Mulder rocks him again, slow-motion style, the way the baby likes best. He tries to pretend that they're somewhere else. "There's something I should tell you," Scully announces suddenly, and with the way she avoids eye contact with everyone in the room, it's difficult to tell who she's speaking to. Mulder sits up straighter, jostling William, and the baby whines, low and quick, before settling into sleep again. Scully turns and watches them for a moment, then sighs and looks straight ahead. Mulder watches the quick slide of her tongue along her lower lip, and realizes this is something he should pay attention to. "My maternity leave is up at the end of the month," she says slowly, enunciating carefully. "And when it is, I won't be returning to the X-Files." It feels like a failure to be shocked, but Mulder is, stunned and speechless. He huffs out a small breath, jaw tightening as he tries to concentrate on the weight of William in his arms. Instead of looking at Scully, he watches Doggett shift sharply in his seat and Reyes wrinkle her brow as if she doesn't understand what she's been told. She may even look a bit uncomfortable. "I've spoken with Assistant Director Skinner," Scully continues. "We both agree that given the circumstances, it's best if I leave field duty. I'll probably head back to Quantico, if there isn't a desk job at Hoover that I'm suited for." Mulder chews on his lip, wanting to laugh but stopping himself with the firm bite of his teeth, and Doggett shoots him a quick, intense look, as if he believes Mulder has put Scully up to this, forced her to join him in exile from the basement. It's hard to believe that Doggett has worked with Scully for almost a year and still doesn't understand how she operates, who she is. Reyes seems at a loss for words too, popping a stick of gum in her mouth and smoothing the foil wrapper into a flat rectangle on her knee. "So, it looks like it'll just be the two of you," Scully says, trying for a light tone, and finally Mulder looks at her, at how straight her back is, how tired she looks, how hard it is for her to smile. She looks at him for a moment, but he isn't sure that she actually sees him. "Are you sure this is what you want, Agent Scully?" Doggett asks quietly, looking briefly at Mulder as he speaks. "There are other options we could consider." He and Reyes look at one another, and she nods at him, then turns and nods at Scully. "I'm certain," Scully says, self-assured and confident. "I think it's best for everyone." Mulder opens his mouth, ready to speak, when the baby stirs, whimpering pitifully. There are bright, glassy tears in his eyes, so Mulder hums quietly, a half-assed version of "Never Going Back Again." He doesn't stand when Doggett and Reyes leave. ****** It surprises him how easy it is to take frustration out on pasta salad. Mulder jams a spoon into the plastic container with little delicacy, breaking several tortellini with the dull, rounded edge of the silverware. The pasta splits, like thin skin tearing, and exposed under the kitchen lights, the meaty center looks raw and tender. Scully loves this salad, with all its sun-dried tomatoes and green peppers, and he bought it this morning with the idea of a peace-offering in mind. He broke her heart over laundry; the least he could do is bring home her favorite deli take-out. He dumps the salad in two bright yellow bowls that glare angrily in the cool kitchen, but doesn't bother to make sure that Scully gets most of the tomatoes like he usually does. He can learn to be passive-agressive too. Through open doors, the wet sounds of Scully finishing up William's bath reach him, and his head throbs to the uneasy beat of her rough voice eeking out "You are my Sunshine." Mulder bangs dishes and silverware around to drown her out, but he still hears her. "Ready for bed?" she is asking William, clear and assured. Mulder loves the way she sounds with the baby, because unless he's really fussing, she doesn't do any of that silly baby-talk. She speaks to William in that soft, aching tone she used to reserve for Mulder alone. If he could share that voice with anyone, he thinks it's his son. When she comes into the kitchen, the sleeves of her shirt are pushed up to the elbow, but still damp in some spots, so the gray material is almost black. She plucks at them ineffectively, and Mulder watches the dark patches grow, expand like bacteria. At the table, she spins one of the pasta bowls in a half-circle, and sits down, almost as if she isn't nervous at all. "This looks good," she says, with fork in hand and her head lowered. "I'll be sure to give Sal in the Deli department your compliments the next time I see him," Mulder tells her tartly. She doesn't flinch, though, because with her nerves of steel and amazing aptitude for denial, it takes a hell of a lot to rattle Scully. You're something else, Mulder wants to tell her, but he just pushes his food around and stiffens his shoulders. "William went down without a fuss," Scully announces, and he can feel her straining for normalcy, with each innocuous word, each measured bite of dinner. "I think the bath really tired him out." Mulder looks down into his bowl as he chews slowly. The peppers taste strong and bitter in his mouth, like smoke, but he swallows them down and takes another forkful. "He really seems to like the water," Scully says quietly, still plugging away. Mulder looks up at her, and finds himself smiling, without spirit. Scully's expression becomes hopeful, like she's succeeded, like William's bathing habits have the power to transform a mood. Not like this, Mulder thinks. We will not live like this. He thinks it might have started this way with his parents, pushing the things that mattered aside and slapping a mask of routine and everydayness across their fragile life so that no one would see the cracks, the scars and bruises. They were poised on the verge of collapse long before Samantha disappeared. He lays his fork on the table, and blows out a stream of air, warm and frustrated. "Are we really gonna sit here and do this mommy and daddy talk tonight, Scully?" he asks. "You drop a bomb shell like the one you did this afternoon, and you want to make conversation about bath toys?" She tilts her head back, and contemplates the ceiling, like she's looking at stars, searching the heavens for more than an elusive constellation. (Did she look up like that while he was missing, did she wish for answers that wouldn't come?) When she meets his eyes again, all hope is gone, and she only looks tired, pale and annoyed. "I hardly think it was a bomb shell," she tells him, with an authority that makes him cringe. "We may not have discussed it, but we both knew the day I left on maternity leave that chances were good I wasn't going back." Mulder shakes his head, swearing he can hear the neurons firing in Scully's brain, can see their bright, flashing pulses, like stray sparks or temperamental lightening. "Wasn't it you who said that I'd put in my time?" Scully asks, sounding unsure now. "Wasn't it you who told me not to feel guilty?" "That's not it, Scully. I'm not arguing with your decision," he says. "Even if I didn't agree with it, I'd recognize that it's your decision to make." She blinks in surprise, and he wonders if she honestly doesn't understand, or if it's just easier to play dumb. But then he remembers that Scully doesn't play dumb, not for anyone. "What I don't appreciate is being told along with Doggett and Reyes, like some kind of afterthought. As if I don't deserve more warning than your *co-workers.* If you're angry with me, say so. Don't play games like this." Again, her eyes do a slow blink, and she looks astonished, with her unbrushed hair and damp shirtsleeves. Her lips are chapped, and he feels the urge to tear at the dry skin, see the bloody pink underneath. "I'm not angry with you," Scully declares, so unconvincingly he wonders how she ever persuaded an FBI committee that she believed he'd blown his brains out. "I upset you this morning. We both know that." She pushes her bowl away, and it slides to the center of the table. "What's really bothering you, Mulder?" she asks, sounding like she really doesn't mind hearing. "Do you think I'm abandoning the X-Files?" In his bowl, he fishes out all the green peppers and works them into a loose stack near the edge. He's lost track of the entire conversation, forgotten why he's angry, why he stayed in the kitchen, brooding, while Scully and William played with bubbles in the bathroom. He looks at her, stares at her compassion and pity, and realizes that she's understood from the beginning. That he's been playing dumb because it's easier to be angry with Scully than himself. "This isn't about me, is it?" Scully finally asks. "It's about you." He tries to look at her, tries to speak, but is only able to stand up, walk a crooked path to the front door, and close it behind him. Scully has the last word. ****** In the dark, on his old, sticky couch, Mulder thinks about tombs. He contemplates coffins, crypts, mausoleums, and catacombs. He thinks about wakes and sitting shivah, about sad wreaths of flowers and cold earth. He considers headstones and silk-lined caskets. He flashes on cremation, but deems it out of the realm of his experience, mercifully. Fear of fire aside, he's not sure what could possibly come of a pile of ashes. But then, his office was once reduced to a sooty mess, so maybe that counts. It was his life going up in flames, after all. Neglected for weeks, his apartment has a certain sealed-off quality of its own, with its dead air and dead space and dead quiet. They could have just interred him here, he thinks, with all the relics of his life surrounding him, the powdery glow of the aquarium as a funeral pyre and the dull, tarnished "42" on his door as a grave marker. Life here is over, and Mulder feels it even inside of himself, like gangrene or a tumor. If he had the lights on, he'd check his watch and tell himself to get over it, and go home to his family, his responsibilities. But in the dark, there are no reminders and few incentives to move. He is slumped across the leather in his best sullen, guilt-ridden pose, and it comes too naturally for him to be self-conscious. What Scully will think when she finds him like this is of course a puzzle, but the click of a key in the lock at least tells him that he won't have to wonder too much longer. Behind her, the burst of hallway light makes her seem larger and more real. She is weighed down with a diaper bag and William's carrier, that Mulder assumes contains a sleeping baby. Cautious and hesitant, Scully looks like any new mother, any woman concerned about the well-being of her family. She bears no resemblance to a Special Agent, M.D. She doesn't look anything like Mulder's partner. He watches her shut the door and move carefully toward him in the cloistered darkness, but he doesn't know what to say. In his carrier, William is asleep, wearing his pale blue pajamas with tiny rocket ships in orbit, and Scully has him bundled up even though it's a warm night. Mulder feels hot just looking at him, and when Scully settles him down on the coffee table, Mulder loosens the blankets, pulls them back and strokes his son's arm. "I was thinking that William had never seen this place," Scully says softly, and it sounds like her throat is aching, thirsty and raw. "It seemed like he should. At least once." Mulder nods once, but speech still seems impossible, futile even. Scully wanders over the window, and fingers the blinds, rattling them against the glass. "We need to talk, Mulder." He nods again, at her back, and then watches William's eyelids flutter. "We should have talked a long time ago," she whispers, and he knows she hates to admit their mistakes. "When I first brought you back here. We should have talked then." She flips the desk lamp on, and Scully is centered in a halo of light, arms folded against her chest, like she's trying to hold herself together. ***** On Mulder's abandoned bed, Scully lays William down to change his diaper. Mulder stands in the doorway, hands braced on the frame, and watches. She is still better at it than he is, and he's surprised to find himself looking for further pointers, instead of trying to talk to her. "We'll have to take the garbage out with us," Scully says as she drops the dirty diaper into the trash can. She disappears into the bathroom to wash her hands when Mulder comes over to the bed to sit down and watch over William. He places his fingertips over the baby's chest, and feels the small heart beat, like the minute ticking of a clock. When Scully comes out, hands still dripping, he is ready for the punch, but still, he feels like he's walked in on the middle of the conversation, like she started without him in the bathroom. "It's understandable that you feel conflicted," she says consolingly. "You need time to figure out what comes next." She sits down on the bed, just on the other side of William, and Mulder gets the impression that that should be the end of it. He'll agree, say "That's exactly it, Scully," they'll touch hands, and pick William up to go home. He shakes his head, closes his eyes, and presses his face against his arm. It's his rebellious streak that always gets him in trouble, and this time, won't be any different. "Scully. Seven months ago, I was the blue plate special on some outer space dissection table. Four months ago, I was dead and buried," he says, his voice muffled and tight. "It's hard to know what comes after all that." He lifts his head, and sees that she is stunned by this rare moment of total emotional candor. Buggy eyes and an open mouth, and still she looks beautiful. "I know," she whispers brokenly, plaintive. "We didn't talk about it when you came back. We can now, if that's what you want." "Scully, what good would that do? We have a lot more to worry about now than the fact that zombie movies have taken on a whole new meaning for me." Her eyes fall to William instantly, and she pats the baby's stomach, but doesn't seem aware that she's doing it. "But you should talk to someone. Maybe someone who's not directly involved. We could find--" "Scully, I go into any reputable psychiatrist's office and detail how difficult it is to adjust to life after being an alien science experiment and rising from the dead, and he's going to be fitting me for a straitjacket and a padded room within the hour." He smiles gently. "I hope we can both agree that's not what I need." She sighs, distressed, and rubs her hand against her knee. "What do you need?" He gets off the bed, careful not to shake the mattress too much and wake William, and kneels in front of her, cradling her knees in his palms. She is warm and hard, as always, and he never wants to stop touching her. "This is a good start," he says, and she takes his hand, studying his fingernails. "What?" He smiles, and knows that if there were a mirror around to capture it, he'd feel like a fool. "Your patience." Above him, she huffs out a quiet little laugh, and offers a pale, melting smile. "Eight years together, Mulder. You should know by now that I have it in abundance." He nods, and her hands press into his hair for a moment before she tilts his head back to look in his eyes. "There's something I want to you to know, though," she says, grave and determined. "If you're not happy at my apartment with William and I, I'd never expect you to--" "Scully, no." He shakes his head, and joins her back on the bed. "That's not in question here. At all." She nods, and he thinks her eyes may be a bit glassy. Her hair falls across her cheek, and all he can see is the perfect point of her chin, bone-colored in the dim room. He lifts William up to his shoulder, and tries to soothe the baby back into sleep. "Okay," Scully says absently. She looks up suddenly, watching Mulder with William, and sighs, wistful and gentle. "I think the difference here is that you look around and see all the things that have changed. All the things that have been lost or taken away. I look around and see all the things that are exactly the same, everything that we've gained. I wish you could see it that way too, Mulder." There is a bright flash of light outside the window, and he catches every detail of Scully's face before he turns to see rain nicking the glass. Scully is unmoved by the sudden out lash of nature, and continues to watch Mulder with her careful, sure eyes. William is a heavy, warm weight against his shoulder, but he welcomes the way the baby's body can ground him, keep him in this room, when all he wants to do is run away again. "There are so many things you could do, Mulder," Scully is saying now, and for a moment, he feels like he's in some movie of the week, one of those inspirational melodramas that Lifetime is always showing. "There are so many possibilities. You shouldn't think of it as an ending. It's a beginning." This is not Scully speaking; it's some warm, fuzzy version of her, that definitely sneaks in made-for-TV movies when Mulder's not around and probably reads self-help books in the bathtub. He's amused, disturbed, and touched all at once, and he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, rocking her and William at the same time. "I appreciate the pep talk, Scully." He smiles with conviction. "Really, I do. But I'm not exactly the nine-to-five type. And somehow I can't imagine the phrase 'Do you want fries with that?' coming out of my mouth." "Mulder, you better than anyone should know that the Bureau, even the X-Files, they're not the only game in town." Yes, he knows that, he's seen it during his years enmeshed in conspiracy after conspiracy. And he's already gone through the list in his head, during all those long days when Scully went to work without him, all these days now when he and Scully spend their afternoons doing laundry and shopping for groceries. He's got his psych degree, for as much as that's worth, but he hardly feels qualified to advise others on their mental states, on how to maintain a firm grasp on reality. There are his eerie profiling skills, the talent that made him the stuff of legends over at Hoover, and he imagines that might actually be good for something -- he could offer his expertise in a consulting capacity, still be his own man. But he's not sure he could handle it at his advanced age, could handle the burnout that he still remembers from working in the BSU full-time, that haunted, detached feeling that made him hurl himself at the first available bottle of vodka. Besides, who's to say that any police force would hire a man drummed out of the FBI for reckless, insubordinate behavior. He can't exactly ask that son of bitch Kersh for a reference. He's even thought about writing a book -- God knows he's got more than enough stories to tell, insights to share, but then, he's never been the kind of guy who can sit behind a desk and write his life away; he wants to be out there, living it. He's sure that Scully would mention his enthusiasm for lecturing, for pulling out the slide projector and holding an audience captive with his imaginative words, and maybe if there wouldn't be papers to grade, midterms to plan, and department meeting to suffer through, teaching might be a viable option. As it stands, he doesn't think he has what it takes to put on a tweed jacket and endure the embarrassing thrill of a coed's crush. "Yeah, I'm considering all the offers as we speak," he says. He shifts William to his other shoulder, and the baby doesn't even stir. "I'm getting pretty damn good at changing diapers. Maybe I've got a future as a nanny." Scully smiles, though her eyes still have that wet, fragile shine. Her hand lands on Mulder's knee with unseeing precision, and he pushes himself closer to her. "I think we require your services too much to rent you out." She grabs a fist of full of his jeans to pull him even closer, and he goes willingly, moving until her lips brush his, with wet heat. When she pulls back, leaning her head on his free shoulder, his eyes are still closed. "Mulder, I want you to be exactly who you are," she whispers. "Nothing more or less." "Scully," he starts to say, but she lays a finger against his lips. "I miss it too, Mulder." She strokes his cheek like he's made of glass. "The X-Files. The basement. Being down there with you." He smiles. "So I'm not the only one with an unfulfilled fantasy about those filing cabinets, huh?" She bites her lip, fighting a smile. "I'm serious, Mulder. I miss the way things used to be, that sense of purpose and drive. Just because we're not on the X-Files anymore doesn't mean we should lose that, that we have to." She bends to kiss the baby's cheek. "You'll find a way to carry on the important work. I know you will." When she looks up into his eyes, he sees fear, hope, love, and a thousand nameless things that make him shiver. He doesn't want to disappoint her or their son for a second, but how often has he been successful, how often has he really been able to make things right for her? Not nearly enough. It will never be enough. She has more faith in him than she should, that he wants her to have. He leans back against the stiff pillows at the head of the bed, pulling Scully with him, petting her hair, stroking William's warm back. I love you, he thinks but doesn't say, and Scully smiles, almost as if she's heard him. ****** From the front steps of Scully's building, they watch the world go by. Cars blur past, a couple of squirrels perform a high-wire act on nearby power line, and a dog barks from an apartment window across the street. It is all so heart-stoppingly mundane. They sit in the sun, and play a game, trying to pull X-Files out of the air around them, finding the unexplainable in whatever crosses their path. (Mulder is of course ahead; he's been playing this game for years now) At Scully's insistence, William is wearing a ridiculous white sunhat that almost obscures his entire face. All Mulder can see is his mouth, with spit bubbles like crystals on his trembling lip. Scully's face is entirely visible, and Mulder spends a minute counting her freckles, searching symbols in their placement. Just in front of them, a little boy is learning to ride a bike, its training wheels wobbling precariously on the uneven sidewalk. His baby sister, no more than three years old, trots after him, grabbing handfuls of the blue streamers that hang from his handlebars. She stops when she spies a patch of fresh mud beside the pavement, dunking her fingers in the mess, then jamming the entire hand in her mouth. "Ellie!" A man sprinting from the corner yells. "Ellie, don't put your hand in there! Come on, sweetie!" Scully smiles, and wipes the drool from William's chin. "Think that's an X-File?" Mulder asks. "Why kids willingly put the most disgusting things in their mouths but won't eat a simple bowl of peas?" She shakes her head."No. I think that's what we have to look forward to in a couple of years. A toddler who doesn't listen to anything we say." "You mean, he's gonna get bigger than this?" Mulder teases, grabbing the baby's foot as it pumps through the air. At the edge of the steps, little Ellie's face is vigorously being cleaned with a spit-soaked hankerchief. She squirms in her father's grasp, and leaves small, muddy hand prints all over his white t-shirt. Scully smirks, and nudges Mulder's knee with her own. "And God help us all if he develops your sense of curiosity." Mulder folds William's hat back, so his eyes are visible. "William, would you tell your mother to stopping ragging on me? It really isn't nice." She laughs, and rests her head on Mulder's shoulder. To anyone watching, they no doubt look like the family they are, and he couldn't feel more proud, couldn't feel more a part of things. "You going to see the Gunmen this afternoon?" Scully whispers in his ear, and she sounds like she's about to fall asleep. William has already given into the urge to nap, curled up in Scully's arms like a cat in the sun. "I think so. Apparently, they'd like to pick my brain," Mulder says, raising his eyebrows. "They have this ridiculous notion that I know a thing or two about global conspiracies and far-sweeping government cover-ups." "Now wherever would they get an idea like that?" She bats her eyelashes comically, and all he can do in response is shake his head and grin like a fool. "Don't sass me, Scully. At least if I spend the afternoon there, you know I'm staying out of trouble." She leans back and gives him her most dubious look, arched brows, pursed lips and all. On the corner, Ellie rides her father's shoulders and squeals her excitement directly into the sun. Mulder tries to imagine William at that age, when he can talk and chase after bicycles and stick his hands in mud puddles with impunity. In the stunning uncertainty of the past four months, Mulder hasn't taken the time to think that far ahead before, and now he sees William's future stretched out as far and wide as the blue sky above them. "I'm willing to support you, you know," Scully says, with her face turned upward, squinting without the benefit of sunglasses. He watches her, beside himself and uneasy. "Scully. Are you proposing?" They blink in unison. "I know. You want me to stay in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant!" She smiles, but he can see hesitation in the thin curve of her lips. "You're a remarkable man, Mulder, but I think that would be a stretch even for you." He doesn't know what to say. He strokes the sole of William's foot, covered in its thin sock, and the baby squirms, eyelids fluttering in protest. The street seems to have gone entirely silent, motion stopped too, so he feels like he's looking at a postcard. "You know what I mean, Mulder." Scully shifts William so he's snug against her shoulder. "If you were happy helping the Gunmen out, trying your hand at going 'freelance' or whatever, we'd still have my salary. We could..." She trips over the words, and frowns. "You know what I mean." This is how it's always been for them. Their world can change in a second, with stunning, breathless momentum, so he feels like he's witnessed something glorious and rare, like an elusive comet, the aurora borealis, creation itself. But neither of them ever know what to say or do afterward, so they wind up tip-toeing around the cataclysmic shifts in their relationship, acting on one hand transformed, on the other still mired down. He puts his arm around her, and squeezes her shoulder. "I do, Scully," he says. "I know exactly what you mean. But I'm not exactly destitute yet. I think we'll manage to get by." He leans in to kiss her cheek, and breathes in the sweet milk and baby powder scent of Scully and their son. William snuffles against her neck, and she laughs, winding her fingers through Mulder's hair. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer," he whispers. She smiles again, with her soft, kind eyes. "You'd better. I don't make it to just anyone." And it's true. She's let Mulder into a world that no one else has ever seen. She's given him what she hasn't given anyone else. He isn't in a position to refuse. ****** Mulder waits until Scully has fallen asleep before he goes to check on William, sleeping in his crib, all alone in his room, for the first time. It was a slightly traumatic event, leaving him there with only an army of teddy bears and a baseball mobile to stand guard. And even though they were only going to the next room, with all the doors open between them, both Mulder and Scully fretted. He would be fine, they both knew it, but the possibilities haunted them. They distracted themselves. For the first time in a over a year, he made love to Scully, and even though it barely lasted ten minutes, he's pretty damn sure it was the best sex of his life. Never before had it been that raw and real and important. He's not sure it ever will be again. Afterwards, Scully's eyes were glassy and soft, and she laid her head on his shoulder. The sheets beneath them were damp, and really needed to be changed, but neither of them wanted to move. He couldn't help thinking of all the things he'd missed, all the things he still missed, all the things they'd never do together again. It was poor timing, he told himself, but their past life together flew through his mind like a slide show, and he felt something like tears burning his eyes. Scully shifted against him, reading his thoughts with uncanny precision. "You think we only had a few months alone together. Those weeks before you were taken," she said, taking his hand in hers and twining their fingers. "But the truth, Mulder, is that we had seven years together. Seven years when it was just us. I'll always think of it that way." She sat up to kiss him then, her lips salty with tears. He bends to kiss William now, who is asleep and safe in the privacy of his own room. His fist is curled tight beside his ear, and his fingers twitch like he's trying to get at an itch. Mulder strokes his hand, smiles as the fingers uncurl and wrap around his thumb. He pulls it free, thumbs the baby's cheek and steps away to let him sleep. It won't be long before Scully rolls over and realizes that Mulder's missing, but still he sits down in the corner rocking chair and stares unseeingly out the dark window. He knows that keeping Scully and this child safe, insuring that the world they live in is preserved and guarded, will wind up being a full-time job. He knows that he can do it, and will do it, and not think twice about it. It's what his father should have done, what his mother wanted, what he and Samantha, innocent and dependent, deserved as children. He thinks of his time away, of what was done to him, and he knows that he can't allow that to happen to anyone else -- not Scully, not the baby, not the guy who delivers the Sunday paper. That's what he needs to focus on -- not goat suckers or Big Foot or miraculous visitations by the Virgin Mary in New Jersey. He thinks about the stories he'll tell William some day, all the adventures, tragedies and comedies that have made up his life and what they might possibly teach his son. ...Once upon a time, I had a little sister. She was pretty and smart and always wore her hair in long braids with ribbons at the ends. One day, she was taken from us, and we looked and looked for her but she was just gone. Now she's up there in the starlight, watching over us... ... Once upon a time, I was a hot shot FBI agent, with a fancy office and more respect than I knew what to do with. But I wanted to chase aliens and ghosts, I wanted to hunt for the truth. Everyone thought it was pretty funny, like some old joke, and they stuck me down in a basement, where I wasn't supposed to be able to embarrass anyone but myself... ...Once upon a time, your mother and I stood in a cemetery in Oregon, in the pouring rain, and laughed like lunatics about the possibility of alien abductions and missing time. That is where we began, where we found one another. Trust and love and passion, that all came later, but that was the moment we became who we are together... ...Once upon a time, I died, and everyone thought it was for good, for real. Your mother buried me and tried to move on. But I was only sort-of dead, and when they dug me up, she pumped me full of anti-virals and brought me back to life, all in time to meet you... When he thinks about it like this, he knows they aren't stories appropriate from a child. They are too complex, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes horrifying, and no child should ever have to see the world that way. But this is what he has to offer William, all the wisdom and truth he knows. Scully will help him make it easier to hear, make it something more mellow and tame. Scully will supply the happy endings. The End NOTE: I started this long before the 9th season premiere, so I had no idea how CC and co. planned to work around DD's absence, but since I'm always going to miss Mulder, I still like thinking about what his and Scully's life might be like if he did hang around. Please feel free to share your comments at buckingham15@yahoo.com. Thanks for reading.