SquidgeWorld Archive

Clio

"Oh, Mulder," Scully sighed. Her right hand gently cradled his larger one, and her left hand snaked out to brush a wisp of hair from his forehead, tugging gently to free it from the adhesive of the heavy bandage that covered his brow. She carefully lifted his hand, lowering her head at the same time to bestow a tender kiss on a bare patch of skin in the center of the back of his hand. It was one of the very few places on his entire body that wasn't bandaged, wrapped in a cast, or sporting a tube of one sort or the other.

"Oh, Mulder," she sighed again as her lips grazed his fingers, a brief benediction on each digit, before she slowly lowered his hand to the bed covers. She patted his arm softly, then rose to pace the floor. She thought she had long since gotten over the need to cry "It's not fair!" but as she looked at the broken man lying unconscious in the bed, she found herself overwhelmed with that old desire. She wanted to rant. She wanted to rage. She wanted to commit physical violence against those who had done this to him. She wanted things to be fair for a change. She wanted justice.

A routine stakeout, routine surveillance, routine case. How could it have gone so bad, so fast? Their back up in a car down the block. Mulder spying movement near the rear of the building. Him telling her to stay and watch the front while he checked it out. Her cautioning him. His promise to 'look but not touch,' offered with his most winning goofy grin. The small quirk of her lips she had permitted as her response.

Then -- the seconds turning to minutes as he didn't return. The ticking of her watch growing louder and louder until it was all she could hear, drowned only by the pounding of her heart as it beat a tympanic refrain, 'Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?'

Her increasing concern, her indecision. To go to him? What if they came out the front and she wasn't where he was expecting her? To call to him? What if they heard? To call the back up? What if he was doing nothing more than relieving himself in the alley and she embarrassed him in front of colleagues who already regarded him as something of a joke? What to do?

Precious minutes had ticked by as she struggled to make a decision. Minutes their suspects had used well to brutally, almost fatally, beat Mulder to a bloody pulp. She'd finally called for back up and raced around to the rear alley, weapon drawn, Weaver stance, ready to take on any and all comers, only to find Mulder alone, bloodied and broken, lying face down in a pool of his own vomit. She'd been astonished they had been able to inflict so much damage in such a short period of time. He'd been conscious then, and when she'd said as much as she examined him, he managed a strangled reply, "Teamwork, Scully."

Her eyes filled with tears as they had then, and she again brushed them angrily away. Had that been a typical Mulder comment, or a rebuke for her absence? Before she had been able to answer, to speak again, he had slipped into unconsciousness, the back up had arrived, and she'd been busy trying to keep him alive as they'd waited for the ambulance. There had been so much damage, it had overwhelmed her. Forcing her emotions aside, the clinical observer in her clicked in. On autopilot, she had started her triage, viewing not the man she cared for, but just another broken body, awaiting her ministrations. And though it contributed to saving his life thus far, her detachment shamed her even more.

She walked back to the bed and stood looking at her partner, her friend, her lover, her life. How could she have let him down like this? Even as she berated herself for her own delays and indecision, she idly wondered in the far corner of her mind if this was what it was like for him. To always feel so responsible for someone else's pain? It was a crushing burden and, even this soon, she staggered under the weight. How had he borne it for so many years without complete collapse?

She began to catalogue his injuries once more, a task she had already repeated more times than she could count. Her own personal penance -- to know each and every bit of damage as intimately as she could. To explore what would it feel like in her mind -- worrying the edges of the experience as one worries a sore tooth with tongue. Remembering, reliving her own times of pain, trying to make it real again so that she could, in some small way, share his suffering.

She looked at the heavy bandage on his forehead, covering a deep gash just above his brow line. She remembered how the blood had flowed freely over his face, his swollen eyes drowning in the sticky red flood. His nose, twisted and broken, was useless for breathing, and he had struggled for air through his split and swollen lips. Bruises adorned his throat, a necklace of vivid purples and reds, violent colors for violent acts.

Two ribs were cracked and a thick wrapping held his chest as immobile as possible, forcing him into a stiff posture even in repose. The left arm was broken, a soft cast surrounded it, and it was bound to his chest. An IV protruded from the back of his hand, antibiotics, painkillers, sedatives, nutrition and hydration, all vying for a place on the pole. The right arm had fared better; only -- only -- a deep gouge in his bicep and other cuts and bruises on the remainder of the limb.

Under the blanket she knew his groin was swollen from repeated blows, his testicles bruised and battered. A catheter ran to a urinary output bag, and as she glanced down, she saw its contents were still tinged crimson -- he was still bleeding internally. It took very little bleeding to turn the urine red and he was being monitored carefully. She knew that. But in addition to the damaged kidney, his spleen had ruptured and he had a fresh incision in his abdomen where they had gone in to repair it. She felt her heart leap to her throat again as she realized anew how close she was to losing him. There were no guarantees yet, and prayer seemed to be a required procedure. She quickly offered up another for his relief and recovery as she continued her silent inventory.

The left leg was obscured by a cast, the surgery to repair the severed artery unseen beneath the heavy plaster required for the bone to knit. Secured to a traction bar, it was elevated slightly to assist with circulation. She briefly lifted the blanket to gaze at his still form. His other leg was bent slightly; his crushed foot resting beneath the elevated leg. The foot, too, was awash in a sea of cuts and contusions, gauze padding and tape. The broken toes were wrapped but there was little beyond that which could be done.

A tear rolled unbidden down her cheek and her hands clenched in fists as her insides roiled in turmoil. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, then leaned over again to lightly kiss his mangled foot. Images flashed before her. The splintered two by four, bent and bloody nails protruding from one end; the broken wine bottle, still slick with his life fluids; the lead pipe with its slight indentation from contact with his -- what? His foot? His skull? Both? All were vivid in her mind's eye. She closed her eyes to the images, shying away from their intrusion into her consciousness. Then remembering her self-assigned penance, she embraced the visions, embraced the pain, allowing the full horror of what had been done to him -- done in her absence -- done due to her absence -- to wash over her, smothering her with guilt, flooding her with her own blame.

Another tear made its way down her face, and she tenderly lowered the blanket over him, carefully smoothing the wrinkles away, gently tucking the edges in so no draft could assault his battered flesh. She scrubbed her face with her hands, brushing her unruly hair back from her eyes, then stepped to the head of the bed. Lowering herself to the chair again, she leaned forward and traced a trail of feather-light kisses from his brow to his chin.

"I -- " she paused, her voice breaking as she struggled to calm her racing heart and level her voice. "Mulder," she began again, her voice still soft, but more in control. "I need to step outside for a few minutes." She stopped, searching for any sign of recognition or acknowledgment. At his total non-response, she sighed and went on. "I need to talk to the doctors and check on a few things." She mentally berated herself for the lie. It was the middle of the night -- no doctors to be found, but she needed to be alone for just a few minutes. She needed time to deal with her own raging emotions so she could be here for him now, as she hadn't been then. "I'll be right outside and I'll be back soon." Her mouth hovered by his ear, her lips caressing his lobe with each word she spoke. "I'm here, Mulder," she said, her voice breaking again, "Don't leave me. I'm here."

She stayed as she was for a moment longer, her head resting on his pillow, her lips near his ear. She gently stroked his arm and hand, then lifted her head and lightly cupped his cheek in her hand. She grazed his lips with her own, her tongue darting out to dampen his lower one with her own moisture. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, his presence a balm to her shattered spirit, comforted by the slight rise and fall of his broken chest. Finally, she drew away, sighing, and rose. One last lingering touch, then she turned and walked out the door.

Teena Mulder stood in a darkened doorway, down the hall from the room where her only son lay so desperately injured. She waited patiently, an expert at waiting patiently after 37 years. She shook her head ruefully. Who would have ever believed she would still be sneaking into hospital rooms to visit her son -- her fully-grown, independent, self-sufficient, FBI agent son at that?

How many times had she held this same vigil for Fox? In how many countless hospitals? Bill had always been so brutal to the boy. But he had been careful in the aftermath and they had always taken him to different hospitals, different cities, used different names. The one unchanging pattern -- Bill was the devoted father, hovering at Fox's side, while she was the neglectful mother, the one who never came to see the child. Bill insisted. And she submitted. It seemed to make things better when she submitted. At least on the surface. But she became an expert at these midnight visitations. She'd learned to be invisible in hospitals, to slip in and out without being seen. And she'd learned patience.

Every fall, every accident, every emergency, she'd been there through them all. When Fox was a child, she'd been there every time, and she had made the trek all over the country since he had joined the FBI -- slipping into hospitals in cities from coast to coast. Bill had never known. And Fox had never known. And since he'd been paired with the pretty redhead, she hadn't known either. She knew Fox's partner thought she was a terrible mother -- and she was right in her assessment. The young woman was always polite, respectful, when she called to tell of Fox's latest injury. Teena maintained the image of cold and distant that she had perfected so well when Fox was a child. But she recorded every word in her own eidetic memory, noting locations and recovery times and planning her own covert trips even as she disdainfully thanked the young woman and replaced the phone. None of that changed the fact that she was a terrible mother. She had never protected her child like she should, and all the midnight vigils in the world would never right that wrong.

She watched as Fox's young lady -- she'd never really found the right thing to call her, not even in the privacy of her own mind -- walked out of his room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, shoulders slumped and head down. Her clothes were splattered with blood -- Fox's blood? And she looked guilty. One glance and Teena could see she wore her guilt like a wet, wool blanket, draped over her shoulders, dampening her spirit, chilling her soul, weighing her down. It was a feeling with which Teena was intimately acquainted. And though there was no visible sign, Teena knew her hands were just as stained with Fox's blood as this young woman's suit.

Teena wondered why his partner was so guilty, and wished she had license to be angry at her, for Fox's sake. She must have done something that resulted in Fox being here. Nothing else could make her look so sad. But her own many sins with regards to her son had negated her right to challenge others on his behalf. She watched as the young woman moved away from her, away from Fox's room. She waited patiently, then when sufficient time had elapsed, but not too much, she walked quickly down the hall and slipped into her son's room.

She closed the door quietly, then stood silently, slumped against the door, her back to the bed, as she braced herself for what she knew would greet her eyes. She straightened, pulling herself erect, turned slowly, then gasped out loud. There was no preparation for this. Her eyes filled with tears and she hurried to stand by her child's bed. She gazed down at his still form, her vision blurred from the unshed tears. This was bad. She didn't have to be a doctor to see that it was really bad this time.

She stood watching him in silence. He was so still. She bit back a sob and gently reached out to touch his hand. Her Fox was never still. It was one of Bill's main excuses for the punishments he inflicted on the child. He just never could be still. Punishment -- even now, even here, she still lied to herself, as if the lie could make her believe the things Bill had done, and she had ignored, were only punishments.

Her Fox. So bright, so inquisitive, always eager to explore, to learn, to know how it worked, and why it was that way. Her brilliant, gifted child, reduced to this, over and over again. A cycle that wouldn't be broken, no matter what was done. Her Fox -- doomed to lie still in hospital beds again and again.

"Shhh, baby," she murmured, "Mama's here." She touched his head, brushing his hair back from the bandage that covered his brow, unaware that she mimicked Scully's earlier actions. "Hush, my baby, hush, Mama's here now." She chanted the mantra repeatedly, knowing it was really herself she sought to soothe. Fox was beyond her reach now, as he always had been. She was cursed. What she had to offer was always too little, too late.

A sob escaped and she lowered her head to the bed, finally letting the pent up tears flow. She cried quietly, neatly, economically, as she did all things. Her poised, reserved mind stood back and watched herself, recognizing that even in her sorrow, she was efficient. No wasted motions, no jarring movements to disturb her injured child. The tears flowed but she felt no sense of relief, no feeling of burdens lifted. If anything, her guilt settled about her even more heavily, draining her of energy, pinning her to the chair with the weight of blame.

'How absurd,' she thought. 'How can I even remotely consider myself responsible for him this time?' 'Because you are his mother,' she answered herself. 'You have always let him down and this time is no different. He needs you and once more you come to him in the dark of night, unseen, unknown.' She lowered her head and felt the hot flush of shame as it burned her cheeks. 'Coward,' she accused. 'Coward,' she acknowledged.

She lifted her head, eyes glued to the still body before her. "I'm sorry, Fox," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Scully rose resolutely, heading for the small restroom in the visitor's lounge. She'd spent enough time self-indulgently licking her own psychological wounds. Mulder was the one to focus on. He was the one who'd paid for her transgression this time, and he certainly deserved to have her by his side, for as long as he desired. And truly, there was nowhere else she wanted to be. She just wanted him whole, and hale, and hearty when she lay by his side, and up to his usual mischievous tricks.

She washed her face in cold water, letting the liquid cool her burning cheeks, rinsing away the graininess from her eyes. She cupped her hand and drank, soothing her raw throat. Taking a coarse paper towel, she patted her face dry, then dared to glance in the mirror. It was not a pretty site. Her face was blotchy and red. Her eyes were swollen and red. Her nose was runny and red. 'The curse of fair skin and red hair,' she thought. 'We never can cry prettily.'

She shrugged then lifted her eyes to her hair. It was wild, completely untamed as it fell in loose curls to surround her face. Here and there strands were still matted with Mulder's blood. She wet the paper towel and began to scrub at the gore, not for her own vanity, but for Mulder. He loved her hair and could spend hours running his fingers through it.

As she worked the sticky mess from the individual curls, she remembered how he would talk of combing Samantha's long brown tresses. Especially at the summer house, when they would swim all day, and Samantha would be tired and cranky, and too short-tempered to be patient to work through the tangles when evening came. She smiled as she pictured him, the young boy in the picture on his desk, seated on the steps to the porch, his sister one step down, between his legs, as he slowly worked the snarls from her long, dark hair.

She could imagine the smile on his face as he petted his baby sister, telling her stories and making jokes, as he eased the comb through her hair. She would lean against him drifting in and out of sleep, the occasional mumbled response to his unceasing monologue. He had told her it was one of his favorite memories. He'd felt at peace, both loved and needed, and she'd smile as he would duplicate the experience with her.

When she would come out of the shower, he'd be sitting on the bed, waiting, leaned up against the headboard, his long legs spread and extended. She'd crawl between those long legs, and lay back against him, his solid bulk offering a safety and security she longed for in their often strange and frightening world. Then he would lift the brush and slowly tease the wash snarls from her hair. His hands worked magic -- gently massaging her scalp, the brush passing through her hair, seemingly effortlessly. Her face flushed even more and a sudden rush of liquid heat filled her center as she thought of the other places where those talented hands could work magic. Blue eyes filled again at the threat of losing his touch forever. She shook her head violently. 'That will not happen,' she told herself. 'He will come through this and be all right.'

She took one more look in the mirror. The suit was a total loss. It, too, was splattered with Mulder's blood and vomit. From the moment she knelt in the alley by him, she'd been immersed in his fluids and this break was the first time she'd thought of herself.
As Mulder's next of kin, she had been needed to sign all the forms for his admission. She had raced through the onerous task, then paced the halls outside the OR. Neither her FBI nor her medical credentials had been sufficient to get her inside. She hadn't wanted to let him out of her sight, but failing that, she had kept close watch on the door that hid him from her vision.

Though she had had time to clean up and change while he was in surgery, she hadn't been ready to do so then. A nurse had offered her a set of surgical scrubs and she had declined.
Separated by rules and regulations, kept out by walls and doors, she'd been unwilling to part with the last physical connection she had to Mulder -- her blood covered clothes.

She had taken a few minutes to make the requisite call to Mulder's mother, a call she had already made far too many times. Met with the by now anticipated cold and curt response, she had kept the call short, giving specifics of his injuries as she knew them and where he could be found -- as if his mother would ever visit, or even send a card. She gave a snort of disgust as she replayed the conversation in her mind, including her own final plea that the woman come this time as Mulder was more severely injured than she had seen before. It was met with a polite rebuff as Mrs. Mulder had cited her own health concerns.

She sighed, then headed out of the restroom to find a nurse and a set of surgical scrubs she could borrow, before she went back to resume her vigil by Mulder's bed.

Scully opened the door quietly, stepped inside, and froze. There was a figure sitting by Mulder's bed, head bowed, his hand cradled lightly in its own. She stood silently for a moment, waiting for movement or acknowledgment of her presence. When none was forthcoming, she cleared her throat, and asked, "Excuse me? Can I help you?" as she walked across the room toward the bed -- and Mulder.

The figure slowly stirred, turning to look at her, and Scully was surprised to see it was Mulder's mother. She halted her forward progress and stood, staring dazedly at the older women, her jaw slack with astonishment. Teena Mulder gave a half-amused, half-rueful smile and said, "Surprised to see me, Miss Scully?"

Scully continued to stare, still rooted to the same spot on the floor, then closed her mouth with an audible snap. She struggled to pull herself together and finally managed a cool response. "Actually, Mrs. Mulder, I am. You indicated you weren't well enough to travel." She raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Teena shook her head. "I know," she said, "I always say that, but I always come." She tilted her head to look up at Scully and added, "You didn't know that, did you?"

"You always come?" Scully repeated dumbly.

"Always. I always have."

"But - Mulder doesn't ... He thinks ... You never ..." Scully's temporary poise had fled. She seemed unable to complete a coherent sentence. Finally, she just asked, "Why?"

Teena turned her head again, focusing on the figure in the bed. "He's really a remarkable man," she said conversationally. She glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Scully's nod of agreement. "Come," she waved toward the space next to the chair, "join me. I'm sure we can find another chair around here somewhere."

Scully shook her head as if to clear it, and Teena laughed, a high, tight sound. "Yes, Miss Scully, I really am here."

"Dana," Scully mumbled as she pulled the other chair forward and took a seat next to Mulder's mother. "Call me Dana."

Teena nodded graciously, turned again to look at the man in the bed, then said abruptly, "Bill beat him, did you know that?"

"I suspected there was some -- conflict -- in the home."

Teena laughed again, bitter this time. "How tactfully put, Miss Scully -- Dana. Conflict indeed. Bill abused him, I neglected him, Fox blamed himself -- for everything from the beatings to Samantha's disappearance to the divorce -- and we let him." She gently touched Mulder's arm, one finger tracing a slow trail from elbow to wrist. "Conflict indeed." She took her son's hand again, then shifted slightly so she faced Scully.

"I love my son, Dana. I really do. God knows I'm a failure as a parent, but I do love him." She paused, gathering her thoughts, thinking how odd it was that after all these years she would choose this woman to hear her confession. Well, maybe not so odd after all; they were united by the bond of love they both had for the same man. "You do love him too, don't you?" she asked gently.

Scully nodded and she unconsciously reached out toward the man in the bed. She laid a hand on the blanket covered leg, a connection with this man for whom the word 'love' was woefully inadequate. This was the man the fates had joined her with, the man without whom she was incomplete. She nodded again, her thoughts whirling, and said, "Yes, I do love him."

"I can see that," Teena said, "and I am so pleased that he has someone like you to care for him. You're strong. He needs that. I loved him, but I was never strong enough to give him the things he needed. I could never protect him." She sighed, a mixture of sadness, repentance, and self-disgust.

"Things were different back then," Teena started. "I know," she lifted her hand to quiet Scully as she immediately opened her mouth in retort. "It's no excuse," she said fiercely. "Don't you think I know that?" The air crackled with tension as the two women looked at each other. Finally, Teena turned and placed her son's hand back onto the bed. "It's no excuse," she repeated, more subdued now, "but it was different back then." She gazed at the man before her, memories battling within her mind.

Teena lifted her head again, and her eyes sought Scully's, pleading, and at last, Scully nodded in grudging acknowledgment, if not agreement. Teena nodded as well, her eyes moving back to her son, and went on.

"Bill was always strict, very firm with Fox. He set very high expectations and, fortunately, Fox was usually able to achieve them. I can't imagine the pressure he must have been under back then. I knew Bill was strict but I just didn't think it was my place to be critical of how my husband chose to discipline Fox." Her eyes slid back to Scully, gauging her reaction. The younger woman's mouth was narrowed in disapproval, but she was listening, and she hadn't rebuked her yet.

"And Fox was no angel. Oh, he wasn't a bad child, but he was busy. Always moving, always into things. And questions!" She smiled at the memory. "That boy woke up with a new question every day, I swear he did. And not your normal 'why is the sky blue?' questions either. Those I could have handled. But Bill had started Fox on an extremely advanced home curriculum from a very early age. Fox was reading at two, and could read at a high school level by the time he was five. He didn't always totally understand what he read -- he didn't have the experiences and the emotional maturity to really understand -- but he could define any word he read, and define the words in the definition as well." She looked at Scully. "He's really brilliant, you know. He's learned to hide it somewhat, in order to fit in, but he is gifted beyond expression. Academically gifted, and intuitively gifted as well. He just seems to know things."

Scully nodded and Teena gave a small sigh. It was pleasant to have someone understand what she meant when she spoke of her son. It was a rare occurrence that she talked of him at all, and even rarer that the listener understood.

"But his questions. I remember one morning, he had been looking at a math text Bill was reviewing for use in the future. Fox was 6 and had started algebra, but this was a calculus text. And he asked me, "Are exponential functions the exact opposite of log functions?" She laughed. "I majored in Sociology -- how was I supposed to know?" She laughed again and this time, it was a laugh of pure enjoyment, and Scully joined her. They both gazed fondly at Mulder, Teena pleased to be able to share this memory with someone, and Scully thrilled to have another glimpse into this fascinating, complex man.

"He always had questions like that. Sometimes concrete questions, rooted in the sciences, sometimes abstract, issues of morality, and ethics, and faith. Bill was a hard taskmaster, but I honestly think Fox thrived under it. He was like a little sponge, soaking up knowledge, always wanting more, always wanting to know. And with his giftedness, he was able to keep up with the brutal pace Bill set for the most part. But when he didn't, when the urge to be a child won out over the urge to know, Fox always paid a high price. Riding his bike, a walk around the block, sitting in the yard and watching the birds, these were all things that distracted from "The Program." Bill had some idea that his son would be a hero, a savior, a world leader, or some other great person that fit into his own grand megalomaniacal scheme of the cosmos. But when Fox just wanted to be a boy, there was no point in trying to get him to work on his studies. He can be extremely stubborn at times."

"Don't I know it," Scully muttered under her breath and Teena smiled in agreement.

"When Bill would come home and find Fox hadn't completed his lessons for the day, he would be furious. Furious at me for not being more forceful. We'd usually end up in a screaming match, but that was as far as it went between us. I'd storm off to my room and leave Fox to deal with his father." She dropped her face into her hands and Scully had to strain to hear her next words. "I'd leave a 6 year old boy to deal with an adult male in a fit of rage, and tell myself that he had to take responsibility for his own actions. What kind of monster am I?"

She sat that way for some time, head bowed, face covered by her hands, her shoulders trembling from the flail of self-loathing as she sought to regain control. Scully sat patiently, not ready to say anything, waiting. Finally, Teena lifted her head and continued. "It was bad, but Bill kept it quiet. And I consoled myself with the thought that it wasn't all the time. And it wasn't. All the time, that is. Usually Fox could do what Bill set for him and still have time for himself -- he's never slept much...."

"He still doesn't," Scully interrupted. "I've always wondered why."

"Who knows?" Teena answered. "Was it always in his nature, or did he have to learn to do with little sleep in self-defense?

"Anyway, it was only on those rare occasions that he didn't fit it all in, that things got out of hand. Then Bill would brutalize the child. Beatings that resulted in broken bones, dislocated joints, the occasional internal injury or concussion." Teena's voice broke and she shuddered. She closed her eyes as the memory washed over her. "Fox was always stoic in his endurance. I never heard him cry." She dropped her voice again to whisper brokenly, "I think he felt he deserved it -- especially after Samantha was taken away."
She looked up again, her eyes filled with tears, and found her sorrow mirrored in the tear-filled eyes of the young woman sitting opposite.

"Bill would never let me go and be with Fox when he was in the hospital. Everyone thought Bill was this great father, always with his son, and I was the mother from Hell who never even called to say hello." She shook her head sadly. "And I let it go on -- all of it.

"Seventeen hospitalizations, seventeen different cities, seventeen different names, from the time he was 4 until he was 15. It's amazing what you can buy when you have money. But then, I actually grew a spine and managed to leave Bill and take Fox with me. Of course, I waited until Bill had almost killed him before I did it." She closed her eyes, reliving the horror of that month long separation -- when Fox lay comatose for over two weeks. She shuddered again, then allowed herself to savor the small triumph of her eventual freedom -- and the safety it bought Fox. "But I did it. Samantha had been gone three years.

Before Sam disappeared, I was reluctant to interfere in Bill's discipline of Fox. I hid in my room -- my way of burying my head in the sand. After Sam was taken, I was sure Bill was my only link to her, my only hope of ever getting her back. But once any realistic hope of her being returned was gone, I no longer felt I had to stay with Bill in order to get Samantha back. I had felt I couldn't protect Fox without letting her go. I was afraid if I tried to prevent Bill from taking out his anger on his son, I risked losing any chance of Samantha ever being returned.

"After the divorce, Fox boarded at the high school on the mainland. He was always respectful towards me, but I think he held me in contempt as well. Justifiably so. Or maybe I'm just projecting my feelings onto him." She shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Mulder would know," Scully said softly. "You could talk to him."

Teena shook her head sadly. "I forfeited that right long ago." She sighed, then rubbed her eyes briefly before continuing. "There was no way I would have let him go with Bill -- not that he wanted to -- and he didn't seem to want to be with me, so when he asked to go to the mainland, to a boarding prep school, I let him. He got involved in extracurricular activities over there, things Bill would never let him do. He made friends and played baseball and basketball, things he'd never been able to do before. I used to slip into the gym to see him play. He was really good and he seemed so happy. I really believe he was happier there than he'd ever been before, or at least since Samantha disappeared."

"When he was little," Scully asked curiously, "how did he react to Samantha's arrival?"

Teena smiled in remembrance. "When Samantha was born, Fox fell in love with her. We all did, but Fox, he just adored her. When I was pregnant, he wanted to know everything there was to know about babies. How they're made, how they grow, how they're born. Then he was reading child development books -- he was 4 mind you -- and he kept charts of Sammy's progress. If she was even a day late on some milestone, Fox would start to fret. Now Sam was a bright girl, above average intelligence, but she was nothing like Fox. When it came to her abilities. She rolled over, and sat up, and walked and talked and did all those other things within normal parameters, but she was barely talking at two, let alone reading as Fox had been.

"At first I worried that Bill would be disappointed, would be as harsh with her as he was with Fox, but he doted on her. And I expected Fox to be jealous, but he doted on her too. Fox thought the sun rose and set in that child, and it was only right that others should think it too. Fox started school, and learned very quickly that it was OK to be smart, even a good thing, but smart meant a little ahead, not like him. He held back, and even managed to make some friends, as he grew. But Sam was his first friend, and she was always his best friend.

"In an odd sort of way, Sam became Fox's protector. Something I'd never been. She'd intercede for him in little ways with Bill. She hated sports, but she would wangle trips to see the Celtics and the Red Sox, sitting patiently through the games because it was the only way Bill would take Fox. And sometimes she could even prevent the beatings. She'd go to her father and beg for Fox, telling Bill it was her fault Fox hadn't had time to finish his work. Usually Bill would let her get away with it -- he could deny her nothing."

Teena lowered her voice and dropped her head to stare at the tightly clenched hands that rested in her lap. "That's why they took her. They wanted Fox at first. Fox was not only a way to control Bill, but with his genius, he would have offered fascinating opportunities for research."

Her eyes brimmed with tears again as she sought Scully's eyes. "Bill was not always evil. He was strong, and intelligent, and oh, so romantic. When we married, he told me I was his soul. Then when Fox was born, Bill was enthralled by how smart he was, and he said Fox challenged his mind. But if I was the keeper of his soul, and Fox the guardian of his mind, Samantha stole his heart. When they took his heart, there was nothing left, and he lost both mind and soul."

Teena began to cry again, and Scully rose to give her a moment's privacy. She walked to the other side of the bed and looked at Mulder's monitors, checked his IV, and took a few minutes to stroke his hair and whisper unheard reassurances to him -- and to herself. When she returned to her seat, Teena was in control again, and smiled slightly when Scully briefly reached out and squeezed her arm.

"And Sam adored her big brother," she continued. "He was so patient with her. Always willing to take time with her. He was completely besotted. He read to her, played games with her, taught her how to ride a bike. He was the one she called for when she had a bad dream and the one she went to for comfort when she was hurt."

"Her hair," Scully murmured. "He brushed her hair."

"Yes," Teena agreed. "She always wanted Fox to brush her hair after her shower or when they'd been swimming. Bill wouldn't let her cut it, so it was very long -- almost to her waist."

She smiled ruefully. "I never had the patience with her hair that Fox did. I'd hurry and pull the snarls and she'd cry. But Fox would take his time, sometimes brushing her hair until she fell asleep in his lap.

"When Bill beat him and he was in the hospital, he never complained about anything except that he missed Sam. He put up with everything and only missed Sam. It was really amazing to watch the two of them. They were so good for each other. Samantha accepted Fox unconditionally. She was the only person in his life to ever do that." Teena paused again, appraising the young woman sitting next to her. "Until now," she added, and Scully smiled slightly in acceptance of the compliment.

"Mrs. Mulder," Scully began, "it's obvious you love your son very much. And while you didn't handle things in the past in perhaps the best manner, the past is history. We can learn from our history and move on. Why are you still sneaking in to see him in the dark of night, when he would love to have you come in the light of day?"

"I can't," Teena replied. "I don't deserve his love, and I can't change what I know." She looked up at Scully. "Tell me, why are you feeling so guilty about Fox this time? He's been hurt before in the line of duty. What was different this time?"

Scully flushed and hung her head in embarrassment. "I -- I wasn't there when he needed me," she stammered. "I didn't watch his back."

"You can't be there every second of every day, every time. Surely you know that?"

Scully nodded. "I -- hesitated -- when I should have gone to check on him immediately. I -- couldn't -- make a decision." She dropped her head as the shame washed over her again. "I don't know what happened."

Teena nodded in understanding. "I know. But Fox is the most forgiving person to those he loves. He never blamed his father for anything except his involvement in -- Samantha. He would forgive me if I'd let him." She cocked her head, measuring this strong, young woman in her mind. "I would imagine that Fox won't even think there is anything to forgive in this case. He won't hold you accountable."

"He won't have to. I hold myself accountable." Scully lifted her eyes to meet Teena Mulder's.

For a long moment, thoughts spoken and those left unspoken flowed between the two women, until one broke the silence. "Exactly," Teena Mulder said. "Exactly."

Just then, Mulder stirred on the bed, and both women turned to look to him. His eyes opened slightly, and he gave a slight start as he took in the figure in his field of vision. "Mom?" he croaked.

"Shh," she responded, as her hand stroked his hair. "It's a dream, darling." She could feel Dana's reaction beside her as the words reached her. "Be strong." She winced at the pained confusion in Fox's eyes. It was better this way. "Be strong," she said again, but was she speaking to her son or to herself? It really was better this way. It was. "I love you, baby boy," she murmured, and his lips curled upward in a smile, even as his eyes drifted shut again. She swallowed hard, then said, "Your Scully is here."

She watched with mixed emotions as his eyes opened again and he strained to move, searching for Scully. When she did not immediately appear, he began to struggle and hoarsely call, "Scully! Scully!"

Scully stepped forward as Teena stepped back. "Hush, Mulder, I'm here. Be still now, be still, it's all right. I'm here."

Teena took another step back, watching the tableau before her. Her son's eyes never left Dana's face. And there was a joy, a welcome, a belonging in them that was never present when he looked at her. Dana was the one he belonged to now, in a way he had never belonged to her. And that was as it should be. Dana was still shushing him, her hands stroking his brow, her words soothing him. She watched Dana lean over to kiss him, treasuring this moment in her heart of hearts.

And then, once more, Teena Mulder slipped out of the room, and out of the intimate moments of her son's life.