Begin - A Moment In the Sun: Part VII

*~*~*~*

On the Sunday Society page of the New York Times, December 
20, 1953, the headline had read, "Manhattan's Most Eligible 
Bachelor Off the Market," and for once, the reporters got it right.  
If he could pick one afternoon to relive for eternity, it would be 
that Saturday.  It was a high-water mark, and as close to perfect as 
the universe ever got for a lanky, spooky misfit from Boston.   
 
At Will's urging, he'd worn only a black sweater, slacks, and a 
scarf, forgoing a hat and jacket and certain he'd catch pneumonia 
in the name of fashion.  Scully had worn a skirt that swirled out as 
she skated, and a little jacket with fur trim on the collar and 
sleeves.  He remembered the winter sky had been a perfect shade 
of blue, the icicles had glittered on the bare tree branches like 
sugar crystals, and she had been beautiful.  

"He should be here," Mulder had commented, eyeing the crowds 
enjoying the crisp air of Central Park.  Christmas had been coming, 
and families hurried to claim their share of holiday magic in the 
freshly fallen snow. "I told him noon.  Maybe he overslept."

"Noon is awfully early," she said knowingly, nodding in 
agreement.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you always this difficult?"

She held onto the railing, watching him as he glided effortlessly, 
supporting Emily in front of him. "Yes."

"Good," he responded, grinning as she wobbled.  Both Emily and 
Scully were fair at skating forward, but hadn't mastered the fine art 
of turning or stopping. "It keeps me in line."

"You're showing off," Scully teased him as he and Em weaved 
past her, both nonchalantly standing on one foot.  

"I am not," he responded, whispering to Emily to switch feet.        

Finding an uninhabited patch of ice, Mulder moved a little faster, 
telling Em, "Airplane," as her mittens tightened against his palms 
excitedly.  Leaning back, he swung her in circles until her feet left 
the ice and she took flight, squealing until he slowed and set her 
gently back down on her miniature skates.   

Along the edge of Wollman Rink, a line of photographers waited, 
camera's poised.  They smirked at the antics on the ice, but their 
shutters remained closed.         

"Now you're showing off," Scully commented, grabbing the hand 
he offered as he passed.  
 
"Yes, now I'm showing off.  My sister and I grew up on skates," 
he shrugged, holding her with one hand and Em with his other. "I 
used to ski, too, but not anymore.  Although, we're, we're – Will 
and I and some friends," he started awkwardly. "We're going to 
Aspen for Christmas.  A friend of mine – my attorney, actually, but 
he's an old friend – he has a house there.  He has a wife and kids, 
so there will be lots of people…  I was just wondering if you and 
Emily would want to come?"

She was already starting to shake her head 'no,' so he hurried, "As 
my guests.  That's all.  It's a family thing; my father died last year 
and my mother isn't really up to playing hostess, so this is how we 
do Christmas."

"I thought you had a sister."

"I do.  I did, but, uh, she, uh…  Will's coming and Byers has two 
girls a little older than Emily – there will be lots of whining over 
what to listen to on the radio and snowball fights and runny noses.  
It's not exactly a romantic weekend getaway."

"I'm not sure I can get off work," she had hedged. "Although I bet 
you'll help with that if I can't," she added.

"I bet I will," he grinned at her again, seeing her resolve starting to 
crumble. "We charter a plane, so there's no paying for a ticket.  
Byers owns the house, and it's a big house, so there's plenty space 
for you and Emily.  Will and I room together and we'll put you and 
Emily at the other end of the house.  It's all very chaste.  We'll fly 
out Thursday morning and you can be back for work on Tuesday."

"You just don't accept 'no' very well, do you?"

"I guess I'm used to getting what I want."

"That's what scares me," she answered, and he let the subject drop.     

"There he is," Mulder said quickly, finally spotting Will and 
Frohike ambling down a slope. "That's William.  The tall one," he 
added. "Not the one who looks like a troll.  That's my press agent, 
and he can't help how he looks."

Will had been in his Early Pink period, and had chosen a stunning 
fuchsia and black plaid flannel shirt – with matching socks – to go 
with his ubiquitous leather jacket and cuffed blue jeans.  Mulder 
had no idea where one would buy fuchsia and black flannel, but it 
wasn't wise to look too closely at a fourteen year-old's wardrobe 
choices.  That was also the 'you could use a haircut, son' phase, a 
precursor of the 'Jesus Christ, when are you going to get a haircut, 
son?' era that would follow.   

Leaving Scully and Emily, Mulder crossed the rink and slid to a 
sideways stop just in front of Frohike and Will, showering them 
with shaved ice. "Will, where'd you find Frohike?"

"Under a bridge," Frohike responded for him. "No, he was hailing 
a cab outside Phoebe's apartment as I passed, so I gave him a ride.  
I'm just tagging along."

'Bullshit,' Mulder would have said if Will hadn't been there.  
Frohike wanted to get a close-up look at Dana Scully, and Will had 
wanted reinforcements.  It was such a spontaneous trip that 
Frohike had a camera hanging around his neck.  They probably had 
a code word worked out in case one of them wanted to leave early.

"Is that her?" Will asked, watching Scully skating with Emily 
around the far corner of the rink.
  
"That's her," he responded, swallowing.

Emily was fascinated at Mulder having a son who was fourteen – 
'most grown up,' according to her – and was staring back at Will 
instead of watching where she was going.  Predictably, she got her 
skates twisted and spun out on her backside, almost pulling Scully 
down with her.    

"Very nice," Frohike said quietly as Scully helped her daughter up, 
brushing her off.  Scully glanced at Mulder, who motioned for her 
to come over, and then left Will to meet her halfway.

"Dana Scully – Melvin Frohike.  And this is my son William," 
Mulder introduced, and then held his breath, sliding his skates back 
and forth restlessly.

"So you're the reason for the smile on my father's face these 
days," Will responded ambiguously, shaking her hand.  

Mulder gave his son a warning look, knowing what that was about.  

Will had appeared unexpectedly at The Plaza mid-October and 
walked in on something Mulder hadn't wanted him to see, 
specifically a waitress named Kristin – he hadn't caught a last 
name – leaving his father's bedroom one morning.  A collection of 
empty bottles still littered the coffee table, and a red lace bra and 
Mulder's shirt were draped over the back of the couch.  Seeing 
Mulder's horrified, hung-over reaction to his son's sudden 
presence, Kristin had grabbed her brassier, dropped her head, and 
walked out without a word, careful not to touch or look at Will as 
she passed him in the foyer.  She wasn't the kind of girl who had 
any illusions about what Mulder had wanted; she wasn't even a 
Yankees fan who wanted to hump the American dream.  She was 
just there, as humiliating as that was.

Will had said nothing, but Mulder had been at an AA meeting that 
night.  He'd sobered up, wised up, and met Scully a few weeks 
later.   

"I'm William," his son amended more politely, "Will.  I'm pleased 
to meet you, Mrs. Scully."

"And I'm pleased to meet you.  This is Emily."

"You talk funny," Em informed him before her mother shushed 
her. "My name is Emily.  I'm four."

"Hello, Emily-I-am-four," Will responded, perhaps thawing a 
degree. "I am Will and I'll be fifteen next month."

Emily blinked in stupefied awe and mentally added Will to the 
limited list of people who got to feed her cat. 

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, so Mulder asked, "Will, 
why don't you rent some skates for a little bit before we head to 
the movies?"

Will tilted his head toward the sun, looking like he was posing for 
a portrait on a coin. "No, I think I'll just stand here and give the 
ladies something to look at."
 
To Mulder's surprise, Scully laughed so hard she almost lost her 
balance.  Will seemed taken aback, then grinned uncertainly as she 
turned away, leaving Emily staring at him from the edge of the 
rink. 

"Well, don't smile, son," Mulder said sarcastically, sliding away, 
"There could be casualties.  We can't have women dropping like 
flies as they die of broken hearts."

"So how am I doing?" she whispered to Mulder as they reached the 
middle of the ice.

Behind her, Frohike made a circle with his arms as though he was 
carrying a barrel against his chest, then turned sideways.  Will 
made a similar circle, but held it over his head, then pointed his 
feet outward and bent his knees like a ballet dancer in a graceful 
plie.  "Nine from Frohike; eight from Will.  No, wait-" Will turned 
sideways and put both arms out in front of him, then picked up his 
left foot, holding it out behind him. "Eight point five from Will.  
He likes you.  He went with me to the Olympics in Helsinki last 
year, so he thinks this is cute.  I don't have any excuse for 
Frohike," Mulder explained. 

"You went to the Olympics in Finland?  Or you were in the 
Olympics?" she asked skeptically, glancing back to make sure 
Emily was okay.   

Frohike immediately shoved his hands in his coat pockets and 
stared up at the sky, whistling disinterestedly.  Will discovered 
something hidden in the snow and poked it purposely with the toe 
of his shoe, trying to look innocent.

Standing in front of them in her little skating costume, hands on 
her hips, Emily looked like a perplexed tooth fairy.

"Oh – no; baseball isn't an Olympic sport.  And even if it was, I 
couldn't participate; I was professional and you have to be an 
amateur.  It was just an exhibition game they invited me to play in; 
I don't have a medal or anything.  Well, I have a shirt." He cleared 
his throat. "And a pin.  Anyway, Will and I hung around afterward 
and watched the games for a week or so."

Looking up at the pale blue sky, she laughed again, holding his 
hands as he moved backward and she glided forward.  

"What?"

"You're not real," she said wondrously, shaking her head in 
disbelief. "First of all, you're some kind of sports legend.  I have 
little boys in my neighborhood asking me to get your autograph for 
them.  Reporters follow us everywhere.  I remember my father 
listening to the radio as you played in the World Series.  You were 
in the Olympic games and then just took a few days afterward to 
tour Helsinki.  You live at the top of a hotel I can't afford to even 
walk into.  You go to Yankee Field to play catch with your son.  
You fly to Aspen for Christmas; you take me to The Oak Room for 
dinner.  I think if Emily wanted waffles, we'd probably get on a 
plane for Belgium.  You're not real!"

"I'm real." 
     
"No, you're not."

"I am," he insisted uncertainly, leaning down to kiss her cheek, 
feeling the heat transfer from her skin to his mouth.  He put one 
hand on her neck, sinking his fingers into the little fur collar so she 
couldn't pull away. "I'm real and this is real," he whispered. "Why 
do you still think I'm playing?  Why do you think all I want to do 
is chase, catch, and walk away?  I don't.  I love you."  He kissed 
her lips this time, pulling her close as they moved smoothly across 
the ice.  She leaned into him, tilting her head back.          

From the edge of the rink, a dozen flashbulbs exploded 
simultaneously and the reporters grinned smugly.  Will and Emily 
were on the other side of the rink and far out of the picture; Mulder 
and Scully were fair game and the papers now had a photo to go 
with their headline.   

On the sidelines, Will put his arms straight up in the air, signaling 
a touchdown, and Frohike turned sideways and pushed his gut out; 
the judges rated that kiss a perfect ten.

"Oh, that one's gonna make the papers," he mumbled sheepishly, 
actually blushing.  For a few seconds, he'd forgotten the rest of the 
world existed. 

"Yeah," she answered breathlessly, licking her lips. 

"I mean it," he added. "I'm not playing."

"I know; that's the other thing that scares me."  She broke eye 
contact, glancing toward Emily.  "Mulder," she'd said softly, 
holding his hand as they approached the edge of the rink.

"What?" 

She stayed focused on Emily, who was still staring at Will as if he 
were a god.  

"Nothing," she decided.

"Did she say 'yes' yet?" Will asked as they slid off the ice. "To 
Aspen.  Christmas?  Did you ask her?"

"Well, I asked her.  I think she's considering it," Mulder fibbed, 
putting his arm around Scully's waist.  She was warm against him; 
alive.   

Will twisted one side of his mouth up into a half-grin, revealing 
braces that would come off in another month, and contemplating 
something bound to cause someone an ulcer. "Let's ply her with 
popcorn and a bad science fiction movie."

"There's no such thing as a bad science fiction movie," he'd 
responded. 

*~*~*~*

Mulder smiled as he traced the old piece of newspaper, 
remembering. 'Manhattan's Most Eligible Bachelor Off the 
Market.'  Taped beside it on the inside of his locker door was the 
photo Frohike had taken of them that afternoon playing in the 
snow. 'A majestic December day in Central Park,' the caption 
read. 'Miss Scully carries a blue book with a paperclip marking her 
favorite chapter.'  Nowhere in the picture was a paperclip or a blue 
book.

"Mulder," one of the assistant coaches barked.  The locker room 
door banged closed as the rest of the team headed out to the field 
for their first home game of the '56 season. "Are you all right?"   

Mulder nodded, stopped staring at the pictures, and reached for his 
jersey.  Across the front, in big block letters, was 'New York' and 
on the back was a large '5.'  On the sleeve was 'Yankees.'  It felt 
familiar – comforting – to have someone put who he was on his 
shirt.  It made things easier.  

The game was the same, but some of the faces had changed: Lefty 
Gomez and Bill Dickey had been replaced by Yogi Berra, Mickey 
Mantle, and Don Larson.  And some faces hadn't: Casey Stengel 
was still the manager and showed every sign of continuing to be 
for rest of the century.  Lou Gehrig, whose place in the batting 
line-up Mulder had taken that first game in Detroit, had been dead 
for almost fifteen years; Babe Ruth for six.

Scully had been gone for eleven months.        

"Were you thinking of joining us?" the coach asked sarcastically. 
"Because we're going to have a riot, otherwise."

"I'm coming," he mumbled, sliding the jersey over his head and 
leaning down to lace up his cleats.  He grabbed his baseball cap off 
the hook, closed his locker, and followed the coach out.  

As soon as he stepped out of the shadows, the crowd started 
cheering, hailing the resurrected hero.  Mulder bit his lip and 
hesitated, but the coach put his hand on his back, propelling him 
forward and out onto the familiar field.  Although his contract said 
he was going to play, the Yankees wanted him for star power.  He 
was window dressing – his job was to stand in the spotlight and 
wave to the fans.  If he hit a baseball, that was just a bonus.  He 
was almost forty-two years old; he was one of the oldest players in 
the league, but also the most highly paid. 

'Don't screw it up,' he told himself.    

*~*~*~*

Frohike glanced at Mulder and raised his hand, but he was busy 
shepherding a new wonder boy through the gauntlet of reporters.  
Years ago, he'd done the same for Mulder: grooming him like a 
trainer with a prize racehorse.  Wonder Boy had the same stunned, 
uncertain look he had once had, as though he expected an 
announcement that there was a mistake and no one wanted him to 
play for the Yankees after all.       

Mulder waved back, then ducked his head and pressed through the 
crowd, trying to go unnoticed.  He'd already done the mandatory 
interviews and pose-with-the-bat photos on the field after the 
game.  Time, Life, Look – all the single syllable publications had 
their stories; these were the freelancers waiting for the crumbs.        

"How's it feel to play again?" someone shouted as Mulder stepped 
out of the locker room, carrying his duffle bag and car keys and 
heading for the parking lot.  

A flashbulb exploded in his peripheral vision and he shied away, 
pulling the bill of his baseball cap lower on his forehead.  

"It feels incredible," Mulder responded predictably, walking faster.  

Four hundred and twelve steps to the parking lot and then one 
hundred and twenty-seven miles to the mountains: all he wanted to 
do was toss his duffle bag in the trunk, slide behind the wheel, turn 
up the radio, and let the evening wind blow over his face as he 
drove home.  He liked the long drive; as the city slid away, so did 
the rest of the real world until it was a faded memory on an old 
postcard.  

Before he could escape, the reporters spotted him and there was a 
mass stampede across the hall, like wolves trying to get at the kill.  
They encircled him, jockeying for camera angles and sound bites.

"How's the shoulder?"

Another flashbulb popped so close he could feel the heat on his 
jaw.   

"Can you comment on missing the last week of spring training?" 
another man asked, holding his pad and pencil ready. "Is it true 
you were injured?" 

"Are you starting in the game Saturday?" someone demanded, 
pushing a microphone in his face.

"Good – fine.  No, I have no comment.  No, I'm not injured.  Yes, 
I think I'm starting," Mulder answered, trying to blink the spots 
out from in front of his eyes. "It's up to the coaches."
  
"You looked good out there, Mulder.  Real good.  Any thoughts on 
next season?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we-" he hedged, raising his hand as 
flashbulbs popped like fireworks. "When we, uh – get to it."

"Hand down – give us a grin!  Come on, Mulder."

"Are you an Elvis fan?"       

"What do you think of Japan being admitted into the United 
Nations?"

"Of Eisenhower running for re-election?"

"There are rumors of a wedding and a baby shower at your house.  
Can you confirm them?"

Mulder smirked, and started pushing through the crowd again. 
"Goodnight, boys," he said with monotone finality.

"'Night, Mulder," they answered en masse, abandoning their 
cause.  He wasn't going to give them tomorrow morning's 
headline.  The swarm of reporters, microphones, and camera 
parted, clearing a path, then turned back to Wonder Boy.  
 
He could see the almost-empty parking lot at the end of the 
corridor with the New York skyline still blushing violet in the 
evening light.  The moon was rising, bringing Venus with it as a 
counterpoint – lunacy and love.  As a child, he'd mistaken Venus 
for the North Star, thinking that was the light wise men followed.

Some beliefs a boy didn't outgrow, he just let out the seams and 
patched the elbows when they got ragged.  
   
The crowds had gone, and discarded soda cups and crumpled 
napkins sprinkled the dark pavement like powdered sugar, 
remnants of a warm spring afternoon.   

"Good game, Mr. Mulder," one of the ushers greeted him, offering 
to carry his duffle bag.

"Thanks.  No, I have it," he answered, stopping at the water 
fountain.

"There's a girl waiting for you.  She asked me to tell you."

Mulder smirked, and the balding usher nodded knowingly.  There 
was never a shortage of pretty women waiting outside the stadium 
for the players.  Most were not the players' wives.

Jake shrugged. "I know, I know, but I said I'd tell you.  She said it 
was very important she talk to you."

"Tell her to go home before her father starts to worry.  It's a school 
night."

"She's pretty.  Don't you like girls?" the usher teased.

"Not since I laid eyes on you, Jake.  Years and years of frustrated 
passion.  Come on – give us a kiss."  Mulder puckered his lips 
sarcastically, making sucking noises at the old man.

Jake looped one thumb into his tight waistband, patted his round 
belly, and sighed in satisfaction. "I'm too much of a man for you, 
Mr. Mulder.  Good to know I still got it, though."

"Oh, we'll be putting you out to stud any day.  So my lust for your 
body is unrequited?  I guess I'll-" 

"Mulder?" a female voice asked from behind him, and he whirled 
around, forgetting whatever sardonic crap he'd been spewing.  

He saw her all at one, a visceral recognition rather than slowly 
taking note of the familiar carriage and coloring.  The universe 
shifted like an old transmission, throwing his heart forward and 
then slamming it back into its usual place.   

"Scu-" he started before he realized it wasn't.  He exhaled slowly, 
then adjusted his grip on the duffle bag. "Yes, ma'am?" he asked 
politely, evenly, using his 'I'm a busy man' tone.

"Are you Fox Mulder?"

He nodded, his eyes flitting over her hungrily.  

She wasn't her, but she was close.  For a second, something 
traitorous in his brain wondered if she was close enough, just for a 
few hours.  It was hard to walk out of the stadium night after night 
and see all the other men leaving with wives or girlfriends or at 
least with warm bodies.  He didn't want sex, though; he just 
wanted someone to be happy to see him besides Jake, Frohike, and 
the reporters.

"My name is Melissa.  You knew my sister Dana."

"Your sister?" he answered cautiously.  

Melissa, Melissa…  Big sister Missy, he remembered.  She lived 
with her husband in San Francisco; she was some sort of beatnik 
artist.  He'd never met her, but Scully had written to her 
frequently.  They'd seemed as close as two sisters could be when 
they were two thousand miles apart.  
  
"I went to The Plaza.  They said you don't live there anymore."

"No, I don't."

Melissa met his gaze with the same regal bearing Scully had, and 
she was taller, with the lithe gracefulness of a ballerina. "I don't 
mean to bother you, Mr. Mulder.  I wanted…  I wanted to speak 
with you about Dana."

He swallowed, breaking eye contact. "I'm sorry; I can't help you."

He glanced at her from underneath his eyelashes, then arranged his 
features into no expression and stepped around her, walking across 
the parking lot toward the Chrysler he'd bought for Scully.   

"I think you can," she persisted, walking quickly to keep up with 
him. "Mr. Mulder-" 

"I'm sorry; I can't help you," he repeated sternly, being careful not 
to look at her again.   

"My sister wrote to me about you.  You loved her.  And she loved 
you."

He unlocked the trunk and tossed his duffle bag inside. "I've loved 
a lot of women.  Some were more memorable than others.  Tell me 
what your sister looks like and maybe I can help you."  He 
punctuated his lie by slamming the trunk so hard something broke 
loose and rattled.

"You know exactly who she is."

"Do you have a photo of her?"  

He started to unlock the driver's side door, taking three tries and 
scratching the paint as he fumbled to get his key in the lock. 

"You called my sister 'Scully' because she threatened to hurt you 
if you called her 'Nurse Scully' one more time.  You hate to be 
called 'Fox.'  You bought Emily a giant rocking horse at FAO 
Schwarz, even though Dana told you not to, and then you paid to 
have it shipped to Georgetown.  You, you, you can't cook.  
Anything.  You live on deli takeout, coffee, and scrambled eggs 
when Dana isn't around and she's always afraid you're 
malnourished.  You have an old gray flannel shirt you like to wear 
when it's cold.  She patched it for you.  You have a son named 
William she taught to ride the subway.  You wanted to get married 
but Dana wouldn't set a date.  You wanted children and Dana 
couldn't any more.  Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking 
about!"  

"All right – I remember!  Of course I remember!  What do you 
want?"

"You called my mother last year, hinting Dana was going to have 
another baby and you weren't happy about that.  You said she took 
off again when you wouldn't marry her.  You were lying.  You 
may have fooled my Catholic mother and my over-protective 
brother, but you don't fool me, Mr. Mulder.  I know my sister."   

"I'm sorry; I can't help you," he repeated for the third time, 
noticing his hands were shaking. 

"It doesn't add up.  It doesn't even come close.  You took care of 
Emily and scoured the planet for Dana the first time she vanished. 
You beat Bill senseless because he wouldn't let you talk to Dana; 
they had to call the police to get you away from her hospital room 
two years ago.  This time, you just shrug and say 'oh well'?"
 
He gripped the door handle, his knuckles straining white under his 
skin. "I'm sorry; I can't-"      
 
She tilted her chin up slightly and crossed her arms. "No, 
obviously you can't.  Or you won't.  My brother was right.  I'm 
sorry I bothered you, Mr. Mulder."

As Melissa turned away, he reached out impulsively, grabbing her 
wrist. "Wait."

She stared at his hand as though trying to decide if she was going 
to pull away or not.

He moved his mouth silently a few times, then exhaled painfully 
and asked, "Do you know where she is?  Is she okay?  Is Em 
okay?"

"I don't know.  I was hoping you did."

He shook his head, staring down at a plastic soda cup as the wind 
slowly rolled it past. "I haven't heard from her since last May."

"You don't know where she might have gone?"

"No."  He nudged the cup gently with the toe of his shoe to get it 
moving again. "I don't even know if she's alive."

Melissa studied him, then said softly, "She wrote that you wore 
guilt the way other men wore neckties.  She was right.  And she 
said you don't let people touch you.  She was wrong.  You let 
people touch you all the time; you just don't like to let them know 
it."

He nodded, not sure how to respond, and then decided he should 
probably let go of her wrist. 

"Whatever you're hiding, I'm sure there's a good reason for it.  I 
just want to know she's safe."

"So do I," he mumbled. "She has a telephone number she can call 
if she needs anything – it's a friend of a friend of a friend – and 
she's never called it.  It's been safe for months; my, uh, contact 
sent her a message telling her that.  She hasn't c-ca-come back.  I 
don't know why."   

He glanced up, watching the violet-blue light glowing soft against 
her hair. 

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?  There's a place just across the 
street.  We can just talk.  About Scu-  About Dana." 

"You sound like you need someone to talk to."

That was early April.

*~*~*~*

This was late May.

And properly done, a Saturday in May was like a nine year old's 
summer – it could last an eternity.  

If he was in Georgetown a year ago, they could have made love 
quietly before the kids woke up, hushing each other and giggling 
like two teenagers doing something naughty.  When Emily got up, 
the three of them could have breakfast in bed, getting crumbs on 
the sheets and eating the toast crusts she didn't want.  It was a 
delicate balance between sloth and malodorous, but he could 
usually put off showering and shaving until at least eleven.

Eventually, they'd concede to morning and wander downstairs.  
Emily usually parked herself in front of cartoons, wearing her 
Davy Crocket cap and wrapped in the pink blanket from her bed.  
Scully sat at the dining room table to read the newspaper, and 
Mulder stood behind her, sipping his coffee and reading over her 
shoulder.

By then it was noon, and Will was awake.  Something in the old 
house was bound to be leaking, falling off, stopped up, or shorting 
out.  Flush with full-tummy, post-nookie optimism, Mulder would 
get his toolbox and announce he'd fix it.  Scully would suggest he 
call a repairman on Monday, knowing Mulder's toolbox held a 
hammer, three screwdrivers (two flat and one criss-cross), a 
wrench, a roll of duct tape, a washer, four rusted nails, a 
thumbtack, and an old pack of gum.  Scully would insist he call a 
repairman on Monday.  When he didn't, she'd sigh and get out the 
bandages and peroxide, and tell Will to call the fire department and 
put them on alert.  Mulder's home repair projects were really 
excuses for Scully to fuss over his boo-boos while Will fixed 
whatever was broken.

Afternoons were for errands, for 'don't buy anything that isn't on 
the list, Mulder.  Did you hear me, Mulder?  Will?  Nothing unless 
it's on the list.  I mean it.'  When they returned from the market 
two hours later, Scully would have taken a long bath and be in a 
good enough mood to overlook Mulder, Will, and Emily having 
managed to buy twenty dollars worth of junk, but nothing on the 
shopping list.  Afternoons were for 'let's go for a drive,' and 'let's 
go to a movie,' and 'let's just sit here a little longer.'

Evenings fell into two categories.  The first was a heady rush of 
silk slips and high heels clicking and 'did you tell the babysitter six 
or six thirty?' and 'where are the damn tickets – you had them 
last,' moments.  Those nights glittered like diamonds, but they 
were rare.  More frequent were evenings of old sweaters and sock 
feet and good books and 'what's on the radio?' and 'stir the 
stockpot on the stove as you pass, Mulder.'  Mr. Baseball and Miss 
All-American-Brains-and-Beauty, despite being the center of a 
global conspiracy, weren't the most exciting couple on the planet.  

And then there was night, when they could lie in bed, bare limbs 
tangled together in a jumble of flesh, and watch the stars tumbling 
in slow motion through the blackness of space. 'I love you,' he'd 
tell her, combing his fingers through her hair and caressing the 
elegant muscles of her shoulders. 

'More than strawberry milkshakes?' she'd ask, safe in his arms.

'Close call, but yes,' he'd respond.

Mulder smiled and rolled over as he woke, enjoying the luxury of 
soft sheets against his bare skin.  He knew she wasn't there, but he 
reached out anyway, patting the empty space on the bed beside 
him.  If he didn't open his eyes, he could pretend she was 
downstairs, fussing at the kids and starting breakfast.  If he didn't 
open his eyes, he could almost swear the bed smelled like her.  He 
lingered in the land between sleep and morning, stringing together 
enough memories to hold back the darkness for another day.  

The bedside clock suggested it was a little before seven, but these 
were the Catskill Mountains, and so it was only a suggestion and 
open for negotiation.  Like Brigadoon, things moved a little slower 
at this altitude.  

Will was already up – he'd left a trail of socks and pajama bottoms 
from his bedroom to the bathroom, then dumped out a basket of 
clean clothes on the sofa, looking for his swimming trunks and a 
towel.  His son's saving grace was having made coffee, and 
Mulder poured a cup, then slid his feet into his canvas deck shoes 
and shrugged on an old flannel shirt.  Standing on the back porch, 
he stretched and yawned as the screen door banged shut behind 
him.  

The grass was still wet along the path to the lake, and it whipped 
damp lines over his ankles.  The valley was a vast, azure openness 
surrounded by gray-green mountains and scented with balsam and 
pine.  God must have scrubbed the air each night to get it so clean 
by morning.  Their new house was two hours and a several worlds 
above Manhattan, and the only prying eyes on the old horse ranch 
belonged to the wildlife.  It was easier to breathe here, and Mulder 
had spent the last year trying to exhale.   
                 
As he walked out on the pier, Will reached the far end of the lake 
and turned back, his arms cutting easily through the water and the 
muscles of his back and shoulders rippling.  Mulder sat his cup on 
top of the post, then leaned on the railing, watching unnoticed as 
his son swam laps.  He still looked twice, wondering who had 
carved a young man's body and given it his son's features.

"How's the water?" he asked as Will passed, then, when he was 
ignored, dove in. "My God!" he gasped as he reached the surface 
again, trying to get some air back into his lungs.

"It's freezing," his son finally responded, pausing and treading 
water.

"Thanks.  You're very helpful." 

"I try," Will assured him. "Think you can keep up, old man?" he 
challenged, backstroking away.

"With you?  Who let you out of the kiddy pool?"  

Fifteen minutes later, a temporary truce was called, and Mulder 
followed Will to the middle of the lake, both resting their forearms 
on the floating wooden platform as they caught their breath.

"No bad," Will conceded. "For an old guy."

"I didn't want to embarrass you," Mulder responded sarcastically, 
his body humming.  Will had probably been doing laps for half an 
hour and was tired, but it was still an effort to keep up. "So, it's 
Saturday… You wanna go to a movie?"

"Yeah," Will responded, tossing his wet hair back from his face. 
"Let's get a burger, too."

"Play some catch after?"  

"And then go fishing."

"Teach me to drive?"

"Sure," Mulder promised.

As they planned their day, he saw a small female figure making 
her way down the path from the house, her full skirt swaying 
gracefully as she moved.  She walked to end of the pier, then stood 
with her hands on her hips, surveying the scene with a frown.  
Mulder pushed back from the platform, swimming toward her with 
long, unhurried strokes.  

"Guillaume, we to be too much very late," she informed Will, who 
waved to her happily from the middle of the lake.  She ran her 
fingers through her short, dark curls, then gestured toward him in 
frustration. "You have library.  Why you not ready?"

Will grinned, climbing up on the platform and stretching out lazily.  
Lying on his back, he rested his head on his forearms and crossed 
his ankles, getting comfortable.   

"Guillaume, I mean it!  Is no joke.  I tell you be ready seven 
thirty." 

"You can't have him, Maddie," Mulder informed her, treading 
water a few feet from the pier. "It's Saturday.  Our day.  We're 
going to the movies.  Right, Will?"

Will gave him a 'thumbs up,' otherwise not moving.

"And then we're getting a burger.  You can come.  We'll share.  
We'll even let you sit in the middle and hold the popcorn."

She pushed her eyebrows together, and a perplexed crease 
appeared in the white skin between them. "I cannot come to 
burgers, Monsieur Mulder.  I to be too much too late for work.  He 
have library work or no graduation.  Guillaume, what this about 
burgers?"

"If you want me that badly, then you come get me, honey," Will 
responded, still not even bothering to turn his head. "Dad and I are 
going fishing."

"You can't have him, Maddie," Mulder told her again, grinning. 
"Not yet."

Ignoring him, she folded her arms and shouted across the lake, 
"Guillaume Mulder, you come this instant!  We to be too much-"

"We to be too much too late for work," Will finally responded, 
sitting up. "We to be too much too late for library.  Do you think 
all the good encyclopedias are going to be gone if I don't get there 
at eight, Maddie?" He slid off the raft and into the water, joining 
Mulder in front of the pier. "You look pretty.  Come here and turn 
around."    

Madelon complied, turning slowly so he could see her new dress.  
He swam closer and she stepped to the very edge, still swishing 
back and forth for his amusement.  Mulder thought she looked like 
Audrey Hepburn, but Will, highly biased, insisted Audrey Hepburn 
tried to look like Maddie.  Either way, she was lovely, and bright, 
and funny in a wry, French kind of way, and nothing at all like any 
girl he'd ever dreamed would catch his son's eye. 

"I can see up your skirt," Will informed her seriously.

She sighed in exasperation, and stepped back. "Monsieur Mulder, 
why you not teach him listen when I say I want 'come this 
instant'?" she demanded, trying to maintain her stern expression. 

"Very high standards," Mulder whispered to Will, still treading 
water.     

"Very," his son responded. "Go dig up some worms, honey.  
There's a shovel in the barn.  I told you: we're fishing today.  The 
Yankees and graduating can go to Hell; it's Saturday."

"Such language!  You two – you are both too large for your 
trousers!" she informed them.

Mulder bit his lip, coughing as he struggled not to laugh.   

"It's 'too big for your britches,'" Will managed to choke out, then 
put one hand on the slippery ladder, probably wanting to get out 
before she said anything else enlightening. "And not in this cold 
water."   

"You're going to the library in town?" Mulder asked as Will took 
the towel she offered, brushing off her attempts to dry him. "Or are 
you going to drop Maddie at work and ride into Manhattan with 
me?"

"Town.  This is my term paper, and I think she's more uptight 
about it than I am.  I'm gonna pass – who cares if I pass with a 'B' 
or a 'D'?  What do you want me to drive?"  

Will's Thunderbird was still out of commission after getting a 
frighteningly large Buick-shaped dent in the passenger side door.  
For almost two months, the garage kept sending it back, saying it 
was repaired, and Will kept returning it, saying it wasn't repaired 
to his standards.     

"Take the Chrysler.  I'll drive the Porsche today."
 
"Are you sure?"

"Take it.  Are you two coming to the game?"

Will immediately turned to Maddie, asking, "Are we going to 
watch my dad play this afternoon?"

"We to see."

"We'll see.  Maybe," he relayed to his father as if Mulder hadn't 
heard her. 

"Bonjour, Monsieur Mulder," Madelon told him, turning back to 
the house. "Guillaume, I cook breakfast, start car.  You wash; you 
smell of the fish."

'Balls?' Mulder mouthed at his son, gesturing as though he might 
have left them somewhere in the lake.

Will made a face, then followed Maddie, flicking his wet hair at 
her playfully as she pushed him away and ordered him to stop.  At 
almost halfway through his seventeenth year, Will was just over 
six feet of lean muscle, and he slouched slightly as they walked so 
he could hear whatever Maddie was telling him to do.  Eventually 
he got tired of being lectured and kissed her, which was a sure way 
to shut up a headstrong woman for a few seconds.

Mulder laughed to himself, then pivoted in the water and started 
another lap, putting off starting the day a little longer.      

*~*~*~*

His son had made it sound easy enough  – unscrew the little bolt, 
drain out the old oil, change the oil filter, etcetera, etcetera.  Will 
had even laid out all the parts and tools before he'd left to take 
Maddie home, explaining each step like his father was a complete 
moron.

It was official – his father was a complete moron.  Just because 
Mulder had hit a homerun over the wall this afternoon didn't mean 
he'd grown a mechanical gene.   

He heard a car coming up the gravel drive, for once going at a 
reasonable speed.  Will had finally become a more cautious driver 
after wrecking with Maddie in the car.  An old man had run a stop 
sign on a dark, rainy road - the accident hadn't been Will's fault, 
but the trip to the emergency room had been a sobering experience.  

Mulder adjusted the portable light so it wasn't blinding him, then 
picked up the wrench, squirming to get at the bolt.  No normal 
human being's arms were meant to bend at that angle.  

The old Coney Island cat Emily had adopted peeked underneath 
the Porsche, curious as to what all the foul language was about. 
"Stew meat," Mulder threatened, and Kitten flicked his tail 
haughtily, an amused, evil gleam in his one good eye.   

He mumbled in satisfaction as the bolt turned, then cursed again 
and jerked away as scalding motor oil poured down his forearm.  
Unfortunately, underneath a small sports car, there wasn't a lot of 
room to escape.  His foot hit something as he squirmed, tipping it 
over.  When he heard 'glugging' sounds, he realized it was one of 
the cans of oil Will had opened before he'd left. 
 
Kitten, knowing danger when he saw it, headed for the safety of 
the hayloft.  

Mulder found a rag, then wiped off and up as much oil as possible.  
His T-shirt was ruined, so he skinned it off and tossed it in the dark 
corner of the barn before he crawled back underneath the car.  He 
was supposed to do something else while the old oil was draining 
out of the engine, but he couldn't remember what it was so he just 
jiggled various things, getting nervous when a chunk came off in 
his hand.

"Will!" he called, and heard footsteps approaching.  

He turned the grease-coated part over, then tried to fit it back into 
place before anyone noticed.  It wouldn't stay.

"What is this?" he asked, holding the lump out from underneath 
the car.  He turned his head and saw women's loafers standing 
beside the Porsche instead of Will's oversized sneakers. "Oh, 
never mind.  I thought you left, Maddie.  Where's Will?  Tell him 
someone left this loose and it fell off.  I didn't touch it."

"It's okay; I think it's a pebble," Scully's voice said thoughtfully, 
and Mulder slammed his head into the undercarriage as he tried to 
sit up.  

He scrambled gracelessly from underneath the car, sticky with 
sweat and slippery with oil, with dirt sticking to his bare back and 
grease stains on his old blue jeans.  It was really Scully – not her 
sister, not a hallucination, not a dream – it was Scully standing in 
his barn in a skirt and a white blouse, her hair caught in a ponytail 
at the base of her neck.  In spite of the dizzying rush of blood to his 
brain, he felt an inner calm, like knowing a nightlight was on even 
without opening his eyes.  

"Hi," she said softly, being surreally still as the world continued to 
turn.

"Hi," he exhaled back, stunned. "My God."

"What gave you the idea you could work on a car, Mulder?"

"I was supposed to- Will said- Oh my God!"  

He cupped his palms against her cheeks, then wrapped his arms 
around her and lifted her off her feet.  He just inhaled her for a 
moment, then set her back down, staring at her, trying to take in 
everything at once in case she vanished again. 

"I'm getting you dirty," he mumbled, trying to wipe a smear of 
grease off her cheek and only making it larger.

"No, you're not," she answered, her eyes shining as she looked up 
at him. "Are you all right?"

It seemed like such a mundane, inane question that he almost 
laughed.

"I, uh, I burned my arm.  Just a minute ago."  

He held it out for her to examine, putting his other hand on his 
wrist so it would stop shaking.

"It's not bad.  Anything else?"

"Everything," he answered breathlessly. "Everything hurts."

She stepped back, looking at him critically in the glow from the 
light hanging from the rafters.  Under her gaze, he felt self-
conscious of his bare chest, with the two puckered scars from the 
bullets and the long white line from open-heart surgery beginning 
at the base of his throat and running to the base of his ribcage.  
Most people saw him as a two-dimensional icon, but she saw him 
as a man and he was acutely aware of all his flaws.

"Is this what 'playing form' looks like?" she finally asked, sliding 
her fingertips over his shoulders and down his arms, tracing the 
evidence of hours of swimming laps and lifting weights. "This is 
nice."

"Oh," he mumbled awkwardly. "Yeah.  I can't believe you're 
really here, honey.  I think I'm a little afraid to believe it.  Because 
if you're not really here and I believe you are, I think I'll go crazy.  
Well, technically, that would mean I was already crazy because I'd 
be hallucinating, so I'd really only be going crazier," he chattered. 
"And if you are really here and I don't believe it, then I'd be 
delusional, which would be equally bad, and, and, and…  And I 
sound like a blithering idiot, don't I?"

She rested her forehead tiredly against his chest, leaning into him 
as though she could crawl inside. "I've missed you so much."

"You can't imagine-" he began, then couldn't finish. "You're 
okay?"
 
"I'm fine." She straightened up, her expression wavering between 
tears and a smile. "We heard you on the radio; we listened to the 
game in the car this afternoon."

"We?  Are you a 'we'?"   

Will had left the porch light on, and the nondescript Chevrolet in 
the driveway was dusty, with Oregon tags.  He stared at it as they 
walked past, seeing evidence of a long drive.  There was a suitcase 
behind the driver's seat, along with two empty soda cups and 
crumpled food wrappers.  In the front were some crayons, a 
coloring book, a blanket, and a baby bottle.    

She nodded, taking his grimy hand and leading him up the front 
steps. "We're a 'we.'"
  
*~*~*~*

The best way to describe it-

No, the only way to describe it was like dreaming he was falling, 
plummeting through the heavens and watching helplessly as the 
ground came closer and closer.  His body tensed, bracing for the 
painful impact, and he could only pray he woke up before it was 
too late.  Then, out of the blue, God or chance or destiny 
intervened, slowed his fall, and guided him softly back to Earth 
with all the gentleness of the father for his child.

It left him breathless, thankful, and still waiting for the sky to come 
crashing down on top of him.
 
He checked the clock on the mantle, making sure it was moving at 
the right pace.  It was, so he looked around his living room, 
checking for red.  He didn't see any, which meant this probably 
wasn't a dream.  They were really there – the three of them.  Scully 
and, asleep on the couch, Emily, and…

Employing his coveted genetics, the thousands of dollars his father 
had spent on his education, and knowledge gleaned from years as a 
closet intellectual, Mulder pointed at the portable bassinette beside 
the sofa and announced, "That's a baby."

At his voice, the infant opened his blue eyes, splaying his tiny 
fingers in front of his mouth.  He yawned, his face briefly 
metamorphosizing into toothless gums and taut pink lips before it 
resumed its normal shape.

"That's a baby," Mulder repeated numbly, his brain sputtering like 
a backup generator running low on gas.    

As he stood frozen in the doorway, Scully's hand slid out of his 
and she walked to the bassinette, leaning over it.  The baby reached 
up, fascinated by her face. "Yes, it is," she whispered, smiling. 

"Scully, that's a baby." He was still pointing. "Th- that's a- a-"

"A baby."

He nodded stupidly.  

"Why don't you sit down, Mulder?"  

"I should sit down," he mumbled, sinking gratefully into a chair.  
Thank God she suggested it; he'd forgotten he could move. 

Scully picked up the infant, settling him against her shoulder with 
one hand on his bottom and the other supporting his head. "Do you 
want to hold him?"

He stared at her, now forgetting he could speak.  

Scully was an excellent nurse, and she'd make an excellent doctor.  
If she said he was coming down with something, odds were he'd 
wake up the next morning with a stuffed-up nose and a scratchy 
throat.  If she said he should take vitamins, he took them 
unquestioningly.  And if she told him to think of a pregnancy as a 
threat to her health rather than as a child, he branded any other 
hope as traitorous and stamped it out guiltily. 

"Mulder?" she repeated when he didn't respond.

"Yes?" he answered as though she'd asked if he'd like cream in his 
coffee.  That was where she'd been for months, why she hadn't 
returned or made contact when Frohike's sources tried to find her: 
because she was afraid someone was after the baby.     

The baby.  They had a baby.

He started feeling lightheaded, also having forgotten he was 
supposed to breathe.  He'd had a thousand nightmares of her 
suddenly doubling over in pain, not able or afraid to get to a 
doctor.  He'd envisioned her strapped to one of those cold metal 
exam tables with the needle descending into her swollen belly.  
He'd even pictured the label on the filing cabinet: DKS-FWM 
1956, a code summarizing a life like a toe tag at the morgue.  Even 
in dreams, though, he didn't allow himself to hope.  It hurt too 
much.

"Do you want to hold him?"

He blinked, checking to see if she'd vanished.  Life was already in 
soft focus; he wouldn't have been surprised if it faded completely 
to black.  

"You don't have to," she immediately amended. "I didn't mean to 
push you.  Maybe later…" 

"It's okay?  It won't bother him?"

Scully looked at him, puzzled, then responded, "No, it won't 
bother him."

"Phoebe said it bothered Will – when I wanted to hold him."

"Phoebe would."  
 
He inhaled slowly, moving his lips silently as she settled the baby 
into his arms, then just stared at him.  

Then at Scully, who was hovering protectively.  

Then nervously at the baby, who yawned again, under-impressed. 

He was almost ready to tell her to take the baby back before he 
dropped him when, like God touching Michelangelo's Adam, there 
was a spark, an instinctive recognition, and a sense of rightness, 
and nothing in the world was going to pry him away from that 
child.  

Mulder felt warm, like he was sleeping under an electric blanket, 
and tingly, like he was submerged in champagne punch.  It started 
at the crown of his head and flowed down to his fingertips, pushing 
aside other emotion in its path.  As it reached his chest, it twinged 
as an ache was massaged away – the pain of too much tenderness. 

He folded the blanket back a few inches, breathlessly enraptured 
with the scents and textures of a new human being. "He's 
beautiful.  Oh my God…  Look at these fingers.  They're perfect.  
And eyes.  Blue eyes.  He's watching everything.  He's so little.  
What's his name?  What's your name, little guy?"

"Mortimer."

He glanced up, mouth open. "You named my son 'Mortimer'?"

"No, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention."

"Don't tease me, honey," he pleaded, sniffing. "Not unless you 
want to see a grown man cry." 

She smiled, brushing her lips against his cheek, which may or may 
not have already been wet. "Benjamin.  Ben.  I was keeping with 
the tradition of verbs, so I thought you'd like a past participle.  
Will, Ben…"

"Hello, Benjamin," he murmured, tracing his finger over the 
baby's downy head. "I didn't even let myself think it might 
happen.  Last May you said-"

"I know what I said, Mulder." She stroked the sole of a bare foot 
that had escaped the blanket and Ben's toes curled under in 
response. "But here he is."

"Is he okay?  Is there anything odd or, or different about him?"

"As far as I can tell, he's a healthy, full term infant.  He snores, 
though- these tiny little baby snores.  And sometimes I can't do 
anything to make him happy; he just wants to be difficult, and I 
think that's hereditary."  

Ben closed his eyes again, dozing as he chewed his fist 
contentedly.

"What if he gets sick?" he asked suddenly. "What if he didn't 
come from where we think he came from?  What if whatever made 
the first baby so valuable – what if he has it too?  What if They 
take him the same way They took you?"  
    
"And what if the sky falls?" she answered, reaching over to adjust 
his hands again. "He's here.  I think if They were going to take 
him, They already would have.  He's here, he's wonderful, and 
he's ours.  I take my miracles where I can get them."

He cradled Ben against his chest and nodded toward Emily. "Like 
this one?  I thought the doctors said…"  

Emily had the same pale, hollow-cheeked look she'd had after 
having pneumonia, except more so.  She shifted in her sleep, 
reaching out for her mother.

Scully stroked her daughter's hair, smoothing back the sweaty 
wisps. "For a few months, she got better, and I thought the doctors 
had been making her sick on purpose.  She seemed fine.  She even 
started school last September.  And then she started getting 
nosebleeds again and catching every germ known to man, just like 
before.  Sooner or later, her white blood cell count will drop so low 
her body won't be able to fight off a cold." Scully paused and 
smiled that war-weary smile again. "She wanted to see you, 
Mulder.  Bub and Mulder – that's all she's talked about for a 
week."

He nodded again, then went back to staring wondrously at the baby 
in his arms. "He's real, honey," he said softly. "He's real, you're 
real, Em's real.  You're all really here."

"Yes, we are."  
 
"Am I holding him the right way?"

"You're fine," she assured him. "I thought you'd done this 
before?" 

"I want to do it right this time."

*~*~*~* 

The suitcase had been packed in Scully's meticulous manner, but 
with strangers' clothes – echoes from another life.  

Mulder unfolded a light blue waitress uniform, cut loose to conceal 
a pregnant belly, with 'Laura' on the nametag.  There was a stain 
of something yellow, mustard, maybe, on the front, and a 
crumpled, washed sheet of paper from an order pad in the pocket.  
It hurt his pride to think of those three things in conjunction: Dana 
Scully, his baby, and a maternity waitress's uniform.  He hadn't 
played pro ball for thirteen seasons so the mother of his child could 
use her belly to counterbalance a tray of root beer floats. 

There were half-empty packages of plain socks and white panties, 
both Emily and Scully-sized, like she'd rushed through the store 
and just grabbed the first things off the shelves that fit.  The baby's 
tiny sleepers were soft and warm, but plain, lacking the embroidery 
and detail new mothers liked to coo over.  It was as though 
someone had been sent to buy clothes – just generic, all-purpose 
'clothes' - and this was what they'd returned with; the skirts and 
blouses and pajamas were as impersonal as accidentally bringing 
home a bag of another person's groceries.       

The 'if lost' tag on the suitcase was for 'Donna Miller,' but no 
home address was listed.

A manila folder in the side pocket held a kindergarten report card 
from Oregon, a school picture, a few crayoned worksheets, and a 
piece of lined paper with 'Katie Samuels' written in a little girl's 
careful lettering.  A teacher had drawn a smiley face and noted the 
printing was 'very nice.'  A second folder was thick with medical 
records, most undecipherable by him, and a birth certificate 
recording a baby boy weighing in at a little over six pounds. 
'Benjamin William Martin,' had been born February 10, 1956 in 
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada to Marty and Sally Martin.  
Marty Martin was, once again, absent.

Love grows gradually.  It shifts and evolves like a musician who 
plays a song again and again until suddenly he hears it as if for the 
first time.  And sometimes it was possible to fall in love a hundred 
times in a hundred different ways in the course of a lifetime – all 
with the same person.        

"Thank you," Scully said casually, emerging from the bathroom 
enveloped in his oversized robe and a cloud of steam.  "For 
bringing in my suitcase," she added, seeming puzzled by his 
intense gaze. "Are the kids all right?"

"Still sleeping," he reported softly, pushing a wet strand of hair 
back from her forehead. "You are so beautiful."

She half-laughed, then started to pull away. "I just had a baby, 
Mulder.  Is it the bags under my eyes or the extra ten pounds on 
my backside that does it for you?"

"No." He licked his lips, then felt them cool as he inhaled. "I wish 
I was an artist so I could draw you the way I see you: courageous, 
noble, strong – a thousand times stronger than I am.  It's beauty 
that goes deep and endures; fine furniture in a world of cheap 
veneer."       

Beginning at the base of her throat, he ran one finger slowly down 
her chest, parting the damp robe.  She watched his hand moving, 
and swallowed nervously as he untied the knot at her waist. 

"Bed," he breathed into ear, pulling her to him by the terrycloth 
belt.  

"Ben will be awake soon," she answered, tilting her head as he 
traced a tendon down the side of her neck with his mouth.

"Is that your way of saying 'no'?"  They could make love without 
actually 'making love' – Ben was barely three months old.  Or 
maybe that wasn't the problem. "Scully, what Alex Krycek said 
about Diana – that was true.  About the others, too."

"I know."

"I thought, sometimes, in the past year, it wasn't that you weren't 
coming back, but that you weren't coming back to me.  I'm sorry.  
It didn't mean anything, b-but, but you already know that.  I'm 
sorry," he repeated weakly.  
 
"Did you think I'd keep your child away from you because of 
something that happened two years ago?"

"Yes?" his Insecurity Fairy answered.  

She shook her head from side to side, closing her eyes as he guided 
her back onto the mattress.  She relaxed, her movements languid, 
trusting, and almost trancelike as he mapped her body with his, 
fearful one square inch might escape him.  Under his tongue, she 
tasted of melted vanilla ice cream and saltwater taffy, and her body 
quivered gently, like ripples across the surface of a pond.   

"Stay with me – marry me.  I love you," he murmured, just in case 
there was still any question. "I think I have for forever.  It has to 
take more than one lifetime to learn to love someone this much."   

Life was passion and pain waiting to open its jaws and howl.  Love 
was opening himself to another person the way a woman opened 
her body for a man.  It was slicing the artery to his heart and letting 
his soul bleed from it.  It hurt, sometimes more than he thought he 
could bear.  Perhaps the only way to find peace was to live without 
it, but that time was hollow, empty – passing through life in the 
shadows rather than living it in the sun.

"I want to be inside you," he whispered to her, opening his eyes to 
see her watching him, looking deep into the cluttered, cobwebbed 
shelves of his soul. "Slow, careful; I promise.  I won't hurt you."

"You have been inside me," she murmured back, shifting under 
him and wrapping her bare legs around his hips. "You were inside 
me for nine months.  I could feel your heartbeat.  Sometimes it was 
the only thing I could feel."

*~*~*~*

It probably happened to every guy, but it had never happened to 
him before, and it was horrifying.  Sickening.  Or maybe it had 
happened with another woman and he'd just been too drunk to 
notice – that was a sad thought.  Although he'd been married to 
Phoebe for years, he'd spent less than nine months actually living 
with her, and that was including the months immediately before 
and after Will had been born.  He'd been with Scully fifty times for 
every one he'd been with his ex-wife, so it would, of course, 
happen with Scully: he made love to a woman and then cuddled 
up, dozing as the last pinpricks of passion flitted through his body 
and the wetness on his skin shifted from hot and slick to cold and 
sticky, and discovered she was sobbing.  

He pushed up on one elbow, staring at her in his dark bedroom. 
"Are you crying?" he asked in horror, like this could be some sort 
of extended, tearful, epileptic orgasm.  

"No."  She turned her face away, burying it in the pillow.

"Yes, you are.  You are.  You're crying." He'd been to shrink 
school – they'd taught him to recognize these things.

"No, I'm not," she insisted, her bare back shaking as she sobbed.

"Yes, you are," he argued, his stomach tightening.   

"Fine.  I'm crying.  Go away, Mulder."

"What's wrong?"  

"I'm fine," she said angrily. "I'm just crying."

"Well…  Stop it."  He cringed at himself.  Seven years at Oxford 
so when the woman he loved started crying, he could tell her to 
'stop it.'  "What did I do?   I was being careful.  Did I hurt you?"  

"No, I'm crying because you didn't hurt me.  Because you're 
always so careful."

"Then turn over and I'll slap you around a little if it'll get you to 
stop.  Stop it, honey.  What's wrong?" 

"Go away.  Go check on Ben."

"No, I'm not going away.  Tell me why you're crying."

"I'm crying because you're playing baseball again, and I know you 
didn't want to.  I'm crying because you tried to change Ben's 
diaper when you have absolutely no idea how.  I'm crying because 
I dragged you into this nightmare of secrets and projects, because 
they almost killed you and held a gun to Will's head, and when I 
show up again, you still want to be with me.  Because you think I'd 
ever leave you.  I'm crying because you shot Alex Krycek when I 
told you to.  And I'm probably crying because your father cried 
when he buried your damn dog when you were fourteen."  

"So you're crying because I love you and I'm a nice guy?"   

She nodded, still sobbing into the pillow.

"I slept with your sister."

She whirled around, sitting up, her eyes and nose swollen. "She's 
married!  You did not!"

"No, of course I didn't.  She is cute, though.  See – now you're not 
crying."

"I hate you sometimes, Mulder." 

He kissed her forehead, nervously wiping away the tears.  She 
closed her eyes, leaned against his shoulder, and he put his arms 
around her, keeping her safe from the world for a few more 
minutes. 

She was probably telling the truth.
 
*~*~*~*

Entire reels of life were forgotten on the cutting room floor, yet 
single frames stood out, projected larger than life, dust and 
scratches and all.  This day was one of those frames, dust and 
scratches and all.

It wasn't lost on him that Ben was the same age Will had been 
when Phoebe had returned to London, taking William with her.  
That couldn't have been seventeen years ago; it was somewhere 
between yesterday and an eternity, but not seventeen years.  

"Mulder?" Scully whispered, still buttoning her pajama top as she 
came down the stairs. "What are you doing down here?  It's almost 
midnight."

He looked up from his place on the floor, with Emily asleep on the 
couch on one side and Ben in the bassinette on the other. "I-I was 
just watching them.  I thought you fell asleep," he answered, his 
voice hushed by the darkness and roughened by emotion. 

"Is something wrong?"

"No," he answered after a moment's hesitation. "I don't think so." 

As she watched him from the last step, the moonlight glowed 
through the living room window, outlining her delicate features 
and making her sex-tousled hair luminous.  She'd rolled up her 
sleeves, but her white pajama bottoms were too long, bunching 
over her feet so only her toes peeked out, not sure if it was safe to 
come out or not.     
 
"I should have been dead for more than a year and a half," he said 
hoarsely, trying to sound casual. "Eighty-two weeks.  That's five 
hundred and seventy-four days, or thirteen thousand, seven 
hundred and seventy-six hours.  In case anyone was counting," he 
added. "The doctor said he'd never seen anyone lose that much 
blood and live.  And not have brain damage.  He said it with this 
look of confused disappointment - that I hadn't died when he said I 
should."

"Well, I told you not to," she teased quietly, and without much 
energy. "And the no-brain-damage part is debatable.  No grown 
man who still likes snow cones is completely normal.  Really, 
Mulder – are you all right?"    

"When he was a baby, I used to watch Will sleeping before I'd go 
to work in the morning.  I had to be at the docks at five, so from 
four until four-fifteen I'd just stare at him.  Once, he was awake, so 
I tried giving him a bottle, but he started crying and got Phoebe up, 
and Phoebe was mad, so after that I just watched him sleep."

"That's too bad.  Anytime a baby cries between three and five in 
the morning, it automatically means they want their daddies."

"Really?" he answered in surprise, then realized, "You're still 
teasing me."

She shook her head that she wasn't, but she smiled tiredly as she 
did it and walked toward him, running her fingers through his hair 
as she passed.  He caught her hand, keeping her close.

"I got another year and a half with my son.  And now we have 
Ben.  He's wonderful, Scully.  Not too many men get a second 
chance, and I did.  I got two – to live and to be a father again – and 
you gave me both."  

Her smile softened, spreading to her eyes.

"I owe you so much.  I was thinking of something - sitting here, 
watching them - maybe a way of redeeming my IOU.  The doctors 
in DC gave Emily blood transfusions; she needs healthy red blood 
cells, right?"

"That's right, but her body rejects them.  So to prevent that and 
suppress her already weakened immune system, they gave her 
cortisone, which made her even sicker and less able to fight off 
germs.  It's not a matter of money, Mulder; I'm not doing that to 
her again."

"She doesn't have very long, does she?"

Scully nodded 'no' again, like a light bulb that had just dimmed a 
little. "It's not a good idea to be moving her around, to expose her 
to new germs, but she wanted to see you and Will."   
 
"What about giving her my blood?  I'm O-positive; I can donate to 
anyone.  Maybe she'd be less likely to reject cells that are 
genetically closer to hers."

"You and I aren't related."

He hesitated, then said it. "I think Alex Krycek and I probably are.  
Somehow.  It might buy her some time."

"It, it might, if you're compatible," she responded thoughtfully. 
"Are you saying that man's really your brother?  That Emily is 
your niece? "

"No.  And I'm not saying he was Emily's father in any classic 
sense.  I don't even think he was a man.  I think he was a creation.  
I think he was what he said he was – the next evolutionary step 
between human and alien.  Gibson and I are the first naturally-
occurring step, Emily is the second, and whatever Krycek was is 
the third." 

"I know this is your line, but do you know how crazy that sounds?  
Even if there is extra-terrestrial life, the laws of physics prohibit 
traveling faster than the speed of light, which they'd have to do to 
reach Earth.  And evolution happens slowly – a species changes 
over eons."     

"Unless evolution and physics have a little help.  I know what I 
saw.  I saw Them creating children, and I saw Krycek's body 
dissolve like a green Popsicle on a hot sidewalk.  And that film-"

"That film is a hoax; something to feed a paranoid public.  There 
are monsters, but they're human monsters in government 
laboratories trying to play God with human genetics.  And when 
They fail, this is what happens," she said quietly, gesturing to Em. 

"No, Scully.  I know what I saw; I just can't prove it.  I can put the 
pieces together, but there's no proof.  There's just nothing, just like 
when you disappeared the first time.  They repaved the alley near 
the hospital that night, covering up the manhole we came out of.  
The door in the vending room opens to a janitor's closet, now.  
Gibson vanished, just like Diana and Old Smokey and Dr. 
Calderon.  They just dug a big hole and covered up their mess, 
Scully, but at least they didn't bury us with it."

"No," she said softly.  

"Don't go."

"What if-"

"What if what, Scully?  What if you being here puts us in danger?  
What if Ben and Will don't have the genetics They want because 
it's a recessive gene, but they can pass it on to their children?  
What if Emily doesn't get better?  What if that smoking bastard 
comes after us anyway, film or no film?  What if the Russians drop 
the bomb and we all vaporize in an instant?  What if?  Everyone 
has 'what ifs;' ours are just a little less mundane." 

Headlights exploded through the living room window, then the car 
engine died and the driver's door opened.  Scully startled, then 
jumped again, ready to grab a child and run, when he tightened his 
hand on her arm.

"Just Will," he assured her, wondering how many times she must 
have fled in the last year to have reacted like that.  "It's okay.  It's 
just William.  He took Maddie home."   
 
"It's just Will," she repeated to herself, taking a breath. 

"He's missed you.  We both have."

'Missed' was an understatement.  Will, with the resiliency of 
youth, had somehow rationalized the bizarre morning Emily and 
Scully vanished, but there was still the void and silence they left 
behind.  Suddenly, there'd been no one to pick on, to tell secrets to, 
to conspire with except his father, and that wasn't the same.  

Mulder wasn't the only one who'd spent months expecting Scully 
and Emily to be just in the next room.  More than once last 
summer, they'd gone to a restaurant and requested a table for four 
instead of two.  They'd never returned to either The Plaza or the 
house in Georgetown, unable to face the memories, so the movers 
had packed with little regard for whose things were whose.  It 
wasn't uncommon open a box, searching for a missing book or a 
winter sweater, and discover a lone crayon or a mate-less lady's 
glove.  Those things were quietly, optimistically repacked - saved, 
but not commented on.  

And life had gone on.  That wasn't disloyalty; it was survival.

Will got out of the car, then stood and stared at her in 
astonishment.  He blinked – just checking – then slammed the 
driver's side door and rushed toward her. 

"Dana?  Dana!"  

She met him in the yard, and a broad grin split his face before he 
picked her up and swung her around, her bare feet dangling 
helplessly.    

"Easy, Will," Mulder called from the porch. "Be careful."

Will set her down, but kept his arm around her shoulders as they 
walked back to the house. "Jesus, Dana, where've you been?  Do 
you know what a bad cook my father is?"

"Yes, unfortunately I do."

"Where've you been?  Is Emily with-"  He noticed Mulder sitting 
on the top step holding the baby. "Oh my God," he said in 
amazement. "Is that what I think it is?"

"We have mounting evidence that it's a baby." Mulder waggled his 
eyebrows in his Groucho Marx impression. "And Emily's asleep in 
the house." 

If possible, Will's grin got even broader. "Dad - have you been 
opening your birthday presents early this year?"   

"William Adam," he murmured as Will leaned over the baby, 
"Meet Benjamin William.  Ben, meet Will."

"You named him after me?"

"Yes, Will, we named him after you," Scully responded. "Not 
Mulder, not my father or brother, not three of our four 
grandfathers, but you, Will."

"Gee - thanks.  Good name, little guy.  Wow.  Are they supposed 
to be this little?" 

Mulder nodded, adding another frame to his memory as Will 
examined his baby brother, checking tiny fingernails and ears and 
chubby pink cheeks. "He's three months old.  And I think you 
were smaller than this at his age."    

"I was not," he responded. "Can I hold him?"

"No, I'm not done yet.  Get your own." 

Still bent over Benjamin, he glanced up his father and asked, "Did 
you tell Dana?" 

"I thought I'd let you."

"Uhhh…" Will swallowed nervously, taking a step back, and not 
liking that idea.  He tended to have all the subtly and tact of a 
sledgehammer. "Well, I'm getting married.  In two weeks."

Scully's lips formed something, but no sound came out.   

"Keep going," Mulder said, gesturing with one hand for him to 
continue.

"As soon as I graduate.  Dad says I have to graduate first.  And I'm 
going into the Air Force.  I'll be a jet mechanic – I'm all signed up.  
You wouldn't believe some of the things those doctors checked 
during my physical, Dana."

Mulder continued gesturing like a traffic cop waving people 
through an intersection.

"Her name is Madelon.  Maddie.  Her father's the head chef at one 
the resorts.  I met her in town.  She's nineteen.  She's French.  
She's great.  Really great."

Mulder kept gesturing, indicating Will had about one inch to go.

"And she's going to have a baby.  Hey – does anyone want 
anything from the kitchen?  I'll make tea," Will said quickly, 
stepping past them and hurrying into the house.     
 
"Oh," Scully said numbly, sitting down on the steps.  She looked at 
Mulder, slowly tilting her head to one side as the news and its 
implications sunk in. 

"He and Maddie had a car wreck in late March while I was in 
Florida for spring training: the other driver hit Maddie's side going 
about forty-five miles an hour," Mulder explained. "By the time 
my flight landed in New York, Will was patched up – he just had a 
few cuts and bruises – but Maddie's injuries were worse, and she 
started to bleed.  The doctors told them about the baby and asked if 
they should try to save it, and he and Maddie both said yes.  Which 
the doctors were able to do.  Which would make her about four 
months along, now."

"Twenty weeks," Will informed them from the living room, not 
sounding the slightest bit embarrassed about it when he didn't have 
to look Scully in the eye.  

"Twenty weeks," Mulder corrected, looking down at Ben. "Which 
would mean I'm halfway to being a grandfather."
   
"Wow," she exhaled.

"Yeah," he answered tightly.

*~*~*~*

Mulder heard the teakettle whistle, and then the radio drifting from 
station to station until Scully found a late-night program playing 
slow, smoldering Blues that suited the witching hour.  Ben was 
ready for a midnight snack, and Will had picked on Emily until 
she'd awakened enough to smile, ask where her pony was, and 
then go back to sleep.  

That made three things he was planning to do first thing Monday 
morning – get married, go crib shopping, and buy a pony.      

"Will's in there feeding Ben, and doing a good job of it.  He says 
he's practicing.  And he brought Kitten in the house for Emily.  
Unless that cat's learned some manners, that's not going to turn out 
well," Scully commented as she carried out two mugs of tea. "Will 
seems happy, though."  

"He is happy.  And Maddie really is wonderful.  I have," he 
searched for the word. "Concerns – about the baby, about him 
being seventeen, about everything, but this what he wants.  I've 
offered everything I can think of to get him to go to college instead 
of into the Air Force, but he's just not a scholar, and neither is 
Phoebe."

"How is Phoebe?" she asked, sitting on the top step beside him.  
The hems of her pajama legs were wet with dew, and they clung to 
her ankles.  The cool breeze blew her hair over her face, and she 
snuggled deeper into an old sweater she'd wrapped around her 
shoulders.

"She's okay.  She's still in Manhattan, still doing her socialite 
thing.  She's been out of the asylum about six months; she says 
she's better.  She calls occasionally – we talk.  Briefly.  Will drives 
down to see her sometimes, but she's still unaware she's going to 
be a grandmother.  Or a mother-in-law.  Will says he's telling her 
next week, and I'm planning to be there with a camera to capture 
the moment.  I think that one photo will make all those alimony 
checks worthwhile."

"How are you, Mulder?"

"Me?" He shrugged. "I ended up just like my father said I would 
when I told him I was marrying Phoebe.  He said I'd be forty years 
old and have a job with my name on my shirt.  It just also happens 
to say 'Yankees' on it, too.  And I'm forty-one and a half.  Is that 
bad?  To still count my age in halves and quarters?"

"Mulder…"

"No, I'm okay.  I play a few games a week, and the rest of the time 
I'm here.  I like it here in the mountains.  It's quiet.  It's almost 
safe.  We have extra bedrooms, but there's no medical school close 
by," he added, dropping a hint.

"I don't think being a doctor is high on my list of priorities right 
now, just like finishing school isn't high on yours."

"No, I'm finished. 'Paranoia's Influence on Social Behavior.'  It 
wasn't a case study, by the way."
  
He started to smile, but stopped when she didn't seem amused.  
Sometimes he felt half a beat out of step with life, and this was one 
of those moments.  He wanted to make it better, to do something, 
and she wasn't letting him.  He wanted to fix her, and she didn't 
wanted fixed; she just wanted to remember how to be still.

"I'm sorry," she said after a pause. "When I met you, you were this 
idealistic, trusting optimist who followed me home to return a 
dime store lipstick.  You could have been wearing a badge with 
'All American Boy' printed on it.  You'd never questioned who 
you were.  You'd never-"    

"Maybe I met you because I was supposed to question who I am.  
Why I'm here."  He leaned over to kiss her, savoring the warmth 
of her lips. "Do you know who's on the radio?  That's Robert 
Johnson; the best blues man who ever lived.  Supposedly, he went 
to the crossroads and sold his soul to the Devil to play guitar like 
this.  For six years, he was the best in the world, but when he died, 
the Devil claimed his end of the bargain, and Johnson lost his 
soul."

She gave him her old 'yeah, sure,' eyebrow. "That was Faust."

"Well, Faust copied his idea."  He grinned mischievously, and 
finally got a small smile in return. "You asked me once, if I could 
go back and make different choices, if I would.  No.  I wouldn't 
then, and I wouldn't now.  Even if I knew the price.  Even if I 
could have stood at the crossroads when I was twenty-three or 
thirty-nine or this morning and seen my life stretching out in 
different directions in front of me, I wouldn't.  I wouldn't change 
one moment.  Well, maybe I would have taken better care of my 
knees.  And drunk a little less.  A lot less.  But I can't imagine how 
empty it would have been: working for the FBI – having case files 
and criminals be my life.  I never would have known Will.  Or had 
Ben.  I never would have met you or Emily."

"Oh, you never know.  Even as an FBI agent, I bet you would have 
still spent plenty of time in the emergency room."           

"You have to take the first step in faith, Scully. You don't have to 
see the where the road leads; just take the first step. I still have 
your lipstick, you know."

"Tall, dark, handsome, and fertile doesn't get very far with me."  

"What about paranoid, obsessive, awkward, disillusioned, and 
slightly banged up?"

"That could grow on me."  

She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.  In the 
house, Will was talking to the baby, and seemed to have succeeded 
in waking Emily again.  Kitten hissed and something glass crashed 
to the floor as cat claws tore across the rug.  Mulder's un-tasted 
cup of tea was warm in his hand, and steamed slowly into the cool 
night air, the wisps rising like old, ethereal souls.  Robert 
Johnson's slide guitar continued to play, howling softly along with 
the spring breeze.
 
*~*~*~*

He could see color.  Not just red, but the passionate oranges and 
sun-drenched yellows of summer.  The outfield grass was a lush 
green, and the stands a vibrant patchwork quilt of hats and shirts.  
Overhead, above Yankee Field, the sky was blue – vast, expansive, 
cloudless blue.  

He was sitting in the second seat of a long, empty row overlooking 
the dugout.  Below him, the team was assembling, a fantasy 
mixture of eras.  Babe Ruth was there, wearing the baggy knickers 
and skullcap uniform of the 1920's, as was Lou Gehrig, looking 
tall and lean and healthy in the sun.  What Mulder thought of as 
'his' teammates from 1939 were there: Lefty Gomez, Don Larson, 
and Bill Dickey.  The new 1950's Wonder Boys – Mickey Mantle 
and Yogi Berra - were warming up, and, standing on the pitcher's 
mound like an ebony Adonis, was Josh Exley, cupping his long, 
elegant fingers around the baseball.  Exley smiled, and Mulder 
smiled back, tilting his head knowingly as if he was in on some 
cosmic joke.

A young couple with an infant made their way up the steps, 
arguing good-naturedly, and Mulder watched them, fascinated and 
a little wistful.  They still had the symbiotic glow of two people in 
love with each other for the first time.  The man was wearing a 
blue Air Force dress uniform and carrying a dark-haired baby on 
his hip.  A stylishly dressed woman was hurrying him along, 
fussing over the baby, and telling him in her French accent that 
they were late.   

"I know we're late, Maddie," Will informed her, turning sideways 
to scoot down the row. "Don't you think I own a watch?"

Mulder stood as Maddie eased past him, tiptoeing to give him a 
European kiss-kiss on each cheek. "He does not listen when I tell 
him, Monsieur Mulder.  I say 'traffic accident, Guillaume – is on 
radio' but he no listen.  We sit – just sit on bridge – for twenty 
minute.  This is why we are late."

"How are we supposed to get to the stadium if we don't go over 
the bridge?" Will responded, trying to unbutton and peel off his 
uniform jacket and hold the baby at the same time. "Contrary to 
popular belief, I can't walk on water.  Dad, could you take him 
please?" he asked irritably, handing the infant to Mulder. "Jesus, 
Maddie, you think you have to remind me to breathe."

"Guillaume, breathe," she responded, and Will glowered at her, 
then exhaled and licked the tip of her nose affectionately.

Mulder cradled the baby boy, trying to figure out who he might be.  
He looked familiar, but he couldn't imagine who in the world 
would let Will look after an infant.   

"Dad, have you met Luc?"

"No, I don't think we've been introduced," Mulder answered 
uncertainly.   

"Dad, Luc Guillaume Mulder; Luc – meet Papa."

Mulder blinked, staring at the baby, who watched him with big, 
serious brown eyes from underneath a head full of glossy black 
curls. "Papa?  My God.  Did I miss a few chapters, Will?" He 
leaned closer, asking seriously, "Am I dead again?"

"No, you're just dreaming.  He's not even here yet; don't get all 
hyped up."  Will unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and 
loosened his tie, getting comfortable.  On his left hand was a 
wedding ring, which matched the one on Maddie's finger. "The 
game hasn't started?  It's getting late."

"This is Luc?  This is your son?"

"Yeah  - come here, little guy.  Come to Daddy before you give 
Papa a heart attack," Will said, lifting him off Mulder's lap and 
turning him around so he could see the field.  Maddie immediately 
leaned over to take the baby, but Will refused. "I'm holding him," 
he insisted. "Get your own."

Maddie said something in response, but her voice blended with the 
other spectators into a harmonious, expectant hum.  

Mulder had opened his mouth to ask something – or else it was just 
hanging open - when he saw Scully approaching, carrying a baby, 
leading one toddler and herding another, and trying to keep Emily 
in motion in front of her.  

For the first time in years, Emily moved easily, chatting with the 
other spectators as she made their way up the aisle.  She'd found 
his old Yankee's cap again, and she had it on backward, along with 
her favorite denim overalls.  She looked about eight or nine; she'd 
lost her round, babyish cheeks and gained a few adult teeth.

Mulder stood again, taking Ben as Scully passed their infant son to 
him.  He looked down curiously as one of the two identical 
redheaded toddlers squeezed past him, headed for Maddie's lap.

"All right – everyone who was wet is dry, everyone who was 
thirsty has had a drink, and everyone who's able has been to the 
restroom.  I'm not moving again," Scully said, sitting beside him 
with the other toddler on her lap. "So if there's a potty problem, 
you can handle it, Mulder.  It's your shift."

Emily scrambled over Scully, Mulder, and Will, trampling their 
feet, and plopped herself down on the seat beyond Maddie, still 
talking a mile a minute and pointing at the players on the field.  
Will reached over to pick on her and she picked back, sticking her 
tongue out at him.

"Uh, Scully…"

"Hum?" she responded, arranging the little girl on her lap and then 
putting a sun hat on her. The child immediately pulled it off, 
turning back to frown at Scully.     

"Who is that?" he asked, nodding to the toddler. "And the other 
one?  Did you hit a rent-a-kid store and get a two-for-one special?" 

"Katherine.  Katie.  She's one twins They took.  You did say you 
wanted a little girl.  Well, you have two.  The other is Anne."

"Anne.  Anne and Katie.  Twins.  Oh," he answered, nodding like 
that made any kind of sense. "And they're here?"

She looked at him like he was insane. "Of course they're here.  
Katie, say hello to your father."

"El-O," she said easily, more interested in the approaching snack 
vendor than him.

"Hello, Katie," he responded breathlessly.

"Emily said she wanted popcorn.  Give me your wallet, Mulder."
 
"Okay." Moving automatically, he twisted sideways and slid it out 
of his back pocket, then handed it to her.  Looking at the faces on 
either side of him, he swallowed and jiggled Ben nervously against 
his shoulder.  Something was either very wrong or very right with 
this universe.

"I think I'm dreaming, Scully."

"Of course you're dreaming, Mulder."  She used her soothing, 'just 
go with the nice men in white coats' tone.

He kept jiggling Ben, who began to protest. "Please tell me we're 
married in this dream."

She held up her ring finger, showing him the wedding band. "Stop 
bouncing the baby and ask Will if he or Maddie want anything to 
eat.  And make sure Em hasn't changed her mind again."

"All right," he answered trustingly, figuring someone would clue 
him in eventually. "Will, do you or Maddie wa- wan, tah uhh…"  

He stopped speaking, noticing a girl standing at the other end of 
the row, looking around as though she couldn't remember where 
she'd been sitting. "Samantha?  Sam," he called to her, and she 
turned her head, her long brown braids falling over her shoulders 
as she smiled.  

She was still nine, and still wearing the same violet dress she'd 
vanished in that Saturday in 1927 – he remembered his mother 
being uneasy about the fashionable hemline that barely covered her 
knobby knees.  It had come from the Montgomery Ward's 
catalogue, and she'd pleaded for weeks to get it.  Their father had 
refused to let Sam cut her hair into a bob, but had conceded to a 
stylish flapper hat, and it still had the wildflower Mulder had stuck 
in it.  He'd picked it for her while they were playing in the woods 
behind their parents' summerhouse, listening for their father to 
start the car for a trip to town.  He'd turned his back and she'd 
been gone, as though there was an unannounced game of hide and 
go-seek.  She'd won.   

"Fox?  There you are." The silly, close-fitting cloche hat sat so low 
on her forehead that she had to tilt her chin up to peer out from 
underneath the brim.  She sighed and put her hands on her hips, 
seeming annoyed by his almost twenty-nine year absence.  

"We're over here, Sam."

She made her way down the row, claiming one of the empty seats 
on the other side of Maddie.  He wanted her to come closer so he 
could touch her and assure himself she was real, but she wouldn't. 
"There aren't any more seats.  I'm fine down here.  I was afraid I 
was lost, Fox," she called to him. "I guess you found me."

"I guess I did."  

He stared at her, watching as she and Emily sized each other up, 
then decided to see if they could both fit in the same seat, 
squirming and laughing.  Katie wiggled down from Scully's lap 
and joined Anne in tormenting Maddie, who didn't seem to mind.  
Mulder started to call the twins to come back, but Scully assured 
him they were fine where they were.
  
A head appeared over the dugout: one of the long-dead coaches 
from Mulder's rookie year. "We're ready to start the game, 
Mulder," the man said, talking around a lip of snuff. "Are you 
ready?"

He exhaled all the air out of his lungs, then wet his lips. "Do I have 
to?" he asked, dreading swirling around his belly. "We just got 
here.  I'm not- I'm not even dressed.  Do I have to play?"

The coach shook his head like he thought he'd heard wrong. "No, 
we're just checkin' with you to see if it's time to start the game.  
It's getting late.  You ready?"

Mulder pushed his eyebrows together.  No one asked the players if 
they were ready to play. 

He looked at the faces around him: to Ben on his lap, to Scully on 
one side and Will and Will's family, and past them, to Emily and 
Samantha and the twins, and then finally understood.  Mulder 
leaned back, settling in for the duration. "Yeah, I'm ready." 

He draped his arm around the back of Scully's seat, then leaned 
closer and whispered to her, "I'm dreaming, honey."

"Pay attention – the game's starting, Mulder," she answered.
 
*~*~*~*

End - A Moment In the Sun: Part VII

End - A Moment In the Sun