You Can't Go Home Again (1/3)
by Leigh Alexander
leigh_xf@geocities.com
http://www.geocities.com/leigh_xf

First posted: September 9th, 2001

RATING: PG
CATEGORY: SRA
SPOILERS: all things, Hollywood A.D, Je 
Souhaite, Requiem, Per Manum, Three Words and (above all) 
Existence
KEYWORDS: MSR, babyfic, Mulderangst
SUMMARY: Mulder's the father, they've kissed and 
supposedly walked off happily into the sunset. 
Or have they? What happens next, and will Mulder 
really stick around to be the perfect dad? 
Can you really go home again after being 
abducted, tortured and buried alive?

DISCLAIMERS:
1) Dana and Fox belong to Chris and Ten Thirteen 
Productions and the other Fox. Absolutely *no* 
copyright infringement is intended -- I'm not 
doing this for money, I'm doing it for love. I 
*love* these characters, I wouldn't want to hurt
them! :)
2) OK to archive, but if it's going anywhere 
other than the standard places, please drop me a 
line just so I can keep track.
3) Feel free to distribute and discuss this, as 
long as my name and addy remain attached.

INTRO:

It's rare that I choose to write something just 
from Mulder's point-of-view, but when 
'Existence' ended on that gorgeous kiss, I 
couldn't help my feeling of dissatisfaction with 
the resolution of the Mulder story. This is my 
attempt to cover some of the issues that I felt 
needed to be addressed, but weren't. 

In doing so, I've decided to follow CC's lead and 
pick and choose which events from the preceding seasons 
I was actually going to use. So, that whole brain 
illness thing...? Gone. As is any possibility 
that the episode 'Fight Club' actually existed. 
Sorry if you were attached to either of those things.

In addition, you will find that I have gone with 
the revolutionary idea that Scully's pregnancy only 
lasted nine months, not the fourteen or fifteen that
1013 deemed necessary. I sincerely hope this decision
does not distress anyone. :)

THANKS:

To Meredith, Meredith and, oh, Meredith! Because 
of her fantastic, helpful, patient and well-
thought-out editing, this piece is so much 
better than I ever would have hoped. Without her 
guidance, I probably would have gone ahead with 
my original ending (and believe me, *no-one* 
would have been happy with that!) and I never 
would have pushed myself to delve further into 
that strange Mulder psyche. On top of all of that, 
I somehow managed to forget to credit her brilliant
editing assistance on my last story, Out of the Cage

I owe her everything... and she owes me nothing! :)  

------------------------------------------------

You Can't Go Home Again

------------------------------------------------


The three of us are lying on the bed. William lies 
between Scully and me, separating us. I watch his 
strange baby movements intently, but I don't dare 
touch him. I feel Scully looking at me but I keep my 
attention focussed on the baby, avoiding eye contact 
for reasons that I haven't yet figured out. Everything 
feels odd. Three months ago I was dead. Now I am a 
father. How the hell did I get here? 

***

"It didn't take, did it?" 

She answered with a million unspoken gestures and 
before she could finish, I wrapped her in my arms. My 
stomach felt empty and my hands were shaking. 
Scully's grief was wet against my cheek and I held her 
more tightly, hoping to squeeze the pain away. She 
whispered that it was her last chance and I told her 
not to give up on a miracle. 

We have a special kiss, Scully and I. Not for us the 
normal, mundanity of lips upon lips. That would be 
too straight-forward, too easy... too meaningful. So 
instead, for us, it is the kiss of foreheads. The 
intimacy straddles that line between friendship and 
love, which suits our relationship perfectly. With 
heads pressed closely together, we can still hear the 
other breathe, still feel the distance between us, and 
it gives us the comfort we need. Only that time it 
wasn't enough. Under my palm, I felt her pulse race 
and I imagined I sensed the beat that signified a 
decision made. 

Her lips touched mine and it took all of my control to 
not recoil. The shock was so intense. But I was 
kidding myself to say that I didn't know it was 
coming. The switch was quick, but within seconds I 
had forgotten everything that had been happening 
before. All I was aware of were Scully's lips. If I 
concentrated, I could feel her hands, but soon even 
that ability had left me. I had kissed women before, I 
had even kissed Scully before, but this time it was 
different. This time there was history, and intent. 

She pulled me closer, squeezing me tightly against her 
body. She lifted herself onto her toes and within the 
same instant, her mouth was pressed more insistently 
against mine. Our teeth clicked together and instead 
of laughing, Scully just whimpered in frustration. I 
started to get hard as she rubbed her body against 
mine but it was the moment I felt her hands cupping 
my ass that I knew this was wrong.

I took her head in my hands and shifted backwards, 
trying to soften the kiss and bring us back to a calmer 
level. But she fought me, tugging my body so we were 
in the same position as before. I broke the kiss. 
"Scully, stop." My hands encircled her face, my 
thumbs stroked her cheeks. Her skin glistened and I 
couldn't figure out if it was passion, sweat or tears. 

"Don't." She knocked one of my hands away and 
swiped her cheek with a rough movement. Tears, 
then. Her heels came down and we were no longer 
eye-to-eye. I bent my head to keep looking at her, but 
she twisted her face away from me and the rest of her 
body quickly followed. Before I knew it, I was staring 
at her back. 

I was uncomfortably aware of my erection, so I didn't 
try to touch her, but I did step closer. I knew nothing 
I could say would help the situation, but I couldn't 
just remain silent, so I spoke platitudes that I knew 
she didn't want to hear. "I understand that..."

"Mulder..." she cut me off with a low, jagged murmur. 

"I'm sorry, Scully." It was the only thing I could say 
that had any meaning because it was all I was feeling. 
Everything else was desolate and hollow but I didn't 
even know if my sorrow was directed towards her or 
myself. 

She nodded. "Just go." 

I felt something akin to relief as I heard those words. I 
touched her one last time, my fingers caressing her 
shoulder in a fleeting gesture, before turning around 
and leaving her.

***

The baby has started snoring. I can't help smiling at 
this and my face reflexively lifts to meet Scully's gaze. 
Her eyes are shining and her lips are curved in a rare 
Scully smile. I want to hold on to the moment, but I 
can't. My gut twists and I have to close my eyes 
against her sparkling happiness. 

I drift back through my memories. We never spoke of 
what had happened in her apartment that day and I 
wonder if we ever will. A large part of me doesn't 
even want to know about the Scully wreck I left 
behind, and I suspect that Scully would be just as 
loath to dredge it up again. At least I hope so. But that 
thought sets off more: now that we're here -- together 
-- how many of those episodes from the past are we 
going to revisit? After all, isn't that what people do? 
When they finally become lovers, they giggle and 
reminisce about the first time they saw each other, 
the first fantasy they had... Is that what Scully and I 
are going to do? I imagine the conversation and it 
almost makes me laugh: 

Scully: So, Mulder, when did you first know you loved 
me? 
Me: Well, it was either when Duane Barry abducted 
you, or maybe when Donnie Pfaster took you...
Scully: The first or the second time?

"Mulder..." My musings are interrupted as Scully's 
voice pulls me back to the present. I open my eyes 
and see that her glow has dulled. There are a mix of 
emotions in her eyes and wondering if I have caused 
this new uncertainty makes me feel even flatter. I lift 
my arm and trail my fingers across her neck and 
collarbone. Her sensible pyjamas are incongruously 
sexy although I suspect that has more to do with the 
way they're currently gaping than anything else. 
Hesitating for just an instant, my finger is soon 
trailing a little further, nudging the softness of her 
full breast. She smiles again and this time I hold her 
gaze as I give her my answering smile. I lean over the 
baby and softly press my lips to hers. 

"I'm sorry, Scully. I was just thinking."

"About...?"

"About us." Now I can't tear my gaze away from her. 
She raises her eyebrow.

"The three of us, or the two of us?" 

Well, that's the question, isn't it?

***

The first time we had sex it was good... but not great. 
A fact that surprised us both; for so long we'd been 
able to read each other's thoughts, hear our shielded 
pain and know one another in so many unspoken 
ways, that we'd both assumed the sex would be mind-
blowingly good, not to mention completely 
instinctive. I'd touch her in all the right spots and 
she'd fill each and every one of my fantasies without 
having to ask. But the reality proved far different. 

It started on the couch, after my return from England. 
There was revelatory conversation and tea, then weighted
looks and tentative kisses. We moved quickly to my bedroom
where, in the darkness, we fumbled towards each other, 
the silence cut only by our heavy breathing. Scully immediately 
set the rules by pulling at my chin when I ventured below 
her belly-button. "No, Mulder," she breathed and 
when I tried to soothe her anxiety, she only become 
more insistent, sitting up and forcefully pulling me to 
her lips. From there it was a rapid spiral through 
foreplay to the main event, which was over more 
quickly than I would have liked. Forget simultaneous 
orgasms -- Scully never had a chance. And afterwards, 
when my fingers trailed from her breasts to her belly, 
then lower, she quelled my movements again, telling 
me she was fine -- which was the last place I wanted 
to hear those three little words. But I said nothing and 
with my arms wrapped around her, I eventually dozed 
off. Hours later, we had another go, and this time 
things went a lot better, even though Scully was still 
tightly in control, bringing herself back from the edge 
just as I was toppling over. Yet still I didn't broach the 
topic. Talking had never been one of our strong 
points and the thought of having a rational, adult 
conversation with her about sex -- sex between us -- 
frightened the hell out of me. Instead, I let her slip 
out of my bed in the early morning hours, while I lay 
silent and still, pretending to sleep.

Over the next few months, we utilised other 
opportunities as they presented themselves. A 
drunken night on the town in Los Angeles lead to 
another coupling and proved correct the theory 
about practice making perfect. We didn't reach 
perfection, but we were scaling ever closer. But more 
importantly, the walls were coming down. It's 
amazing the words that will come out when your 
brain is fuzzed with alcohol and sex. With our sweaty 
limbs tumbled raggedly together, I finally slurred out 
a question about her lack of orgasm. It didn't come 
out as smoothly as I'd wanted and the stiffness that 
instantly swept through her body only confirmed 
that. She tried to pull away, but I just clung more 
tightly. My mind flipped through the Cosmos and 
Glamours that I'd scanned in waiting rooms and tried 
to find the words that would sap the accusation from 
my tone. I had plenty of time; she took a full five 
minutes to come up with a response. Unfortunately, 
my drunken state restricted my ability to give the 
question the backup it deserved, so it dangled vapidly 
in the air between us. Until finally she sighed, heavy 
and forlorn, and relaxed her muscles so that her body 
was once more nestled against mine.

"Don't make an issue out of this, Mulder. It isn't a 
problem for you to solve."

Her words confused me and again I tried to say the 
perfect thing in response. "I'm not trying to accuse 
you of anything, Scully... I just want you to be happy. 
I want things to be perfect between us."

I think she smiled at that. I remember feeling the 
roundness of her cheeks shifting against my chest but 
with her face tucked away from my view, I couldn't 
be certain. I stroked knots out of her hair while her 
voice softly filled the space between us.

"It'll happen. I know how this works for me, Mulder. 
It's just... I need to be relaxed. I need to feel 
comfortable before I can..." Her words faded away.

"Oh." I needed another drink, but none was 
forthcoming. I swallowed and spoke again, fear 
building in my gut. "You're not comfortable with me?"

She shifted, bringing her face close to mine. My skin 
suddenly felt cold and clammy where our bodies no 
longer touched. There was a look of complete 
seriousness on her face and she studied me as though 
I were a body on her autopsy tray. "This was never 
going to be easy between us, Mulder. You know that... 
why do you think we took so long to get to this 
point?" 

I shrugged, noncommittal. "You didn't answer my 
question."

Scully rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. 
There was no eye contact between us as she 
continued talking. "In the field, at work, as friends... 
yes, I feel comfortable with you. I trust you 
implicitly."

"But not in bed?" 

She gave me a quick glance then returned her 
attention to the pristine paint job above our heads. "I 
will. I just... it just takes time."

"Scully--"

"Mulder, can you do me a favour?"

"Anything."

"Can we not talk about this anymore?" With that, she 
scooted over and wrapped herself around me, kissing 
my chest and murmuring, "I just want to go to sleep 
and try and forget that damn movie."

"OK, sure." I pulled the blankets up around us and 
closed my eyes. And while Scully was determinedly 
wiping the memory of the movie from her mind, I was 
trying to ignore my growing sense of unease, telling 
myself that everything was going to be fine, that 
things between us were going to work because we 
loved each other and we were going to make this 
relationship work. We had to. 

After that night, a distance crept between us. Weeks 
passed with no hint from either of us that we were 
lovers. I tried not to see it as a case of two steps 
forward, one step back, and more of a gentle rocking 
on the heels: swaying between the way things had 
been and the way things were going to be. During that 
period, we never switched back completely to the 
Mulder and Scully of old, nor did we take a giant leap 
forward into our new selves. Instead we trod the 
delicate balance between the two... until the night 
when she came over to my house for pizza, beer and 
a movie and ended up curled against me on the couch 
as the final credits rolled. 

I gulped down the dregs of my beer and tilted my 
head to the side to get a better look at her. Her eyes 
were closed, but I knew she wasn't sleeping. I weighed 
my options in a heated internal dialogue then, before 
my rational side could put up a better argument, I 
leaned down and whispered against her ear: "Will you 
stay?" Her eyes remained closed, but she nodded. 
Seconds later she was standing in front of me, her 
fingers beckoning me forwards. I grasped her hand in 
relief and rose to my feet, following her lead as she 
pulled me towards the bedroom.

It was a night of firsts: Scully had never seen 
Caddyshack before, and I had never eaten popcorn 
without butter. It was the first time we'd woken up 
together in my bed and it was the only time I'd ever 
seen her eating breakfast wearing one of my shirts. 
But the biggest first happened sometime around 2am 
and as pathetic as it sounds, I think my smile was 
bigger than Scully's. At least I had the sense to keep 
my macho posturing in check, although I couldn't 
resist a small lapse as I nuzzled into her sweaty neck 
and murmured, "I guess that means you're 
comfortable now..." Her throat vibrated against my 
lips as she allowed a low chuckle to escape.

"I guess it does."

If I had known our last time was going to be our last 
time, I would have done things differently. Not the 
sex, which was gentle and loving; but the personal, 
where we chose too quickly to skirt an issue which 
should have been addressed. She came to my room 
looking wan and all I could think to do to help was to 
try and warm her up. With her under the covers and 
me on top, it was hardly conducive to intimacy, but 
somehow we leapfrogged from soft kisses to tender 
sex without either of us really initiating anything. 
That's the moment I most regret when I look back 
now at those months. We opened the door to 
discussions of our future, of family and work... but all 
too quickly we slammed it shut again. I was trying to 
be selfless when I told her to go home, to go have the 
family life she deserved and she knew it, but even so 
she was hurt. 

"Mulder, none of that means anything to me if I'm 
doing it alone." Her face was beneath mine and her 
tears were quickly dampening the pillow. I planted 
small kisses on the edges of her eyes, down her 
cheeks and on her lips. I couldn't speak. I wanted to 
tell her I was sorry, but I knew that if I started down 
that path I'd never stop, so I just nodded my head and 
joined her under the covers. 

And now... I'm a father.

***

"I'm sorry, Scully. I was just thinking."

"About...?"

"About us." 

"The three of us, or the two of us?" 

I give her an appraising look and try to figure out if 
she's being deliberately obtuse, or utterly brilliant. "I 
guess a bit of both," I reply hesitantly, gauging her 
reaction. 

She simply nods, her expression imparting nothing 
with its cool blankness. She looks down at William 
and from her pensive silence, I assume she is thinking 
about what she wants to say. There is a strange kind 
of fear skidding through my centre; a familiar 
helplessness is beginning to engulf me, but what I am 
most anxious about is the fact that for the first time 
in my life, I can't figure out its cause. Joining Scully's 
point of focus, I drop my gaze to the baby. He is so 
completely peaceful but his calm only makes my own 
panic rise. I switch my attention to Scully and receive 
no break from my dark fears. Witnessing the joy that 
is still breaking through her thoughtful mask only 
makes me feel sicker. 

"Scully, I'm--"

"Mulder, I--"

Simultaneously, we break the silence. I smile and she 
does too. Angling my head, I indicate that she should 
go first. After a moment's pause, she does.

"I know this isn't going to be easy for us, Mulder." 
She catches my eye briefly but then returns her 
attention to the baby. He wriggles slightly and she 
places her hand flat on his stomach. Her eyes 
remained turned away from me as she whispers, "You 
think I don't know what we're facing?" She has been 
leaning on her elbow but now she drops down so her 
head is touching the baby's. She stares at him with a 
fear of unfathomable depths and I can't restrain my 
unconscious need to touch her so I reach out and 
squeeze her arm. There is no reaction on her part and 
when she continues talking it's as if she's operating 
on a different plane than me, even though I'm still the 
one she's addressing. "We're in more danger now 
than we've ever been, Mulder. I know that's what 
you've been thinking about... And you think I don't 
realise just how much more vulnerable we are now. 
But you're wrong. I do realise that. I've known that 
for a long time. Ever since I found out I was pregnant, 
my fears about the future have consistently 
overpowered the happiness I wanted to feel." She 
stops short and finally looks at me. "Even now I'm 
scared..." Her eyes plead with me for some kind of 
reassurance.

But I can't give it. I don't even want to share my own 
fears with her. Suddenly the hope and expectation in 
her eyes and in her voice is too much for me to 
endure and I all but breathe a sigh of relief when 
there is an unexpected knock at Scully's door. She 
frowns and begins to move off the bed, but I beat her 
to the punch, swinging my feet onto the floor and 
making it to the doorway before she's even left the 
bed.

"It's OK. I'll get it." I can't explain my rush to get out 
of there so I don't give her time to respond before 
leaving her bedroom and practically running to the 
door. Ducking down, I peer through the peekhole and 
see Scully's mom patiently waiting to be let in.  

When she sees me her eyes light up, leading me to the 
inevitable assumption that she's guessed the paternity 
of her newest grandson. "Fox," her voice is full of 
warmth and I submit happily to the embrace that 
follows. "I'm so happy to see you here." There is no 
subtlety in her expression as she tries to solicit an 
admission from me, but I manage to withstand the 
Scully curiosity and calmly lead her to her daughter's 
bedroom. I relieve her of the casserole dish she is 
carrying and dump it on the table as we walk past the 
kitchen. "That's just a little stew to keep everyone 
going for the next few days... There's not going to be 
much time for cooking, believe me." She glances at 
me again and I process her words, suddenly seeing a 
picture of the days and weeks to come. 

We enter Scully's bedroom and she and the baby are 
in exactly the same position as when I left with just an 
indentation on the bed to signify my recent presence. 
Looking at the crease, I am reminded of the similar 
impression Scully left on my bed the night we first 
made love. After she'd left, I'd rolled onto my side 
and run my finger down the pillow where her head 
had lain, remembering how she'd looked in my bed 
with the fear that I'd never have the chance to see the 
flesh-and-bones version in the same position ever 
again. For a few hours, I'd made a concerted effort 
not to crush the remains of her presence but before 
long I'd drifted back to sleep. When I woke up in the 
morning, I was sprawled in my usual fashion across 
both sides of the bed. And Scully's mark had gone. 
Now I watch as Mrs. Scully perches on my side of the 
bed and erases my crease with her own body. I think 
of Doggett, and of Scully's attachment to him, and 
wonder how quickly my presence could be replaced 
in other situations. 

Trying to shake these thoughts out of my head, I 
move to the foot of the bed and concentrate on the 
conversation currently going on. Scully is sitting up 
again and answering Mrs. Scully's enquiry about the 
baby's name.

"I'm calling him William." Scully doesn't look at her 
mother straight away so I'm the only one who catches 
the quick hitch in Mrs Scully's breath as she hears 
that.

"Ohh, Dana... Your Dad would be so pleased."

I see Scully's eyes dart towards me and I feel her 
sudden discomfort. I want to reassure her, but there 
is no way I can do so without making things more 
awkward for her.

"Actually, Mom... you wouldn't believe it but--" she 
glances at me again and I shake my head, trying to 
indicate that I don't need her to do this, but she 
ignores me and persists, "--it's also the name of 
Mulder's father."

Mrs. Scully lifts her head and stares at me. I can see 
her surprise and I try to smooth the rough edges. "So 
it's perfect really -- the name of both our fathers." 

For once I know I've said the right thing. I'm aware 
that Scully had thought I'd forgotten the other 
significance of the name and I sense I've passed a test 
with my comment, a feeling only confirmed by the 
look of gratitude she gives me. 

William is obviously not as impressed by my comment 
as he chooses that moment to explode into a 
paroxysm of tears. The three of us jump in unison, so 
dramatic is the sudden noise. But Scully quickly 
bundles him up and hugs him to her chest, standing 
to give herself more room. I make a tentative step 
towards her but Mrs. Scully has already come round 
from the other side and is next to Scully in an instant. 
She pats William's back gently and places her hand on 
Scully's shoulder at the same time. She is calm, even 
smiling, as she murmurs to her daughter, "Food or 
diaper?" 

Scully smoothes the panic out of her eyes and allows 
herself a slight smile in return. "I guess it's diaper..." 

Mrs Scully nods and the two women walk to the 
change table in the corner of the room. Funny how I 
hadn't even noticed it there before. My eyes follow 
them but my mind has shifted focus. With startling 
clarity I picture my own mother in the first few days 
after Sam was born. I remember standing in the 
doorway of my parents' bedroom as she tried to 
shush the newborn's tears with stress and anger 
threading through her voice. When I ventured closer 
to offer my help, she only snapped at me to go back 
to my room. I recoiled in surprise and quickly ran out 
of the room in tears. With hindsight I can now 
sympathise with her reaction -- no doubt my parents 
had entered that stage of their lives when his work 
had started to tear them apart -- but at the time my 
only feeling was one of hurt, bundled with irrelevance 
and fear. Watching Scully and her mother handle our 
abrupt mini-crisis with natural ease, all I can feel is 
that same intense state of helplessness. I am torn 
between responsibility and my own ingrained 
psychology and it is my fleeing instinct that wins out.

"I'll be by later, Scully," I say as I try to beat a quick 
exit out of her room. She jerks around and fixes me 
with a shocked stare.

"Mulder--" My name is now an admonishment. 
Meanwhile, Mrs Scully keeps her head bowed, 
concentrating on fitting William into his diaper 
although I can see the tension tightening across her 
shoulder blades.

I try to act casual and I give Scully a loose smile. 
"You've got everything under control. I'll leave you 
two -- you three, I mean -- alone for a while..." Before 
she can stop me, I leave the room. It takes every inch 
of willpower for me to keep putting one foot in front 
of the other until I reach her front door. Inside, I am 
a shaking mess who wants nothing more than to go 
back to Scully's room, hoist her into her my arms and 
squeeze her so tightly she almost stops breathing. But 
I know I can't do that. She has other priorities now 
and the days when I was the only man in her life were 
pushed aside the night that William was pushed into 
existence. With a shaking hand, I unlock the door and 
let myself out.

***

My apartment felt cool. And incredibly neat. I made a 
wisecrack to Scully about her tidying up but the 
humour fell flat. Not a surprise really -- there had 
been a distinct lack of buoyancy between us since I 
first woke up in the hospital, and this was only the 
most obvious sign. Everything was unsettled between 
us. Somewhere between her pregnancy and my 
resurrection we'd lost our rhythm. Truth be told, I 
knew it had more to do with what we'd been to each 
other in those last few months before Oregon than 
just the simple distance of time. Even in the hospital, 
things had felt strange. A situation so familiar -- one 
of us lying in a hospital bed -- had suddenly become a 
new and different thing and although neither of us 
admitted it, we both knew it was because of sex. In 
the Mulder-and-Scully version of morning-after 
anxiety, awkwardness extended to that first 
conversation in the hospital when the rules weren't 
clear on whether a kiss would be crossing the line or 
not. So Scully cried onto my hospital gown, and I ran 
my fingers through her hair. We didn't even manage a 
forehead kiss. 

I settled down on my desk, maintaining the huge gap 
that had widened between us. Without meaning to, I 
fixed my gaze on her bulging stomach and then we 
exchange looks. The issue had been avoided until 
now. I struggled to find the right words. "I'm happy 
for you... I think I know how much that means to 
you." 

Her hurt was so obvious I'd had to have been blind 
and without feeling to not be affected by it, but 
something had hardened within me and I made no 
move towards her. It was the first time I'd become 
aware of just how deadened my feelings were. It was 
as though my body was called back to earth while my 
soul remained floating up towards that bright light. I 
wished I could explain this to Scully but I knew that 
doing so would only trouble her more. Weakly, I said, 
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cold or ungrateful. I 
just have no idea where I fit in... Right now, I'm just 
having a little trouble... processing things." As I 
spoke, resentment slowly started to fill my chest. 
How could she stand there and tell me I didn't know 
what she'd been going through while I'd been gone? 
How could she so easily forget her own abduction, 
her own missing time...? Not to mention the countless 
other incidents that had peppered the past eight years 
where I'd known nothing but the fear of her death? 

I turned my attention back to the fish. Adam and Rob 
swum on, oblivious to anything beyond their fish-
lives. It was why I'd always chosen fish over other 
pets. Dogs and cats had too much personality; their 
likeability would only lead to emotional attachment, 
which in my book seemed to always equal pain. Fish, 
on the other hand, were boring. If you were lucky, 
they might duck in and out of the artificial rocks and 
caves that you had put in their tank, but for the most 
part they simply swam in circles. Then they died and 
you bought new ones. Easy. Painless. I was already 
thinking about a name for Molly's replacement... I 
ticked through the list in my head and decided I was 
ready for Mike. Or maybe I'd get another girl and call 
her Nora... 

"Mulder?" 

Her voice pulled me out of my reverie. I swallowed 
my irrational anger and stood up. But I didn't know 
what to do next. Scully looked at me, obviously 
expecting me to speak, and the weight of her longing 
almost forced out the words that I knew she wanted 
to hear. ('Scully, I'm so glad to be home... I'm happy 
for *us*, not just you...  I love you, Scully') Not that 
she's sentimental. No, definitely not that. She just 
wanted to know where we stood. I understood that. I 
sympathised with her longing... I wanted to know 
where we stood also. But right now I didn't even know 
where I fit into my own life, let alone hers. 

I walked towards her and her eyes grew big. Drawing 
parallel, I touched her arm gently and kept moving 
past her to my bedroom. Resting my hand against the 
door jam, I tried to latch onto her eyes with my 
skittering gaze, but failed miserably. In the end, I let 
my words do all the talking. "I think I just need to rest 
for a while, Scully. Will you give me a few hours?"

I didn't have to be looking at her to see her reaction. 
It buffeted me like the whoosh of air that follows an 
explosion. I don't know if she even spoke. All I heard 
was the sound of the door as it closed behind her.

***

I walk into my apartment and I am hit by its coldness. 
Out of habit, I head straight for the fish tank. Rob is 
belly-up. I never got around to buying another one, so 
Adam swims alone and the aptness of his solitude 
does not escape me. 

"It's just you and me, pal." My voice sounds 
unnaturally loud in the empty apartment and I busy 
myself with the dead fish to push away the negative 
thoughts that want to fill my brain. I pick up the 
scoop and get Rob out. Walk through the bedroom to 
the bathroom and then turn the scoop upside down. 
Rob plops into the toilet and I give him a minute's 
silence before flushing him away. The gushing water 
suddenly fascinates me and I watch it in awe. 

Without warning, a memory takes hold. The noise 
reminds me of the drills and in a split second I am 
whisked back to the ship, to the chair, and a stabbing 
pain sears through my entire body. I break out in a 
sweat and my knees give way. I am on the floor in the 
foetal position trying in vain to protect myself from 
the agony they are inflicting on me. I feel the saw 
slice through my chest, while the drill attacks the 
roof of my mouth... my hands are held in place by 
steel rods that cut a hole through my palms... my 
ankles are bound by iron cuffs. There is a constant 
high-pitched chatter running through my brain and I 
sense it is a form of communication although I am 
deaf to its meaning. I close my eyes and shake my 
head, 'no, no, no, no.' It is my gut response, the only 
way I know how to make it stop. There is a part of my 
conscious brain that is desperately trying to pull me 
out of the nightmare -- it's just a memory, a vision... 
you have to fight it -- but the imagined pain is too 
great for me to fully grasp reality. But slowly, surely, 
my focus starts to blur. The edges of the nightmare 
become hazy. I feel my feet loosen from their 
restraints, the rods retract and my hands are freed. 
The noise begins to fade. The pain is lessening.

I am shivering on the floor but I am whole again. I 
bring my hands up in front of my face and note the 
absence of marks on them. I turn them around -- both 
sides are clean. My head falls back against the floor 
and I close my eyes. 

When I open them again, it is night. I slowly unfurl my 
body from its taut position and welcome the normal 
pain that accompanies the release of tightened 
muscles. There is no reminder of the 'other' pain so I 
force myself to forget the experience. I get to my feet 
and stretch, then move to the sink to wash my face. 
Scully-products are clustered neatly together and I 
study them more closely than I've done in the past. 
There are two types of makeup remover -- one for 
eyes and one of the rest of the face -- moisturiser, 
toner, but no makeup. Toothpaste, toothbrush, floss. 
Contact lense paraphernalia and hair products. 
There's perfume. I pick it up and try to find a name 
but it belongs to a special club of unnamed perfume 
and I put it back down again, wondering if I would 
ever be buying her perfume in the future... 

'Mulder.'

I swivel around but there is no one there. Just my 
guilty conscience prodding me with her voice. I turn 
on the faucet and drench my hands with water which 
I splash up onto my face. In the mirror, she is 
standing behind me, but when I turn she is gone 
again. 

Shaking my head, I grab a towel and speak to the 
empty room. "You can't haunt me while you're alive, 
Scully. Hasn't working on the X-Files taught you 
anything about poltergeists?" I smile weakly at my 
own humour and bury my face in the towel. 

She breathes into my ear, 'What's going on with you, 
Mulder?'

Muffled by the towel, I reply, "I don't know..." 

When I look up, she is gone. 

***

In the hospital, days passed like minutes. I would 
wake up, see Scully, be prodded by a doctor or nurse, 
then fall asleep again. Never with any sense of how 
much time was elapsing. Scully's hair stayed the 
same, her smile was always broad and as far as I 
could tell, her earrings never changed. The doctors all 
wore white coats and the nurses had pink uniforms. 
Sometimes the sun shone. Sometimes I saw stars. But 
I never saw a clock, or a calendar and I never saw 
Scully in any position other than seated next to my 
bed. For all I knew, mere hours had passed. 

Eventually I began to stay awake for longer periods. 
Which was when I started to grasp the passage of 
time. My first coherent question to Scully was to ask 
just how long I'd been gone. She hedged for a while, 
asking if I wanted some water, if I was hungry... if I 
needed some more sleep. That was when I knew I was 
going to hear something I didn't want to. But I had to 
know. When she told me I'd been gone for six months 
I felt a strange sense of calm. Six months didn't seem 
so bad. She'd studied me anxiously as I absorbed the 
news but her face broke into a relieved grin when my 
only response was to ask who won the Superbowl. 

Hours later it sank in. The sunlight that was warming 
my body made me realise I'd missed more than the 
playoffs. It started with winter -- never my favourite 
season, but one that I now found myself longing for -- 
then moved through Christmas (which I rarely 
celebrated), Thanksgiving and the release of The Blair 
Witch sequel. As the list grew, one date in particular 
crystallised in my head as I suddenly realised I'd 
missed my fortieth birthday. For a moment, 
everything else fell by the wayside. The milestone that 
I'd been both dreading and anticipating had slunk in 
and planted itself firmly in place without allowing me 
the chance to celebrate or suffer. It'd been the one 
birthday that had held any significance for me and to 
have missed it was as pitiful as it gets.  

I turned to Scully to share my observation and saw that 
her chair was empty. She must have left while I was sleeping. 
I continued detailing everything that would have 
occurred during my abduction in a long internal list 
and was midway through August when Scully returned. 
At the sound of the door opening, I looked towards 
her with a smile. Her own expression froze when she 
saw that I was awake and, in an apparent reflex, she 
tried to duck back behind the door. But it was too 
late. In a split second, my list of missed events was 
replaced with just one solitary word.

Baby.

***

The sun hits my eyes and I wake up with a start. 
Disoriented, I look around me. I'm in my apartment, 
on my bed, fully clothed. My watch tells me it's nearly 
seven a.m and my head tells me that I'm neither 
hungover, nor sick. I sit up and note that I'm lying on 
top of the covers. Memories slowly start to filter back 
but I can't figure out why everything feels like it 
happened so long ago. I walk into the bathroom and 
am hit with the image of my body curled on the floor. 
I recall my phantom Scully and our bizarre 
conversation and this quickly segues into visions of 
the real Scully and how I left her. Her shocked hurt is 
a dull ache that throbs through me, its beat 
accompanying my every action. Masochistically, my 
mind prods at the pain, wondering what Mrs. Scully 
thinks of me now and whether she's still as pleased to 
know that I am the baby's father.

I run a hand over my face, trying to wake up more 
fully and thus force these sleep-fuelled 
contemplations out of my head. Catching my 
reflection in the mirror, I realise how haggard I look. 
My five o'clock shadow is threatening to become a 
full-blown beard while my eyes droop wearily from 
lack of sleep. My movements are automatic as I fill 
the sink, pat on cream and begin to shave; the 
familiarity of the task giving my mind free reign to 
wander. 

<What's going on with you?> The question posed by 
my Scully-subconscious sounds forth again and I 
resign myself to the fact that I'm going to have to find 
an answer before I can hope to return to the real, 
flesh-and-blood Scully. Until now, I have deliberately 
steered clear of thoughts of the future. In my whole 
life, I have never been one to hold weighty 
predictions about where I'm going to be in five 
minutes, let alone five years. So to now be confronted 
with the necessity -- but certainly not the desire -- to 
plan ahead, I feel nothing but fear and anxiety. For a 
moment, I wish I could possess Scully's cool 
detachment, her analytical mind. At times in the past 
I have been able to assume some of those traits, 
mimicking my partner's rationality as a younger 
sibling copies an older one. It is a rare undertaking as 
I am usually all too conscious of how fluidly our yin 
and yang can work positively together to 
counterbalance each other's differences. However, in 
this instance I know that any attempt to take on 
Scully's mindset will prove impossible, as I suspect 
the chasm between us is just too wide. Throw in a 
baby, some alien torture and a three-month burial 
and you've got a recipe for disaster. 

Feeling somewhat satisfied with my assessment of the 
problem at hand, I roughly wipe away the remaining 
shaving cream with a towel and peer at myself more 
closely in the mirror. Better. Not great, but better. I 
swivel around and turn on the shower. The water 
gushes out in a hot stream but I resist the urge to add 
more cold. I still feel as if I've got ice running through 
my veins and at the moment a near-scalding 
drenching is exactly what I need. I discard my clothes 
and plunge directly under the spray, ready for my 
baptism. 

When I close my eyes all I see is the look of 
disappointment that Scully had given me when I left 
yesterday; all I can feel is the tension that filled the 
room, its roots in Mrs Scully's shoulders, its impact 
all-pervasive. Knowing that I was the cause of both of 
those reactions is enough to make me want to stay 
under the shower until my skin withers into the 
shrivelled epidermis of an old man. The thought of 
returning to face Scully -- atoning for my sins -- fills 
me with dread. Yet I know it is necessary. Not because 
she needs me to return, but because I do.

I angle my head so that the water drums down 
directly against my face. It allows the tears to fade 
into oblivion, letting me believe they do not exist. I 
want Scully; I know that.  The baby? That's something 
I'm still getting used to. Since my return I haven't 
fully allowed myself to believe that he really exists -- 
that he is ours -- and the illusion has been so effective 
that even now, with his flesh-and-blood form 
screaming its way into my life, I still can't properly 
believe it. Or, more importantly, accept it. To accept 
the baby is to place a lock on my future. A family. 
That's what we'll be... that's what I'll have. Family. I 
play with the word in my head, but all it conjures up 
is images of Mom, Dad and Samantha and try as I 
might, none of the happy memories are coming along 
for the ride. 'Family' is still a festering disease in the 
stomach of my life and not even the memory of 
Scully's irrepressible joy can cure that.

Briefly, I consider the alternative. In my mind's eye, I 
stroll through my apartment, trailing the baggage of 
bachelorhood, the vague whiff of reclusiveness, a 
touch of craziness... My computer, the one point of 
contact with the outside world, will become my 
soulmate. Once more, the door to my bedroom will 
close, and behind the partition will grow piles of 
boxes, multiplying upon themselves as the years 
progress and my 'quest' -- whatever quest I have 
decided to take on -- plunges me ever further into the 
depths of insanity. The TV will be permanently on, a 
porn tape cued in the VCR below. The couch will bear 
the imprint of the length of my body as I take to 
sleeping there day, night, afternoon... whenever I can 
fit it in amongst my UFO research. My only company 
will be the fish, an ever-changing roster of TV stars, 
singers and government leaders. If I'm lucky, the Lone 
Gunmen might drop round from time to time, 
bringing information on the latest sightings, or 
newest conspiracy theory.

As the series of flash-forwards speeds through my 
head, I feel sick. It is a meld of my former life with 
my worst nightmares and I know instantly that it is 
not what I want. I have tasted the other side and now  
I can never go back to who I was, or who I was 
destined to be. The realisation seeps through me in 
tiny increments. I turn off the faucet -- I don't know 
how long the water's been cold, but I'm finally 
starting to feel it -- and step out of the shower. 
Minutes later, fully dressed, I take a real-life walk 
through my apartment. My eyes graze dispassionately 
over the objects cluttering up the rooms, things that 
had once seemed so important but which now hold 
no more emotional significance than the materials 
with which they are made. The couch, nothing more 
than leather and wood; the TV, the computer, just 
metal, wires and chips; books, just paper; videos, just 
plastic. As I continue to look around me, I realise 
there is only one part of this life that I want to take 
with me to the next; and with the realisation comes 
not the expected sense of sorrow or regret, but 
instead, a feeling of liberation. 

Ten minutes later, I am out the door, a bag in one 
hand, a suitcase in the other. It's time to go home.

***

"Is that a baby in your belly, or are you just happy to 
see me?"

Humour. Worked every time. 

But Scully didn't smile, thus exposing my attempt at 
levity for the defence mechanism it really was. My 
gaze dropped to the floor. Soon, her feet filled the 
tiles in front of me, but I couldn't move my focus. For 
the first time, I noticed she was wearing flat shoes 
and I could have kicked myself for my lack of 
observational powers. If I'd picked up on this new 
shoe style a little earlier I might have spared myself 
this moment of... of what? I didn't even know what I 
was feeling. I didn't know what I was supposed to be 
feeling. 

"Mulder?" There were tears in her voice and I finally 
shifted my attention from her feet to her face. She 
pulled the chair closer to my bed and picked up my 
hand. She was keeping the tears in check, but only 
barely. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier... I just 
never seemed to be able to find the right time..." A 
smile was working its way through the tears and I 
couldn't help being stunned by how perfect the word 
'radiant' suddenly seemed when applied to her 
current expression. 

I saw it in her face and I knew it implicitly, but I 
couldn't ask. I knew that if the words actually left my 
mouth, it would do two things. Firstly, it would insult 
Scully but secondly, and perhaps more importantly, it 
would set us on a path that I just didn't know if I was 
ready to follow right now. If I sought -- and gained -- 
confirmation that the baby Scully was carrying was 
mine, then I'd need to accept the mantle of father. 
And right now that was asking the impossible. 

To my great relief, Dr. Lim chose that moment to 
enter the room. I don't think I've ever been happier 
to see a doctor other than my partner. Scully cast a 
regretful look my way before standing up to leave. To 
the surprise of both of us, Dr. Lim said, "Actually, Dr. 
Scully, I was hoping to have a word with you." Scully 
glanced at me again before following him out of the 
room. 

Once the door had closed behind them, I pushed back 
the covers and cautiously placed my feet on the floor, 
testing their ability to carry my weight. Everything 
seemed OK, so I stood up and made my way across 
the room to the chair at the foot of my bed. I needed 
to move; it was my body's involuntary way of dealing 
with the news I had just heard. I sank into the chair 
and rested my head against its back. Scully was 
pregnant. Scully -- barren since her abduction -- was 
carrying a baby. A baby that was unquestionably 
mine--

On that word, my thoughts stuttered to a halt. Why 
'unquestionably'...? How could I possibly feel 
confident making assumptions of any kind when I of 
all people should know that the rules never apply 
when it came to Scully and me? Instinctively, I knew it 
wasn't a possibility, but rationally I had to consider it. 
What if the baby wasn't mine at all? What if Scully had 
been subjected to some kind of new and heinous test 
that she had kept from me? What if what was growing 
inside her wasn't human... but the result of 
government and/or alien experimentation?

Deliberately ignoring the joy she had shown me just a 
few minutes earlier, I momentarily toyed with the 
notion. I tried to picture Scully -- the stoic and noble 
Scully -- faced with the knowledge that her womb had 
once again been invaded in another one of Their 
tactics. I imagined her despair at the understanding 
that her pregnancy was just one more battle in our 
silent war against Them. The nameless, faceless Them. 
Briefly, I experienced a swell of anger, rising in 
strength as the images continued to build. It lasted 
only a few seconds before flattening, suddenly 
turning into a wave without energy as I realised that if 
there were any truth to that scenario, Scully would no 
longer be pregnant. With a mental shove, the memory 
of Scully's happiness pushed its way into my thoughts 
and the truth became crystal clear. There were no 
tests or experiments. No alien baby or government 
intervention. All that was true was my own fear.

***

I stand outside her door with the key in my hand, 
unsure if I still have the right to use it. In the end I 
compromise, knocking gently but insistently before 
slipping my key in the lock and letting myself in.

I am greeted with complete silence. I wonder if she is 
still in the bedroom but before venturing any further, 
I tuck the key in my pocket and bring my suitcase 
inside. Carefully, I place the object in my other hand 
on her desk, where it will be out of the way. 

"Scully?" The apartment feels abandoned. I almost 
expect to hear the words bouncing back at me as if I 
were on top of a canyon.

I venture into the bedroom. The curtains are still 
drawn so it is night-time dark, but despite the gloom I 
can tell the room is empty. I peer in the bassinet just 
to be sure and my instincts are confirmed. 

The bubble of worry that always starts at this point 
doesn't disappoint and I pick up the pace as I finish 
my search of the apartment. It isn't until I've almost 
completed the circuit that my anxiety is relieved as 
the reason for their absence becomes apparent. On 
the kitchen table is a bowl filled with Scully's 
favourite cereal, topped with cut-up slices of 
banana... and no milk. I open the fridge and am 
surprised at its emptiness. The casserole dish that I 
remember from Mrs Scully's visit is there, but little 
else. Slowly I close the door, worry niggling my 
conscience.

A noise outside pushes me into motion as I move to 
the window and peer out. Scully is approaching the 
bottom of her apartment steps pushing a huge 
stroller. There is a split second in which I simply 
watch in awed fascination as she attempts to 
manoeuvre the unwieldy stroller into a position that 
will allow her to easily mount the stairs, but the pause 
is only momentary before my reflexes kick in. I am 
out the door and at her side before she's even made it 
up the first step.

"Let me help you."

She jerks around at the sound of my voice and for a 
heart-stopping moment, I fear she is going to turn her 
back on me and keep bumping the baby up the steps. 
But she doesn't. Instead, she pauses and waits for me 
to reach the other side of the stroller. I take one 
quick look at her face and see a warring mix of 
emotions. Anger dominates, overshadowing relief. 
Both attempt to conceal the hurt that is obviously the 
true essence of what she is feeling. She meets my gaze 
and quickly settles into a neutral expression. 
Together, we lift our portable barrier and slowly walk 
up the stairs before lowering it onto the flat surface. I 
walk ahead and hold open the door.  

"Thanks." Her voice is low and carefully measured. 
Her thin sweatshirt brushes against me as she passes 
through the doorway. 

Inside her apartment, she busies herself with the baby 
as if I weren't there. I lean against a wall and watch as 
she pulls him out of the stroller and rests him on her 
hip. His face smooshes against her shoulder and a 
smile momentarily lights up her face as she caresses 
his skin and gently shifts his head into a more 
comfortable position. Without looking at me, she 
takes him into the bedroom and from the noises I 
hear soon after, I assume she is putting him back to 
bed. Once again, I feel out-of-place... the third wheel 
in the love affair unfolding before my eyes. 
Nervously, I shift my weight from one foot to the 
other as I wait for her to emerge.

She heads back to the stroller and unties the plastic 
bag that dangles from its handle, pulling out a carton 
of milk and other small necessities. Still, she avoids 
my gaze. And still, I say nothing. 

The impasse continues until she is seated at the table, 
milk poured, spoon in hand.

I break the silence. "Scully." It is a statement, an ice-
breaker and an offering all bundled into one. It is my 
apology and my plea for forgiveness. It is my way in... 
the only way I know. 

She puts a spoonful of cereal in her mouth and finally 
allows herself to look at me, chewing thoughtfully. 

She swallows. "Where did you go?" Cool. Impartial. 
Succinctly angry.

"Home." No, that's not quite right. "Uh, my 
apartment."

She cocks an eyebrow and stares at me with narrowed 
eyes, considering the implications of my words. "So 
you can't go home again after all?"

I can't arrest the sidelong grin that pulls at my mouth. 
I want to match her, quip for quip, but I bite my 
tongue and remind myself to tread carefully. Instead 
of the quick reply, I choose to mull over the meaning 
of her words. I think of that day in the office, when I 
was so eager to reclaim my territory; sliding 
magnanimously into the lushness of my office chair 
and sending Scully one of my typically cocky text 
messages. The actions just one step short of urinating 
on the desk. The arrogance my defence. Needing to 
prove I was back... and that no one else could do my 
job. 

Such bullshit. Even then, I knew it. But all I'd wanted 
was to telescope my absence into a period of a few 
days and carry on with life as it had been, knowing 
that to do so would require ignoring the basic 
realities right under my nose, but deliberately 
dismissing their significance in my attempt to fulfil 
the fantasy. 

I shook my head. "No, you can't."

Concern has chipped away at the anger. She puts the 
spoon down and places her hand over mine. "Mulder, 
what's going on with you?"

I think of my phantom Scully and smile. "You *were* 
trying to haunt me, weren't you?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing... nothing." 

We pause, each of us trying to re-establish our 
footing in this conversation. My eyes are down-
turned, focussed on our connecting hands. Without 
looking to see if she is listening, I start to speak.

"I know I'm not doing things the way I should be, 
Scully. I'm not saying the right things. I'm not doing 
the right things. It's just..." I try to put the words 
together, but my head feels heavy, my brain dull. 

Scully leans forward and lifts her hand to my cheek. 
She tilts my head up so that I am forced to make eye 
contact with her. "What, Mulder?" 

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how far to go, how 
much to say. My eye casts a look at the stroller which 
fills the empty space in her kitchen. She follows my 
gaze and then looks back at me, a heightened 
understanding apparent in her eyes. I follow that 
thought. "You seem to have picked things up pretty 
quickly."

Her hand drops away from my face, landing in her 
lap. She doesn't reply.

I fill the silence with words, feeling more comfortable 
with this tack than with the deeper truths regarding 
my own fears. "So, all that stuff about women's 
instincts when it comes to motherhood... it's all 
true?"

A trace of stiffness has taken hold of her body. The 
distant tone returns as she answers, "I read lots of 
books. I needed to ..."

"You needed to what?"

She levels her cool gaze at me. "I wasn't sure if I was 
going to have any support. I needed to plan on 
raising him alone."

It has the desired effect on me. I recoil as if slapped. 
Tension is suddenly coiling through my stomach and I 
have to force myself to take a deep breath, to remove 
the sting from her words and look at the truth behind 
them. Of course she had to plan for that. It would be 
foolish of me to believe that she knew I would return; 
after all, she did see my dead body, and as much as 
she has evolved over the years, even Scully would be 
hard-pressed to make the assumption that I would 
return from the dead. 

"You thought you were going to be a single 
mother...?" Framed as a question, but we both know it 
is a statement. 

"What was I expected to think, Mulder?" 

"But when I came back, you had to know..."

"Mulder, when you came back, we acted as if we were 
nothing more than partners! You were the only person 
who I could trust to know the truth of my pregnancy, 
and yet you said nothing. So -- to answer your 
question -- no, I didn't 'have to know' that I would no 
longer need to plan on being a single mother. " She 
draws a shaky breath, forcibly calming herself down. 
"Yesterday morning was the first time I let myself 
believe that there was a chance we were going to 
make it work... And then you left." She underscores 
the final words with a scorching gaze that makes me 
flinch.

It takes me a while to find my voice again and when I 
do, it feels raw and scratchy. "I'm sorry." I study her 
hands, folded neatly in her lap. I love her hands. They 
are small, and delicate, and perfectly maintained; 
over the years, they have soothed me, caressed me, 
restrained me, and fought for me. I want those hands 
to touch me again like they have in the past. I want to 
be able to secrete her fingers inside my enclosed fist 
and know that I will never crush them, never damage 
them. 

One of them separates and rises up to her face. My 
head follows its path, as if pulled by a string. She runs 
her fingers across the bridge of her nose, then trails 
them down her cheek. Her elbow stops at the table 
and, fingers furled, she sighs and lowers her chin 
onto her fist. Eyelids slowly close as she half-
heartedly accepts my apology. An apology that 
obviously needs more weighty words to follow before 
it can go anyway towards healing this rift. But it is she 
who speaks next.

"Can I ask you a question?" 

I nod. "Of course."

"Tell me why the idea of having a child is suddenly so 
frightening to you?" My eyes flicker nervously but I 
bite down the automatic denial which we both would 
recognise as a lie. She continues, "I can understand 
that it was a shock to you that day in the hospital... 
but I don't understand why you're behaving as if it 
was completely unexpected."

"You're thinking about when you asked if I'd be a 
donor, aren't you?" I surprise myself with my own 
composure. 

She tilts her head, "You took the time to think about 
it then. I know you didn't make the decision lightly."

My response is more automatic than I should have 
allowed. "That was a year and a half ago, Scully. 
Things were different. You and I were different."

She blanches and I feel instantly guilty; this wasn't the 
path I meant to follow.  Her hand falls to the table, 
narrowly averting disaster as it glances against the 
still-full bowl. The ice is back in her voice. "So you're 
saying that having a baby by the usual method isn't 
what you signed up for?"

"No..." I start to lie, then correct myself. "Well, yes." 

She pushes her chair back and it scrapes harshly 
against the floor. I reach out my hand and try to grab 
hold of her, but she jerks her arm out of reach. 
"Scully, wait. Let me explain."

I stand up and join her at the sink. She turns her back 
to me, and gathers up the bowl and glass from the 
table. The glass she practically hurls into the sink; not 
surprisingly, this is accompanied by a familiar 
splintering sound. She doesn't react, tugging open the 
cabinet door in front of her and sliding out the trash 
receptacle. She pours the gluggy, uneaten remains of 
her breakfast into the plastic bag then uses her knee 
to push it back into position, and her hip to bump the 
door closed again. Before she has a chance to break 
anything else, I place my hand on her wrist, stilling 
her vicious movements.

Softly, I murmur, "I'm not saying that I regret the way 
things have worked out, Scully." I tease the bowl out 
of her grasp and place it gently in the sink, next to 
the broken glass. Her shoulders begin to relax 
slightly. "All I'm trying to say is that it's taking me a 
little while to adjust to things. When I agreed to help 
you have a child, it was a different scenario. We were 
talking about you having a baby, not the two of us 
having a baby. Those were your terms, and I agreed to 
them." Through the further loosening of her 
shoulders, I gather she is conceding my point. At 
which point, my big mouth decides it's time to let 
everything out, ruining our fragile truce with a pent-
up stream of words.

"But now, it's different. We're not talking about the 
same thing anymore. It isn't just your baby, Scully, 
it's--" I stumble slightly, then skip neatly past the 
word. "And yes, I'm scared, but not just for the 
reasons you think. It's more complicated than that. 
I've been gone for six months; three of them dead, 
buried in a coffin. Now, suddenly, I'm back, and while 
I know it's been hard for you to adjust to, at least 
you've got the memories of those months to give you 
some context. For me, it feels like I never left, and yet 
everything has completely changed. I don't know 
where I fit in anymore. The X-Files, Doggett, the baby, 
us... It's like the world I left has vanished and I never 
even got offered a choice of what I was coming back 
to. You and I... we were barely even a couple, and now 
we're suddenly supposed to act like a happy family?"

It takes her a moment to react and when she does, it 
is with my own brand of black humour. "Tell me how 
you really feel, why don't you?" Then, she shudders, 
abandoning her guise of detachment and charges 
back into Scully-mode. "So, why did you even bother 
coming back?" Her face is pinched, her cheeks 
flushed. I sense she is holding back tears, but see no 
evidence in her clear blue eyes. 

I know she is referring to this morning's return, yet I 
can't help giving the question a more existential spin. 

"Why did you bring me back?"

"That's not what I meant. You know that." 
Distractedly, she turns the faucet on and begins 
rinsing the bowl. 

I nod. "I do. Sorry." I watch as she scrubs at non-
existent grime on the china. "I came back because I 
wanted to. In spite of all the mixed signals I've been 
giving you, Scully, I *do* want to be here... with you, 
and the baby. I want this to work."

She turns off the water and puts the bowl on the sink 
to dry. Carefully, she begins assembling the shards of 
broken glass, obviously considering my declaration. I 
realise she needs more empirical evidence. 

"Look, I know my track record isn't reliable in this 
regard. The way I've been acting... I can understand 
why you might have trouble believing me. So I 
brought something with me... the only thing of value 
to me in my apartment. To prove that I'm serious." 
She raises her head and looks at me questioningly. I 
move away and walk towards her desk, picking up the 
object I'd placed there when I first arrived. As I return 
to the kitchen, a smile begins to form on her face. I 
proffer it forth like a bunch of flowers. 

She glances at me, then at the offering. "Who is it?"

"Adam." My nerves begin to settle as I detect the 
welcome note in her voice.

She peers into the small fishbowl I bought on the way 
over. "Rob didn't make it?"

I shake my head. "Not enough love."

"Oh, Mulder..." Her arms lift slightly before she 
remembers the broken glass which is still nestled in 
her hands and cuts short the attempt to touch me. 

Carefully, I put the bowl down on the nearest surface. 
I adopt my best casual-serious tone and ask, "Any 
chance that we might be able to stay here for awhile? 
I think he needs some urgent TLC."

She considers me solemnly, but before she has a 
chance to reply an abrupt wail shoots out from the 
bedroom. Startled, Scully reacts automatically and in 
her haste to rid herself of the glass, accidentally slices 
her palm with a shard. She flinches, but remains 
stoically silent. Instinctively, I grab a nearby towel 
and push it against her hand. A red stain quickly 
blossoms. 

"I should go see what he wants," she says. 

"No, it's OK. I'll go." I nod my head towards the 
bathroom, "You fix that." She opens her mouth to 
protest. "Go on. I'll try not to hurt him." I smile at her 
with as much reassurance I can muster and watch as 
she forces herself to relax, nod and smile in return, 
before heading off to tend to her wound. 

I enter the dark room and walk to the bassinet in the 
corner, peeking over the edge. His arms and legs flail 
and his tiny face is squished into an unrecognisable 
series of creases and hollows. He is bright red and I 
am astonished at the size of his mouth. I am reluctant 
to pick him up, fearful of hurting him, but realise it 
will be the only way to quieten him. With trepidation, 
I lean down into the bassinet and tuck my hands 
under his armpits. I haul him out and hold him in 
front of my face.

"Hey, buddy. No need to cry." I give him an 
experimental jiggle but it only makes him cry louder. 
"Shhh... shhh. It's OK. Everyone's OK. We just broke a 
glass." 

"Try putting him against your shoulder."

I turn around; Scully is standing in the doorway, 
wrapping a bandage around her hand. Shadows fall 
across her face, giving her an air of tiredness. I do as 
she suggested and within seconds the baby's noise 
starts to lessen. My hand seemingly moves of its own 
accord, and I start patting him gently on the back. 
Scully is still winding the bandage around her hand. I 
watch as she affixes a metal clasp and lifts her gaze. 
She looks at us with a slowly softening expression and 
I smile sheepishly. 

I look at her hand. "Is it OK?"

She nods. "It looked worse than it was."

Neither of us moves. There is a vague tension still 
filling the space between us. I know she is
thinking about the things I said and I can't help 
considering the words myself. Is this the happy family 
tableau I was referring to? A Mexican stand-off with a 
baby and a bandage our arsenal of pain? Next to my 
ear, the cries have scaled back to soft gurgles and I 
crane my neck in an attempt to peek at his face. I see 
the blurry edge of a cherubic cheek and a line of 
drool snaking its way from his lip to my shoulder. I 
can't help smiling and again I look to Scully for some 
kind of reciprocation of my pleasure. This time, she 
studies me with analytical detachment. 

"Why can't you say his name?"

Her words startle me. "What are you talking about? 
I've said his name plenty of times."

She lifts an eyebrow and takes a step towards us. "Not 
in front of me, you haven't."

As I am considering the truth of her words, she moves 
closer still until finally she is standing right in front of 
me. The ba--Willliam is now sleeping soundly and 
with a fluid motion, she lifts him from my arms and 
lowers him back onto his bassinet. She turns back to 
face me. 

"Say it."

I hesitate and in that split second I realise she is 
completely right. With conscious effort, I force it out. 
"William."

"William," she echoes. Then, taking my hand and 
pulling me so we are both standing in front of the 
bassinet, she looks me in the eye and with deliberate 
slowness adds: "Our son."

I watch her mouth as the words come out, focussing 
intently on the gentle fall and rise of her jaw on the 
word 'son'. Such a short, choppy word for something 
so full of meaning. Instead of her voice, what I now 
hear is the voice of my father. "Son, go see if your 
mother's OK... Son, come here and watch what I'm 
doing... Son, where's your sister?" The last one jars 
through me and I have to shake it out of my head to 
drag myself back to the present. 

I lower my gaze to the bassinet. My eyes have gone 
blurry and it takes a while before I am able to 
properly distinguish the lines of soft baby skin that 
envelop this 'son'. I kneel down and my chin rests on 
the edge of the simple wooden frame. I drape my arm 
over the edge and gently caress his cheek, his chin 
and, finally, his nose. Scully lowers herself beside me 
and without having to turn I know that any anger she 
was feeling has now left. Next to me, she radiates joy. 
It starts to seep in through my pores and as my hand 
continues cataloguing the baby features below, I hear 
her murmur, "He's got your nose, Mulder."

I give it a small tap. "Poor bastard."

A laugh puffs against my ear, while her fingers reach 
out and grasp my other hand. I turn to face her and 
find her staring right at me. Into me. I match her gaze 
with equal intensity and realise that it is the first time 
she has let me see the pain that she has been going 
through. Maybe it is the first time I have tried 
looking. As her gaze bores steadily into mine, I know 
she is experiencing the same sensation and I finally 
understand just how much I've been keeping from her 
since my return. Nothing is voiced as slowly, surely, 
we draw closer until finally we are kissing foreheads.

We stay like that for so long that I start imagining we 
are developing our own form of telepathy. In truth, I 
know that words are an out-of-reach form of 
communication for us right now. There is too much 
to say, with neither of us really knowing where to 
start, so instead we rely on the language that has 
always managed to guide us through the darkest 
hours of our past. Scully's other hand drops to rest 
upon mine which is on top of William's chest. She 
links her fingers through mine, making a solid fist of 
both our hands. Calmness encircles us both until I 
notice that her eyelids are slowly drooping. I 
disentangle the hand that still rests on the edge of the 
bassinet and cup her chin. She lifts her eyes to look at 
me. 

"You're tired?" I ask.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," she admits. There 
is no rancour in her voice. Without speaking, I get to 
my feet and tug her up with me. Then, clutching her 
hand, I direct her towards the bed, pull the covers 
back and watch as she sinks gently down onto the 
mattress. She kicks off her shoes before pulling her 
legs up and I mimic her, toeing off my own shoes and 
then slipping under the covers next to her. 
Automatically we spoon together. I think of that last 
night in Oregon and feel a wave of sadness rise within 
me. Leaning forward, I kiss her neck.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here last night." She nods, her hair 
tickling my neck. "I promise--"

"No." She twists her head to look at me. "Don't make 
me promises, Mulder. Don't make promises you can't 
keep." 

Her words sting. Mainly because I know the truth in 
which they are grounded. I know that I have let her 
down, and there aren't enough fish in the world to 
ask for forgiveness for that. But I also know that I've 
undergone a transformation. I'm not who Scully 
thinks I am. I close my eyes and flash-card memories 
of my life flip across the front of my brain. I think of 
Phoebe and Diana and feel nothing. No pain, no love, 
no warmth. Scully, on the other hand, breathes fire 
into me -- always has, always will -- and I push my face 
against her skin, wishing she could scorch me like a 
flame. I think of my father and my mother, and of 
lost days of childhood. Cigarette man prowls through 
the landscape of my memories with Samantha trailing 
fearfully in his shadow. I know that I have lied to 
myself over the years, wanting to believe that a 
concept -- the truth -- could make me whole. But that 
didn't work. The truth was never going to be my 
salvation. I feel Scully's pulse beating against my 
forehead and realise that I have been blind not to see 
what is now so apparent to me.   

I draw closer, my lips against her ear. "Scully, I 
promise that I will always love you." She sucks in a 
breath and clamps her lips together, as if forcing 
herself not to speak. I continue with my vows. "I 
promise to love and protect our son forever. I 
promise to never again willingly abandon you or 
William, and to always be here for midnight feedings, 
and afternoon ball games. I promise to be with you 
both until the day that I die." Defiance can be so 
liberating.

Tears slip out of her eyes and slide down her skin. 
She draws my hand up so that it is tucked beneath 
her chin, then squeezes it tightly and closes her eyes. 
A mumbled "OK" is all she says in response. I kiss her 
cheek and watch as the tears continue to escape from 
their ducts. She doesn't say anything else for a long 
time. I watch the rise and fall of her chest and listen 
to her steady breathing, revelling in the simple beauty 
of the moment. I am almost asleep when her voice in 
the dark surprises me.

"I'm sorry." Her face is turned away from me and I can 
barely make out her features. 

"Scully, you don't have anything to be--"

"Yes... I do. I haven't been very understanding, 
Mulder. Since you've been back... I haven't really 
wanted to know what you went through, or what 
you've been going through."

It's not what I want to hear. Inwardly, I withdraw and I 
guess she senses it because suddenly she is up on her 
elbow, closer than ever. Now I see every line of her 
face. 

"I can't even imagine what it's been like for you, 
Mulder." She averts her eyes. "In truth, I don't want 
to."

The stench of wet soil suddenly fills my nostrils and 
before the impression can be embodied further, I 
silence her with two fingers pressed forcefully against 
her lips. "Don't."

She wraps her hand around my fingers and pulls them 
away, then leans down and places the softest of kisses 
on my lips. Drawing back, her expression is sombre. 
She lifts a hand and lightly cups my cheek. "I brought 
you back because I wanted you home."

I had forgotten my earlier question, but obviously she 
hadn't. I lean into her palm and allow my eyes to 
close. Darkness greets me but it is quickly banished 
by the red warmth of Scully's hand. I relax into the 
sensation, feeling safe for the first time since my 
return. Wrapped in darkness, I feel rather than see 
Scully lower herself back down until she is pressed 
against me. She envelopes me in her arms and I copy 
the natural embrace, sliding my arms around her and 
hugging her tightly to me. For the next forty-seven 
minutes, I measure the rise and fall of her chest as 
slowly, surely, she falls asleep. It is only then that I 
allow myself to relax and drift off. Ready for my 
future with Scully's heart beating against my chest.

THE END

***

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