There's a Stranger in My House (2024)

By aka “Jake”

Rating: NC-17 (Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and PTSD; Graphic sexual content)
Classification: Fill-in-the-blanks between I Want to Believe and My Struggle IV

Summary: Mulder slips further into depression as he continues to battle a lifetime of trauma. When Scully moves out, Mulder loses all hope. Will he get the help he needs?

Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit.

Author's Notes: I always wondered what it would take for Scully to leave Mulder in the years between IWTB and the Revival episodes. My head canon says it has to have been something big, something altruistic, not something petty or selfish. This story is my take.

Beta: xdksfan

CHAPTER 1: Get Help, Mulder

MULDER RESIDENCE
227700 WALLACE ROAD
FRIDAY, MARCH 22, 2013
9:17 PM

Nearly five years after the Father Joe case and three months to the day after alien forces didn’t mobilize as predicted, Mulder sports a beard again. Why not? Scully’s putting in long hours at the hospital. The FBI never did offer him his old job back. Or any job, for that matter. All may be forgiven, but there’s no place for him at the Bureau. Lately, it feels like there’s no place for him anywhere.

He wanders the house. Paces. Waits for Scully. He feels superfluous. He’s at his wits end as to what to do to get his career, his purpose, his life back on track. The dinner he prepared for the two of them grows tepid on the counter.

He’s about to move the food into the refrigerator when Scully’s headlights pierce the front windows and momentarily brighten the house. He meets her at the front door and takes her coat. When he leans in to kiss her cheek, she brushes past him. She looks distracted. Exhausted. As usual. Anger flares in his belly, at her for being employed, successful, and respected while he is none of those things; at himself for his misplaced envy and resentment.

“You hungry?” he asks, trying to rein in his unwarranted irritation. “I roasted a chicken. There’s squash and green beans. I could heat up a plate for you.”

“No thanks, I ate at the hospital.” She’s been doing that a lot lately. She collapses onto the couch.

“Glass of wine?” He opens the cupboard that holds the stemware.

“No, I think I’ll just head up to bed.”

“Hard day?” He abandons the kitchen to help her to her feet.

She allows him to embrace her, which is a rare occurrence these days.

“How was—?” She hesitates. Takes a deep breath. “Did you have a good day?”

“Good?” He tries not to sound incredulous. “In what way?”

“In any way, Mulder.” She looks up at him with sad eyes.

It’s been ages since she last looked at him with admiration or love or even mild interest, anything other than pity. How did they get to this point? He shoves the thought aside. Stroking her cheek with his thumb, he says, “Well, the day isn’t over yet. ‘Good’ might still be in the cards.”

“I—” She pauses again. Nods. “Okay.”

She’s clearly not in the mood for sex. He's asking too much of her right now, he knows, but he can’t stop himself. He needs her…to help him feel worthy and wanted. He dovetails his fingers with hers and leads her upstairs to their bedroom.

She undresses quickly and moves to the bed, where she positions herself naked on her back, legs spread. He undresses, too, and nestles his face between her thighs. She smells and tastes wonderful, as always, and for a few blissful moments he forgets the things that torment him and he feels almost normal. Until he notices she’s not moving or moaning or murmuring words of encouragement or pleasure.

He raises his head to see if maybe she’s fallen asleep.

She is looking back at him, her mouth a grim line.

The millstone of doubt he’s been carrying for months threatens to crush him. “I feel like I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do, Scully, and I don’t like that feeling.”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything.” She reaches for him. “Maybe we should just move on to intercourse?”

Intercourse. It sounds so clinical, not remotely romantic. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I remember when you used to enjoy this,” he says, before moving up her body.

“I’m tired, Mulder.”

“Lately, you’re always tired.” He settles on his side next to her.

“‘Always’ is an exaggeration, don’t you think?” She stares at the ceiling, not at him. “I’ve got a heavy caseload, with new procedures to learn and long shifts due to staff shortages. I’d rather be home, believe me.”

“Would you really?” Distrust crowds out discretion. “Or maybe you like the feeling of importance you get there.”

She huffs, clearly annoyed, and drags the comforter over herself. “Mulder, I understand you’re struggling—”

“The only thing I’m struggling with is you.” Now he covers himself, too. It’s obvious they won’t be making love. They’ll be lucky to avoid an argument.

“That’s not true. You’ve been aimless since December 22nd, when that supposed date for mobilization came and went without incident. Actually, before that. Since the Father Joe case.”

“That was years ago!”

“Yes. It’s like you lost your way after that case. Lost yourself.”

He attempts to keep the hurt from his voice. “Or maybe I’m struggling because I’ve lost you.”

“Meaning what?”

She has what men want. What he wants. Her body is an oasis, her beauty a balm. The only time he feels remotely like his old self is when he’s inside her body. Someone else, some other man, might want the same. Might be seducing her, luring her away.

“You’ve…” Does he dare say it? “I worry…you might’ve met someone else.” The words paint him as pitiful and suspicious. He tries to laugh it off, but finds himself clearing his throat instead.

“That’s ridiculous.” She rolls over, away from him. “I’m not going to let you bait me into a baseless argument. Good night, Mulder.”

The gulf between them widens. And he’s to blame. He’s always been to blame.

TWO MONTHS LATER
THURSDAY, MAY 23, 2013
7:05 AM

The smell of fresh coffee coaxes Mulder into the kitchen. Scully is there, her cup cooling on the counter while she stares out the window and chews her lower lip. Beyond the glass, the sky is gray, the yard sodden and overgrown.

What is she thinking as she stands there with her arms crossed, her attention elsewhere? Is she irritated he hasn’t mowed the lawn even once this season? Is she regretting the way things are between them? Or is she daydreaming about another life, another man?

He couldn’t blame her. She’d be better off with someone else. Better off without him. He’s thought that for years. He should’ve acted on it long ago.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“With me?” She turns to face him, surprise raising her brows. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m good, Scully. In fine fettle. Same as always.”

“You’re not the same as always."

No, he’s not. And neither is she. He’s dragging them both down, like a bower anchor on a rubber life raft.

Their sex life has dwindled into nonexistence. Their relationship is in shambles. He misses her and the closeness they used to share, but doesn’t know what to do to get her back. While he fritters his days away doing nothing, she spends more and more time at work.

Work. He misses it. Misses working with her. The way they used to hash out theories in their basem*nt office, coming at their cases from opposite directions but managing to find middle ground through mutual respect. They were at their best back then.

Now, there are no cases, no theories, no discussions. And scant little respect on her part, it seems. Not that he can blame her. She’s doing all of the heavy lifting while he’s a mess. A failure. A disappointment to her and to himself. What’s to respect?

Hopelessness sucker punches him again. Life has become pointless.

She must see his despair because she grasps his hand. “You have a degree in psychology from Oxford, yet you ignore your own symptoms. You’re depressed, Mulder. You need help.”

Yes, he’s depressed. Yes, he needs help. He sees it. He feels it! It pummels him like the baton of his prison guard back at Mount Weather. Cuts into him like the aliens’ scalpels. Nightmares of his time aboard that godawful spacecraft torture him when he sleeps and flashbacks of being trapped inside a coffin underground bring him to his knees during his waking hours.

“You help me,” he begs in a hoarse whisper, the words a plea.

“I can’t. I’ve tried. You don’t hear what I’m saying.” She releases his hand, but not his gaze. “I’m frightened, Mulder. Afraid of…worried that you might…”

“Off myself?” he scoffs. Not that he hasn’t thought about it. Often.

“Yes. That.”

She is the bravest person he knows. Her loyalty an inspiration. Her strength will rescue him in the end, won’t it?

“You can save me, Scully.”

“I can’t. I’ve tried. You need to save yourself.”

“How? What should I do that I’m not doing?”

“Get professional help. Go to a psychiatrist or a psychologist or a counselor who specializes in depressive disorders. You’ve been exhibiting classic symptoms for months: sleeplessness, poor concentration, anhedonia, loss of interest in activities that once—”

“Enough!” He stops her before she adds feelings of guilt and worthlessness to her list. Which he has in spades, along with thoughts of suicide. Plans to kill himself have popped to the surface with frightening regularity in recent weeks, seeming the best solution to their problems, the only way for both of them to find relief. “You don’t think I have legitimate reasons to be depressed? Given all I’ve been through, we’ve been through? Your abduction, my abduction, three months underground in a coffin, the loss of our son!”

She flinches as if struck. Tears flood her eyes. He’s hurt her again, goddamn it. It’s his superpower and he wields it like a Marvel villain.

“I understand the root cause, Mulder. I do. Which is why I’m asking you to get help.”

“Therapy and medication can’t fix the past. Not our past anyway.” It’s ludicrous to entertain the notion. Wishful thinking. A childish fantasy.

“The idea isn’t to change what’s happened, but to learn how to deal with it.”

“I’m dealing with it just fine.”

“No, you’re not, Mulder. You’ve become impossible to—” She stops herself from saying more.

“Live with? Is that what you were going to say? If I’m so hard to live with, Scully, why don’t you just leave?”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it. I sometimes think it might be the only way to get your attention.”

You have my attention, he thinks. You always have. But he says, “You tried that once before, during the Father Joe case.”

“And you chose darkness over our relationship. Please, please, don’t make that same choice again.” She grabs her purse and heads for the door. “I’ll be late tonight,” she says, her tone unreadable. “Call me if…” She hesitates at the threshold. Looks back at him. “I love you, Mulder. You know that, don’t you?”

He knew it at one time. Now, however, he feels nothing but loss.

FOUR WEEKS LATER
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 19, 2013
2:20 PM

Mulder stands at the top of the porch steps with his arms crossed while he watches Scully load her last bag into the trunk of her car. There’s room to spare, he notices. She’s taken only what she needs and that doesn’t include him.

He expects to feel bereft, lost, furious, jealous…something. Anything. But he feels nothing. He’s empty inside. Like a dying planet plummeting into a black hole.

She walks back to him, looks up at him with heartbreak in her eyes. It sparks no sympathy in him, no urge to fight for what they once meant to each other.

“Get help, Mulder,” she urges for what he knows will be the last time. “Don’t…” Her eyes plead with him. “Don’t give up.”

“Why not? You clearly have.”

“Mulder…” Tears skate down her cheeks when she shakes her head. She swipes them away. A minute later, she’s driving through the gate at the edge of their property. He listens as the engine of her car grows faint in the distance.

At some point, he wanders into the house, through the rooms that still hold reminders of her. Her favorite coffee cup sits in the kitchen sink. Several issues of the NEJM lay neatly stacked on the coffee table. An afghan knitted by her mother drapes the back of the chair where Scully likes to read.

Up in the bedroom, he stares at the unmade bed, where they lay beside each other for what was likely the final time. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t said anything while she begged him once again to see someone about his depression.

Didn’t she realize he was beyond help? He didn’t have the energy or the will to fight anymore. He’d used it all up, battling conspiracies and injustices, only to see their enemies grow in number. It had been a terrifying, endless game of whack-a-mole, despite his best efforts.

Early this morning, she’d told him he’d become someone she barely recognizes anymore, a stranger. And then she announced she was leaving. She pulled two suitcases from the closet. And began packing.

If she expected him to react — beg her to stay, promise to try harder — she hadn’t been paying attention. He wanted her to go, for her sake. He wanted her to be rid of him, so she could live a normal life, a happy life. He can’t give her those things. He never could.

He picks up her pillow and presses it to his face. Her scent assaults his sinuses and squeezes his heart. He’s lost her. And himself. He lowers himself to the floor, his legs unable to support the weight of anguish that fills him. Is him. Tears swamp his eyes, run down his cheeks. His chest heaves. Harsh cries keen from his open mouth until his throat is sore. He weeps like he did when his twelve-year-old self realized Samantha was gone forever and he’d done nothing to save her. He bawls until he’s worn out.

Later, he sits on the porch swing. The weather is sunny and warm, a perfect June afternoon. The the arching stems of a Virginia sweetspire that Scully planted beside the porch sway in the breeze, the flowers releasing a honeyed fragrance that is attracting masses of butterflies and bees. The beauty of it all is lost on him.

A lazy push with one foot rocks the swing, a steady motion, like a heartbeat. Like breathing. He strokes the gun he holds in his lap, his fingers running up and down its smooth barrel, across the textured grip. It’s cool to the touch. Solid. Reassuring.

He’s never once wavered on the means to his suicide. The Beretta was always his top choice. It was only the when and the where that changed each time he played out the scenario in his mind.

The time is now, he decides. Right here on this porch swing. What’s the point of going further? It’s too much effort to stand up and step away.

He raises the pistol. Places the muzzle under his chin, points it upward at his brain. He fingers the trigger. The safety is off. The magazine is full, although he’ll need only one round. He briefly recalls his game of Russian roulette with Robert Modell. It seems ages ago. It was ages ago. Unlike then, he’s not afraid now. Or regretful. He’s relieved. This will end his pain once and for all. He hopes it’ll end Scully’s, too, eventually.

He’s about to pull the trigger when an unfamiliar car turns into the driveway. The gate is still open, he realizes too late. He lowers the gun and tucks it beneath the swing’s seat cushion.

A Firenze red luxury SUV drives up to the house and Mulder briefly wonders who the hell would buy a Range Rover in that color. As a mist of dust settles on the pristine finish, the driver kills the engine and steps out.

“Hello,” the man says. He’s not smiling but he doesn’t look aggressive either.

Mulder doesn’t stand or speak. He gives the swing another gentle push while he sizes up this stranger, a man in his mid-forties, thinning hair, thickening middle, the demeanor of a college professor.

“Are you Fox Mulder?” the man asks.

Mulder nods.

“I’m Erik James. Dr. Erik James.” He takes a cautious step forward. “Dr. Scully sent me.”

So, Scully hasn’t quite given up on him.

“May I come up?” James indicates the porch. “Talk with you?”

“Suit yourself.”

James climbs the steps and takes a seat in the chair that sits kitty-corner to the swing. He eyes the cushion where Mulder hid the Beretta.

“I’ll be honest with you,” James says, looking uncomfortable. “I saw the gun as I was driving up. It’s making me a little nervous right now.”

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Mulder says.

“That’s…that’s good to hear, but that’s not my worry.”

“No?”

“No. Dana…uh, Dr. Scully, has told me a little bit about you.”

“Dana? So you two are chummy.”

“Colleagues. And friends.”

“Ah.” Mulder is surprised by the depth of anger he feels at hearing this. It’s the first real emotion he’s felt in months. Maybe he will shoot this man. “And what exactly did Dana tell you during this collegial chat? Did she mention she’s moved out? Left me?”

“Yes, she mentioned the move. I got the impression it was only temporary.”

“Hm, that’s not the ‘impression’ I got.”

“She’s worried about you and, quite frankly, seeing you with that gun gives me reason to worry, too.”

Mulder doesn’t care if this man is worried. He barely cares if Scully is upset. “You’re a psychologist or psychiatrist, I assume.”

“A psychologist. I specialize in depressive disorders.”

Mulder nods. “Do your patients usually recover?”

“Some do. Some attempt suicide. Unfortunately, a few succeed.”

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsem*nt.”

“No, but it’s the truth. I’ve heard you prefer the truth over lies.”

Mulder shifts, uncomfortable with the idea that Scully discussed their lives with this stranger.

“I don’t think you can help me, Dr. James.”

“Why is that?”

Mulder decides to clue this guy in and not sugarcoat it. “Have any of your patients ever been beaten within an inch of their lives in a military prison? How about buried alive? Or…” Should he say it? He decides to lay it all out. The doc has a right to know what he’s dealing with. “Or abducted by extraterrestrials and spent months being experimented on aboard an alien spacecraft?”

To his credit, the doctor doesn’t react with surprise or doubt.

“Those aren’t hypotheticals, Doctor,” Mulder says.

“Dr. Scully filled me in on your past experiences.”

“And you believed her?” Mulder lived through it and he still has a hard time wrapping his head around the things he’s seen and experienced.

“I believe you’ve suffered extreme trauma, Mr. Mulder. A lifetime of it.” Dr. James leans forward and looks Mulder directly in the eyes. “Nonetheless, I believe you can find peace of mind. I’ve seen it happen. Over and over again, with patients as distressed and hopeless as you are.”

“Dr. Scully,” she identifies herself when Mulder calls her number at the hospital.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, “calling from the Erik James’ Clinic for the Terminally Insane.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Neither was sending a shrink out to the house.”

“I was low on options”

“Yes, well…” He stands in a narrow hallway using a public wall-phone. The name of the clinic is actually the Rappahannock River Recovery Center. He’s checked himself in for a 4-week stay with an option to extend his treatment as either an in-patient or out-patient, depending on how competent Dr. James turns out to be. His gun was confiscated. Of course. And his cell phone, which he misses almost as much. He was allowed only a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. “It’s nicer here than the digs at Mount Weather,” he tells her. “I’ve decorated my room with a stick of deodorant and a tube of Colgate. It’s quite homey.”

“I’m sure it’s not, but I’m relieved you’re getting the care you need,” she says softly, her tone sincere and her voice thick with emotion.

“I need you, Scully.” Doctor James has made no pie-in-the-sky promises. Therapy will be hard work and there are no guarantees. Mulder’s not certain he can pull himself out of the pit of despair he’s found himself in. In fact, he’s pretty certain he can't. “Will you come visit me?”

“I don’t think that’s allowed, Mulder. Not until you’re further along in your recovery.”

“How about after I get sprung from this joint?” He tries not to sound too needy although he is desperately so.

“We’ll talk about it then.”

“I shaved,” he says, as if this will clinch the deal. He runs a palm over his smooth chin.

“That’s good to hear, Mulder. I’ve always liked you better that way.”

He realizes Scully was right; he’d become unrecognizable from the man he’d once been. He’d turned into a stranger in his own house. And not just because of the beard. But because he’d given up on her, on himself, which is something he’d never, ever done before.

“Do you…do you think you could love me again, Scully?”

She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t dismiss his question as foolish. “I will always love you, Mulder,” she says. “I never stopped.”

A glimmer of hope flickers in his heart. It warms him like her smile on the first day they met.

CHAPTER 2: Potholes, Blind Turns, and Detours

RAPPAHANNOCK RIVER RECOVERY CENTER
THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 2013
2:20 PM

Mulder doesn’t imagine therapy will be a cakewalk, however, he sorely underestimates how arduous it actually turns out to be. The road to recovery, he soon discovers, isn’t just long and winding. It’s rife with potholes, blind turns, and detours. Oh, and it’s uphill all the way. In winter. With no shoes. So, he avoids looking back, trying instead to keep his attention focused on his destination: an unremarkable house in Farrs Corner, Virginia…with Scully.

He’s been at the Rappahannock River Recovery Center for less than 24 hours and it already feels like a lifetime.

“I notice you haven’t scheduled me for group therapy,” he says to Dr. James when they meet in the doctor’s office.

There’s no patient couch, for which Mulder is grateful. He feels exposed enough without lying on his back while his inquisitor looms over him, studying him like he’s a lab rat trapped in a dead-end maze. That’s a little too much like his stint as a test subject on an alien spacecraft.

Instead, the two men face each other in wingback leather chairs, which gives the impression they’re on equal footing. Mulder isn’t so far gone as to imagine this is the case. He knows who’s sick here and who holds the keys to his recovery and eventual freedom.

The room is tastefully, albeit blandly, decorated with impressionistic paintings of the seashore, the doctor’s many diplomas and plaques, and a fake dieffenbachia. There are no windows. Diffused ceiling lights put off just enough of a glow to allow the doctor to write in his notebook. The carpet is probably the palest shade of beige possible without being white. It looks and smells brand new. Mulder isn’t sure if that’s germane to anything, but having replaced a carpet or two in his life, he knows the reasons for it can sometimes be more serious than pet stains or spilled wine.

“Did you want to be in group therapy?” James asks.

“Not particularly, but I’m curious as to why you don’t want me there. Afraid I’ll sound so crazy I’ll scare the other patients?”

James smiles. “You haven’t heard the other patients’ stories. Yours might be mundane in comparison.”

This doc has a lot to learn about Mulder’s personal history. Dr. James claimed Scully filled him in on the pertinent details, but Mulder isn’t buying it. For one, he can’t picture Scully lending credence to extraterrestrial abductions or Lazarus-like returns from the dead. He just can’t see her actually saying the words, not in any convincing way. She never did quite believe it all. Second, if a miracle occurred and Scully did lay out all the facts as they actually happened, Dr. Erik James would never believe her. He’d think they were both lunatics. Maybe persuade her to check herself into an asylum, too.

“Let’s start with your history,” James says. “Tell me what brought you to this point.”

Mulder wants to say he was railroaded. If he’d had his way, his brains would be splattered all over his front porch, his body drawing flies on the swing, and his misery ended forever. But Scully called in the Cavalry and in a weak moment, Mulder agreed to hand over his gun to Dr. James and commit himself to the scrutiny of a man he doesn’t know. And now, telling James he’d prefer death over this interview isn’t likely to get him released anytime soon.

“I don’t know where to start,” Mulder says honestly.

“There’s no beginning?”

“If I start there, we’ll both die of old age before we get through it all.”

“In that case, maybe you can summarize what you feel are the most salient points.”

“A Readers’ Digest version of my life?” Mulder chuffs a humorless laugh. When James continues to watch him with what appears to be genuine curiosity, Mulder decides it might be in his own best interest to plow ahead. “Okay. Well. You may not be aware of this but there are 10,000 UFO sightings each year in North America alone. Since the dawn of time there have been Stone Age and even Biblical references to aliens, extraterrestrials who have visited our planet, into our modern age.” Mulder is aware he’s fidgeting in his seat and tries to still himself, but finds it's impossible. He forges on with his history lesson. “In 1947, Kenneth Arnold saw nine unidentified craft out the window of his small plane, followed by the historic crash at Roswell and its legendary cover-up. In ’57, UFOs were spotted over our nation's capital. The Pentagon held press briefings. Multiple witnesses in 1967 at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana saw fighters scramble before being easily outrun by UFOs that climbed upwards of 200,000 feet — twice the service ceiling of our highest-flying spy planes. Dr. Edgar Mitchell, the sixth man to walk on the Moon, cited secret studies on extraterrestrial materials and bodies. Secretary of State Cyrus Vance and President Gerald R. Ford validated the UFO phenomenon in official government memoranda.”

Mulder stops to take a breath, surprised James hasn’t interrupted him, allowing him to go on and on.

“Can you tell me why these things are important to you?” James asks now.

sh*t. The doctor is wasting no time, pushing Mulder to take a deep dive into his innermost thoughts and feelings when that’s precisely what he most wants to avoid. “Uh, my sister disappeared when I was 12 years old, in what I believed was an alien abduction. I became obsessed with my search for her.”

“Did you find her?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He found her spirit, rescued by Walk-ins. It had been a relief, in a way, but not the resolution he’d been wishing for. “Suffice it to say, my search for Samantha is over. But my obsession with paranormal science, alien invasion, and an associated global conspiracy is not.” Mulder clears his throat. He knows how it all sounds. “You think I’m batsh*t crazy, don’t you?”

“I’m thinking nothing of the kind.” The doctor dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. His expression is nonjudgemental, his smile encouraging. “Mr. Mulder—”

“Mulder. Just...Mulder. Please.”

James nods. “Mulder, do you believe this interest in UFOs has contributed to your current state of mind?”

“Wanting to kill myself?”

“Yes.”

Believing in extraterrestrials wasn’t the direct cause of his suicidal thoughts. However, watching his worst fears come to pass definitely played a role. “In the way my obsession played out, sure. I’ve had some pretty hellish experiences.”

“Okay. Which of those experiences seem most important to you at the moment?”

It’s a big ask since several scenarios vie for top spot, not the least of which is losing Scully. Mulder lets his gaze wander around the windowless room. “I don’t like enclosed spaces,” he says at length.

“Have you always been claustrophobic?”

“Not as a child or even as a younger man. But more recently, I’ve been forced into some pretty tight quarters.”

“Can you say more about that?”

Mulder decides to start with an easy example, and by “easy,” he means the least extreme. “I was held in solitary confinement at the Mount Weather Complex — a military facility located in Bluemont, Virginia — for several weeks.”

“Why were you in custody?”

“Suspicion of murder.”

“Did you kill someone?”

Technically, the answer is no since Knowle Rohrer was a supersoldier that couldn’t be killed. “I did not, though the official record may say otherwise.”

“Being imprisoned sounds as valid a reason as any to dislike confined spaces.”

“To be honest, my prison cell wasn’t the worst or the smallest.”

“No?”

If Mulder continues, Dr. James will surely write him off as certifiably insane. Lock him up and throw away the proverbial key. But being labeled as crazy or spooky has never stopped him from advocating the truth.

“I spent three months buried alive in a coffin in a North Carolina graveyard in 2001.”

There’s so much about that statement to unpack, Mulder expects James to shut his notebook and end this session. Instead, the doctor relaxes into his chair and says, “You mentioned something about that when we spoke on your porch yesterday. Care to elaborate?”

So, Mulder tells him. All of it. Which leads to the tale of his abduction. And Scully’s. It’s only when he broaches the subject of William that James interrupts him with an apology. “I’m very sorry, I can tell the subject of your son is an important one, but we’re going to have to put this conversation on hold until tomorrow. I have another patient scheduled, and you and I have already run over our allotted time.”

Mulder leans back in his chair and steadies himself with a deep breath. He could use the break. Rehashing the details of his past has turned out to be much more exhausting than he expected.

“I’d like to suggest you keep a journal,” James says. "Some patients find it helpful to write their thoughts down.”

Don’t ask a man who trusts no one to write down his innermost fears, Mulder thinks. They’ll just be used against him.

“Can’t say I’m keen on the idea,” he says instead.

“I urge you to give it a try.” James holds out a leather-bound diary.

Reluctantly, Mulder takes it and flips through its blank pages. Their whiteness makes his stomach roll.

“Try it and see how it goes,” James urges.

5:34 PM

Mulder carries a tray of food across the cafeteria to an empty table next to a window. Outside, the late afternoon sun paints the lawn and nearby buildings in warm light. It’s the golden hour. A time when Mother Nature presents the world as a beautiful, peaceful place. Mulder, however, feels the exact opposite of peaceful. He’s jittery, his emotions chaotic. His mind flails like a drowning man caught in a riptide. He is tired of treading water. He imagines letting the sea pull him under. Yet, at the same time, he inexplicably misses home. Misses Scully. Which makes no sense, given he was ready to leave both her and his life, permanently, only yesterday. He’s certain he would travel down that same path right now if allowed his freedom.

The dining room isn’t large, maybe a dozen tables, each big enough to seat six. There are about twenty people of various ages spread out across the room, some chatting in groups, some sitting alone, all eating dinner, which is typical institutional food, stuff that is served in most high schools across the country every week. On the menu this evening is an oversized portion of Turkey Chow Mein and a side of steamed brown rice, along with a tiny saucer of applesauce.

Mulder has no appetite but suspects there will be a price to pay if he doesn’t at least try to eat some food. He sits. Unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap. Picks up his fork and pushes the chow mein around his plate. He’s somewhat surprised to see the dishes are ceramic and the cutlery is stainless steel. Then again, this isn’t prison, at least not officially. He takes a sip of water, wishing it were beer. Or whiskey.

A skeletal patient with close-cropped hair, dark lipstick, and the longest natural lashes Mulder has ever seen, approaches him. Multiple earrings dangle from the newcomer’s ears and nose.

“Mind if I sit witch’you?” The voice is unexpectedly deep.

Mulder gestures at the empty chair across the table, curious about this large-busted person with no hips, a five o’clock shadow, and perfectly manicured nails.

“Thanks, this my usual table.” The newcomer sets down his dinner tray like he’s planting a flag and claiming territory.

“You want me to leave?” Mulder offers.

“No, no. Happy to share.”

Mulder nods and hesitantly teases some chow mein onto his fork.

“Name’s Steel Wool,” the newcomer introduces himself…herself…theirself, and slides into the chair.

“Steel Wool?” Mulder sniffs the food before putting it into his mouth. It’s predictably bland. No discernible spices. No discernible anything. “There a story behind that name?”

Steel Wool's smile is broad and sincere. “I Steel Wool ‘cause I can rub a man raw.” He/she/they gives Mulder a seductive wink.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mulder tries the applesauce. “My name’s Mulder, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet’chou, Mulder.” Steel Wool spears a hunk of turkey from his plate and shoves it into his mouth. He grimaces. “Food ain’t zackly bussin’ here, is it.”

Mulder’s not sure what that means but notices Steel Wool keeps on eating.

“Why you here?” Steel Wool asks between bites. “You don’t look like the typical menty b type.”

“Menty b?”

“Mental breakdown.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“This why I’m here.” Steel Wool shoves both sleeves up his arms…her arms. Mulder decides to quit trying to pin down Steel Wool’s gender and settles on “their.” Their thin wrists display fresh scars, as well as several old ones. “Can’t seem to get it right.” Steel Wool laughs and tugs the sleeves back into place.

“How long have you been here?” Mulder asks. The applesauce is passably good, so he cleans out the dish.

“On and off for two years.”

“Two years?” Mulder leans back from the table. “f*ck me.”

He stares down at the chow mein and is reminded of the slop the aliens force-fed him while he was pinned by his wrists and ankles to their Barcalounger from Hell. He blinks the image away and slides his plate to one side.

A muscular man entering the room with a tray catches his eye. He looks familiar. Very familiar.

“f*ck me twice,” Mulder says, rising from his chair. The man is a shapeshifting Bounty Hunter. On his tray are an assortment of surgical instruments. He targets Mulder with a determined frown and heads straight for him.

Mulder scrambles backward, his hand reaching for the sidearm he no longer wears. He bumps into the table.

The Bounty Hunter drops his tray. Scalpels and saws clatter onto the linoleum as loud as the ricochet of gunfire. In his upraised fist, he holds a spike-like instrument, the unique extensile awl used by the aliens to kill one another with a well-placed jab to the back of the neck.

As the Bounty Hunter draws near, the cafeteria transforms into a lab in an alien spacecraft, the room where Mulder was held hostage. The platform where they conducted experiments on him looms behind him. The syrupy-sweet stench of extraterrestrial air invades his sinuses. His stomach heaves. Bile burns the back of his throat. He’s trapped with nowhere to go.

Seized by panic, heart hammering, Mulder flings his lunch tray at the approaching Bounty Hunter. The alien deflects it with a raised arm and keeps on coming. Food splatters across the floor. China plates explode. Mulder grabs at the tabletop for anything he can use as a weapon. His fingers close around a fork.

When the Bounty Hunter is only a step away, Mulder lunges at him and drives his fork into the alien’s neck. Again. And again. Green blood oozes from the wounds. It stings Mulder’s eyes and he blinks against the pain. The smell is caustic, like sodium hydroxide. Mulder can’t breathe. He gasps for air and claws at his face.

Orderlies in white uniforms appear out of nowhere and rush toward him. They surround him. Drag him away from the shapeshifter and pin him to the ground. He fights them now, too, blinded by the alien’s toxic blood and his own rage and fear.

“Let me go!” He struggles. “Get off me! Stop him!”

A hypodermic needle stabs his neck. Almost immediately, his muscles go numb. His thrashing ceases.

“You’re making a mistake…you’re…” He loses his train of thought. As his vision tunnels, he thinks he sees Scully standing in a far corner of the room. Her arms are folded across her chest and she stares at him through frightened eyes.

TWO DAYS LATER

The meds have worn off. Mostly. Mulder still feels foggy. The details of what happened to him are unclear. But he now knows he was sedated and put in isolation under a suicide watch after the “incident” in the cafeteria. He assumes he experienced a flashback. Which wouldn't be the first time. Far from it. Once again, he’s in Dr. James’s office, waiting to be interrogated or chastised or both.

“Can you explain what happened in the cafeteria on Thursday?” James asks. The doctor is sitting calmly in his chair, notepad in hand. He appears both sympathetic and openly curious.

“I, uh, don’t really remember much,” Mulder admits, which is mostly true.

“Nothing comes to mind?”

Mulder shrugs. It’s a blur now. “Maybe you can fill me in.”

“There’s video from our security cameras. Would you like to see it?”

Mulder nods, though his mouth feels bone dry and his hands tremble. He can’t seem to stop bouncing the knee of his right leg.

James passes him a tablet, which is teed up to a grainy, black-and-white video. Mulder takes the device and taps the play button with a shaky finger.

There’s no audio, but the picture is clear enough. Mulder is shocked by what he sees. The Bounty Hunter that he thought had attacked him looks nothing like he remembers. In fact he is a she. Mulder’s stomach roils when he sees she’s a small woman with red hair. He hates to think what James will infer from that.

As the video continues to play, Mulder sees he didn’t actually stick the woman with a fork after hurling his tray at her. In fact, he never even got close to her before the orderlies tackled and subdued him with a shot to the arm…not the neck. Mulder stops the video at the point where he’s being dragged from the room. Bystanders watch, clearly appalled by what they’ve witnessed. He’s appalled, too, but more by his delusion than by what actually occurred.

“Do you have any comments to make about what you’ve just seen?” James asks.

“I think…I’d like to go back to my room now.”

James allows it. “We can pick this up again tomorrow.”

Back in his small bedroom, Mulder paces, stares out the window, tries to nap. Sleep evades him despite the profound exhaustion he feels. Finally, he stacks pillows against the headboard. Leaning into them, he stretches out and tries as best he can to make himself comfortable, quiet his restless limbs, and clear his mind. Never one for meditation, he opens his blank journal and sets the tip of his pencil against the paper.

Nothing comes. He doesn’t know where to start. It’s too overwhelming. The lowering sun pierces the half-closed blinds and bathes the room in gold. Light and shadow stripe the bed and his body like prison bars.

Finally, he decides to pen a letter to Scully instead of writing a typical journal entry. He breathes deeply and begins.

Dana, I don’t blame you for my current situation. I am to blame.

Okay, it’s a start. But what next?

Only me, he clarifies, as if she’s actually going to read this one day. If she does, he wants her to know he takes full responsibility for his condition.

Your doctor friend —

Mulder considers changing the words to “your coconspirator,” but decides against using either and erases the line. He begins again.

Dr. Erik James holds the lock that imprisons me and you hold the key, though I’m sure you’d both argue it’s me who holds both the lock and the key. I’m not feelin’ it myself, at least not at the moment, however, there’s one thing I know for certain. I’ve never met a lock I couldn’t pick.

CHAPTER 3: Two Sides to Every Story

MONDAY, JUNE 24, 2013
4:40 PM

Scully feels Mulder’s absence like an amputee feels the ache of a phantom limb. She’s been at his side for the better part of two decades, following wherever he leads. But now she is stymied. He’s gone where she can’t follow, to an inner world of despair so dark and deep, it scares the hell out of her. She’s at a loss as to what to do. She wants to keep him safe, wants to mend his tattered spirit and patch their frayed relationship. But how, given the way things stand now?

She sits in her office, a small, dim room in the basem*nt of Our Lady of Sorrows. The irony of the hospital’s name isn’t lost on her. Her desk is strewn with patient records. Usually, she keeps her paperwork in neat piles or filed away, but her workspace now reflects the chaos she feels inside. She chews at the cuticle of her right thumb, oblivious to the damage she’s causing.

Last week, it seemed leaving Mulder was the only solution, the only way to get his attention and make him see how serious his depression has become. He wasn’t hearing her when she said she was concerned, that he was growing restless and belligerent until she barely recognized him anymore. She feared for his safety as well as his sanity. She grieved the loss of the love they once shared.

And now? Leaving him seems an enormous mistake, despite sending her colleague and friend Dr. Erik James out to the house to talk Mulder off his cliff of despair. It was a Hail Mary attempt to save him. And it must’ve worked because later that evening, Mulder called her from the Rappahannock River Recovery Center, where he had checked himself in for a 4-week stay.

Her relief was profound but short-lived. Yes, he was where he needed to be if he was going to get well, yet there would be no quick fix, she knew. Even with therapy and medication, it could take months or even years for him to conquer his depression.

She also worries she may have made Mulder’s condition worse by leaving him, giving him the impression she doesn’t love him any more, when nothing could be further from the truth. In his mind, has she become the latest in a long line of people who should have loved him, stood by him, and been there for him, only to withhold or withdraw their love and walk away? Mulder deserves to be loved unconditionally. Yet here she’s gone and put conditions on him, like so many others have done before her.

She dials Erik James’s work number, hoping to catch him before he leaves for the day. She’s desperate to glean some information about how Mulder is faring.

“Erik? It’s Dana Scully.”

“Hello, Dana.” Erik’s tone is warm. “I assume you’re calling about Mulder.”

“Yes. How is he?”

“I can’t give you any specifics, as you know…patient confidentiality and all that.”

“Of course. Yes. I understand.” She nods as if he can see her. “I’m hoping… Can I visit him?”

“No, Dana, not yet. Don’t take it personally. It’s common for in-patient facilities like ours to disallow visitors, especially at the start, to give patients the opportunity to become acclimated to their new environment and the treatment process.”

“I thought…I’d hoped maybe seeing a familiar face…” She isn’t sure where to go with this thought.

“Did you happen to see the report in JAMA, May of last year, that described the affect of visitors on rehab patients?”

“I thought that study pertained to patients who were working toward sobriety.”

“Primarily, yes. But even those who are not, the principles apply. The study showed that increases in the number of visitors results in decreased resident participation in therapy, along with increased rates of resident misconduct. Visitors often distract patients from their primary purpose of treatment. It’s often too soon for patients to process the damage they’ve done to their relationships, and it can cause more harm than good to see friends and family members too soon. Doing so can also increase feelings of homesickness and patients may want to cut their treatment short even though they’re not yet ready to be discharged. I hope you understand how important it is for Mulder to focus on getting better right now.”

“I do.” Her emotions flounder like a castaway lost in a tempest. “How about phone calls? He called me shortly after he arrived.”

“We allow one 15-minute call per week at the start, initiated by him. It’s entirely up to him if he feels like making a call or not, and to whom. If his condition improves, his phone privileges will be increased.”

“I see.” Tears sting her eyes and she blinks them away. She never imagined she wouldn’t be able to talk to Mulder after he was admitted into counseling. She may have left Farrs Corner, but she hadn’t intended to walk away from Mulder permanently, abandon him completely. She hasn’t given up on him. But now she has no way to tell him. “Please, take good care of him, Erik. He’s very important to me. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will.”

She hangs up the phone and her tears come full force. The files on her desk blur. She lowers her head and buries her face in her hands, certain she’s failed the man she loves most in the world.

Scully decides to drive out to Farrs Corner to check on the house and pick up a few things she left behind in her rush to get away. She also thinks it may help her feel closer to Mulder, even though he’s not there and won’t be back for quite some time.

When she arrives, she’s surprised to find the gate has been left wide open. Mulder has chastised her on more than one occasion for neglecting to lock their doors and draw their curtains.

Not so surprising, however, is the lawn, which has become so overgrown it’s gone to seed. It looks much the way it did on the day they bought the place.

Scully pulls her car up to the house and thinks back to that day, remembering how energized Mulder seemed, after months on the run followed by years in hiding, pretending to be other people until they no longer felt like themselves, even in private. He’d bounded up the creaky porch steps, exuberant, key in hand.

The house was in bad repair, inside and out, but Mulder was undaunted.

“We can make it a home, Scully, we can. I know it.”

“Another of your ‘spooky’ hunches?” she teased.

He smiled, confident and pleased with himself. “Hey, how often have I been wrong? My gut hasn’t failed us yet.”

Then he kissed her, passionately, before scooping her into his arms and carrying her up the staircase to the unfurnished bedroom like some fairytale bride. Full of hope and love at the time, she giggled like an ingenue, making him laugh, too. They were finally getting their crack at “happily ever after.”

Minutes later, they made love in their new home for the first time.

“Gotta christen the place,” he said as he set her on her feet and maneuvered her into the master bathroom.

“Is that a bottle of champagne in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” She turned to face him and pressed her palm to the bulge beneath the fly of his jeans.

In response, he hoisted her onto the counter beside the sink. Standing in front of her, he peppered her face with kisses, then plowed his lips along her neck. He nuzzled her there, his jaw sandpaper rough, his tongue soothing away the chaffing he was causing.

She combed her fingers through his silky hair and needled his scalp with her nails, while his hands skated over her shoulders, down her arms, around her back, and across her torso. A low growl of satisfaction vibrated in his throat. He filled his palms with the weight of her breasts and kneaded her flesh. Her nipples puckered from his manhandling. He must’ve felt them through her clothes because he groaned again before plundering her mouth with his tongue. He fumbled at her waistband, unbuttoned her jeans, and drew down her zipper.

“Lift up,” he urged. She braced her arms on the counter while he tugged her jeans and panties down and over her buttocks, hips, and thighs. When he had them off her completely, he nudged his thighs between her knees. “Spread your legs,” he said, his voice roughened by want.

Then, like a ceremony meant to bring good luck and safe travels, they christened their new home by making love beneath the cobwebbed ceiling in that ramshackle bathroom. It was the finest homecoming she could imagine.

For a while, their home was an oasis, despite its imperfections. Mulder still needed to stay hidden from the world, but even so, they made it work, enjoying many hard-won moments of bliss. Happiness had reentered their lives at long last. Scully experienced peace of mind for the fist time in a decade. This place felt like a home, a real home. She imagined spending the rest of their lives there.

But then December 22, 2012, came and went without a hint of alien invasion. Instead of being relieved, Mulder went from co*cksure to unsure practically overnight. All the swagger he had as a young agent vanished. He rode his emotional highs and lows until there were only lows. When he bottomed out, he became resentful, quarrelsome, and distant. He vacillated between ill-tempered outbursts and long silences. After a time, hopelessness descended upon him and he lost all interest in their relationship, in everything he used to care about, and, finally, it seemed, in life itself.

Time and again, she urged him to get professional help. His refusal to act left her frantic to find a solution he would accept…before it was too late.

Their final argument started when she repeated her belief that his condition was exogenous depression, caused by the extreme trauma he’d endured, not only after his abduction in 2000, but likely long before that, going back to Samantha’s disappearance.

Enraged, hands on his hips, he turned on her.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Without warning he kicked over the coffee table. Books and a potted fern thundered to the floor. The plant’s ceramic pot shattered on the hardwood. Dirt sprayed everywhere. “Don’t try to analyze me, Scully. Don't trace this back to my childhood, to my sister's disappearance. Not everything I do, say, think, and feel goes back to Samantha!”

Scully responded with near-equal force. She couldn’t help it. She was fighting for his life, for their life together, and it became a battle of wills, their worst falling out since moving to Farrs Corner.

“If you don’t trust my diagnosis, Mulder, please seek out one you do trust. I’m worried about you!” The words came out more shrill than she intended.

He shook his head. Paced away from her and then back again. His face was flushed. His eyes filled with outrage and indignation. “The truth is, Scully, you never chose to be with me in the first place. You were assigned. So consider this a chance to get away while you still can, live the life you’ve always wanted. Assignment over. You’re absolved of all responsibility. You should like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“William. Our son. You sent him away the minute I was gone.”

His words struck her like a slap. Surprised by their sting, she raised her voice. “You know that’s not how it was!” She couldn’t believe he was bringing this up now. She thought they’d come to terms with William’s fate, as much as possible. But maybe this was at the crux of his disillusionment after all. “I couldn’t reach you, Mulder! You know that. It wasn’t safe. I gave William up to protect him.”

She had assumed Mulder understood her reasons and forgave her long ago. At Mount Weather, he’d said, I know you had no choice. I just missed both of you so much. But clearly, this wasn’t true. He’d been harboring resentment about the fate of their son for years.

"You did it for you!” he challenged.

“Mulder, you’re sick. You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean! You sent me away and then you gave William away.” His hand shook as he pointed an accusing finger at her. "Admit it, Scully, you were relieved when William and I were gone.”

“That’s not true—“

"Out of sight, out of—"

"No!"

“Yes!” he bellowed. He drew close and loomed over her. She could feel anger roll off him like heat from an over-stoked furnace.

Leaning toward him, closing the gap between them to mere inches, she lowered her voice and asked, “So, you’re sending me away now? As punishment?”

He looked ready to strike her. She held her ground.

"Just go, Scully!” He lurched around her and stalked to the window. Staring out at the driveway, keeping his back to her, fists clenched, he growled, "I don’t want you here! Leave! Live your life. You’re better off without me.”

She knew her life would not be better without him. It’s why she wanted to save him, get him better. But maybe time away from each other would be good for him, giving him the opportunity he needed to confront his demons, so he could heal.

“Okay,” she conceded softly, her throat tight and raw as she held back tears. She was out of rationalizations and pleas. Seeing no other option, she packed up and left. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even try.

His misguided accusations echo in her memory now as she exits her car and climbs the porch steps. She doesn’t bother to search her purse for her house key. She’d left it behind on the kitchen counter in a petulant show of finality that she no longer nurtures. She digs the spare from its hiding place inside the loose cap of the porch light. Mulder either left it there on purpose for her to find or, more likely, he simply forgot about it. She lets herself in.

Inside, the house is cool and still. She sidesteps the overturned coffee table and the broken plant pot in the living room, remnants of their hurtful quarrel. She heads upstairs and enters the bedroom with trepidation.

The bed is unmade. Mulder’s clothes dot the floor like an archipelago. She gathers them up and starts a load of wash. She strips the bed and makes it up again with clean sheets. Returning to the living room, she sweeps up the pot shards and potting soil, rights the coffee table. In the kitchen, she rinses the coffee cup she’d left in the sink and sets it to air dry in the rack. She clears anything that might spoil out of the fridge, bags it up, and tosses it into the back of her car. Her last chore is to swish cleanser around the toilet bowl.

Initially, she imagined packing up her remaining clothes, sorting through the kitchen cupboards for her favorite dishes and cooking utensils, and boxing up her books and any other useful or comforting items, but being here is making her regretful and antsy.

In the end, she takes only two things. A small, framed photo of her and Mulder, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hood of a police cruiser, wearing matching FBI jackets, their hair flailed by the wind. It was taken by an unknown photographer at a crime scene years ago on a case she’s long forgotten. The only other item she wants is the afghan her mother made. She gathers it from the back of the chair where she liked to sit and read. Its aquamarine, azure, and turquoise colors remind her of the seas her father once sailed upon. The knit and purl pattern of the soft yarn gives the impression of ocean waves. It also makes her think of the tropical vacation she took with Mulder after the Father Joe case, a blissful interlude meant to rid them of the tension of that terrible crime and the strain it caused to their relationship. A high before the Mulder’s eventual downfall.

With the afghan hugged to her chest, Scully takes one last look around before stepping outside into the blinding sunlight and locking the door behind her.

Over the next few days, Scully throws herself into her work, which is her typical reaction to grief or heartache. She understands it’s a distraction that merely provides a false sense of control, but she can’t stop herself. She avoids her apartment as much as possible, going there only to sleep for a few hours before heading back to the hospital. Some days, she dozes in the on-call room rather than return to her lonely two-room sublet a few blocks away. She’s unpacked nothing except a few changes of clothes and her toiletries. She doesn’t have the energy to do more and there seems no point in any case. Living there is only temporary. Isn’t it?

To think, she once believed loneliness was a choice. She’d been naive and uniformed back then. Now she feels like a fool.

A week comes and goes since Mulder’s one and only phone call. He has either decided not to make a second call or to not call her. Maybe he hates her for her disloyalty. For abandoning him in his time of need. Or maybe it’s more dire than that. Maybe he’s too far gone to feel anything but his own pain and he isn’t thinking of her at all.

She curls up on a couch in a second-floor break room, hoping for an hour of uninterrupted sleep, but within minutes, she’s thrust into a nightmare. In her dream, Mulder shoots himself in the head, much like he threatened to do at his parent’s summer house in Quonochontaug while high on ketamine after being “treated” by Dr. Goldstein.

In her dream, just as in Rhode Island, she begs Mulder to “Put down the gun. You've got to trust me. Let it go.” But unlike that night long ago, he closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.

She wakes in a panic. Her heart races and she gasps for air as she tries to shake the scene from her head. It’s not the first nightmare she’s had like this. She’s been plagued by similar scenarios since diagnosing Mulder. All of them feature him committing suicide in one form or another. She’s found him hanging by a rope from the porch rafters, mopped up his blood from the bathroom floor after he’s slit his wrists, felt his pulse falter and fade as he died from an overdose of pills. One time, she reached him just as he was about to jump from a bridge. He plunged to his death while she watched helplessly. In every dream, she is unable to stop him or she arrives too late. Her worst fears are realized time and again. It’s one reason she is so desperate to get him help.

The grief she feels in these dreams overwhelms her. She has woken up sobbing, drenched in sweat, or keening Mulder’s name. Yet she has never once mentioned the specifics of her nightmares to Mulder, fearful she’ll put ideas in his head. She doesn’t want him using her dreams as a step-by-step guide to killing himself. How could she live with herself if he used the specifics of her nightmares to end his life?

She shivers uncontrollably, the deadly ring of his discharged weapon reverberating in her mind. It takes ten minutes for her tremors to pass.

She gives up the idea of sleeping and decides to go for a walk in hopes of calming her nerves. She strides quickly to a nearby park, where she passes kids at play on the swings and a jogger stretching out before his run. Unable to shake her funk, she continues on to a tree-lined neighborhood. When she spots a church, she slows. She imagines its peaceful interior. The safe harbor of her faith.

Granite steps guide her up to the church’s double front door. The sign beside the entrance bears the name of St. Rita of Cascia. Advocate of the Helpless, Saint of Hopeless Causes, Patroness of Heartbroken Women. It seems an appropriate place to unburden her soul with prayer and confession.

She steps inside and soaks in the quiet. There are a few people scattered about in the pews, heads bowed, Rosary beads in hand. The smell of incense clings to the polished wood. It’s a familiar, soothing smell, reminding her of her childhood, her First Communion, Catechism, and High Holy Days. She dips a finger into the holy water font, makes the sign of the cross, then walks silently to the stand of votives, where she lights a candle for Mulder. She prays for his recovery, asking God to intercede on his behalf.

It doesn’t feel like enough, although she believes God’s power is absolute. Still, she’s weighted with guilt and decides to confess her sins, obtain forgiveness, and reconcile with God. In that way, maybe she will eventually be able to reconcile with Mulder, too.

She gathers her thoughts, examines her conscience, and slips into the confessional.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” She inhales deeply, before continuing. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession.”

“You have a sin to confess?” The priest's voice is calm. She feels encouraged to go on.

“I am a doctor. I’ve taken an oath to heal the sick. But I think I may have caused more harm than good.”

“You have a patient who isn’t responding to treatment?”

“He’s not really a patient, but I feel responsible for his wellbeing.”

“In what way?”

How can she explain her complicated and fraught relationship with Mulder? Or her role in his decline?

Giving up William for adoption seems the wellspring of her guilt and maybe the cause of Mulder’s anger, so she decides to start there.

“Father, we have a child together. Had a child.”

“This child is no longer living?”

“He is alive…as far as I know. But he's no longer ours.”

Who’s fault is that?

She’s so sure the words come from the priest, she gasps. But he has said nothing. Solemn-faced on the other side of the panel, he waits for her to say more.

Was it God speaking to her?

Her throat closes. She feels like she’s going to throw up. “I’m sorry, Father—”

Unable to finish her apology, she bolts from the confessional and dashes out of the church. For the first time in years, it seems her faith has failed her and the loss is crushing.

A second week passes and then a third without word from Mulder. Scully is crestfallen and sick with worry. She makes an appointment to see her own therapist.

“It’s been quite some time since we last spoke.” Dr. Eleanor Curran's tone is nonjudgmental. “What brings you in today, Dana?”

“I’m worried about Mulder.”

Scully has talked to Curran before about Mulder. General things that every couple deals with after years together, all small grievances compared to their current situation.

“What in particular is worrying you?” Curran holds a pen poised over her notebook.

“He’s been depressed. And I fear I’ve contributed to it.”

“In what way?”

The room is unchanged from the last time Scully was here several months ago. A sofa and two chairs face each other. The colors throughout the room are neutral and soothing, the artwork subdued. Curran sits in the larger of the two chairs, a wingback upholstered in pale green suede. Scully takes the second chair, a cream-colored chenille so soft, she finds herself absently stroking it as she tries to form an answer. Usually she is able to relax here. Her inability to do so now speaks to her ragged nerves and dispirited state of mind.

“I…I left him recently.”

“And you think your breakup is the cause of his depression?”

“No. There’s more to it than that.” Scully smooths her skirt. “He experienced several traumatic events a few years ago. I’m ashamed to say, I wasn’t as supportive as I might’ve been at the time. I…I said things I now regret.”

“What sort of things?”

One example comes immediately to mind, though she’s not sure she wants to share it. It happened shortly after Mulder returned from the dead. I don't know if you'll ever understand what it was like, Mulder. First learning of your abduction... and then searching for you and finding you dead. And now to have you back—

Scully pushes away her discomfort and plows ahead. “Instead of putting myself in his place and sympathizing with him after everything he’d been through, I focused only on myself, not on him. It was selfish of me.” Her face heats with fresh remorse.

Curran nods but says nothing, a strategy she often employs to encourage Scully to fill the silence by saying more. As usual, it works.

“Then, a few years later, I asked Mulder to choose between my own peace of mind and the lives of two missing women, one an FBI agent.”

“You issued an ultimatum?”

“Yes. It was unconscionable and yet I did it and I never apologized for it.”

“I’m not quite seeing how that connects to Mulder’s current depression.”

“It shows a pattern.”

“A pattern?”

“Of selfishness on my part. I should’ve been more empathetic. More understanding of who he is and all he’s been through. I regret…” Scully’s gaze drifts around the room as if the answers to her problems lurk somewhere in the shadowed corners.

“What do you regret?” Curran prompts, regaining Scully’s attention.

“Many things, but…” Scully decides to unpack the memories she usually keeps stored away in the deepest part of her psyche, that place that holds all the worst moments of her life: the memories of her abduction, Melissa and Emily’s deaths, Mulder’s torture. Her practiced detachment has served her well as an FBI agent and especially as a forensic pathologist. More personally, it allows her to go on in the face of what otherwise would be crippling grief. But sometimes she forgets that Mulder doesn’t share this skill.

Throughout their time together, she’s leaned on Mulder while overlooking his trauma, perhaps because he seemed so resilient. Nothing fazed him, nothing slowed him down. He bounced back from the worst situations, joked about them even. But just because he hides his anguish behind humor doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.

“I’ve told you about my son…” Scully says at last.

“William? Yes. You said you gave him up for adoption when he was a baby.” Curran pens something onto her notepad. “Do you think there’s a direct correlation between that event and Mulder’s depression now?”

Scully nods and blinks back tears. “Mulder wasn’t around at the time, and I felt I had no choice. For the good of our child, I made the decision to give him up, to keep him safe and give him a chance at a normal, happy childhood.”

“Mulder was out of reach? There was no way to contact him so he could weigh in on the decision?”

“No.” Scully’s tears come quickly now. She swipes at her cheeks. Curran offers her a box of tissues and she takes one. “Several months later when Mulder learned what I’d done, he said he understood my reasons. I thought he’d forgiven me…but it’s clear now that he hasn’t.”

“In what way is it clear now?”

“He said so outright during our last fight.”

Curran nods. “And what’s your reaction to that?”

“I don’t blame him for being angry. I sometimes hate myself for giving up our son. And now I feel I’m abandoning Mulder, too, the same way I abandoned our child.”

Scully struggles and fails to control her tears. She wipes at her eyes and blows her nose. Despair threatens to drown her.

“Dana, you should understand that Mulder may not truly mean all the things he’s saying right now. His perspective could be distorted by his condition. He’s ill, after all.”

“Yes, and I’m a doctor. I should be able to help him…to heal him.”

Curran shakes her head. “People who are depressed will often ignore help from loved ones. They feel like imposters, that the people in their lives don’t know who they really are. If they’ve managed to fool those closest to them, they aren’t likely to take their advice. Usually, an unbiased opinion is needed, from someone with expertise in depressive disorders. You have many skills as a medical doctor, Dana, but this isn't your specialty.”

“No. But still…”

Scully believes she should be able to solve any riddle the human body might present, given the facts and enough time. But Mulder’s illness appears to be an impossible puzzle to solve. It's beyond her capabilities.

“I assume Mulder isn’t allowed any outside contact just yet,” Curran says, “but he will be soon. Think about what you want to say to him, how you’d like to resolve your differences. In the meantime, I’d be happy to see you again if you want to come in next week.”

“Yes, I’d like that.” Scully’s certain she’ll need Curran’s help. Her problems feel insurmountable at the moment and she’s willing to take all the help she can get.

To that end, she considers visiting her mother and unburdening herself. But she hesitates, not knowing how to tell Maggie she’s walked out on Mulder. She lets the idea go for now.

Another week goes by. It’s a full month since Mulder began treatment and Scully feels as lost and heartbroken as ever. She’s seen Dr. Curran a second time and although she feels she’s made some progress, she can barely concentrate during the day and continues to suffer nightmares at night. She makes up her mind to drop in on her mother, because who else do you turn to when you need comfort?

“This is a pleasant surprise!” Maggie says, greeting Scully at the front door with a warm embrace before ushering her inside.

“Sorry, I didn’t call first, Mom.”

“It’s fine, sweetheart. I’m always happy to see you. I’ve just made tea. Would you like a cup?"

Scully nods, unable to return Maggie’s cheerful smile. Her heart pounds at the idea of explaining all that’s happened.

Once they’re seated at the kitchen table, a pot of tea and a plate of cookies between them, Scully wants to own up to the truth, but her tears flow before she can get the words out.

“What is it, Dana?” Maggie asks, her face etched with concern.

“Oh, Mom, I tried and I tried, but he wouldn’t listen…” Scully finds it hard to breathe and she can’t look her mother in the eyes.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” Maggie reaches across the table and squeezes Scully’s hand.

“Mulder. He’s been so depressed. I was scared…afraid he’d do something drastic. Hurt himself….”

Maggie’s eyes widen. “You think he’s suicidal?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Scully swallows past the lump in her throat. “I moved out.”

“You left him? When he’s sick?” Maggie is clearly appalled.

“I thought it was the only way to help him, Mom. I couldn’t get through to him. So I packed up and left, then I sent a friend, a psychologist who I believed could help, to talk to him.”

“And did this psychologist friend help him?”

“I think so. Mulder agreed to undergo treatment at a recovery center.” Scully wipes at her tears with her paper napkin. “Mom, I can’t help but think I’ve made a terrible mistake…made things worse.”

“Is Fox safe where he is, at this center?” Maggie asks.

“Yes.” Scully blows her nose. Damn her emotions! This is exactly why she hasn’t confided in her mother before now. She hates falling apart. It’s a weakness she can’t abide in herself.

“Then it sounds to me like you made the right decision. For now.” Maggie sounds certain, something Scully hasn’t felt in months. “There’s still time to mend this rift between you.”

“What if he won’t see me?”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

An anvil of guilt weights Scully down. She knows Mulder usually blames himself for all the bad things that have happened in their lives — he’s said as much numerous times. She doesn’t begrudge him for her past and present heartaches. She never has. She lays the responsibility precisely where it belongs…with her. Especially when it comes to William. He blames her for the loss of their son and he isn’t wrong.

Maggie toys with one of the cookies. When it crumbles, she leaves it be. She focuses all of her attention on her daughter. “Dana, from the things you’ve told me in the past and from what I’ve seen for myself, I believe Fox never got the love he deserved as a child. He may be a grown man now, but he has the heart of an unloved little boy. If he were my son, I’d give him a hug and tell him how much I love him. As the father of your child,” — she gives Scully a knowing stare — “you should do the same.”

Scully is luckier than Mulder, she knows. She’s always had a support system — her family, her faith — whereas Mulder has none of these. His family is all dead. And even when they were alive, they didn’t love him the way he should’ve been loved. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to that lack before?

“I do love him, Mom. I believe I always will.”

“Then you have to tell him, honey. Show him. His spirit is broken. He’s been beaten down by circ*mstances beyond his control.” Maggie reaches across the table again for Scully’s hand. “Sweetheart, Fox has been there for you throughout some of the worst moments of your life…when you were missing…during your cancer.”

“Yes, I-I know.”

“He’s loved you for years, longer than you may realize. I saw it. I witnessed his passion, the determined way he searched for you, how devoted he was when you were ill. He was willing to do anything, go to any lengths to save you.” Maggie pats her daughter’s hand. “You owe him nothing less.”

It was true. Mulder gave his love unconditionally. He never asked for anything in return. Never seemed to expect anything, from her or anyone. But at some point, his heart had became solely hers to nurture and cherish. And she'd let him down.

“Everything will be all right.” Maggie rises and rounds the table to hug her daughter. She presses her lips gently to Scully’s cheek. “You’ll find a way to get back together, sweetheart. I know you will.”

It’s exactly what Scully needs to hear to give her the confidence to keep trying.

Twenty minutes later, Scully returns to her car, determined to make things right with Mulder. As she’s about to turn the key in the ignition, she spots her cellphone in the footwell of the passenger seat, where it must’ve fallen out of her purse earlier. She retrieves it and sees she’s missed a call.

She opens and plays the voicemail message.

“Scully, over this past month I’ve learned a lot. I know now, it’s not your responsibility to save me, and…and maybe you’d prefer to move on with your life…without me…but…,” Mulder’s familiar voice falters. He sounds hesitant but not angry. Her vision blurs and a sob rises in her chest. “I’ve made enough progress to earn an afternoon pass. I’d like to use it to see you…if you’d let me…if you’re willing…and would like to…uh, assuming I haven’t totally messed things up…um, crap…. Maybe we could go somewhere to talk? But only if you want…. Just…just leave a message with Dr. James, if you’re willing. I, uh, I hope to hear from you.”

Scully doesn’t hesitate. She immediately dials Erik’s number. She’s going to see Mulder. She wants to see Mulder! Hope flows through her and she takes her first optimistic breath in a long, long while.

CHAPTER 4: An Afternoon Out

RAPPAHANNOCK RIVER RECOVERY CENTER
THURSDAY, JULY 25, 2013
9:50 AM

He’s going to see Scully. He wants to see her. He hasn’t felt that way in a long while.

Mulder and Steel Wool are in the Activities Room — also known as the “quiet” room — playing Scrabble. Quiet is a relative term here. There’s a rowdy card game going on at the next table and a patient is singing off key, alone in a corner, but compared to the Common Room down the hall, where a TV blares 24/7 and patients compete at pingpong, air hockey, and daily shouting matches, this is a sanctuary as silent as a tomb.

The comparison sparks a memory and the claustrophobic feel of being inside a closed coffin buried deep beneath the North Carolina soil blindsides Mulder. A dank, musty odor tinged with rot invades his sinuses. He coughs and the image and smell vanish. Only the anxiety remains.

Phantosmia. An olfactory hallucination. Mulder experiences these with all too much regularity. He pushes this one away and returns his attention to the game.

Steel Wool is preoccupied with his letters and misses Mulder’s momentary shock.

“BOUJEE for 18.” Steel Wool places five tiles on the board and grins.

“Boujee? What the hell does that mean?” Mulder asks.

“Y’know, rich, fancy, special. Like Doc’s fire whip. Boujee.”

Mulder is certain the word can’t be found in any conventional dictionary, but he lets it go. Primarily because he has a 45-point word to build off the E. He lays down UMBRAGE.

“Goddamn!” Steel Wool whistles in appreciation. “How come all your words be ‘bout anger? You learnin’ nothin’ here?”

“Still got a lot to process, I guess.”

It’s true, Mulder’s word choices are all a reflection of his resentment and pique, emotions he still harbors even after a month of therapy and who-knows-how-many courses of medication. The pills bring unwelcome side effects: insomnia, restlessness, decreased appetite, though that last one may be due to the poor quality of the food that's served in the Center’s cafeteria, not the meds.

Dr. James has warned Mulder he might also experience a loss of sexual ability, desire, drive, or performance, though he’s not had much opportunity to test that claim. He’s masturbat*d in the shower a couple of times and it went fine…okay…as expected. A quick yet unfulfilling release. The only lasting satisfaction he achieved was knowing his equipment still worked the way it was supposed to.

Mulder glances at the security camera in the room’s upper corner and hopes it isn’t sophisticated enough to pick up the letters on the Scrabble board. He doesn’t want anything to screw up his visit with Scully a few hours from now. He needs to be on his best behavior to ensure he won’t lose the privilege. He wants to see Scully so badly he can feel it in his bones. Playing by the rules is the only way to make it happen.

Toby, one of the weekday orderlies, enters the room and beelines toward Mulder. “Time for your session with Dr. James,” he says.

“Already?”

“Hey, we ain’t done here yet!” Steel Wool complains.

“Don’t worry, I concede the game.” Mulder pushes back from the table and stands. “Another win for you.”

This pleases Steel Wool. They were tied after twenty-eight games and a victory now puts Mulder behind.

“Keep it 100, Zaddy,” Steel Wool says as Mulder trails after Toby.

“I don’t understand half of what you say,“ Mulder calls over his shoulder to Steel Wool before following Toby out of the room.

“Mulder, given that you’re meeting with Dana this afternoon, are there any subjects you’d like to discuss with me beforehand?” Dr. James asks.

They’re seated in James’s office, or the Tell All Room, as Mulder tends to think of it. Mulder can’t keep his hands still. He rubs his palms together, twists his fingers in knots. He worries about saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to mess up and lose his opportunity to see Scully.

“Nothing specific comes to mind,” he says.

“In that case, I’d like to return to the subject of suicide, if you’re amenable.”

sh*t. That’s the one subject he doesn’t want to talk about. It’s rife with pitfalls. Mulder almost says he just remembered another topic he’d prefer to address. Trouble is, he can’t think of another topic, so says, “Um…okay. Sure.”

“Was the day on your porch the first time you ever seriously considered taking your own life?” James sits with one leg crossed casually over the other. He appears relaxed and curious, as always.

Mulder hesitates. “No,” he says at length, worried what James will make of this admission.

“No.” It’s not a question. James writes something on his pad. “Tell me more about your previous experience…or experiences.”

Mulder takes a deep breath before diving in, giving himself a moment to compose his thoughts and quell his nerves. “Scully was terminally ill. She’d been diagnosed with a nasopharengeal tumor, an inoperable cancerous mass between her sinuses and cerebrum. She was dying and there was zero chance of recovery.”

“When was this?”

“’97. November.”

“Yet she’s alive today.”

“Yes. Thankfully.”

Rather than pursuing how that’s possible, James asks, “Was the idea of her imminent death what made you consider taking your own life?”

Mulder thinks this is the wrong question. The right question?

What made Scully ill in the first place and what saved her in the end?

But he’s learned to give James the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the doctor's digressive line of questioning. More often than not, James hits his target with pinpoint accuracy despite his indirect aim.

Mulder responds with, “Yes and no.”

“Meaning…?”

“The idea of losing Scully was…was devastating, of course. But there was more to it.”

“Tell me about that.”

Mulder thinks back to that desperate moment, alone, crying in his darkened apartment. He’d picked up his service weapon, ready to end his guilt and pain. He couldn’t bear to watch Scully die, especially knowing the fault was his.

“Scully was the victim of a plot to destroy me and my work. She was given her disease by men in our own government. To shut me down. To put an end to the X-Files. Her illness was the result of my own arrogance and self-deception. I was the reason she was suffering. I couldn’t live with that. I was prepared to shoot myself in the head.”

“What stopped you?”

“A phone call.”

“A call?”

“It was a very important call.” From Kritschgau, who warned him he was being surveilled. Moments later, Mulder faced off with Scott Ostlehoff in the apartment above his own. He hadn’t intended to kill the man, but it did buy him time to save Scully. “Long story short, I changed my mind about dying.”

“Were there other times you had suicidal thoughts? Before then?” James is like a dog with a bone, refusing to leave this subject and move on to something else.

Mulder decides not to mention the time in Rhode Island at his parents’ summer home in Quonochontaug, when he was under the influence of ketamine and Dr. Charles Goldstein’s questionable “treatment.” Extenuating circ*mstances don’t count, right? But he will come clean about an earlier time, even if it costs him his afternoon out. “As a kid, yes. After my sister disappeared and my father moved out of the house.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Not really, Mulder thinks, but knows James will merely find another way to ask the same question. “I was thirteen. I stole a bunch of pills from my mother, medication for her anxiety and to help her sleep. Just a few at a time so she wouldn’t notice. I saved them up over the course of several months.”

“What happened? Did you take them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The, uh…the night before I planned to take them, I…” Mulder clears his throat. “I lost my virginity to Kelly McCarty.” A 15-year-old 10th grader. His face heats at the memory. “I decided I had something to live for after all.”

James nods.

Mulder remembers the euphoria of ejacul*ting inside a girl for the first time. Even wearing a condom — provided by Kelly — it felt amazing. Kelly was a goddess, with the biggest breasts, the tiniest waist, and the longest legs of any girl in his high school. All the boys had it bad for her and for whatever reason, she’d picked Mulder to f*ck that night. It seemed like a miracle. It was a miracle.

“Does that sound as shallow to you as it does to me right now?” Mulder asks.

“Never underestimate the role of the human libido on behavior,” James says. “It’s referred to as a psychic or sexual ‘drive’ for a reason. You no doubt already know this from your undergrad studies.”

Mulder learned plenty about sex as a student at Oxford, though most of it was outside the classroom.

“Having sex with Scully was probably the only thing that kept me from killing myself before you dropped in on me last month,” Mulder admits, surprising himself with the honesty behind the statement. “That’s not hyperbole.”

“Sex, not love?”

Mulder nods, ashamed his love for Scully — or hers for him — wasn’t enough to keep him alive. He was convinced she’d be better off without him. He still thinks that. “I’m not proud of it. But it’s how I felt.”

“And now? How do you feel about it now?”

Mulder shrugs. “I have no idea if Scully wants me in her life or not. I suspect not and I don’t blame her. I’ve been a self-centered jackass. I guess I’ve always been that way, with Scully and everybody else.”

“I don’t believe it’s helpful to frame yourself in those terms.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants me to be honest here.”

“You don’t want to be honest? With yourself?”

“Is recounting my flaws helpful? I can do that, if you want, but it’ll take us a while.”

James squints at Mulder, appearing to scrutinize him more intently than usual. “I actually see you as wanting to please others. Dana especially.”

“‘People pleaser’ doesn’t exactly peg me.” Mulder ignores the comment about Scully. He hates the way James refers to her by her first name.

James checks his notes. “Hm. You excelled in athletics and academics, receiving top honors in high school and at Oxford. You earned several commendations early in your career at the FBI. Many would look at your record and consider you something of an overachiever.”

“People are easily fooled.”

James is frowning and it’s clear he’s disappointed with Mulder’s dismissive attitude, so Mulder continues, more sincerely this time. “That was before I discovered the X-Files. They changed the course of my career and my life.”

“Before we get to that, let’s stay focused on your college years a bit longer. Do you think you pursued a degree in psychology as a way to learn more about yourself?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“And did you?”

“Learn about myself?” Mulder picks at a hangnail, which is starting to bleed. “Not really. There weren’t many case studies in my textbooks about 12-year-old boys whose sisters were abducted by aliens.”

“No, but there has been a lot written about young people who have experienced significant loss and associated trauma. You didn’t see yourself in that?”

“I tried,” Mulder admits, “at first. But, I don’t know, my experience seemed pretty specific with few parallels in the psychology studies and reports of the late 70s and early 80s. Is a kidnapping just a kidnapping if the kidnapper is an extraterrestrial?”

James has never once shown surprise or disbelief at Mulder’s claims about aliens and he doesn’t now either. “Many human criminals are described as inhuman monsters,” James says.

C.G.B. Spender floats like a specter in the back of Mulder’s consciousness. The idea that that man is his father makes him want to rip off his own skin. Dig out every strand of shared DNA.

“True,” Mulder answers, hoping the doctor doesn’t notice the self-loathing that is threatening to engulf him, the alarm that’s making his voice quaver and his hands shake. “But until I worked in the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit and later the Violent Crimes Unit, I hadn’t personally encountered any monsters, human or otherwise. Their existence was all academic before then. Literally.”

It’s a lie. Old Smokey has been in Mulder’s life since he was a boy. Spender was a frequent visitor at the Mulder summer house, water skiing with Mulder’s dad, flirting with his mom.

The stench of cigarette smoke unexpectedly drifts into the room. Mulder is certain it’s there, a mix of Morleys and the Devil, crawling up his nose, coating the back of his throat, invading his lungs. Mulder’s pulse quickens. It drums inside his ears. Panic hammers deep inside his chest. He tries to control his breathing. He mustn’t let this delusion spoil his afternoon with Scully. It’s not real. It is not real. It’s just another hallucination…it has to be.

“Okay,” James accepts Mulder’s version of events. The air in the room begins to clear. The smoke vanishes as quickly as it arrived. “What are you hoping to accomplish when you see Dana later today?”

James’s change of subject is a tactic he often uses to keep Mulder from planning out his responses in advance. James seems to believe Mulder is more candid when caught off guard. He doesn’t understand that Mulder is never off guard.

“Accomplish?” Mulder asks. “I just want to talk to her.”

“About anything in particular?”

Well, that’s the thing. There are many topics Mulder would like to discuss with Scully, most especially whether or not she still loves him…even a little. But how can he realistically hope for that, after months of quarrels and terrible accusations? The notion of killing himself haunts him like a vengeful ghost. Still. After all this time and all these sessions with Dr. James. Mulder no longer wants to pursue that course but he does see the logic in it. Scully would be better off. He’d be better off, too, in many ways. Two birds with one stone. “I’m trying to keep my options open and my expectations low.”

“Why low?”

“Scully and I had a pretty intense argument the last time we saw each other. The kind that’s hard to recover from. I don’t want a repeat performance.”

There’s no way around it, today's visit will be strained at best.

“What was the argument about?” James asks.

“I told her she should leave. In fact, I demanded she go. I believed she’d be better off without me.”

“Do you still think that?”

“Yes. As sh*tty as my life will be without her in it, it’s better for her to get as far away from me as possible. I’m trying to save her. I want to protect her.”

“Isn’t that the reason Dana sent you away after your son was born and, later, gave William up for adoption?”

Anger surges through Mulder. He and James have discussed William before. Mulder shared most of the details: his shock at learning his son was gone, that Scully had given him away. “It’s not the same.”

“No? Her motives seem altruistic to me. In both cases.”

“It’s not the same,” Mulder repeats.

“In what way are they not the same?”

“I had no say in what happened to my son.”

“Yes. We’ve talked about that before. Quite a number of times. You said you were away at the time. Unreachable.”

“That’s…that’s true.”

“Remind me again where you were?”

Mulder is certain James hasn’t forgotten. He’s trying to make a point, a point Mulder doesn’t agree with, doesn’t want to hear. He desperately wants to change the subject. Or say nothing at all.

“Where were you, Mulder?” James repeats, more forcefully this time. “Why were you unreachable?”

“I was hiding.”

“From what?”

“I had reason to believe I’d be killed if I was found. And it wasn’t paranoia on my part, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Dana thought you were in danger, too, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And she had no idea where you were?”

“No, I kept my location a secret from her, for her own safety.”

“Then, how could she have contacted you for help? How could she have let you know about her struggles with William? Allowed you to weigh in?”

Mulder and Scully had emailed each other for a time, but even that became too dangerous after their messages were intercepted. The super-soldiers’ threat to Mulder’s life prevented them from corresponding or meeting up, except for a near-encounter in January of ’02 in the Manville Rock Quarry. The risk was too great, the danger too real. For him, for William, for Scully. She had no way to reach him after that. She was alone. He’d left her with an infant, laid all the responsibility for William’s care and safety on her.

The truth catches in his throat, making it impossible for him to form a reply.

“Let’s return to the years you were hiding,” James suggests when Mulder remains silent. It’s clear James has more he wants to uncover and he will go at Mulder like a miner hammers out a stubborn vein of gold. “Where did you go?”

“New Mexico.”

“For how long?”

“A year. May 2001 to May ’02.”

“And what were you doing in New Mexico all that time?”

“I was staying with a friend, who was also in hiding. His life was in danger, too.” Gibson Praise would likely spend the rest of his life hiding or running. “We were searching for a solution…searching for the truth.”

“And did you find the truth you were looking for?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did you find?”

A way to destroy the super-soldiers and… “A date.”

“What date?”

“December 22, 2012. The start date…the beginning of the apocalypse…the day alien forces were planning to mobilize. It was an End Game the U.S. government had tried to hide from the American public for decades. The Truth that no one was ever supposed to discover…until it was too late.” Mulder knows how crazy it sounds when he says this, when he’s truthful about what’s happened to him.

James nods. If he doubts Mulder’s version of events, he never mentions it. “But December 22, 2012, came and went without any invasion, didn’t it?”

“Yes…yes…” Mulder is unaware he’s crying until tears drip from his jaw onto his shirtfront. Corralling his emotions becomes impossible. A dam has burst and Mulder flounders, wiping at his eyes, trying to stop the hitch in his chest. The failure of the aliens and their human accomplices became Mulder’s failure. He’d misread the facts. Put himself and Scully through hell, convinced that the world was facing a dystopian future, a future that never materialized.

Did they lose their son because of his beliefs?

“What’s your state of mind right now?” James passes him a box of tissues.

Mulder laughs at his timing, grabs a couple of tissues, and swipes at his cheeks and nose. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It’s clear you’re upset. But what exactly is upsetting you?”

“I'm a guilty man. I failed in every respect. I deserve the harshest punishment for my crimes,” he parrots the words of his guards at Mount Weather.

“You truly believe that?” James taps his pen on his pad. The steady rhythm draws Mulder’s attention, stops his runaway despair and self-reproach. “You’ve mentioned letting Dana go ‘to protect her.’ Are you still thinking suicide might accomplish that goal?”

Sometimes Mulder thinks James can read his mind. It would be just his luck to get a shrink with such a skill. The Gibson Praise of psychologists.

Not that it would be a bad thing necessarily. It would certainly save them both a lot of time.

“If you’re asking whether or not I plan to off myself while on leave today, you needn’t worry.”

“No? No thoughts at all of self harm?”

“No.” Mulder understands he has a long way to go before he might be deemed healthy but he is trying to get better. Truly. For Scully’s sake certainly. Maybe for his own as well.

“That’s good to hear.” James uncrosses his legs and leans forward, his gaze intense. “Do you still blame Dana for excluding you from the decision to give William up for adoption?”

Mulder can see he’s been complicit in the loss of his son. Until now, he’s been unwilling to admit it. For the longest time, he denied his own role. He lashed out at Scully. Maybe to keep from hurting himself. However, blaming her while giving himself a pass is wrong. More than that, it’s cruel. She’s suffered every bit as much as he has. Probably more. Guilt rolls through him. It’s followed by an overwhelming urge to make amends.

“I…I need to apologize to Scully for my unfair accusations.”

“That’s a significant step for you.” James smiles, clearly feeling better about Mulder’s breakthrough than Mulder does himself. “And it might be a good topic of conversation between you and Dana later today. It could help you both begin to heal. What do you think?”

“Sure. Yes. I’ll…I’ll try.”

“Good.” James closes his notebook, signaling the end of their session. “Your outing this afternoon will be intentionally short. You won’t be allowed any time on your own. I’ve spoken with Dana and she’s agreed to those terms. She’s to have you back here at the Center by 4:00 p.m. Are you okay with the limitations I’ve set?”

What can Mulder say other than, “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

Mulder showers, shaves, and even slaps on a little cologne, something he hasn’t done since leaving the Bureau. He dresses in clean slacks and a polo shirt. Buffs his leather shoes with a hand towel, having nothing else to shine them with. Despite these efforts, he’s feeling vulnerable and hopes he doesn’t come across to Scully like some pitiful sad sack. It’s hard to convey confidence when you don’t feel it.

On his way to the front lobby, he pauses at the open door of the Activities Room, where Steel Wool is playing Takenoko with another patient. They pause at their game and Steel Wool gives Mulder a thumbs up while eyeballing him like he’s this year’s prom king. “You do fine, Zaddy,” Steel Wool says with a nod.

The lobby to Rappahannock is similar to a sally port in a municipal jail, used to keep inmates inside a secured location during transfers. Visitors must sign in before gaining access. Glass doors allow Mulder to see through the lobby straight out to the parking lot beyond while waiting for Scully to arrive. He paces in circles, eyes trained on the road leading into the Center.

At 1:55 p.m., Scully’s car pulls into the drive. She parks near the building. When she steps out of her car, he inhales, filling his lungs for what seems like the first time in weeks.

She looks beautiful. As always. She’s dressed casually…for her…in a creamy sleeveless silk top that shows off her freckled shoulders, a fitted navy skirt, and blue-and-white striped canvas shoes with high wedged heels that appear wrapped in twine. He doesn’t know what they’re called but has seen at least half a dozen pairs just like them in various colors lined up neatly in their closet. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a look he’s always liked on her.

He has missed her more than he’s missed daylight and freedom and peace of mind all rolled into one.

It takes longer than he’d like before she’s signed in and he’s released into the lobby where she waits for him. When she’s within arms reach, he wants to wrap her up in a tight embrace, lift her off her feet, and kiss her with all the passion he has in him, but she’s hanging back, looking shy and uncertain.

“I guess this is awkward,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Is it okay…can I kiss you?”

“Mulder…”

“Too soon?”

She sizes him up. “No,” she says and presents her cheek.

It’s less than he was hoping for but he’s not going to deny himself the pleasure. He leans in and gives her a quick, chaste peck, reveling ever so briefly at the smooth warmth of her skin.

Pulling back, he says, “You look good,” at the same time she says, “You’ve lost weight.”

He chuffs a laugh. “Well. The food isn’t exactly haute cuisine at Chez Rappahannock.”

“In that case, I know the perfect place to go.” She smiles for the first time.

He follows her out to the car, where he settles into the passenger seat. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Tries but fails to still the restless jiggle of his knees.

“It’s not far,” she says when she’s behind the wheel with the engine running.

“Any hints?”

“No, I’d prefer to surprise you.”

“Okay.” Is it wise to surprise a man who is being treated for PTSD? He’s not sure but he trusts her.

She steers them out of the parking lot and, minutes later, out of the city center. The scenery becomes more rural as the minutes tick by. She doesn’t say anything, so he stays quiet, too. Until their destination comes into view.

“You know what I like!” he says, thrilled with her choice as she slows the car and steers them into the parking lot at the Sawyer Family Dairy Bar.

A shallow-pitched roof with a deep overhang caps the low-slung 50’s-style drive-in restaurant, which is clad in bright white clapboards and red trim. An oversized sign shaped like an ice cream cone lists dozens of flavors and announces “Don’t Miss Our World Famous Onion Rings!” Two windows pierce the front above a counter that runs the length of the building. A sign over one window reads “Order Here” while the other says “Pick Ups.” A loud speaker is mounted on one corner of the roof, facing the combined parking lot and picnic area.

“I thought you’d enjoy this," Scully says, clearly pleased with her choice as she parks and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Come on. Let’s order.”

“Can I get whatever I want?” He scrambles from the car. She’s already out and halfway across the lot.

“Of course.” She looks his way. Her smile is dazzling.

“I…I don’t have any money. They took my wallet when…” He doesn’t want to talk about his first day at the Center.

“It’s okay, Mulder. I’m a working woman. I can afford a couple of hamburgers.”

“I have to limit myself to just two?” he teases.

They’re met at the counter by a friendly girl in her late teens. Her name tag says “Kayla.” “What can I get you?” she asks.

“Go ahead, Mulder.” Scully steps aside. “You go first.”

“Okay. Um, I’d like…” He glances at the menu taped beside the window. “Two double cheeseburgers, a side of onion rings, French fries, and a large chocolate milkshake. Please.” When Scully gapes at him, he says, “Fair warning: I’m having a banana split for dessert.”

She laughs, then orders a haddock sandwich and a diet co*ke for herself. She pays Kayla and then selects a nearby picnic table, where they sit to wait for their food to be prepared. A patio umbrella provides shade.

Most of the nearby tables are empty, although a family of five enjoys massively large ice cream cones not far away. The children squeal as the ice cream drips over their sticky hands and down their arms. A baby with pale red hair giggles in his carrier, his face covered in melted chocolate. Mulder is reminded of William and thinks this might be the time to apologize to Scully for all of his unforgivable accusations, when Scully’s name is called over the loud speaker, delaying the opportunity. “Dana, your order is ready. Dana."

The food is delicious. A welcome break from the healthy but bland fare at the Center. Mulder stuffs his face and stomach with juicy burgers and greasy onion rings, while Scully watches him, looking as pleased as he feels.

She takes a dainty bite of her sandwich, then washes it down with a sip of cola. “I want you to be honest with me, Mulder,” she says.

He stops chewing. “Sure. Of course.”

“How are you really doing? How is your treatment going?”

He swallows a too-large bite of ground beef and bun with effort. Discomfort causes sweat to bead at his hairline. Does she see it? “I-I’m okay.”

She squints. Takes another sip of her drink. “What medication is Dr. James prescribing? Zoloft?” When Mulder nods, she says, “Is it causing side effects? I know that diarrhea—”

“How about them Yankees, Scully?” Mulder sets his burger down.

“Sorry, it’s just…I worry about you. Zoloft has a long list of side effects: insomnia, hyperhidrosis, psychom*otor agitation—”

“Is this helping?”

“There can be serious discontinuation symptoms, too—”

“Scully, I don’t think I’ll be coming off medication anytime soon.”

Her brow creases with worry…or maybe disappointment, he’s not sure.

“But you’re feeling better?” she asks.

Mulder studies his hands as if his future is etched in his palms. “I…I’ve had a few setbacks,” he admits, wishing it weren’t true so he wouldn’t have to tell her. “More than a few, to be honest.”

“Oh.” It’s a startled syllable, barely a breath.

He hopes she doesn’t ask for details but of course she does. Ever the investigator. Ever the healer.

“What sort of setbacks?”

“Flashbacks mostly.”

“Of what?” Fear glosses her eyes. The whites ring her Atlantic-hued irises. Pinpoint pupils bore into him.

“I’d rather not spend what little time we have together talking about this, Scully.” He plays with an onion ring, which is big enough to encircle Scully’s wrist like a batter-fried bracelet. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Sure. Of course.”

And they do. Mulder asks about her job, her new apartment, her mother…anything other than his illness or the discord it’s caused between them. He wants to rebuild their relationship, if he can. Not make it impossible to reconcile.

Scully replies to his mundane questions with scant enthusiasm. It’s clear she’s unhappy with things as they stand. With him, he supposes.

Their time together races by, so much so, he’s shocked when she announces they need to head back to the Center.

“Can’t we be a little late?” he wheedles, scooping out the last bite of his banana split

“No. I promised Erik.”

Erik. Mulder can’t deny Dr. James has helped him, today especially, but this friendship with Scully rankles nonetheless. Mulder isn’t pleased about his jealous streak but where Scully is concerned, he can’t seem to control it.

“Then we’d better get back,” he says bitterly. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint ‘Erik.’”

“Mulder…”

“It’s okay, Scully. Let’s just…go.”

He knows he’s being childish. Something else he’ll need to apologize for later.

They gather up their trash and deposit it in an overfull bin by the Pick Up window, then get back in the car to return to the city.

At the Center, Scully pulls into a parking space. She’s about to shut off the car engine when Mulder says, “Wait.” The clock in the dash reads 3:50. “I have ten minutes before I have to check in. I-I’d like to use it to talk to you about something. Something important.” He wants to say he’s sorry. For being short with her just now and, more importantly, for his accusations about William’s adoption.

“Okay.” She unfastens her seatbelt and turns to face him. She watches him with what he can only interpret as trepidation.

He clears his throat. Begins. “Our last fight…” His voice gives out.

“Mulder, don’t—”

“I said some terrible things to you,” he says, louder, more firmly, “about William.”

“You were sick, Mulder.”

“Yes, but I meant what I said.” The words come out too loudly. He softens his tone to clarify. “At the time.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “And now? What are you saying now?”

“I’m saying I was wrong to blame you. If anyone was at fault, it was me. I left you…with a newborn...” Now his eyes burn with tears. He tries to blink them away. Fails. Drives the heels of his hands into the wells of his eye sockets, brings his hands away wet. “I never should’ve left you.”

“Mulder—”

“I should’ve stayed…to protect you…to protect him. Maybe together, we…” He can’t catch his breath, can’t stop his tears. “It’s my fault he’s gone, Scully, not yours. Never yours. And I’m sorry I thought differently for a time. I’m so…so very sorry.”

“Mulder, you have to know I don’t hold you responsible for anything you said while you were sick, or for the loss of our son.” She places her hand on his arm. “What happened to him wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine. Our son—”

“No, Scully, I—”

“Listen to me, Mulder. William had…special abilities. He could move objects with his mind. I saw it! Have you asked yourself how he came by those abilities?”

Mulder works to get his emotions under control. “Maybe it was a natural genetic mutation, an evolutionary leap.”

“The possibility that William is the result of a spontaneous evolutionary adaptation, naturally occurring, is so close to zero as to be statistically impossible. Science doesn’t support the sudden appearance of telekinetic abilities in humans or in any other species, for that matter. Which means, William was given his abilities.”

“But how? Why?” Usually, Mulder is the one to spout farfetched theories while she denies such possibilities. It strikes him that his illness has blinded him…is blinding him still. He’s now relying on her to ferret out the truth.

“I don’t know how or why, Mulder, but we’ve both seen things, experienced things that could have contributed to the creation of a child with a unique genetic makeup. I believe William is our biological son, I do, but think about it. You were exposed to the Black Oil. I was exposed to a virus, a virus you believe is extraterrestrial in origin. I have a chip in the back of my neck that may have cured my cancer! We’ve both been abducted and subjected to tests. What do you imagine those tests were for?” She stares him down, determined to make him understand. “The tests conducted on me made me barren. And yet, I became pregnant and gave birth to William. How do you explain that?”

He shakes his head. Then notices the car clock. It’s 4:01. They’re out of time. But Scully continues her argument. “Our son would be with us today if not for the men who used us for years for their own purposes. We’ve been pawns in their game since the beginning. Expendable pieces on a board with very high stakes.”

Beyond the windshield, Dr. James opens the Center’s front door, steps outside, and looks their way. If Scully sees him, she doesn’t appear concerned. She keeps talking. “The forces against us wanted…needed…William because of his unique abilities. Thankfully, we didn’t let that happen. Our son is safe now.”

“Thanks only to you.”

She takes his hand and grips it tightly. “The things that were done to us were never your fault or mine. Put the blame where it belongs, for the sake of our relationship and your sanity. Are you listening to me, Mulder? Are you hearing what I’m saying?”

In truth, he isn’t listening. A car has pulled into the parking lot about 100 yards away. The driver takes a drag on his cigarette before turning to speak to his passenger, a 12-year-old boy.”

“f*ck…” Mulder pulls free of Scully’s grasp, shoves open the door, and lurches out of the car. “William!” he shouts as he dashes across the lot.

“Mulder!” Scully calls after him. “What are you doing?”

“Saving our son!” He races to the other car, pounds on the driver’s window. “Get out, you black-lunged son-of-a-bitch!”

The man inside, CGB Spender, smiles back at him, a familiar self-satisfied smirk. Smoke curls from the tip of his lit cigarette.

The boy in the passenger seat looks panicked. He’s struggling to unfasten his seatbelt and open his locked door. Mulder runs to the other side of the car. Rattles the door handle. “William! William!”

The boy stares up at him with frightened eyes. Desperate, Mulder searches for something he can use to break through to the boy, to free him. A 2-gallon cigarette receptacle at the end of the walkway catches his eye. He runs toward it, hefts it by its long neck. It weighs about 15 pounds and he wields it like a baseball bat. He returns to the car and shouts a warning to his son. “Cover your head!” he says, before he strikes at glass on the driver’s side door. Twice, three times, the receptacle bounces off the window with a resounding thud. On his fourth swing, the glass shatters.

Before Mulder can reach inside, intending to choke the life out of Old Smokey, he’s tackled to the ground. A Rappahannock security officer straddles him and holds him down. Mulder struggles and cries out, but can’t free himself. “Scully!” he yells, twisting to find her. He can’t see her. His view is blocked. By Erik James.

“Scully! Scull…” Her name fades on his lips when James sinks a hypodermic needle into his right hip.

No, no, no, not again…not again…not again…

3 DAYS LATER

Mulder sits on the narrow bed in his room, elbow propped on one knee, chin cradled in his palm as he stares out the window. A summer storm rages beyond the glass. Rain ricochets off the pavement in the parking lot. Tree branches flail and leaves whirl above the sidewalk. Mother Nature has unleashed her violent side today. Mulder feels detached from the chaos outside. His mind is groggy, his movements as slow as the fan that rotates lazily above his head, barely stirring the stale indoor air.

The incident in the parking lot three days ago has set him back. Dr. James suggests trying a different drug regimen as well as starting a trauma-focused treatment, like CPT. He’d also like to teach Mulder some coping techniques for recognizing the onset of PTSD flashbacks and managing them before they spiral out of control.

Perhaps most discouraging of all, James recommends at least another 4-week extension to Mulder’s in-patient therapy. Mulder sees he has little choice but to accept the doctor’s counsel and stay. It’s clear he’s not well enough to live on his own and he can’t expect Scully to take on the burden of watching him 24/7. Not that she offered. She has a job. Her own life to live. A life he desperately would like to be a part of again.

Rain hammers against the widow panes, runs in rivers down the glass. The world beyond is gray and blurred, reflecting Mulder’s mood.

He rouses himself and reaches for his journal. It’s filled with nearly 30 entries, all letters to Scully. His pencil — dented with teethmarks, the tip dulled, the eraser all but gone — serves as a bookmark, keeping his place. He picks it up and starts to write.

Scully, I’m sorry about the way our visit ended. It’s not how I pictured it. In that moment I thought…

He’s at a loss.

I don’t know what I thought.

But it’s clear I’ll never be the man I used to be. I’ve become…something else. And I hope that will be enough.

I see now that you can’t save me. But I do hope you’re willing to stand by me while I try to save myself.

CHAPTER 5: Release

RAPPAHANNOCK RIVER RECOVERY CENTER
THREE DAYS EARLIER
(THURSDAY, JULY 25, 2013)
4:01 PM

Their visit is nearly over. Scully sits behind the steering wheel of her car, her face angled toward Mulder, who is slouched in the passenger seat. He’s just apologized for his accusations about her, about William. But now he’s blaming himself, a perspective she cannot let stand. She reaches out, takes his hand, and grips it tightly to ensure his attention, wanting…needing…him to understand.

“The things that were done to us were never your fault or mine. Put the blame where it belongs, Mulder, for the sake of our relationship and your sanity.”

Across the parking lot a car pulls to a stop. Mulder turns away from her to stare at it.

"Are you listening to me?” She squeezes his hand more firmly. “Are you hearing what I’m saying?”

“f*ck…!” Mulder unexpectedly pulls free of her grasp, shoves open the passenger side door, and scrambles out of the car. “William!” he yells as he sprints across the lot.

“Mulder!” Scully calls out to him through the open door. “What are you doing?”

“Saving our son!” he shouts without stopping or slowing.

Muscle memory kicks in and Scully bolts after him like they’re chasing monsters on a high stakes case. Maybe they are chasing monsters…horrors that live only in Mulder’s mind.

Mulder races to the parked car, pounds on the driver’s window. “Get out, you black-lunged son-of-a-bitch!”

What the hell is Mulder doing?

The man inside startles and stares up at him. Although there’s no one else in the car, Mulder runs to the passenger side with a desperate look on his face. He rattles the door handle. “William! William!”

Damn it! Scully catches up to him. Grabs his arm. He shakes her loose and dashes to a 2-gallon cigarette receptacle at the end of the walkway. He hefts it by its long neck, returns to the car, and shouts “Cover your head!” to the empty passenger seat, before he rounds to the driver’s side. Wielding the receptacle like a baseball bat, he strikes at the glass. Twice, three times.

“Mulder, stop!”

On the fourth hit, the glass shatters.

“Mulder!” Scully tries again to take hold of his arm.

He elbows her away, knocking her to the ground. The unexpected jolt causes her to bite her tongue. Blood flows, brassy and bitter, as surprising as Mulder’s outlandish behavior.

A Rappahannock security guard appears seemingly out of nowhere and tackles Mulder to the ground. The hulking guard straddles his back. Mulder struggles, bellows to be let up, but the officer has him pinned face down on the pavement.

“Stay calm, sir,” the guard says as he grips Mulder’s wrists to prevent him from thrashing. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Scully!” Mulder yells, twisting in a useless effort to free himself. “Scully! Scull…” The fight goes out of him when Eric arrives and sinks a hypodermic needle into his right hip.

An orderly joins them. Then another. Along with the security guard, they half-wrestle, half-drag Mulder toward the Center.

“Wait right here, Dana,” Erik says. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be right back.” He helps the men hustle Mulder through the front doors and into the lobby, where Scully loses sight of them.

She rises from the asphalt. Her palms sting. They’re bleeding and embedded with sand from her fall. Her pulse is pounding and her injured tongue throbs with each frantic heartbeat.

She looks in at the man in the car through his broken side window. “Are you alright, sir?” she asks.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m here to pick up my daughter.” His voice is shaky. He brushes shards of glass from his clothes. “She’s being released today. Thank God.”

Eric returns, looking flushed. He speaks briefly to the startled driver, then turns to Scully. “Come with me,” he says and leads her inside to a small conference room overlooking the parking lot.

“You’re bleeding.” Eric points to her mouth and hands her a box of tissues.

She takes one and dabs at her lips. “I bit my tongue.”

“Let me take take a look.”

She opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue.

“The bleeding has pretty much stopped,” Erik says. “Here, take a seat. I’ll get you some water.” He steps out of the room.

Scully sits in one of six chairs around a small conference table. Adrenaline surges through her. Her hands and legs tremble. She’s experiencing tachypnea and suspects her blood pressure is sky high, making her feel lightheaded. When Erik returns and passes her a chilled bottle of water, she gulps down a generous slug.

“Thanks.” She sets the bottle on the table and tries to slow her breathing.

Erik sits down beside her, close enough so their knees touch. Rather than drawing back, she feels comforted by the contact.

When he speaks, his tone is gentle, calming. “What happened out there?”

She shakes her head as she replays the events in her mind. Mulder lost it. That’s the only way to describe what happened. He was completely focused on a threat that wasn’t there.

“Was that a flashback?” she finally asks.

“I suspect so, yes. You’ve never witnessed him having an episode like that before?

“No, never. Do you think it was his first?”

“No. In fact, I know it wasn’t.”

“What?” Scully is shocked. “How many times has something like this happened?”

“I can’t give you specifics, I’m sorry.”

This angers her. She should’ve been warned! “Eric, that man in the car…Mulder could’ve seriously injured him. He could’ve hurt me, too!”

“Let’s back up.” Eric appears both sympathetic and keen to ascertain the facts. “How did Mulder seem to you earlier this afternoon?”

“He was fine. He ate. A lot.”

“Okay. What did you two talk about?”

“My work. My apartment. My mother.”

“Nothing about his therapy or his depression?”

“He didn’t want to talk about those things.”

“Well, that’s not really surprising.”

“It’s not? Why would he want to hide the seriousness of his illness from me?”

“Because you’re in a relationship with him, Dana. He loves you,” Eric says matter-of-factly.

“All the more reason for him to trust me and be honest with me.”

“You have to understand, people suffering from depression often hide their symptoms from others. From their coworkers, family members, and especially from their spouses.”

“We aren’t married,” she says with more resentment than she intends. It’s a sore point. Not because Mulder hasn’t asked her — he has, several times, in fact — but because she’s always resisted the idea. And she doesn’t have a good explanation for doing so. “I’m his doctor, Eric. I should know what’s going on with him. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Dana—"

“No. No! As Mulder’s physician, I have a right to be included in any medical decisions that affect him.”

“I can't agree to that, Dana, and you know why. Your personal relationship with Mulder could very well prevent you from responding to his medical needs with adequate clinical detachment. It’s clear you care for him deeply. And your support will benefit him in the long run. As a friend or romantic partner, but not as his doctor.” Eric’s response is nonjudgmental and kind. Frustratingly so. Scully wants to rail at him but he’s being so damn respectful, accepting, and understanding. He’s very good at what he does, she sees, listening to her concerns while trying to deescalate her fears.

The fire goes out of her. “You won’t be releasing him anytime soon, will you?”

“I’ll need to assess his condition before making any decisions.” Eric’s expression remains compassionate. “But as long as his acute psychosis continues, he’s a threat to himself and others. I have no choice but to recommend he stay on here as an in-patient.”

Mulder is in good hands with Eric, it’s clear. Better than he’d be with her, she realizes with a jab of despair that feels like a punch to the gut.

“Will I be able to see him anytime soon?” she asks.

“Is that wise, in your opinion as a doctor or as a friend? Something triggered his delusion today. We don’t yet know what that was. It might’ve had nothing to do with you. Then again, your importance in his life cannot be understated.”

Scully blinks back tears and fights the ache in her chest. She suspects it was the discussion about William that set Mulder off. His apology had come as such a relief to her but at what expense to him? Her solace was his undoing.

“Give him time, Dana. Give yourself time, too. I truly believe Mulder will get well. For now, he needs the opportunity to heal. He didn’t get into this condition overnight. It’ll take a concerted effort on his part to recover. But he’s proven himself to be resilient in the past. I foresee a positive outcome.”

Dana tries to accept Eric’s prognosis but when she returns to her car it’s with a heavy heart. She expected to go home today feeling uplifted after seeing Mulder, hopeful they’d be reuniting soon. Those hopes are now dashed and she’s left wondering when or if she and Mulder will ever be a couple again. The love of her life is in crisis and right now there’s nothing she can do to help him. The disappointment is profound. What if he never makes his way back to her? Or to himself? What will she do then?

MULDER RESIDENCE
FARRS CORNER, VIRGINIA
THREE MONTHS LATER
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2013
3:34 PM

Mulder pays the taxi driver, then watches him speed down the long drive, out through the gate, and onto the street. Dust churns and tires squeal in the man’s haste to get away. Mulder isn’t certain what put the hair across his ass. Either Mulder’s tip was too small or the hour-long drive from the Rappahannock Crazy House with a silent, brooding passenger of questionable sanity was too much.

In any case, Mulder is glad to be home. He’s a free man at last. It’s been 114 days, give or take a couple of hours, since he checked himself into Rappahannock for what was supposed to have been a 4-week stay but turned out to be almost four times that long. But he’s alive and glad of it. He glances at the porch swing and thinks of how close he came to ending his life. He’s grateful Scully called Dr. James. Grateful to have a second chance to win her back. To be happy.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs. The autumn air is cool and fresh. The scent of dried leaves and fermenting crabapples reminds him of childhood Halloweens on the Vineyard with Samantha in tow, Sam in her tutu and tiara and him in his Spock ears, hurrying from house to house, collecting a mountain of Pixy Stix, Bottle Caps, Pop-Rocks, and other assorted sweets, a stash of candy big enough to last for days.

It’s painful how much he misses her. Misses that time before everything went to sh*t.

Mulder carries his small duffle bag into the house. It contains the clothes he wore at the Center, his medications, his journal, and a meager collection of picture postcards he’d received from Margaret Scully, of all people. The air in the house is stale. He opens a window in the kitchen despite the chill outside. Then pulls his medications from his bag and lines them up on the counter. There are far too many for his liking, but he knows they’re helping. He hasn’t had an episode in nearly a month. Which is why Dr. James released him from the Looney Bin, though he’s to continue twice-weekly therapy sessions. One-on-one meetings with James on Tuesdays and group therapy on Fridays.

Scully’s favorite coffee mug sits upside down in the dish drainer. He doesn’t remember rinsing it out and putting it there, but he must’ve. He fingers the handle, lifts it, puts it back down, and considers calling her.

He’s talked to her on the phone a handful of times since his breakdown in the parking lot last July, but they haven’t seen each other face to face since then. The decision was his, not hers. He didn’t want to risk a repeat performance. For her sake, as much as his own. His face heats now at the memory of that awful day.

Recovery has been tough, more so than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s experienced more than two dozen hallucinogenic delusions since the one Scully witnessed. But working with Dr. James, he’s learned what triggers them. He’s better able to feel his flashbacks coming on and, using the techniques he learned from James, head them off or ask for help. The lessons seem to be working. He feels stronger, more confident. Not cured, for sure, but able to safely return to society.

Mulder crosses from the kitchen to the staircase. The treads creak as he climbs to the second floor. He enjoys the familiar sound. He’s always liked this old house. Sharing it with Scully. Going so far as to hope they might share it one day with William, too.

Dr. James has warned him about wishful thinking and the difference between something that’s achievable and what’s sheer fantasy. Getting William back is a pipe dream. But even so, Mulder sees no harm in holding out hope. He wants to see his son again. Wants to tell him—

A baby’s wail pierces the silence. Frantic. Insistent. It’s coming from the bedroom upstairs.

Mulder drops his bag and takes the steps two at a time. But he stops himself at the top landing. Listens. Waits.

An autumn breeze rattles a loose windowpane in the bathroom to his left. An aging timber pops somewhere downstairs, having carried the weight of the house for decades. The refrigerator hums. A clock ticks in the living room. Mulder closes his eyes. Takes several slow, deep breaths. “I’m having a flashback,” he says out loud. He leans his forehead against the doorframe to the bedroom. The wood feels smooth. Silky and cool against his skin. It centers him.

He shuffles to the bathroom, stands at the sink, and turns on the cold water full blast. Filling his trembling hands again and again, he splashes his face until his fiery cheeks go numb.

The baby’s cry was just a figment of his imagination.

Shaken, he returns to the stairs and retrieves his bag. He intends to unpack it but pulls up short at the bedroom door when he sees the bed has been made.

“Scully…”

She’d been here, sometime while he was at Rappahannock. She’d picked up the clothes he left scattered on the floor. And now that he’s thinking of it, the coffee table he’d kicked over in the living room and the plant pot he’d smashed…all of it was put to rights, like it never happened. What had she been thinking while she cleaned up his mess?

“Scully…” He mumbles her name over and over as his tears start and his legs give out. He squats beside the bed, presses his face into the comforter. It smells like her. God help him, it smells like Scully and he’s wracked by harsh, wrenching cries. Exactly like the day she moved out. The day he’d put his gun beneath his chin and nearly pulled the trigger. Now as then, he weeps like there’s no end to his tears and pain. He cries until there are no more tears in him, until he’s spent and breathless, yet somehow cleansed.

He digs his phone from his pocket and dials Scully’s number.

“Hello?” She answers on the fourth ring, just as he’s about to hang up.

“Hey, it’s me,” he manages to say.

“Mulder, where are you?”

“Home. I’m home. I got out…released on good behavior.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Home,” she repeats, sounding stunned. “I want to see…I’d like to… Can I come over?”

“No.” It takes all his willpower to say that. He swipes at his wet eyes. “Not yet. Please.”

“When then?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll…I’ll have to let you know.”

She’s silent for a minute. Mulder’s nose is dripping. He wipes it on his sleeve.

“Are you doing okay, Mulder?” she says at last. “Do you need anything?”

All I need is you, he wants to say but doesn’t. He’s become better at managing his flashbacks but is still struggling emotionally. Obviously. He’s afraid he’ll lose her forever if he has another episode in front of her. And if he loses her…

He can’t think about that. She is his North Star. She is also the riptide that pulls him under.

“I’m fine, Scully. Really. I don’t need anything. For now.”

“Okay.” She sounds vulnerable. He hates to think of her that way, especially when he’s the cause. She clears her throat. Is she crying? “Let me know if…if there’s anything I can do for you,” she says.

“Will do.” If he doesn’t end this conversation, he’s going to start crying again.

“I love you, Mulder.”

“Talk soon.” He hangs up, hating himself for not telling her that he loves her, too.

SCULLY’S APARTMENT
2112 SHERFORD STREET
WASHINGTON, D.C.
TWO DAYS LATER
11:02 AM

It’s Maggie’s third visit to Dana’s apartment, but the first time she’s driven herself there. Thank goodness for Google Maps, she thinks as she navigates her way to Sherford Street. She’d resisted getting a smartphone and a new car that she could connect it to, but now she’s glad she let Bill Jr. talk her into both. She hasn’t gotten lost even once since trading in her old car and giving up her flip phone. Welcome to the 21st Century, Mom, Bill Jr. joked as he synched the new phone to the car for her. It required something he called blue-teeth or blow-tooth or whatever. Anyway, it makes her feel very modern for a woman of 78.

Another convenience she loves about her new car? Park assist! She watches the steering wheel turn on its own as the car parallel parks itself between two hulking SUVs on Dana’s street. Maybe her next car will be one of those self-driving vehicles she’s always hearing about on the news. Now that would be something!

Maggie retrieves her purse and a shoebox of old photos from the back seat of her car before walking to the front door and buzzing apartment 2112.

“Hello?” Dana’s voice is tinny through the speaker.

“It’s me. Your mother.”

“Mom?” Dana’s surprise is clear, despite the staticky intercom.

Maggie realizes she should’ve called first, but she was so certain her daughter would be “busy,” she decided to drop by unannounced. And if it turned out Dana wasn’t at home, Maggie would’ve driven over to Our Lady of Sorrows, because that’s the only other place Dana ever goes these days.

“Come on up.” Dana pushes the button upstairs to unlock the front door.

A few minutes later, Dana is greeting Maggie in the second-floor hall with a hug and a worried expression. “Is something wrong, Mom?”

“Does something have to be wrong for me to visit you?”

“I don’t…” Dana shrugs and ushers Maggie inside her apartment.

The two-room sublet hasn’t changed one bit since Maggie was here a month ago. No pictures on the walls, no new furniture, no homey touches.

“Dana, do you ever plan to actually move in, fix the place up?”

“I’m hardly ever here, Mom.”

Maggie sets her box of photos on the practically bare kitchen counter and shrugs out of her coat, but then finds there’s nowhere to put it.

“Here.” Dana takes it. She searches the front closet for an extra hanger. Of course, there isn’t one, so she hangs Maggie’s coat over one of her own.

“I’d be happy to take you shopping for a couple of chairs so your visitors would have a place to sit.” Maggie perches on the lone bar stool.

“I don’t want to buy any chairs, Mom.” Dana leans against the counter, arms crossed. “And I don’t have visitors.”

“What am I?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, you’re welcome to borrow some of my furniture. I have more chairs than people to sit in them.” Maggie knows this is a thinly veiled jab, a reference to the fact that her children rarely visit. Dana especially. Always at work, nose to the grindstone. Never enjoying her life. Her daughter doesn’t yet realize how quickly time passes. How one moment you’re a young woman with your whole life ahead of you and in the next breath you’re a grandmother, a widow, 78 years old (how did that happen so quickly!), who pours out her love to her church and her community because her children are always so darned busy.

She loves her children, every one of them, but she knows her family will never be cast in a Hallmark movie. Bill Jr. is as strict and controlling as his father was. Dana throws herself into her work. What is she trying to avoid? And Charlie? He was such a cheerful baby, the easiest of them all. But her youngest child harbors a grudge he refuses to reconcile. She hasn’t seen him in years, though she’s reached out time and again.

Then there’s Melissa, her creative, carefree daughter, taken too soon. A bright light extinguished. Maggie misses her every day. Bill Jr. blames Fox for Melissa’s death, but Maggie believes in placing blame where it belongs, on an assassin who intended to kill Dana and ended up shooting Melissa by mistake. A man named Alex Krycek, she has since learned. She’s never met the man but she hates him with every breath in her. Not very Christian, she knows, but even so… The gun was in his hand. His finger pulled the trigger. Her sweet girl is gone because of him, not Fox Mulder.

“Maybe you don’t really want to be here,” Maggie suggests, unwilling to drop the subject.

“Meaning what?”

“You want to be back at Farrs Corner.”

“Maybe I do.” Dana looks broken. Shattered.

Maggie stands and gives her daughter a loving hug, wishing she could magically make Dana’s heart whole again.

“Then go home, sweetheart! Fox won’t mind. He’s not even there!”

To say Maggie was shocked when she learned Fox was in a recovery center is an understatement. She pictured him surrounded by drug addicts and alcoholics. Maybe even serial killers who haven’t been caught yet. She got his address from Dana and began sending him postcards. He hasn't written back, but she doesn’t take it personally. It’s possible they don’t allow him to receive mail from “the outside.” Or maybe he doesn’t have any stamps. She’d considered sending him some, but then worried it might look like she was fishing for a response. He had enough troubles without trying to meet her expectations.

“Mulder’s back home,” Dana says.

“He is? When did he get back?” Maggie briefly worries her most recent postcard might not have made it to him in time.

“Two days ago.”

“Have you gone to see him?”

“No.”

“No? For Pete’s sake, Dana, why not?”

“He doesn’t want me there, Mom.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true. He said so when we talked on the phone the day before yesterday.”

“And you believed him?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dana frowns, then adds in a despondent tone, “Today is his birthday.”

“You’re going to see him later and celebrate, aren't you?”

“No. Not after what happened in July.” Dana shakes her head, forlorn. “Mulder had a flashback. In front of me. Since then, he’s refused to see me.”

“What do you mean by a ‘flashback’?”

Dana explains in gruesome detail, seeming to want to rid herself of the burdensome memory. Her description of what happened clearly frightens her. It frightens Maggie, too. It sounds so unlike the Fox she knows, it's impossible.

“You should go anyway, sweetheart. Don’t you want to see him?”

“Very much.”

“Then go! He’d love to see you, too. I’m certain of it.”

“Please, Mom…just…just drop it.” Dana reaches for the shoebox Maggie brought. “What’s this?”

The box is full of old snapshots, mostly of the kids when they were small. Maggie has been downsizing recently, not that she plans to move anytime soon, but it’s never too early to start. Her neighbor Sally waited too long. She died two months ago at age 94. The onus of sorting through her belongings fell to her sons. What a heartache and headache. Maggie doesn’t want that to happen to her children.

“Coffee?” Dana asks. She peeks inside the box.

“How about tea?”

“Sure.”

Dana pulls two mismatched mugs and a box of teabags from a nearly-empty upper cabinet. She unwraps the teabags and drops them into the mugs, which she fills with water from the kitchen faucet. Maggie hates microwaved tea, but she isn’t about to complain and further upset Dana. She hides her distaste while they drink their tea, sort through the photos, and reminisce. It turns out to be a pleasant hour after all.

“Can I take you to lunch?” Dana is still eyeing the snapshots spread out across the counter.

“No, thank you, sweetheart. I appreciate the offer, but I’d like to get home early.” This is a lie. Maggie has something else in mind for this afternoon.

Dana accepts it without comment. She retrieves Maggie’s coat and helps her into it.

“You keep the photos,” Maggie insists when Dana starts to box them up again.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She hugs her daughter. Dana kisses her cheek. “Maybe I’ll take just this one,” Maggie says, plucking up a photo of Dana at age three from the pile. “I’ve always liked it.” She tucks it into her purse.

They kiss and exchange I love you’s.

Back in her car, Maggie doesn’t head to Baltimore. She has decided to visit Fox instead. She’s never been to his house (Dana always said it wasn’t safe for Fox to have visitors), but she has the address from when Dana was living there…in case of an emergency. And she’s confident her new navigation system will get her where she wants to go.

But first, she’ll pick up a birthday cake at Whole Foods, then drive on to Farrs Corner and surprise Fox. Can you imagine? she thinks to herself. It’s a long trip, but it’s still early afternoon and there’s plenty of daylight left. Her mind is made up.

MULDER RESIDENCE
FARRS CORNER, VIRGINIA
4:39 PM

Maggie steers her car through the open front gate into what she hopes is Fox’s driveway, relieved the voice in her car’s navigation system is now claiming she’s arrived at her destination. It’s been a tiring drive and she’s feeling more than a little worn out. She parks on the grassy turnaround in front of the house. Through the windshield, she sees Fox kneeling on his roof, hammer in hand. Thank God, this is the right place! He spots her and waves, rises to his feet, and makes his way across the peak with the ease of a mountain goat. He climbs down a ladder and walks toward her car.

“Maggie!” He looks pleased to see her. He’s dressed in worn jeans and a wrinkled flannel shirt. He needs a haircut but he’s clean shaven. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“I thought it was time I visited. Past time, to be honest.”

“It’s good to see you,” he says, sounding sincere. He closes the gap between them. His smile is shy as he leans down to place a soft kiss on her cheek. Before he can draw back, she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him as hard as she can. He’s skinnier than she remembers. She can feel his ribs beneath the soft flannel of his shirt.

“Thank you!” he says when she releases him. His cheeks are pink from either embarrassment or appreciation.

A chilling wind whips his long hair. Hers, too. She swipes it away from her eyes but it’s like trying to tame a nor’easter.

“Where are my manners,” he says. “Come inside where it’s warm. It’s a fine day for roof repairs but not great for standing out here in the cold.”

“You have a leak in the roof?” she asks as he corals her with one arm and steers her up the front steps.

“Not yet. But I do have some loose shingles. Figured I should address the problem before it becomes a bigger problem.” He holds the door for her.

They enter directly into the kitchen. It’s cozy inside. Neat and clean. She’s pleased to see the postcards she sent him are pinned by magnets to his refrigerator.

“You got them!” She points to her favorite, a picture of wild ponies on Chincoteague Island at sunrise.

“Yes. Thank you for sending them. They were always the highlight of my week.”

She finds his admission incredibly sad. Was there really so little for him to enjoy or look forward to? She supposes it was pretty grim, but doesn’t ask for details. She doesn’t want to pry. If he wants to tell her something, he will.

The pleasant smell of woodsmoke draws her into the living room where flames flicker inside a hulking, glass-fronted, cast-iron wood stove. The fire paints the room’s hardwood floor and braided wool rug with its golden hue. The warmth is welcome.

Mulder points her toward a chair near the hearth. “Have a seat. Would you like coffee?”

“Tea, if you have it.”

He nods. “I do. Make yourself comfortable.”

“You don’t have to wait on me.” She trails him into the kitchen, intending to help in any way she can.

“I don’t mean to argue with you, Maggie, but I haven’t had many opportunities to play host recently.” He blocks her way. His size is intimidating but his demeanor is patient and kind. He smiles and she can understand how this man managed to charm her daughter. “Wouldn’t want my skills to grow rusty.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.” She returns his smile. “While you make the tea, I’ll get something I left in my car.”

“Can I get it for you?” he asks, his hand stalled over a tin of tea in an opened upper cupboard. “I’d be happy to—”

“No, no. It’s a surprise. A gift for you.”

“For me?” He blinks at her, a look of stunned appreciation on his face. “Why are you giving me a gift?”

“It’s your birthday, isn't it?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“Dana mentioned it.”

He looks at her quizzically but says nothing more.

By the time she returns with his surprise birthday cake, his teakettle is whistling. He’s setting out a teapot and two china cups with saucers on a tray, along with a dainty milk pitcher, a sugar bowl with silver tongs, and two teaspoons that look like family heirlooms. Everything is mismatched but delightfully pretty.

She sets the cake box on the counter. He eyes it with curiosity and maybe even a little eager anticipation, if she’s not misreading him.

“Do you have any birthday candles?” she asks.

“I don’t think… Wait. Maybe. I have something that might work.” He pours hot water into the teapot and leaves the tea to steep, then rattles through a drawer that appears to be a catchall for takeout menus, matches, twist ties, and more. In the back, he finds a single white taper, partially burned and intended for a tabletop candlestick.

“That’ll do.” She opens the cake box, takes the candle from him, and sticks it in the center of the cake, where it looks ridiculously oversized.

He passes her a book of matches, from the Middleton Tavern in Annapolis, she notices on its cover.

“I’d sing Happy Birthday but I have the worst singing voice you can imagine,” she says. Her entire family used to beg her not to sing.

“I don’t know about that.” He chuckles. “Dana can’t carry a tune to save her life. Or mine.”

“She inherited that from me, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

It takes Maggie two tries but in the end she manages to light the candle. “Make a wish.”

He pauses a moment, looking contemplative, then blows out the flame. There’s a quiet sadness to him, a subtle scent of loneliness. He tries to hide it but it leaks out of him the way blood oozes from the picked scab of a child’s scraped knee.

She claps and he blushes like a small boy.

“Plates and forks?” she asks.

He gets them out, along with a knife to cut the cake and a short stack of paper napkins that are decorated with jack-o’-lanterns and wart-nosed witches. She doesn’t ask the story behind them.

She cuts and plates up two slices of cake. He adds them to his tray.

“Are you okay eating in the living room?” he asks.

“I am if you are.”

He nods and carries the tray to the coffee table. She follows behind him.

“Have a seat.” He points again to the comfortable armchair by the fire, before pouring the steaming hot tea into their cups.

She sits, delighted he didn’t simply toss a couple of teabags into mugs of water and microwave them. Not that she’s finding fault with Dana, but there’s a comfort to tea made the traditional way.

“Milk?” he asks.

“Yes, please, and a half sugar.”

He fixes her cup and passes it to her, along with a slice of cake, before he settles onto the couch.

She balances her plate in her lap and takes a sip of tea. The flavor is heavenly. “Where did you learn to make a proper pot of tea?”

“I went to school in England.”

“Right, it seems I knew that.”

She finds it heartening to be in his presence like this. His manner is so gentle, his tone calm, she can’t imagine him raising his voice or lashing out in anger the way Dana has described.

“Fox, I don’t usually like to interfere in my children’s affairs, but…”

“Uh oh.” Cup halfway to his lips, he sets it down. “But?”

“Dana told me you don’t want to see her. Is that true?”

“Not…entirely.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…I want to see her, but I don’t want her to see me.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Fox.”

“I understand why you might think that, but you don’t have all the facts.”

Oh really? “Dana told me you had a breakdown,” she says bluntly, laying out all her cards. “Right in front of her. She called it a flashback and said it’s common for people with PTSD.”

Fox groans. “I wish she hadn’t shared that with you. Hell, I wish it’d never happened.”

“But it did, so what are you going to do about it?”

His gaze settles on the flickering fire, which sparks and snaps behind the soot-stained glass. “Continue my therapy. Take my meds. Hope for the best.”

“Dana could help you with that.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want her seeing me like this. I’ve got months of out-patient therapy to go. At best. I never know when a flashback is going to occur. I…I become violent. I do and say things I don’t intend.” He looks both adamant and miserable. “It’s not safe for her to be around me right now. To be honest, it never was.”

“That’s not true.” Maggie is equally adamant. “You would never harm her.”

“I’m not the man I used to be, Maggie.” His eyes gleam with tears. “I may never be that man again. I have more bad days than good. I’m not sure I can hold down a job, let alone maintain a healthy relationship.”

She sets her tea on the end table beside her. “You’re not working?”

“No. Not really. I’m thinking about writing a book, but…I don’t know. My concentration isn’t what it used to be.”

“Well, if you have time to kill, you could help me with a project.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“I’m downsizing and could use some help”

“You’re thinking of moving?”

“No, not anytime soon, but I’d like to get a start on it while I’m still able. I have boxes in the attic that are too big for me to handle. Items in the garage that need going through, given away or tossed out. It’s heavy work. Daunting for a woman my age.”

“I’d be happy to help.” He appears to mean it. There’s an excitement in his eyes that was missing until now. “Why don't you spend the night here and I’ll drive you to Baltimore in the morning. We can get started right away. It’s too late for you to drive back tonight in any case.”

“That’s an excellent idea. But… how will you get home after you’ve finished helping me?”

“Hitchhike.”

“Fox! No! That’s not safe.”

“I’m only kidding. I’ll take an Uber.”

“Isn’t that just like hitchhiking except you have to pay for it?”

“Pretty much. Please, don’t worry, Maggie, I’m a big boy. I’ll find my way home. You’re welcome to pin my name and address to my shirt in case I get lost.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’ll be fine. Eat up.” He shovels a forkful of cake into his mouth, putting an end to the discussion.

She eats her cake, too, and when they’ve finished, he offers to fix them dinner.

“Dinner? More food?” she asks, unbelieving.

“You’re not hungry?”

“We just ate cake.” She laughs, then remembers his skinny ribs. “But maybe it would be good to put something healthy into our stomachs.”

“I can make a salad.”

“Salad!” She doesn’t mean to sound so surprised.

He ducks his head as if embarrassed. “Yeah, well, if you’d been eating nothing but mushy, tasteless, over-processed slop for the past four months, you’d be jonesing for something crisp and fresh, too.”

“I’ll help you chop,” she offers and rises from her chair.

They work in companionable silence, cutting up cukes and radishes, romaine and avocados. Maggie adds olives and cherry tomatoes to the salad bowl. Fox tosses in croutons and crumbled feta. He whisks together a simple dressing of garlicky olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and dried basil. She suggests adding a half teaspoon of sugar, which he does, to cut the sourness of the vinegar. They make a good team.

He sets the dining room table, then pours them each a glass of red wine. They sit and eat. Maggie decides not to hound him about Dana. Instead she asks about the house, what repairs need doing after he fixes the roof, whether he has enough firewood for the winter.

Maybe it’s the wine or the late hour, but once their food is eaten, she says, “Don’t give up on Dana.”

“I haven’t. Truly.”

“She needs you. She desperately wants to see you.”

He nods, but commits to nothing.

“Soon. Promise me, Fox.”

He looks pained, but says, “Okay, I promise,” then rises from the table to carry their dishes to the kitchen.

“Let me help.” She follows after him with her empty wine glass.

When they finish loading the dishwasher, he presses the on button and the machine hums to life. “I’ll make up the guest bed,” he says. “You need anything? A toothbrush?”

“I always carry a toothbrush in my purse, thanks, but I could use something to wear to bed. I wasn’t planning to be away from home tonight.”

“Dana left some things behind. You’re welcome to take a look.”

He leads her upstairs to the master bedroom and points her toward Dana’s bureau. Leaving her to search the drawers, he goes to make up the bed in the guest room across the hall.

Scrounging through her daughter’s things leaves Maggie feeling more than a little uncomfortable. It seems a breech of privacy. And she doesn’t know what to think about the lacy, red corset she discovers in the top drawer. She’s relieved to find a pair of sensible pajamas in the drawer below. They’re a soft, satiny blue, more luxe than anything Maggie would ever buy for herself, but they’re well worn and modest enough. She takes them. She also takes a terry robe from the back of the closet. Dana’s clothes, what few she’s left behind, take up little space on the righthand side of the closet. Several pairs of her high-heeled shoes and sneakers are neatly lined up on the floor below. Fox’s clothes crowd the lefthand side. His shoes and sneakers are in a jumble beneath his hanging suits and shirts. A handful of ties look like they’ve been tossed over the rod. She briefly wonders about the various boxes stacked haphazardly on the overhead shelf but, not wanting to snoop any further, she closes the bifold doors and walks away.

“I put fresh towels in the bathroom,” he says when they meet in the hall. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.”

He descends the stairs and she slips into the bathroom to wash up and change into Dana’s PJs. It’s not terribly late, but she’s used to being in bed by 10:00 and that was a half hour ago.

When she’s finished getting ready for bed, she wants to wish Fox a good night and give him the photo of Dana she took from the shoebox earlier today. She tucks it into her robe pocket before going in search of him. His bedroom door is open and the room is dark, but there’s a light burning downstairs in the living room, so she heads down.

“Everything okay?” he asks when he sees her. He rises from the couch where he’d been sitting. A chevron of worry marks his brow.

“Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but really, I should be thanking you. For the cake. For coming by.”

“It was my pleasure.” She pulls the photo of Dana from her pocket and holds it out to him. “I have something for you.”

“Maggie…” He takes the photo and studies it, silent and clearly a little awestruck. “When was this taken?”

“Dana was three. She’d just learned to tie her shoes, as you can see.”

“She looks quite proud of herself.”

“She was.” Maggie remembers the moment like it was yesterday, her little girl pleased as punch having mastered this new skill. “As I recall, she looked a lot like that at the hospital when she introduced me to William. You did, too, Fox. My sweet little grandson William, only a few hours old.”

“I remember.” Joy and regret war in his eyes. “You looked pretty pleased yourself.”

“I was.” She sighs, thinking back to how happy they all were at that moment. Well. No point rehashing the past. It’s done and there’s no going back. No one knows that better than she does.

“Can I keep this?” He holds up the photo.

“Yes, I brought it for you.” She feels the need to try one more time to knock some sense into this grieving, wounded man. A man who might be her son-in-law under other circ*mstances. “Go to her Fox. Talk to her. She wants to see you.”

“I…I will.”

“Okay. Good.” She wants to believe he’ll keep his word. “Goodnight. And happy birthday.”

He nods his thanks.

When she’s halfway up the stairs he says, “My wish came true.”

“Really?” She looks down at him. “Already? What did you wish for?”

“To know Dana wants me back in her life.”

“Oh, honey. I can’t believe you ever doubted it.” She wants to fold him in her arms and hold onto him until he knows exactly how loved he is. “See you in the morning, Fox. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says, not sounding entirely convinced.

Dana will help him, I’m certain of it, Maggie thinks as she heads up the stairs, eager for a good night’s sleep. Everything will be alright in the end.

CHAPTER 6: Happy New Year

MONDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2013
5:56 PM

It’s been a stressful day at Our Lady of Sorrows, more so than usual, starting before sunup when Scully scrubbed in. She assisted with five back-to-back pediatric surgeries over the course of twelve hours. Four successes and one tragedy. She’s just finished speaking with the grieving parents. She hates this part of her job. And she misses going home to Mulder, sharing a bottle of wine while he gently massages the arches of her aching feet, hearing him joke about his day in the bogus, self-deprecating way he often used to lift her spirits and make her laugh.

But that was before. Everything is different now. Wine and foot rubs are out and, to be honest, they’re trivial when viewed in the larger context of their broken relationship.

She stops in her office to grab her purse and check her phone messages before heading home to her empty, cheerless apartment. She has several messages, all but one are work-related and can wait until morning. The lone personal message is from Mulder.

With a mix of trepidation and longing, she presses play.

“Hey, Scully, when are you coming back home? I’m cured now.”

No preamble, short on facts, presumptuous…typical Mulder. The overconfident Mulder from days gone by, that is, not the unsure, agitated man of the past few months. She’s hesitant to call him back, but can’t imagine not doing so.

“Mulder, it’s me,” she says when he answers his phone.

“Scully!” He sounds excited.

A muffled voice in the background distracts him. It sounds like…her mom?

“Where are you, Mulder?”

“At your mother’s house. I’m rifling through her personal belongings.”

“I hope you don’t mean that literally.”

“Scully! What are you implying?” He feigns shocked innocence. She pictures him winking at her mother, turning Maggie’s cheeks pink. He’s teasing, something he hasn’t done in a long time. “It’s all innocent, I swear. She’s standing right here watching me.”

“What’s really going on?” Scully asks, grateful he feels lighthearted enough to joke like this, but curious as to why he’s in Baltimore with her mother.

“I’m helping with a major clean-out. Come on over, help me decide what to save and what to toss.”

This news is so astonishing, Scully barely knows how to respond.

“Mulder, just last Friday, you made it clear you didn’t want to see me. You said so in no uncertain terms. You were adamant.”

“Yyyyes…but I’m pretty sure I said I’d let you know when I was ready.” He pauses for effect. “I’m ready now.”

What the hell changed his mind so quickly? And what part had her mother played in this unexpected turnaround?

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she says, hoping she won’t regret it.

When Scully arrives at her mother’s, she wishes Mulder a belated happy birthday. Under Maggie’s watchful eyes, they’re predictably reserved with one another, overly formal and polite. It feels awkward. Unnatural. But Maggie immediately puts them both to work, ushering them up into the attic where the three of them spend a dusty hour sorting through boxes of books, trunks of clothing, and countless holiday ornaments. They discover two artificial Christmas trees, an ancient Singer sewing machine along with packs and packs of 60s-style dress patterns, and several vacuum cleaners with mismatched parts. The number of outdated items — many broken beyond repair — goes on and on. They all laugh when Mulder unearths three, count ‘em three, gas-powered push mowers shoved deep under the eaves. How did Maggie even get them up here?

“Mom, why did you keep all this stuff?” Scully asks, trying to decide if a chipped table lamp with a dented shade should go in the Keep, Toss or Give Away pile.

Maggie shrugs. “I thought they might be useful.”

Scully graces her with a tolerant smile, then glances over at Mulder and shakes her head. If he’s sorry he agreed to help with all this, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he looks quite content, almost happy, as he carries one item after the next to its appropriate pile, while wearing three of Maggie’s floppy straw gardening hats at the same time. He even volunteers to bring everything that’s not staying down the narrow attic stairs in the morning, which means he must be planning to spend the night in Baltimore. Maybe even here in Maggie’s guest room, though neither Mulder nor Maggie has said a thing about it. Scully finds the entire situation baffling.

By the time Maggie serves them a very late supper, Scully is more relaxed than she’s felt in months, even laughing along with Mulder’s jokes at Maggie’s expense about her Vintage Lawnmower Collection. Maggie takes his ribbing cheerfully, but defends herself by reminding them that she’s a child of the Depression, not a hoarder.

“So, how did this downsizing collaboration come about?” Scully forks lasagna into her mouth.

“I went to visit Fox after I left your apartment yesterday,” Maggie says, like it’s a common occurrence. She passes Mulder seconds, seeing his plate is empty. “He was kind enough to say yes to my request for help.”

“How could I refuse? She brought cake.”

“Ah, she bribed you.” Scully nods.

“I did no such thing.” Maggie helps herself to more garlic bread. “We were celebrating.”

“We were,” Mulder says.

“Sorry, I missed it,” Scully says, meaning it. “I could sing you Happy Birthday now.”

“No!” Both Mulder and Maggie practically shout at the same time, which makes them all laugh.

Scully and Maggie wash dishes while Mulder lugs boxes down from the attic and out into the garage.

“You look extraordinarily pleased with yourself, Mom,” Scully says, drying the lasagna pan.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Maggie pulls the plug in the sink and lets the water drain out. “You were both in the same room at the same time, talking politely to one another tonight. That’s a good start, wouldn’t you say?”

MULDER RESIDENCE
FARRS CORNER, VIRGINIA
10 WEEKS LATER
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 2013
7:15 PM

Scully and Mulder have seen each other a half dozen times since helping her mom clear out her attic. Other than Thanksgiving lunch at Maggie’s last month, their visits have all been short, usually over coffee and in a public place. Nothing even remotely romantic. They’re getting to know one another again, nervous about what they’ll learn, what’s different, what’s the same. Mulder appears much improved over his lowest point six months ago. Somedays it's hard to believe it's been as long as that. Other times, it feels like only yesterday. But Scully has begun to relax in his company again and it’s a welcome change. It’s why she accepted his invitation to come to Farrs Corner to ring in the New Year together. She is dressed up for the occasion in a white silk blouse, black pencil skirt, thigh-high stockings, and stiletto-heeled shoes. Her lacy bra and panties are brand new. She doesn’t want to get her hopes too high, but is willing to take a chance on this one-on-one evening in a private setting. She misses their old life, how things used to be between them. She misses him.

Mulder greets her at the door in dress slacks and, oddly, a gray t-shirt. He’s also wearing a sling on his right arm.

“Mulder, what happened? Are you hurt?” She searches for additional injuries, running frantic eyes and fingers over his arms, chest, face, and skull. His hair, shorter and neater than the last time she saw him, is feather-soft beneath the skate of her palms.

“Not hurt,” he says, “just hoping to recapture the past, rekindle our Millennium Moment.” With a twinkle in his eye, he slides his arm from the sling and flexes it a couple of times to prove it’s fine before he slips it back into place.

“You’re funny.” She holds out the bottle of wine she brought, pleased to see he’s in a playful mood.

“Oh, this is no joke, Scully.” He takes the wine and sets it on the kitchen counter. “That night was the first time I kissed you — on the mouth! — in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“And I didn’t just kiss you as your partner or your friend, but as a man.”

“I…I remember.” Hooboy, she remembers.

“A man in love,” he clarifies.

“Love? That was 14 years ago. As early as that?”

“Scully, sometimes I think I’ve always loved you. Even before we met, it was like I was only waiting for you to arrive.”

It’s a beautiful sentiment and she wants to believe he means it, however, doubt nags at her. Mulder falls in love too easily, she thinks, and wonders if it’s the idea of love that appeals to him more so than the actual emotion. What else would explain Phoebe Green? Or Diana. Or herself, for that matter. She kept him at arms length for years. She’s keeping him at arm’s length now. But there’s so much affection in his eyes as he waits for her response, she feels her heart crack open and decides it’s time to let him in again.

“I’ve missed you,” she admits.

“I missed you more,” he teases, relief smoothing his features.

She smiles and plucks at his sling. “Take this damn thing off, you big goof.”

“No, I want… Let’s relive the details of that night. You drove the car…”

She plays along. “Yes, because you were high on painkillers.”

“And you took me to your place…”

“Because I had a well-stocked First Aid kit, which you never do. You needed your bandages changed every couple of hours.”

“Right.” He searches a drawer for a corkscrew. She locates it for him, next to the silverware where they’ve always kept it. He rolls his eyes and takes it from her. “And I stayed in your bed because…”

“You passed out?”

“Did I?” He pulls two wine glasses from an upper cupboard. “Hm. What was your excuse? You spent the night in that bed, too, right next to me.”

“I’d intended to keep you awake. People who don’t sleep after a bad experience are less likely to develop post traumatic stress dis—” sh*t! What an idiot, she berates herself for taking the conversation in that direction. Things had been going so well. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. It wasn’t zombies that made me crazy.”

No, it was so much more than that. One horror after the next. Unbearable torment heaped upon him until it all became too much.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around the subject, Scully.”

She nods. “But I’d like to change my answer just the same.”

“All right."

“I got into bed with you because…I was exhausted. Possibly delirious.” Delirious with the hope of a second kiss. A hope that became a reality mere minutes after she slipped beneath the covers beside him and turned out the light.

He tags her shoulder. “Weren’t you afraid you’d catch my zombie cooties?”

“Hey, I was scratched up pretty badly, too, and was just as likely to develop an infection as you were.”

“So, you’re admitting we were both attacked by zombies!” The idea clearly pleases him.

He opens the wine, grimacing with affected discomfort as he twists the corkscrew using his “injured” arm, still in its silly sling. Such a showman. He fills the two glasses.

“No, Mulder, I’m saying we were attacked by a couple of extremely unsanitary dead men who were somehow…not dead.”

This makes him laugh out loud. The sound is a rare delight, like hearing a favorite piece of music after years of living in complete and utter silence.

He offers her one of the glasses of wine then clinks his to hers before lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. His gaze never leaves her face and his intense scrutiny causes a rash of heat to crawl up her cheeks and down her neck.

“Scully, I think you stayed in your bed with me because you needed something.” His soft smile becomes a Cheshire Cat grin. “You got to third base that night, if I remember correctly.”

It’s a bald-faced lie. “I never!”

“You didn’t go down on me while I valiantly tried to fend you off with my one good arm?” He snags her free hand and pretends to wrestle with it.

Her blush deepens. “In your drug-addled dreams, maybe.”

“Huh. Seemed real.” A devilish gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Wanna make my dreams come true tonight?” Now that he has a hold on her hand, he brings her fingers to his lips and places a broken line of tender kisses along her knuckles. It’s a show of confidence and affection she hasn’t seen from him in a long time.

Desire ambushes her at the warm press of his mouth to her skin. It knocks the breath from her lungs and all common sense from her head. She wants so badly to be held in his arms and made love to. Her body hungers to take him in, to feel his passion, to show him how much she’s missed him. How much she cherishes him.

She gazes up at him through her lashes and takes a leap of faith. “Maaaybe.”

He needs no further encouragement. He places his own glass of wine, then hers, on the counter before anchoring one hand — the one in the sling — behind her neck and crushing his lips to hers. It’s nothing at all like their Millennium kiss. It’s a thousand times better.

Will he take it further? She hopes so. They haven’t had sex in months. They haven’t had good sex in almost a year.

“Make love to me, Mulder,” she says when he breaks their kiss. “Make love to me like you can’t live without me.”

“I can’t live without you.” His mouth descends upon hers again. He hooks his left arm around her waist and pins her to him while he clutches her left breast in his right hand.

She presses into his palm with equal fervor. Grapples with his belt. Manages to unfasten the buckle before he bulldozes her across the kitchen and slams her up against the refrigerator. She revels in his manhandling. His tongue plunders her mouth. Her lungs hitch for a breath of air. When he slides his lips to her neck, she inhales deeply. Digs her nails into his scalp.

He claws at her blouse. The buttons give way and ping across the tile floor. He yanks the blouse from her shoulders and off her arms. His right knee slides between her legs, making her skirt ride up, exposing the lacy tops of her thigh highs. He growls in appreciation, bites her neck, nips at her cleavage, unhooks her bra and pulls it from her.

Topless, she feels exposed.

“Take this off.” She tugs at his t-shirt.

Hips still pressed against hers, trapping her in place, he hauls his shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion. His fake sling goes with it. He tosses both to the floor.

“Oh look,” he says before he wraps his supposedly injured arm around her waist, “it’s healed.”

“Must be an X-File,” she manages to say before he’s kissing her again, before his hand slides beneath her skirt, before he rips her panties aside and rams a finger into her.

She yelps. Crushes her palm against the bulge beneath his fly. Scrambles to unzip his pants. As soon as she frees his erection, he lifts her off her feet. She wraps her legs around his waist.

“Jesus, I want you, Scully.”

“Then take me.”

He thrusts into her, his aim painfully off-center. He adjusts his stance and his hold on her, then tries again. Her back slams against the refrigerator door as he fills her. Her head hits the stainless steel hard. Stars spark behind her eyes and she isn’t sure if it’s from the blow to her head or this overwhelming desire that feels like a cross between panic and absolution. Their lovemaking has become cataclysmic. A frenzy of thrusts and lust. A bruising ordeal. It’s madness. They’re both suffering from a bout of insanity. A heretofore undiscovered syndrome of the deranged and deluded that pitches them into chaos, confusion, and paradise.

It goes on seemingly forever. Yet it ends all too soon. She climaxes three times. Possibly four, she’s not sure. She's lost count. He comes with the commanding roar of an alpha male claiming his territory. Rather than be concerned about his possessiveness, she relishes it.

Overheated and spent, they remove the remainder of their clothes, open a window, then cling to one another as they catch their breath and let the chilly night air cool the sweat from their exhausted bodies.

Pain and love. Intertwined. Inflicted without malice or reasoning. As it’s been since their beginning. There’s comfort in familiarity.

She finds it hard to think straight.

Midnight approaches and true hunger now supersedes their lust. Naked, they pillage the refrigerator and the pantry shelves, which Mulder has thoughtfully stocked with Scully's favorite bonne bouche delicacies. Berry fruits and cheeses, crabmeat and focaccia. Chocolate truffles. Salted caramel macarons. Mini eclairs. And champagne, of course. They collect flutes and plates and napkins, and carry everything upstairs on a tray to the bedroom.

“Is there anything more decadent than eating in bed?” Scully asks as Mulder sets their feast on the nightstand beside the headboard.

“I can think of something. Lay down,” he instructs. He glances between her and the food. “On your back.” It’s clear what he has in mind.

“Mulder…I don’t know. Food play? It could get messy.”

“I hope so.”

With some nervousness, she does as he asks. Pillows cushion her head as she stretches out in a semi-reclining position. She doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands. She leaves them at her sides, clutching the comforter.

The mattress dips when he sits down beside her, facing her, one bare hip resting against her thigh. The downy hair of his leg tickles her oversensitive skin. He grabs the champaign bottle, dripping with condensation, and drapes a napkin over the corked top.

“Point that thing away, please,” she says.

“Like I haven’t done this before.” He chuckles.

The cork releases with an impressive pop, but is caught in the napkin and doesn’t fly across the room. He holds it up for her inspection.

“Nicely done, Mulder.”

He tosses it over his shoulder onto the floor before filling their flutes.

“Should we toast to something?” He hands her a glass. “An end to world hunger? Peace and goodwill toward all humankind? Yankees make the playoffs and go on to win the World Series?”

“How about something simple. ‘To us’?”

“A bit self-serving, but it works. To us, Scully.”

They each take a swallow. Self-serving is what she wants right now. They deserve a respite from sorrow. He eases her flute from her hand to the nightstand beside her. His own, he positions above her stomach. Tips it slightly, his intention obvious.

“Mulder, no,” she objects.

“Mulder, yes.”

She quivers as the cold liquid fills her navel. It fizzes, overflows, and runs down her sides. She feels it soak cooly into the sheets below her. “Mulder…”

“What?” He leans forward and places warm lips to her skin, then sucks and laps the champagne from her navel.

His flicking tongue causes her to squirm. She’s a little relieved when he sits back up. He reaches toward the tray of food and plucks a fat, ripe strawberry from the various options. He makes a show of biting it in half, chewing and swallowing, then placing the uneaten half over her right nipple. It’s so unexpected, it makes her laugh.

“Don’t move,” he warns as the strawberry wobbles and threatens to roll off her.

He picks up a second strawberry from the tray, repeats the procedure, and covers her left nipple. He leans back to observe his work.

She peers down at the bright red points of her berry-tipped breasts. “That’s quite a look, Mulder.”

“That…is just a start. I’m planning a feast and you are my banquet table.”

Before she can object — and she’s not entirely sure she wants to — he grabs a mini-eclair from the tray and squeezes it like a tube of paint until a rope of cream filling connects her bellybutton to her pubic bone. He pops the empty pastry into his mouth. His palm is left covered in sticky chocolate. He brings it close to her face.

“Lick,” he says, and she does. What she doesn’t clean off with her tongue, he swipes on her inner thighs. “Snack for later,” he says.

Food play is something new for them. Which is surprising, given how long they’ve been together as lovers and how many other things they’ve tried. A memory flashes delightfully in her mind: Mulder, naked from the waist down, hands cuffed behind his back, smiling up at her from their rumpled bed in a cheap motel room outside of South Boise. Over the years, he became quite adept at making love without the use of his hands. She decides food might be fun, too.

He returns his attention to the cream on her abdomen. Runs his fingers through it like a child playing with finger-paints. He places a dollop on her cl*tor*s, which he smears with his thumb, making her shiver. A moan hums in her throat.

Her reaction encourages him. He gives her thigh a pat. “Spread,” he says as he crawls down the bed. When she does, he positions himself between her raised knees. His eyes never leave hers. “Watch me, Scully,” he says before lowering his mouth to her slick folds and lapping the cream from her cl*t with his tongue.

He’s always excelled at oral sex. She never asked how he became such an expert but if he experimented on other women before her, she doesn’t begrudge them. In fact, she would thank them for their service if she could because she reaps the benefits time and again. He eats her like there’s nothing in the world he wants to do more. Whether it turns out to be a sprint or a marathon, he never seems disappointed. Never grows tired or bored. She is the total focus of his attention.

And, oh my God, how good it feels! So different from the violent sex of earlier, although that was magnificent in its own way. But this is sublime. Pressure builds and whirls through her insides. Heat radiates from where Mulder’s tongue explores her opening. It flows upward through her torso and outward to her fingertips and toes. He stares at her face as he works on her, watchful of every twitch of her lips, every change in her expression. Finally, she shuts her eyes, she can’t help it. She needs privacy for what’s coming, even from him. Maybe especially from him.

When her org*sm hits, she barks Mulder’s name and thrashes beneath him. Her arm knocks into the tray of food. It teeters and slides off the nightstand. Food, plates, and silverware crash to the floor. The clatter nearly drowns out her cry of passion.

Mulder looks up in surprise, then bursts out laughing.

Berries are still rolling across the hardwood. Truffles bounce and settle under the furniture. The china plates are in shards. Food is everywhere. Scully shakes her head.

“Well!” Mulder says. “I’d call that a personal best.”

“I call it a mess!”

Mulder shrugs. “We can clean it up. Later.” He crawls up her body and positions his hips between her splayed legs.

The weight of him on her feels wonderful and she supposes he’s right. There’s no mess so permanent it can't be cleaned up and put to rights, given time and determination.

A few minutes later, the hour strikes midnight. It goes unnoticed because he is deep inside her. They are making love slowly this time, in part because, unsurprisingly, both of them are sore from earlier. But also because they want to savor it, make it last. Scully wants Mulder to know this act is more than a physical release. It’s a show of her love for him, deep and abiding, her feelings laid bare, as tangible as their naked bodies. If his low moans and languorous touch are any indication, he understands what she doesn’t seem able to say in words but hopes to show him with her flesh.

Afterwards, they lay sated beside one another, their bodies pressed together, their overheated skin cooling once again. He is on his back, one arm wrapped possessively around her shoulders. Her head rests on his chest, her leg draped over his thighs. She basks in a haze of hope and tenderness.

“Come back to me, Scully,” he murmurs against the crown of her head.

“What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

She tightens her arm around his ribs. He’s so much skinnier than he was six months ago. More lean than when they first met. An unexpected premonition chills her like a the touch of ghostly fingers. She imagines him growing more gaunt, contracting and thinning until he becomes translucent and, finally, vanishes altogether. A shiver of fear runs through her.

“I’m asking you to move back home.” He reaches behind her and pulls the comforter over her, over them both, misinterpreting her trembling. “Please.”

Their relationship spools out in her memory, all of it, a twisting path, arduous, no shortcuts. He’s broken her heart without meaning to more times than he knows. She’s forgiven him more times than she should. In the end, every minute has been worth the struggle. Is worth the struggle still.

Even before we met, it was like I was only waiting for you to arrive.

She doesn’t believe in past lives or soulmates, but she shares this feeling. She is his and he is hers, for better or worse, though they’ve made no official vows before man or God. Even so, her love for him is as solid and durable and exquisite as a carved marble masterpiece that outlasts its creator by millennia.

“Yes,” she says.

“Yes what?” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll move back.”

He wraps her in a constricting embrace. Shifts his position so that he can bury his face against her neck. The slide and heat of his tears mark her like a promise. “You won’t regret it, Scully. I swear.”

CHAPTER 7: An Impossible Relationship

OFFICE OF DR. ERIC JAMES
SIX MONTHS LATER
TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 2014
2:01 PM

“How is the new therapy schedule working out? Too much? Too little?” Dr. James and Mulder sit in their regular seats. James is dressed as always in crisply creased trousers, impeccable button-down shirt, and expensive silk tie knotted in a full Windsor. His polished and buffed wingtips reflect the ceiling lights.

By comparison, Mulder is underdressed in jeans, t-shirt, and work boots. Although he notes the contrast, it doesn’t bother him. His clothes are clean, without holes or frayed edges, and this is who he is now. The suits and ties from his Bureau days hang unused and distinctly out-of-fashion at the back of his closet. He’s been meaning to donate or toss them for some time.

He takes a moment to consider the doctor’s question. James recently reduced Mulder’s sessions to four times a month. He now sees James once every other Tuesday and attends group therapy on alternate weeks. He enjoys the freedom the new schedule allows, along with the feeling of accomplishment it brings.

“Seems about right,” Mulder says.

“You can always call me if anything changes and you need additional sessions.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Meds working okay? Still taking them on schedule?”

“Yes and yes.”

“How are things between you and Dana?” This is a question James asks with predictable regularity at the start of every check-in. He seems to consider it a bellwether of Mulder’s mental health. As with most things, he’s probably right.

Overall, Scully’s reintroduction into Mulder’s life has gone more smoothly than he ever imagined. Her presence keeps him grounded and hopeful, which moderates his mood swings. She steadies him, keeps him from drifting off course. He hasn’t had a single flashback since she’s returned.

As for how she feels? It’s hard to tell. A little tentative maybe but determined to make it work. She’s far more caring than he deserves, though that’s always been the case. He’s pretty sure she loves him. He tries to talk to her about their progress but she retreats into old habits, trying to appear confident and unshakable while hiding her true emotions behind a bulwark of self-control.

If it works for her, he’s okay with it…for now. Can’t say he isn’t used to it.

Anyway, the sex has been great, so…

“Fine. Good,” he says.

“Care to elaborate?”

Definitely not about the sex. He feels strongly a man shouldn’t kiss and tell, not even when confiding to his therapist.

“We’re happy as a clam at high water? Like a dog with two tails? Over the moon? On cloud nine?” Mulder considers going on, adding “happy campers” to his list of idioms, but stops there.

James hesitates, writes something in his notebook, then changes the subject. “You’ve put on weight. You’re looking fit. What are you doing for exercise?”

“Running. A little pick-up basketball. Making repairs to the house. The usual.”

Since James has asked all of these questions before, Mulder guesses he’s leading up to something of greater consequence. Mulder has learned to trust Dr. James and is willing to go with the flow. Mostly.

“What about work?” James asks.

“Work work?”

“Yes. A job.”

Mulder hasn’t been employed since leaving the Bureau and Dr. James knows it. He’s explained to James before that he didn’t want to quit. He was chased out…literally. With supersoldiers nipping at his heels…metaphorically.

Thirteen years later, he’s finally getting his personal life back on track. But his career? That’s over.

As for his purpose in life, he’s still trying to figure that out.

“I’m writing a book,” Mulder says, a little embarrassed. He’s unsure where the feeling comes from. Maybe’s he's ashamed this pursuit falls outside the mainstream, what’s expected of an educated, experienced man who’s currently unemployed. But he doesn’t want a nine-to-five job and he doesn’t need the money. And when did he ever worry about being outside the mainstream?

“This is the first time you’ve mentioned a book.” James is clearly more excited about the prospect than Mulder is. “What’s it about?”

“A history of UFO conspiracies.” Off James’s raised eyebrows, Mulder continues, “They say, ‘write what you know.’"

“Yes, true. How’s it going?”

“Stalled.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Finding secret government operatives who are willing to talk about how they’ve perpetuated a hoax upon the American public by colluding with extraterrestrials are surprisingly hard to come by.”

James offers a thin smile, which satisfies Mulder more than it probably should. Getting James to acknowledge his jokes is nearly impossible. It’s something the good doctor has in common with Scully, and Mulder would stand on his head and juggle burning hatchets if it would amuse Scully.

“Is there anything else that might be blocking your progress?” James asks, serious once again.

Ah, so they’ve come to it a last, the subject James has been fishing for since the beginning of the session. A topic that will reveal something heretofore undiscovered about Patient Mulder. Mulder’s been in therapy for a full year and it’s never gotten any easier. That said, he’s learned honesty is truly the best policy when it comes to recovery. Holding back has done nothing but…well, hold him back.

“I’ve been…distracted,” Mulder says.

“By anything specific?”

“Yes.” sh*t, he really doesn’t want to talk about this.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

Now it’s Mulder’s turn to grace James with a tiny smile. Therapy sessions do often feel like an endless version of Twenty Questions, but there’s no point in dragging it out any longer than it already is.

“I’m searching for my son."

There, it’s out. It's the first time Mulder has admitted it to anyone. In some ways, keeping it a secret has kept it from becoming real, being true. He’s tried to fool himself into believing there are no consequences to ideas that remain unspoken, even though he knows better than most about how wrong that assumption can be.

“Does Dana know?” James asks.

“Um…that would be a hard no.”

“Don’t you think it would be wise to talk to her about it? The subject of your son has caused some division between the two of you in the past.”

That’s a whopper of an understatement.

“Still a hard no.” When James continues to look at him without speaking, Mulder explains, “If I tell her about my intentions and my search turns out to be unsuccessful, I’ll end up hurting her all over again…needlessly. I’d rather wait until I have something concrete, proof that our son is alive and safe.”

To be perfectly honest, Mulder doesn’t just want to find their son, he wants to bring William home. The boy is thirteen years old and, out of those thirteen years, Mulder has missed every milestone, from William’s first words and steps to the changes he must be going through now.

Is William’s voice cracking as it deepens? Is he growing tall? Has he sprouted peach fuzz on his chin and upper lip? Mulder had expected to be there to teach him how to shave, hit a baseball, drive a stick shift. He looked forward to answering his son’s questions about girls…or boys…it didn’t matter, as long as William was happy.

Mulder wonders, too, about William’s step-father. Who is the man who’s raising his son? Is he a good dad? Is he enjoying every moment that Mulder is missing?

Or is he cold and distant, like his son’s namesake?

Mulder is determined to get William back, restore their family, and be the father he’s always wanted to be. He knows the chance of success is small, which is why he doesn’t want to get Scully’s hopes up only to have them dashed. Failure could split them up and end their relationship forever.

“I prefer not to talk about this today,” Mulder says.

“I can see that.”

“Then let’s move on.”

James jots something into his notebook and changes the subject. Mulder has no doubt they’ll be revisiting this issue at a future session and wishes he’d never mentioned it at all.

MULDER RESIDENCE
6:45 PM

It’s been another long day at the hospital for Scully. All days are like that now, it seems, given staff shortages and new protocols. Recently, a new area of care was created, funded by a generous donor named Augustus Goldman. Its purpose is to help pregnant women in need, particularly homeless and impoverished women whose babies are diagnosed with rare genetic disorders and birth defects. Sister Mary calls Goldman a true champion of the unborn. Scully hasn’t been invited to transfer into the new program, and would likely decline if she were, but the hospital has syphoned off several of the best physicians from the pediatric surgery unit, leaving the remaining docs scrambling to meet an ever-growing demand. The upshot has been added hours with greater responsibilities. Scully doesn’t mind a challenge, but the pace has been grueling and it doesn’t appear like it’ll let up anytime soon.

Mulder’s car is gone when she pulls into the driveway. Odd, since she thought they’d planned to have dinner together tonight — the first time in more than a week. She grabs her case and heads inside.

“Mulder?”

Her call goes unanswered, so she sets down her case, opens a couple of windows to let in the fresh June air. The curtains billow and the breeze carries the sweet scent of mountain laurel. Daylight is waning but it’s nowhere near dark. A golden haze fills the living room and a single brilliant beam from the setting sun spotlights her mother’s sea-colored afghan, back in its proper place across the arm of her favorite chair.

Scully checks the refrigerator to see if Mulder has prepared something for dinner as promised. She’s disappointed to find only some questionable leftovers from several days ago. She pours herself a glass of wine.

“Where are you, Mulder?” she murmurs, more worried than annoyed. Things have been good between them but she can’t shake her past concerns about his mental health or the fragility of their restored relationship.

She stands at the counter and sips her wine. Considers calling him.

A computer alert sounds in his office. When it beeps a second and then a third time, she abandons her wine on the counter to check it. Generally, she stays out of Mulder’s space. It’s his to do with as he pleases, which means it’s ended up looking a lot like their old basem*nt office. There’s a comfort to his clutter, however. It’s a reminder that some things are predictable and while she prefers her own spartan office neat and organized, she appreciates this rare example of predictability given all she and Mulder have been through.

The alerts continue, so feeling a little guilty for invading Mulder’s privacy, she taps his keyboard to wake up his monitor.

“What in hell…?”

On the monitor, a map of Wyoming overlaps several open spreadsheets and text documents. The alerts are for a series of incoming text messages from someone called “Eureka-Hawkshaws.”

found something!

baby boy born 2001

possible psychic and telekinetic abilities

at age 6: became severely ill; immune system collapse. quarantined at big horn basin county hospital. underwent battery of tests. stem cell samples taken. ???? purpose unknown. “miraculous” recovery

last known location: ten sleep, wyoming

name: unknown at this time but 80-90% probability this is the boy you’re looking for

A chill runs through Scully, despite the room’s stale, motionless air. This can’t be happening. Mulder cannot be looking for William. Please, please, don’t let this be what it seems. She searches the map on the screen, looking for the town of Ten Sleep. Mulder has marked it with a virtual pin.

There’s a printed copy on his desk, too, she sees now. He’s scrawled a couple of phone numbers in the margins, along with a street name. Ten Sleep is circled multiple time in red ink. Like a bullseye. William is the target, she fears, her blood racing through her veins, overheating her skin. Additional documents lay scattered across the dark oak of Mulder’s desk. They cause fear to rise in her gullet. She struggles to breathe.

Panicked, she yanks her phone from her pocket and dials Mulder’s cell. It rings through.

“Pick up, Mulder,” she mumbles, jaws set so tight she thinks her teeth might crack.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” Mulder says from the doorway behind her.

She startles and spins to face him. He’s carrying a boxed pizza from a little place that’s a favorite of theirs but is too far away for home delivery. The room fills with the aroma of garlic and cheese.

“I imagine not,” she says and tucks her phone away with shaky hands.

“You’re angry.” He sets the pizza down on the corner of his desk, obscuring some of the incriminating paperwork.

“No, I’m upset.”

“Is that different?”

She tries and fails to rein in her temper. “You’re searching for William and you’ve obviously been at it for a while.” She waves a hand at his desk. “Why haven’t you mentioned it? Why keep it a secret? And don’t claim you were trying to protect me.”

His hands go to his hips, an aggressive posture for most, but Scully knows he stands like this when he’s thinking. He chews the inside of his cheek, reinforcing her assessment. In a low, steady voice, he responds, “I didn’t want to worry you, which I’ve clearly managed to do anyway.”

“So you admit it. You are looking for him.”

A muscle jitters along his jaw. He meets her gaze. His eyes are bright with determination. “Yes. I’ve been looking for William.”

“Please don’t.” Can’t he see how reckless it is? How he’s putting William in danger?

“I’m close, Scully.”

“You always say that, Mulder. It’s an excuse so you don’t have to stop.”

“Why would I want to stop?”

“Because of what it’ll do to you. To me. To William.”

“Me?” He extends his arms out, palms up. “I’m fine, Scully, better than I’ve been in years.”

“All the more reason to let this go.”

“Can’t do that. And if you know where he is, you could save me a lot of time.”

“I don’t know where he is. I never wanted to know. I still don’t.”

“Why? Because you’d be tempted to go to him?”

“Yes! Of course! I miss him, Mulder, every minute of every day. I hated giving him up.”

Mulder’s hand lifts to massage his brow. Drops back to his side. “Then help me bring him back.”

It’s a plea. His pain is clear. He wants to enlist her help in this dangerous endeavor. But she can’t. She cannot help him find William only to lose their son a second time.

“Mulder, can’t you see? It wasn’t safe for him then and it isn’t safe for him now.”

“Things have changed.”

“Have they? Can you guarantee that?” It won’t matter if the Syndicate has disbanded or its members are all dead — not that there’s a shred of proof either way. Some other villainous group will take their place, determined to exploit William’s unique abilities. Scully doesn’t want to see her son hunted like Gibson Praise, on the run or in hiding his entire life. Always in danger of capture and who-knows-what vile experiments. Giving him up for adoption was supposed put him out of reach, allow him a chance at a normal life. “Giving our son away was hell for me, Mulder. And I refuse to risk his life now to fulfill some selfish desire of my own.”

“Are you saying I’m being selfish because I want my son to grow up in our home with us?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He shakes his head, his expression resolute.

“Help me or don’t, Scully, but I’m going to find our son. I refuse to give up on him.”

Like she did? Is that what he’s implying? It’s a repeat of their argument a year ago, before she walked out. She feels as if she’s caught in a riptide, being pulled under, dragged to the ocean bottom. God, this can’t be happening again.

Tears sting her eyes, but she refuses to cry. “It hurts me to say this, Mulder, more than you’ll ever know, but I can’t be with you if you aren’t willing to drop this. I can’t go through it again.”

“Another ultimatum?”

You're asking me to give up? he’d asked during the Father Joe case.

No. I can't tell you to do that, Mulder, she’d replied. But I can tell you that I won't be coming home.

Now, like then, there’s no point in continuing the conversation. It’s clear, she’s lost him already.

As if to prove her point, he gathers up his notes, the map. A punch of his finger powers down his laptop, which he takes, too. She listens to him mount the stairs. A few minutes later, he’s back at his office door with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder.

“I hope you’ll be here when I get back, Scully, I really do.” He looks stricken, desperate. Alone.

She crosses her arms but says nothing. She doesn’t trust herself to speak. They’ve already inflicted a lifetime’s worth of pain on one another.

“I’m doing this for us.” His voice wavers. His brows knit in misery. “I hope you know that.”

“No, Mulder, you’re not. You’re doing this for you.”

His eyes glisten with tears. She knows he understands what it means if he continues on this perilous course.

“I love you,” he says just before he exits the house, gets into his car, and drives away.

“I love you, too,” she whispers into the empty room before she tosses the cooling pizza into the trash.

MULDER RESIDENCE
FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 2014
9:45 PM

Mulder’s been gone for three days. He hasn’t called or texted. She’s tried to reach out, but he’s either ignoring her calls or isn’t in a position to respond. Both prospects keep her anxiety and anger as fresh today as during their argument. She’s at her wit’s end about what to do.

Ignoring the late hour, Scully dials Eric James’ cellphone number, which she found scrawled on the back of his business card on Mulder’s nightstand. In case of emergencies, Eric had written below his private number.

“I hope you haven’t been encouraging him to pursue this avenue,” Scully’s accuses without preamble or an apology for the late hour when Eric answers the phone.

“Pardon? Is this Dana?”

“Yes. What do you know about Mulder’s plan to look for our son William?”

Eric sighs. “You know I can’t discuss Mulder’s treatment.”

“Eric, please. I’m desperate.”

“Yes, I can hear it in your voice. But we can’t have this conversation and you know it. If you have questions about Mulder’s activities, you need to speak with him directly.”

“I can’t, he’s not here and I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“Then I suggest you wait until he returns. Or if you can't wait, talk with your own therapist — or a friend or clergyman — about what’s upsetting you. You have to understand, Dana, I’m Mulder’s doctor and I have to do what’s in his best interest, not yours. I’m sorry.”

“But—”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

And he does, leaving Scully with her mouth hanging open.

“sh*t!” She hurls her phone across the room. It hits the couch, bounces once, and disappears into the crack between the cushions.

She spends the weekend pacing and trying to calm down. Should she fly to Wyoming? Attempt to catch up with Mulder before it's too late? Or is it already too late? Maybe Mulder has found William. Reunited with him. Briefly, she’s enveloped in warmth by the idea, until she imagines Mulder being tailed, William being captured by men who would harm him for their own nefarious purposes.

“Damn you, Mulder!”

First thing Monday morning, she takes Eric’s advice and phones Dr. Eleanor Curran’s office. She requests the earliest appointment. The receptionist schedules her for two o’clock that afternoon.

Six hours from now.

There’s no way Scully will be able to concentrate on work today, so she calls the hospital and feigns illness.

“No, it’s nothing serious,” she tells Father Ybarra when he asks. It’s another lie she’ll have to confess to her priest the next time she’s in church. “I expect to be in tomorrow.”

The hours crawl by with excruciating slowness. It’s almost a physical relief when two o’clock arrives and Scully finds herself once again facing Eleanor Curran.

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Curran prompts.

“I’m worried about Mulder.”

“Worried in what way?”

“He’s gone looking for our son. I’ve asked him not to. Begged him, to be honest. But he went anyway. Now I can’t reach him. He’s been gone nearly a week.”

“Do you think his life is in danger?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t really know and that’s part of the problem, why I’m upset. He does this. A lot. Hairs off. Pursues risky, paranoid hunches. I can’t take it any more. Can’t watch him gamble his life on another futile quest.”

She cannot bear to witness a replay of his disillusionment and assured decline.

“You mentioned he’s looking for your son. You and I have talked at length before about how much you miss your son, your feelings of guilt around giving him up for adoption. It’s been a recurring problem between you and Mulder. It was the cause of your breakup last year, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But you two came to an understanding?”

“I thought we had.” Scully has treasured the past few months with Mulder. Until he decided to go after William. It rankles that he kept his plan a secret from her, almost as much as his unwillingness to drop his risky search. He knew full well how she would react. “It’s not safe for William to be with us. I-I’ve explained to you why in previous sessions.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“My reasons for giving William up were reasonable and right. They were also the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I think about him every day.” Scully’s tears come, unwelcome but unstoppable. “We can’t bring him back to us. For his own good, we have to learn to live our lives without him."

“Dana, I understand your view on this.” Curran nudges the box of tissues on the table between them closer to Scully. “I’d like to suggest an alternative perspective. One you may not have considered.”

“If you’re going to suggest I change my mind, don’t.” Scully yanks two tissues from the box, blots her eyes and blows her nose.

“That's not my intention,” Curran says. She checks her notes. Appears to find what she’s looking for. “You’ve told me Mulder has no surviving immediate family members. No Parents. No siblings. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Where is Curran going with this?

“Which makes your son Mulder’s only living blood relative?”

“Yes, but…”

Curran waits a moment for Scully to say more. When Scully remains silent, Curran presses on. “It’s important not to discount Mulder’s need for that type of connection. Think for a moment about your own family and what those relationships mean to you.”

Scully’s family means the world to her. While she sometimes disagrees with them, they are a safety net of support she depends on. She relies on her mother in particular, but even Bill can be counted on to protect and love her to the best of his ability.

Mulder has none of that unconditional love. Given what he’s told her about his childhood, it’s possible he never did. With the hope of finding Samantha gone, too, Scully is all he has. Yet she doesn’t feel prepared to continue their relationship without conditions.

“I gave him an ultimatum,” she admits, not proud of it.

“What sort of ultimatum?”

“I told him if he wasn’t willing to drop his search, stop chasing conspiracies, we couldn’t be together.”

“I see.” Curran appears sympathetic but offers no further comment.

Scully wants Curran’s guidance, her professional counsel. “What should I do?” she finally asks, hating the way her voice breaks. She sounds like a confused child, not a clear-thinking adult.

“That depends. Can you accept Mulder for who he is?”

Is it wrong to ask Mulder to change his course, change the person he is? Scully has demanded that from him before.

Scully, this is who I am. It's who I've always been. This is who I was before I met you. It's what I do, it's everything I know.

Yet she went back to him after the Father Joe case. And again at the start of this year. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t take her most recent ultimatum seriously. He believes she’ll forgive him once again. Unfortunately, she doesn’t think she can. As much as she loves Mulder, she can’t condone the way he’s putting their son at risk. After all she went through to keep William safe, Mulder’s actions feel especially calculated and cruel.

“Maybe you can compromise,” Curran suggests, “come to some sort of agreement?”

“Compromise on my son’s safety? No.”

“Then, are you prepared for the emotional fallout if you and Mulder separate again?”

Is she? Her tears and the knot in her stomach would indicate otherwise. Moving out a second time will be the death knell of their relationship, she’s certain.

“I-I don’t know what to do,” she says, miserable.

“Dana, only you can know the depth of your feelings, the amount of stress you can take, and the importance of your relationship with Mulder. My role is to help you look honestly at your feelings so that you can make a decision that makes sense for you.”

Scully understands the truth in what Curran is saying, but is conflicted. When she moved out last year, it was to help Mulder see how serious his illness had become. She’d intended it to be a temporary separation, which it turned out to be. This time, however, she would be going for her own wellbeing. And there is no guarantee she’ll ever be coming back. Can she live with that choice?

Try as she might, she sees no alternative, no workaround. She must carry through with her ultimatum, as difficult as it will be. Her future with Mulder holds only loss. Her heart breaks to see an end to everything they’ve shared. She will always love him but has come to the conclusion, a relationship with Mulder is impossible.

VIRGINIA STATE LINE
THREE AND A HALF WEEKS LATER

Tired and frustrated, Mulder steers his car toward home. His dark mood lifts only a little when he crosses the Virginia state line. He’s missed Scully and is eager to reunite with her, to share what little information he was able to glean about their son. It’s not much. In fact, it’s hardly anything, which is typical when it comes to finding hard evidence, proof they can hold in their hands. Years of trying has yielded only breadcrumbs. Never anything incontrovertible. This investigation has turned out to be as fruitless as any of their previous efforts — a big disappointment and as dangerous as Scully had predicted.

He’ll be eating crow for weeks but he’s not sorry he went and he doesn’t plan to give up his search for William.

Eureka-Hawkshaws’ intel took him to a sprawling farm in north central Wyoming, tucked away in the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains. When he arrived, he found the aging house, crumbling barn, and dilapidated outbuildings deserted. There was no sign of William, his adoptive parents, or any other person for that matter. The farm looked like it hadn’t been lived in or worked on in years.

Mulder searched the property thoroughly. Went through all the empty rooms. Explored the surrounding fields, the farm pond, a windmill structure that provided well water, the empty hay loft. There were no footprints. No vehicle tracks. Not a stick of furniture or a scrap of trash. He overlooked nothing. Which meant William never lived on this particular farm or this place had been sanitized by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

He wasted no time driving the twenty-odd miles to the Big Horn Basin County Hospital, where Eureka-Hawkshaws claimed a boy fitting William’s description received treatment for the collapse of his immune system in ’07. If the Gunmen were still alive, Mulder would’ve enlisted their aid in hacking into the hospital’s database. Instead, he had to rely on his own limited resources: his guile and guts.

He waited until the busy afternoon shift had left for the day before entering the hospital dressed in a lab coat and wearing a stethoscope draped around his neck. It wasn’t much of a disguise, only a step or two above Robert Modell's pocket “PASS” or Linda Bowman’s “NURSE” ID. He walked the halls as if he belonged there. No one questioned him. He got lucky when an emergency distracted staff throughout the hospital, sending docs and nurses scurrying to the ER, where three ambulances were pulling up to unload the injured. A car crash, apparently, from what Mulder overheard before he slipped into the unoccupied records room. Long story short, he walked out fifteen minutes later with an address for a stem cell testing lab in Fox Den, Oregon, just south of Eugene, used by the hospital on numerous occasions over the course of twenty years.

The town’s name bothered him. He couldn’t help feeling “Fox Den” was an intentional choice, a jibe aimed specifically at him as part of a decades-old plot hatched in anticipation of him coming here one day to dig around for clues in his never-ending quest to shut the conspiracy down. Then again, he was prone to paranoia.

Of course, there was no lab to be found. Only another abandoned, empty warehouse similar to all the others Mulder had encountered over the years.

And yet…as he was getting into his car to leave, gunshots rang out. A bullet wizzed past his ear. Another nicked his right shoulder. He slid quickly behind his steering wheel, slammed the door shut, and started the engine. The rear window exploded. He ducked, stepped on the gas, and peeled away with a squeal of tires and the stink of burning rubber. In his rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of a shooter with a scoped rifle atop a nearby building.

How had they known he was coming here? He’d been careful, watchful to ensure he wasn’t tailed, keeping his cellphone and the car’s GPS powered off. He avoided toll roads. Hadn’t used a credit card or ATM. Paid cash for gas.

It had to have been a setup from the start.

Mulder cleaned his wound at a gas station just over the Nevada border. He tried contacting Eureka-Hawkshaws at an internet cafe in Utah, only to find his contact had suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth. Had he been silenced or had he been working with Mulder’s enemies all along, leading him around by the nose for their own entertainment?

Injured shoulder aching like a son-of-a-bitch and all out of options, Mulder headed back to Farrs Corner.

Home at last, he finds a note from Scully waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

Fox, I’ve tried and failed to reach you. I hope with all my heart you’re safe. Worrying about you and how your search might endanger both you and our son has weighed heavily on me. To be honest, I’m worn down. We’ve talked about all this before. You don’t seem to hear me when I say I can’t go through it again. Or if you do hear me, you don’t care enough to stop. So I’ve made a difficult decision. Please don’t think I came to it lightly or that I’m asking you to change the person you are. You’re the same passionate, driven man I fell in love with, who I love still, but I’m compelled to make a change for my own wellbeing. My new address is 1213 37th Place, Bethesda. Please, try to understand and give me the space I need, as I did for you.

I remain forever yours,
Dana

His eyes fill with tears and the words on her note blur. He fumbles for his phone. Can’t read the numbers. Swipes at his wet eyes and tries again to call her.

The call goes to voicemail. Not surprising. She’s at work, where she’s often unable to answer her phone. He doesn’t want to leave a message. He wants to see her.

He also wants to see this new house she’s moved to.

Although he’s just arrived home after nearly a month on the road, he gets back in his car and punches Scully’s new address into his satnav. It’s a 45-minute drive to Bethesda. When he arrives at 37th Place, he searches for number 1213 like a shark circling its prey. The neighborhood is decidedly upscale, the homes large, modern, and newly built. Her house is like all the others, lots of glass, cantilevered roof, expensive exterior lights and finishes, a koi pond near the entrance. It shares nothing in common with their unremarkable little house in Farrs Corner. He noses the car into her circular drive and scrutinizes every detail.

His hands grow numb as the minutes tick by, he’s squeezing the steering wheel so tight. He feels like he might throw up. Everything about this move looks permanent. Which can mean only one thing: she’s truly given up on him.

Engine idling, he tries phoning her again. He’ll leave a message if he has to. He needs to apologize to her. Beg her forgiveness. Get her back.

He’s surprised when she answers on the second ring. “Mulder?”

“Hey, it’s me,” he says out of habit. When she doesn’t respond, his regrets come pouring out. “I’m sorry I went off, Scully. You were right. It was a dead end, as usual. I shouldn’t have bothered. Shouldn’t have put you through that. I’m done. Really. It was a big mistake. I didn’t find William. I didn’t find anything. Well, nothing useful. But I must’ve been close because—” He regrets those words the minute they cross his lips.

“Because?”

“I, uh…someone shot at me.” He hadn’t meant to tell her about that.

“Are you okay?” She sounds sincerely concerned.

Of course, she’s concerned. That’s the problem; she can’t stop worrying about him.

“I’m fine, Scully. It was…it was just a graze.”

“You were hit? Did you go to the hospital?”

“No. No, I’m fine. I’ve had worse. From you actually.” He tries and fails to laugh.

“Well, okay…good. I’m glad you’re alright, Mulder. Truly.”

Her sympathetic tone sucker punches him. Sorrow swallows him whole. He feels a sob building in his chest. “Come home, Scully, please,” he begs, blinking back tears.

“I have a home,” she says gently.

“Not with me.”

“No, Mulder, not with you.”

He stares out through his windshield at her new place.

“You bought a house?” he manages to ask without falling to pieces. Shattering like his rear window.

“I’m leasing."

Buy or lease, it all comes down to the same thing. He’s lost her.

“So that’s it, Scully? We’re never going to see each other again?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I need time.”

“To move on with your life. Without me.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. You’ll always be in my life, Mulder. We’ve shared the most intense and challenging experiences imaginable. We had a child together. You’re a part of me. That’s never going to change.”

But everything has changed, hasn’t it? Her note…

“Scully, it’s not that I don’t care how my actions affect you. I do.”

“I…I believe you. I shouldn’t have written that.”

“What if I stop? Give up my search? Be the man you need me to be?” He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand. Hopes she doesn’t hear him sniffling. “Would you reconsider? Come back?”

She’s silent for a beat, giving him ample time to hope. “Not today, Mulder. I’m sorry.”

“When then?”

“I…I don’t have an answer for that right now.”

He takes a deep breath. Tries to stay calm. “Okay. I understand, I do. But…I will ask you again.”

“I hope you do, Mulder. Goodbye.”

When she hangs up, he lets his tears flow. He no longer sees any way back to her.

CHAPTER 8: Jackasses and Horned Lizards

OFFICE OF DR. ERIC JAMES
TUESDAY, AUGUST 26, 2014
2:07 PM

“You missed several appointments last month,” James says at the start of Mulder’s session, his first since Scully moved out. James’s tone is more curious than accusatory.

Guilt causes Mulder to shift uneasily in his chair. “I was…away.”

“It’s important to stick to your schedule.”

“Want me to write ‘I’ve been a bad boy’ a hundred times in my journal?”

To be honest, he gave up his journal when Scully moved back home. But now that she’s gone again, maybe he should dust it off and start up again.

“No need for punishment or penance,” James says. “I’m more interested in the reason behind your absence. Where did you go?”

“Wyoming. Oregon. I drove so it took awhile.”

“Would you like to discuss the purpose of your trip?”

Mulder prefers not. “It was a family matter.”

This is a half-truth, like so many of his answers. He knows he’s not helping himself by omitting details, but “trust no one” is a hard habit to break.

“I see.” James clears his throat. Is he nervous? He’s usually impossible to read and Mulder imagines the man must be an exceptional poker player. “I feel the need to be transparent with you, Mulder. Dana called me while you were away.”

Mulder groans. He can’t help himself. “f*ck me.”

“Yes, well, she mentioned you’d gone to look for your son. She sounded quite upset.”

“I can imagine.”

“I want to assure you, we didn’t discuss anything confidential. I wouldn’t betray your trust.”

Mulder believes him but realizes Scully was under no such obligation. What had she told James? Mulder decides to come clean and tell his side of the story.

“She gave me an ultimatum.”

“Do you feel it was genuine or manipulative?”

“‘Genuine’? I don’t understand.”

“Genuine ultimatums can communicate a person’s boundaries. It lets their partner know a specific action has repercussions. When a partner continuously crosses those boundaries, it's reasonable to say ‘stop or I’ll do XYZ.’ A manipulative ultimatum, on the other hand, preys on the partner’s insecurities in order to force them to do what’s wanted, take a desired action. That rarely works out well…for either party.”

“Maybe I boxed her into a corner,” Mulder says in Scully’s defense, uncertain of her motives.

“Did you?”

“You’ll probably take this as just another example of my usual self-castigating bullsh*t but I can be both a jackass and a bully.”

James brushes the comment aside with a shake of his head. “Dana strikes me as a woman who is neither reactive or easily manipulated.”

“True on both counts. In any case, long story short, I ignored her ultimatum, only to capitulate later, and she left me anyway. She’s moved to Bethesda.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How do you feel about it?”

A swell of anger rises up and overtakes Mulder like a rogue wave. “I f*cking hate it, how the hell do you think I feel?”

James is unruffled by Mulder’s outburst. “My advice is to remain realistic, but not lose hope.”

“Ooo, that's helpful.”

James ignores Mulder’s sarcastic tone. “You’ve come a long way this past year.”

“Well, I must be walking in circles because I feel like I’m right back where I started.”

“Not where you started. You got up off that porch swing, admitted you needed help, and began to heal. You survived, Mulder. You did the hard work, made it through a desperate situation, and you have, quite frankly, excelled. Your state of mind is healthier, you’re resilient and tenacious enough to succeed on your own. You may never reconcile with Dana, but that doesn’t mean you can’t live a happy, meaningful life.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Doc, but you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t share your optimism.”

* * *

Mulder doesn’t accept his therapist’s rosy assessment, but he does give Scully space. It isn’t easy. A dozen times a day he wants to call her, tell her something, anything. A dozen times a day he has to talk himself out of it.

Nights are even worse.

Her absence hurts as relentlessly as the road rash he suffered as a young teen after his bicycle hit a curb on Squibnocket Road and he flew over the handlebars. He slid thirty feet across tar and sand wearing only bathing trunks and a cotton tee. He scraped a horrifying amount of skin off his bare legs and arms. It stung like hell and oozed blood for days, made worse by swimming in the salty Vineyard Sound off Menemsha Beach, but in the end, it didn’t kill him and the scars faded over time. They’re all but gone now.

SILVER DOLLAR DINER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
SATURDAY, MARCH 28, 2015
7:22 AM

“What’s the occasion, Scully?” Mulder briefly presses his lips to her cheek. A quick peck is all she allows these days.

The diner is upscale and crowded. The aroma of fresh ground coffee makes Mulder’s blood pump faster. Or maybe it’s being this close to Scully after weeks on his own that’s causing his heart to pound. He slips into the booth across from her. Signals a nearby waitress, who nods and holds up a finger, indicating she’ll be there in a minute.

Scully’s cup is already half empty. A partially-eaten muffin sits on her plate. Her expression is mournful and Mulder wonders if it’s due to his arrival or something else altogether. He’s not sure what prompted her to invite him here but such invitations have been rare of late and there’s no way he was going to miss an opportunity to see her.

“Today’s an anniversary, Mulder.”

He struggles to understand which anniversary she’s referring to.

Off his confused look, she says, “Thirteen years ago today I kissed William for the last time.”

“Oh.”

The waitress arrives and takes his order, saving him from saying more. This clearly isn’t going to be a happy occasion, a chance to rekindle their relationship like he’d hoped. She’s grieving and wants to share it with the only person in the world who will understand the true depth of her pain.

She shreds her napkin and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Are you still looking for him?”

“No.”

It’s a lie. He won’t stop looking for William until he finds him and brings him back home, just as he never stopped searching for his sister. Or Scully, for that matter, when she went missing. It’s not in him to quit and give up.

But he knows Scully can’t hear this today. Or possibly ever. He knows, too, she was at least partially right about the danger to William. Getting shot in Oregon proved to Mulder he still has enemies out there, forces that are watching and waiting for him to make a mistake that will lead them to William. He needs to be more careful if he’s to ensure William’s safety going forward.

Surprisingly, however, Scully appears almost disappointed by his answer. She blinks rapidly, trying and failing to stop the fall of her tears. She huffs in frustration and swipes at her cheeks.

He wants so badly to reach for her hand, let her know by the press of his fingers he shares her sorrow, grief as tenebrous as the Marianas Trench, as inescapable as a black hole in the deepest recess of space. She’s only an arm’s length away, yet he can’t chance it. He fears she’ll bolt.

Instead, he hopes to relay his understanding via some sort of shared nexus, a Gibson Praise-like extrasensory connection, so she can know how desperately he misses the child they’ve lost. How deeply he misses her, too.

The waitress arrives with his coffee. She asks if Scully wants a refill.

“No, thank you. I'm not staying.”

And with that, Scully slides from the booth and hurries away.

Mulder watches her through the window until she disappears down the street. As soon as she’s out of view, he tosses a twenty on the table and prays he’ll make it to his car before his own tears start to fall.

OPERATING THEATER
LADY OF OUR SORROWS HOSPITAL
TEN MONTHS LATER
MONDAY, JANUARY 25, 2016

I thought you were done with UFOs, Scully. The stranglehold they put on your very existence, I believe is how you put it.

These were Mulder’s words to her earlier in the day.

He wasn’t wrong, she thinks as she draws blood from her own arm, intending to test it for alien DNA. She hopes to prove both him and Sveta wrong about the woman’s claims, if not about the state of her and Mulder’s relationship.

She’s interrupted by Tad O’Malley. He feigns interest in her work, past and present, as well as her relationship with Mulder, also past and present. Mulder called him a jackass…before meeting him. Scully thinks O’Malley’s more of a charlatan, hiding his true motives behind a charming smile.

“Are you here for a reason?” she asks.

“I needed to know you weren't upset by Mulder putting you on the spot with this Sveta business,” he says.

Sveta, the alleged mindreader, who somehow bulls-eyed Scully's relationship with Mulder while completely missing her abduction experience.

"No, it's fine. I'm...used to it.” Scully has no intention of sharing details about Mulder with this conman, most especially how Mulder’s obsessions have driven a wedge between them.

She also won’t admit to him how her pulse quickened when she saw Mulder earlier in the day on the street. They’ve met up only a handful of times since their aborted breakfast at the diner last March, and those alleged “chance encounters” seemed contrived by Mulder, planned out with almost military precision. She always ended up feeling manipulated in some way, which is why she ignored his 54th birthday. Later, she called to wish him well and gave the excuse she’d been tied up at a healthcare conference on the west coast on the 13th. It was almost true. Her attendance had been the week prior. She hoped he wouldn’t fact check the dates, but knowing him, he did exactly that the moment they got off the phone.

Seeing Mulder this morning, unkempt and rumpled, admittedly tugged at her heart. She will always worry about him and told him so.

“Not to worry, Doc. I'm taking good care of myself.”

Was he? It didn’t look it.

“It's good for you to get out of that little house every once in a while,” she’d said, almost instantly regretting it.

Until he shot back with, “It certainly was good for you.”

Oh, Mulder. They were both still lashing out.

She almost immediately tried to smooth things over. As did he.

“I'm always happy to see you.”

“And I'm always happy to find a reason.”

O’Malley brings her back to the present when he says, “And I just wanted to see you again.”

She stares at him in disbelief. Not because men don’t show an interest in her. They do. But because she’s not taken in by O’Malley's flattery, sincere or otherwise. She dismisses him with a frown and a shake of her head.

“No, Dana, really,” he says. “Let me take you somewhere.”

“No,” she says firmly. At his hurt look, she softens her response by adding, “Thank you.”

“Or we could just ride around.”

“In your limo. With your driver.”

“Sure. Why not?”

Because it’s a bad idea, she thinks. She suspects O’Malley’s interest has less to do with her and more with Mulder. Men like O'Malley are full of seductive B.S. and she suspects he's a threat to Mulder, playing him, playing them both. Scully’s protective instincts are strong when it comes to Mulder, honed by their years as partners, sharpened further once they became lovers. And after they became parents, her intuition grew razor sharp. Being separated hasn’t changed that.

She decides to go with O’Malley if only to learn more about him. Keep your enemies close, isn’t that what they say?

“All right, Mr. O’Malley. Just give me thirty minutes to wash up and change my clothes.”

By the following evening, Scully knows she was right about O’Malley. He is playing Mulder, who’s now on a jag about the X-Files. She and Mulder argue about it. As somebody who cares about him, somebody who's worried about him, Scully tells him the truth: he’s on fire, believing that he’s onto some truth, that he can save the world. She seen it before, too many times. It’ll be his undoing.

“Mulder, listen to me. As your friend, and as a physician, you are on dangerous ground here.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

She’s about to argue how often she’s heard him say those exact words when Sveta interrupts them. Scully knows then, she and Mulder are as far apart as they ever were. Reconciling is out of reach once again. She was right when she described her relationship with Mulder to Ted O’Malley as intense, challenging, and impossible. Nothing has changed.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 26, 2016

Thanks to Skinner, the X-Files have been reopened and Mulder and Scully are reinstated as agents. Scully submits her letter of resignation to Our Lady of Sorrows the day after Sister Mary declares, “Men and their lies. No offense. Desire is the Devil's pitchfork.” Mulder doesn’t presume the two are connected, but he appreciates the timing, given the insult to his gender.

Over the weekend, he makes a quick trip to Brimble & Clark to buy new suits for work. Fashion dictates the cut be slimmer and the inseams shorter than he’s used to. And the cost! But come Monday morning, a young female agent in the bullpen shows her appreciation with a low, slow wolf-whistle when he passes by. She follows it up with “Looking good, G-Man,” which heats his cheeks. Maybe the expense will be worth it if Scully reacts the same way.

She doesn’t. In fact, she appears aloof and awkward around him. Which makes him feel equally uncomfortable. It’s clearly going to take them some time to hit their stride as a team. But at this point, he’s grateful to be in her company again.

Her pencil skirts and spike heels, however, are going to kill him if he can’t stay focused on the work.

During their search of Sanjay Gupta’s apartment a high-pitched frequency rings in his ears — a sound like a steel spike being driven through his skull. It drops him to his knees.

Scully rushes to his side. Her concern for his physical wellbeing remains as strong as ever, for which he’s grateful.

“Mulder? Mulder, are you okay?”

He can’t answer, the pain in his head is too great. When several police officers arrive at the front door, she keeps them occupied, giving him time to recover.

Later, he’s relieved Scully doesn’t mention the anomaly and its effect on him to Skinner. Her ability to read him is apparently as astute as ever, too.

And yet…

As eager as he is to get back to their roots, Scully is…not so eager. Her willingness to return to the X-Files was born from the discovery of alien DNA in her genome, which she sequenced herself. Twice. Of course.

And because they have a child together. Her words.

William. Their son’s welfare and the mystery surrounding his unusual abilities has brought Scully back to the Bureau. Mulder is more than willing to follow her lead. But their difference of opinion on whether or not to look for William is a chasm too wide to cross. Naturally, they avoid talking about it. Or maybe it’s just him who’s keeping secrets.

Returning to the FBI feels like a homecoming to Mulder. He appreciates he no longer needs to find excuses to see Scully. They share an office again, if not a home.

Their first case turns out to be a doozy. Genetic mutations, telekinesis, government conspiracies — all rolled into one. Mulder would be on cloud nine if not for the way various details cut too close to the bone for Scully. He’s not unsympathetic. In fact, he’s incensed and says so soon after they meet Agnes, whose unborn baby suffers mysterious abnormalities.

"It's insidious, Scully. A ward for pregnant women paid for by Augustus Goldman, the founder of a company with deep ties to the Department of Defense.” Mulder fumes as they exit Our Lady of Sorrow’s emergency entrance. “This could be another phase of the project — their experiments in eugenics. Those women in there...could be incubators.”

Scully stops walking, which halts him, too.

“Mulder... I'm not a fragile little girl.”

“Scully…” As per usual, he hadn’t thought through what he was saying.

“This is what you suspected all along, but were afraid to articulate. Is this what you believe happened to me fifteen years ago? When I got pregnant, when I had my baby? Was I just an incubator?”

Mulder sighs and wishes he’d chosen his words with more care.

“You're never ‘just’ anything to me, Scully.” He manages to convey his point gently, sincerely, all the while in his head he’s raging: I wanted to raise William with you…I wanted us to be a family…I love you both so much…how can you not see that?

It’s possible she hears his internal dialog, or intuits it, because she asks, “Do you ever think about William?”

“Yes, of course I do, but I've... I feel like I've had to put that behind me.” It’s what he knows she needs to hear. She doesn’t want the truth, that he thinks about William every single day and has begun actively looking for him again.

Maybe she intuits that, too, because there’s pain in her expression and she looks away to hide it from him.

“He'd be fifteen years old now. And I've missed every single year of his life. And sometimes…I hate myself that I didn't have the courage to stand by him.”

Not nearly as much as Mulder hates himself for accusing her of that very thing last year during the worst moments of his depression.

“You did what you did to keep him safe. His adoption is secret, his location is unknown because you had to protect him,” he says now, meaning it. He should be doing whatever it takes to protect William, too, but can’t bring himself to give up his search, promise to stop once and for all, even as shame burns beneath the surface of his skin for his prevarication.

“Do you believe he was an experiment?” she asks, looking directly at him once more.

He does. He’s thought exactly that for a very long time. Given all that’s happened, all they've seen, how could he not? But rather than admit it and risk hurting her, he says only, “I don't know.”

The following day, they go to Saint Elizabeth Hospital to interview Jackie Goldman, Augustus Goldman’s wife. Her story contains uncomfortable yet familiar details. She claims her daughter had inhuman abilities, could breathe underwater. This is something they’ve encountered before, in alien-human hybrids. Jackie believes her husband did something to her daughter while she was still an embryo in utero, used their child as part of his research. When she confronted him, he hid the girl from her.

Mulder’s instincts tell him Dr. Goldman is working with the Department of Defense to continue the Syndicate’s eugenics project. The same project behind Samantha’s clones, the Kurt Crawfords, Emily.

Maybe William, too.

Jackie describes how her second child, a son, was able to communicate with her while still in the womb via a high-pitched, piercing sound in her head.

A sound similar to the one Mulder heard at Sanjay Gupta’s.

Wanting to keep her son from her husband, Jackie delivered her own baby by cutting the child out of her belly with a kitchen knife. To set him free, is how she put it. She then passed out from pain and loss of blood, and woke up later in a hospital.

“I never saw my boy again.” She turns tear-filled eyes on Scully. “I think about him every day.

It’s clear that Scully understands and sympathizes with her. She’s been living a similar nightmare for a decade and a half and each year has taken a greater toll. The loss of William has never gotten any easier.

“A mother never forgets,” Scully says.

Mulder’s heart breaks for her. The only way to end her misery is to find William and bring him home. He’s certain of it and resolves to do just that.

Later, after a shocking encounter with the Goldman siblings in Goldman's technology building, where Mulder witnessed Augustus Goldman’s eyes pop out of their sockets — something he won’t forget anytime soon — Skinner catches up with his two agents. He relays the news that Molly and Kyle Goldman are both missing, gone without a trace.

But there is a trace: a vial of Kyle’s blood that Mulder pilfered at the crime scene earlier. He’s feeling quite proud of himself for the unauthorized taking of evidence — twice within a 24-hour period, if you count Sanjay’s phone, which he does. It may be a personal best for him.

He looks forward to telling Dr. James at their next session that he’s back at work again. No more pretending to write a book about conspiracies. He’s living that life again.

By the time Scully brings him their second case, they’re once again working like a well-oiled machine. Reviving their professional partnership turned out to be as easy as slipping on a pair of comfortable shoes. Their personal relationship, however, is both strained and far from resolved. But Mulder is nothing if not patient. He refuses to believe they won’t reconcile eventually.

He does have mixed feelings about the new case, though. Allegedly, there’s a monster involved. An inhuman monster.

In the end, he’s surprised the most interesting part of the case turns out not to be the lizard that morphs into a man who turns back into a lizard. No, sir. The very best part is when Scully lets him rant and pace around her motel room while she sits on her bed wearing nothing but an oversized tee, which he’s pretty sure used to be his. Her smooth legs are impossible to ignore. Or her cute knees. And tiny feet. His diatribe ends. Her bare toes curl when she gives him an appraising look.

“Yeah, this is how I like my Mulder,” she says with a devilish grin.

And this, he thinks, is how I like my Scully, thank you very much.

The tide may be turning for them, he hopes, though he’s not quite certain what caused the unexpected about-face. Maybe their enforced daily contact has made Scully more comfortable in his presence. Or maybe she appreciates the sympathy and support he showed during the Goldman case. Or maybe she’s always liked hunting monsters more than she ever let on. Whatever her reasons, he’s glad to see the gap between them begin to narrow, if only a little.

CHAPTER 9: Love and Loss

OFFICE OF DR. ERIC JAMES
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2016
2:01 PM

“True confession,” Mulder announces as he takes his seat across from Dr. James. “I fell off the wagon.”

James’s brows lift. “What happened?”

Where to start? Nine-hundred and fifty-seven days without a drop of alcohol to quash the demons in his head, and now Mulder is back to square one. Story of his life. Will James cut him some slack because a were-monster was involved?

He decides to give it a try.

“Scully and I went to Shawan, Oregon, to find a serial killer, a very unique killer, a…a… a man-sized horned lizard with human teeth. Sounds a bit silly, doesn't it? But I assure you, murders did occur and lives were at stake. Before we found and arrested the killer, we met a…a…a lizard who turned into a man and back into a lizard. Before you say that’s not possible, let me just say I saw it with my own eyes. Yes, that was after I drank an entire bottle of Jäegermeister, 70 proof, but it was a very, very long time after. Half a day at least. I-I wasn’t hallucinating.”

James simply nods and waits for Mulder to continue.

“I had my doubts at the start, believe me.” Mulder rubs his jaw. Runs his fingers through his hair. “But I became convinced. By incontrovertible evidence. Which I witnessed while sober.”

Had he said that already?

Hm, maybe he should tell James about Guy Mann’s suicidal thoughts and how they mirrored his own almost three years ago. Guy told Mulder, If there's nothing more to life than what we already know, then there's nothing but worries, self-doubt, regret, and loneliness — it was like he was privy to Mulder’s past mental state and understood all he’d been through. Which was kind of comforting in its own way.

Until Guy called him a monster. The truth of that statement drove Mulder to reach for the booze. And once he started drinking, he couldn’t stop.

“There’s nothing like spending a night passed out against a stranger’s headstone in an Oregon graveyard to make you question your choices in life,” Mulder says at length.

James’s brows rise even higher.

So Mulder continues. “I came to the conclusion I was foolish to believe in...well, maybe I was just a fool. Maybe I’ve always been a fool. The case had a surprise ending though. Guy was telling the truth. He really was a lizard who turned into a man who changed back into a lizard. As I said, I saw it happen. While sober.”

“Yes, you did mention that.”

“Oh! I learned something else during the case,” Mulder says.

“What’s that?”

“It’s easier to believe in monsters out there in the world than to accept that the real monsters dwell within us,” Mulder quotes Dr. Rumanovitch. “Do you believe that?”

“Is that what caused you to take a drink?”

“I downed an entire bottle. All by myself, Doc. Alone.” Mulder shrugs. “I was going through a questioning phase. I guess that’s my excuse.” Mulder sighs. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t expect it to happen again.”

“Good. Let’s move on.”

MARGARET SCULLY’S RESIDENCE
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2016
12:23 PM

“Come in, come in.” Maggie holds open her front door and waves Mulder inside. A gust of cold air follows him in. “Dana’s already here.”

Once in the hall, Mulder bends to kiss Maggie’s cheek before handing her a bouquet of yellow daffodils. The clerk at the florist’s said they “scream springtime!” He liked them because they smelled nice.

“Thank you, Fox! These are lovely” She takes a sniff and grins into the blooms.”Come on back to the kitchen and reach a vase down for me.”

He removes his trench coat as he trails after her. When they enter the kitchen, Scully is at the stove stirring something steamy in a stockpot. The mouthwatering aromas of garlic, onion, and sage waft through the room, making his stomach growl. Scully takes his coat and hangs it on a hook by the back door. Maggie points Mulder to an upper cabinet.

“Vases are on the top shelf,” she says.

There are dozens up there in various sizes and colors. “Looks like we missed a spot when we were downsizing,” he jokes. “Which one?”

“The fat one on the left. Looks like a rooster.”

He lifts it down and hands it to her. While she fills the vase with water from the tap, he gives Scully a quick kiss on the crown of her head. She’s once again tending whatever is cooking on the stovetop.

“Smells delicious.” He peers into the pot.

“Italian Wedding Soup,” she says.

“That a hint?”

“Not from me.”

“Something you two might consider,” Maggie says as she fusses with the flower arrangement. “I’m not getting any younger and would love to attend my daughter’s wedding before I die. How are things going in that department, by the way?”

“Mom!”

Mulder's cheeks heat. “Well, we’re working together again. It’s…nice.”

“Dana’s told me a little about that already. You caught a serial killer! And she’s got a dog now.” Unsatisfied with the length of one stem, Maggie cuts it shorter with her kitchen shears and jabs it back into the vase.

“That’s the abbreviated version, but yes, all true,” Mulder says. He feels in the way and unhelpful. “Can I do something? Set the table?”

“It’s already set, dear, but you can fill the water glasses.” Maggie hands him a crystal pitcher heavy with ice water. Lemon slices bob among the cubes.

He follows her into the dining room, where pretty china dishes, cloth napkins, sparkling stemware, and polished silver are all laid out. The tablecloth is snow white with a floral border. Not a wrinkle mars the surface. A basket of homemade yeast rolls sits beside a butter dish and a twin set of cut-glass salt and pepper shakers. Maggie has clearly gone to a lot of trouble to make this a special occasion.

When she tries to set the flowers in the center of the table, she nearly topples over. Water splashes from the vase. A yellow bloom tumbles out.

“Whoa, let me help with that.” Mulder quickly puts down the pitcher and takes the vase from her. He sets it into place and sticks the fallen bloom in beside the others.

“Thank you.” She looks a little surprised as she straightens and regains her balance. “Thought my arms were longer.” She gives him an embarrassed smile.

“Could happen to anyone. Well, maybe not me.” He extends his arms, then shrugs.

“Show off. Now, fill the water glasses, please.”

He returns her smile and does as she asks. Once the glasses are filled, he takes a step toward the kitchen but is stopped when she suddenly takes hold of his sleeve and asks, “Fox, I really do want to hear how the two of you are getting along…as a couple, not as coworkers.”

“What’s Dana told you?” He glances into the kitchen to make sure they aren’t being overheard.

“Nothing, which is why I’m asking you. It’s been months, sweetheart. When is she going to return home?”

“I wish I knew.” He pats her hand. “Don’t worry. Dana and I will get there eventually.”

“I’m afraid I won’t live long enough to see it!”

“Please, don’t say things like that.” This is the second time she’s brought up her mortality in the last fifteen minutes. He begins to wonder if she’s feeling poorly. “Is everything okay, Maggie?”

“With me? I’m fit as a fiddle. Oh, here’s the soup!”

Scully enters the room weighed down by a lovely antique soup tureen. Mulder immediately takes it from her and sets it on the table. Filled nearly to the rim, it’s a handful. It looks similar to one his Grandmother Kuipers used to have, and he tells them so.

“It was a wedding gift from Bill’s mother,” Maggie says, motioning for them all to sit, which they do. “My mother-in-law didn’t approve of me for a very long time, but she was generous enough to gift me that family heirloom anyway.”

“Why didn’t she like you?” Mulder shakes out his napkin and places it in his lap. He can’t imagine anyone disliking Maggie.

“Fox, would you dish the soup, please?” she asks. “Should be easy for you with your long reach.” Now she’s teasing him. “Pass the rolls, Dana.”

Once the food is served, Maggie continues her story. “My mother-in-law preferred the girl Bill was dating before he met me. She was lovely, I admit. Mother Aideen thought any children they might have would’ve been beautiful, and she had the gall to tell me that after Bill proposed and we tied the knot! Can you imagine? Well, I guess I showed her. Bill and I had four gorgeous, healthy babies who grew up to be amazing adults!”

“I hope she apologized at some point,” Mulder says. “This soup is delicious, by the way.”

“Thank you. Aideen Scully would’ve choked on an apology. I never once heard that woman say she was sorry or admit she was wrong.”

“Hm, now I know where Bill Jr. gets it,” Scully says with a smile, before she takes a bite of her roll.

Maggie aims a frown at her daughter but doesn’t disagree. “Dana, I want you to take the tureen with you when you go today.”

“Mom, you love that tureen. Give it to me later.”

“No, I want you to have it now.”

“But—”

“Subject closed!”

Mulder and Scully exchange looks.

“Okay, Mom. Thank you.” Scully spoons soup into her mouth. “Mmm, this is really good. I’d love the recipe.”

The request clearly pleases Maggie. “You can make it for Fox after you move back home,” she says with a sly smile.

Mulder nearly coughs out his mouthful of soup. “I’d, um, I’d like that.”

Lunch passes pleasantly after that, with plenty of good-natured ribbing and laughter. The food is savory and satisfying, and Mulder is generous with his compliments. Maggie waves off his flattery but is clearly pleased when he helps himself to seconds and even thirds. By the time they’ve finished coffee and dessert — fat slices of a homemade sweet potato pie with a generous dollop of real whipped cream — Maggie appears fatigued and has grown uncharacteristically quiet, so Scully suggests she rest in the living room while she and Mulder clean up.

“No, no, just leave it all where it is. I’ll get to it later,” Maggie says.

“Mom, you fed us, the least we can do is wash the dishes. I insist.”

“I insist, too,” Mulder says.

“Well, if you’re going to gang up on me, I won’t fight you. It might do me good to sit for a bit.”

Mulder stands to help her out of her chair, then, noticing she’s a little unsteady on her feet, offers his arm and walks her into the living room. She drops into her recliner with a huff of relief.

“Thank you, dear,” she says when he takes the afghan from the back of the couch and drapes it across her lap. She closes her eyes and almost immediately drops off to sleep.

“I think we wore her out,” Mulder says when he rejoins Scully.

He volunteers to clear the table while she fills the kitchen sink. Then she washes and he dries.

“Do you think your mother looks, uh…a little more fragile than usual?” He passes a bowl he’s about to dry back to her. “You missed a spot.”

She takes it, gives it a thorough scrubbing, and hands it back. “Maybe. A little. Though she had plenty of energy when I first arrived.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“I’ll see she gets an appointment with her primary care doc soon for a checkup, just to be on the safe side.”

When they finish in the kitchen, they go to the living room to say their goodbyes. They find Maggie sound asleep in her chair. Scully touches her shoulder to gently wake her.

“We’re going, Mom.”

“Oh! Already?” Maggie blinks up at them.

“Thank you for a wonderful meal.” Mulder kisses her cheek once more.

“Thank you for the flowers, Fox. And thank you both for coming and cleaning up. It was wonderful seeing you together again.” She struggles to stand.

“Don’t get up,” Mulder says, reaching out to stop her. “We can show ourselves out.”

She takes hold of his hand. Gives it a kindly squeeze. “Be there for her, Fox,” she says.

“Maggie?” He doesn’t understand.

“Be there for William, too.”

He wants to ask what she means, but she closes her eyes again and murmurs goodbye.

“What was that about?” Scully asks when they’re at the front door. The empty tureen is cradled in the crook of her arm.

He shakes his head. “I…I’m not sure.”

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2016

Bandaid Nose Man and the heinous murders in West Philadelphia become the least of Scully’s concerns when she gets a call from Bill Jr. saying their mother has suffered a major heart attack and is in an ICU in DC. At Mulder’s urging, she abandons the crime scene to rush to her mother’s side.

Sick with worry, Scully can’t feel her own skin or her limbs or the beat of her heart. She’s numb from the inside out as she watches over her mother, who is comatose, hooked to tubes, machines breathing for her, keeping her blood pumping.

Scully is no stranger to loss. She’s mourned the death of her dad, her sister, her daughter Emily. All tragic. All excruciating. But this loss will be different. Unendurable. This is her mother, the woman who gave birth to her, the one person in the world who has celebrated every success of her life from moment she was born. From her first words to her graduation from med school, from her first schoolgirl crush to her deep love for a man who went from being a partner to friend to lover to the father of their child. Maggie’s been there, seen all of Scully’s achievements and failures, and loved her equally through them all. She kissed countless hurts to make them better. Dried innumerable tears. She’s also cheered every honor and shared every joy. She’s told Scully the honest truth when it was needed, to help her grow stronger, smarter, more compassionate. Maggie taught by example. She was a role model, a person who was kind and giving, resolute in her faith, devoted to her family and friends, protective of her children. How will Scully cope without her?

Her cellphone rings. It’s Mulder. He’s standing just outside the ICU, looking in through the glass, not allowed access because he’s not a family member.

“I’m here,” he says.

Thank God. She ushers him in. He will provide her with the courage she needs. The necessary conviction. He will help her get through this. Even when he leaves her to go back to Philadelphia, she can sense his presence. Gains strength from knowing he’ll return as soon as he can. Feels profound relief when he does come back.

There are moments of hope when, after Maggie is extubated, she regains consciousness and opens her eyes. She takes hold of Mulder’s hand, just as she did a few days ago after their lunch. She smiles up at him and the gleam in her eyes fills Scully with optimism.

“My son…is named William, too,” Maggie says to Mulder, a beatific expression lighting her face.

Those become Margaret Scully’s last words. Her eyes close and she leaves this world to join Ahab and Melissa.

Scully is bereft. Unmoored.

I’m here.

Mulder holds her after her mother has breathed her last breath. Her tears soak the snow-white fabric of his shirt as she cries. He holds her steady, anchors her to reality, to this spot, where machines beep and the air smells like disinfectant and blood and despair. She buries her face against the warmth of his chest. Inhales his comforting scent as her mother’s body is wheeled away so her organs can be harvested, given to others in need. Mulder’s presence tempers her panic. She thanks God for him at this unbearable time.

I’m here.

Two days later, they sit side by side on a bleached log at the edge of Chesapeake Bay, still in their funeral attire. Her mother’s ashes rest in an urn at her feet. A low overcast grays the sky. Waves lap the gravelly shore and gulls cry as they pinwheel overhead.

“I know now why Mom asked for Charlie,” Scully says, “even though he was out of her life. She wanted to know before she left that he'd be okay. She gave birth to him. She made him. He's her responsibility. And that's why she said what she said to us. She wanted to make sure that we'd be responsible, to know that William's okay. Even though we can't see him.”

Mulder stays silent, let’s her say what she needs to say without interruption.

“I know that, as parents, we made a difficult sacrifice, to keep him safe,” she continues. “That it was for his own good to put him up for adoption. But I can't help but think of him, Fox. I can't help it. I believe that you will find all of your answers. You will find the answers to the biggest mysteries, and I will be there when you do.”

Her voice breaks. Tears fill her eyes.

“But my mysteries...I'll never have answered. I won't know if he thinks of me, too, or, if he's ever been afraid and wished that I was there. Does he doubt himself because we left him? What questions does he have of me?” She takes a breath. “I want to believe...I need to believe, that we didn't treat him like…trash.”

Like the homeless in Philadelphia. Tossed aside and forgotten like the Trashman said.

She leans into Mulder and he wraps his arms around her. He says nothing while she sobs as if her heart has cracked wide open and will never heal.

I’m here.

After she cries herself out, she picks up the urn. They stand and walk down to the water’s edge together. She untwists the cover of the container and hands the urn to Mulder because his reach is longer. He leans out over the water, stretches his arms as far as they’ll go before upending the urn. Maggie’s ashes sift downward. A slight breeze blows the dust away from shore, across the water’s surface, and moments later, it sinks out of sight. Scully watches the last of her mother’s earthly remains disappear into the liquid deep of the bay.

“She’d be glad, Mulder, to see us here together,” she says. Her mother is gone and loneliness sits in Scully’s gut like a stone. “It’s what she wanted.”

In this moment, it’s what Scully wants, too, as Mulder’s words press into her memory: I’m here.

CHAPTER 10: Reconciliation

Memories of Maggie Scully drift into Mulder’s consciousness several times a day, like benevolent spirits rising from their graves to walk familiar paths. Shared moments, most of them packed with desperate worry or considerable hope for Scully’s wellbeing. But joyous moments, too. Lunch last Saturday. Maggie driving to Farrs Corner to surprise him with a birthday cake. Going back further, the morning he introduced her to her new grandson when William was still only a few hours old. These cheerful recollections flood him with peace even as they make his chest ache.

Mostly though, he worries about Scully and how she’s processing her grief.

Immediately after the funeral, Scully, Bill Jr., and Charlie spent a few hours at Maggie’s house to lay claim to personal items that held meaning for them. Mulder wasn’t invited but learned later from Scully that the siblings were kind and generous to one another. The brothers divvied up a few small mementos, unable to pack anything too large in their suitcases. Scully offered to ship bigger items but they declined. Scully herself took very little, too. Several pieces of jewelry, the rooster vase from their recent lunch, and a box of love letters from Bill Sr. to Maggie, sent from locations around the world throughout their long marriage. Then Scully hired an estate sale company to sell or donate what they could, and haul the rest to the nearest Baltimore residential drop-off center. The house was on the market after a quick call to a realtor.

Unsurprisingly, Scully dove back into work full-bore. It’s how she’s always handled tragedy. It’s her way to control the uncontrollable. Mulder doesn’t fault her for it or try to dissuade her in any way. He’s seen her heal this way before. Through sheer determination and force of will.

Unlike her, he’s never been able to bury his feelings and ignore his sorrow. He’s been told he wears his heart on his sleeve. That said, he does tilt toward action over inaction whenever adversity strikes, especially when he believes he can right a wrong.

Only, there is no wrong to right in Maggie’s case. She grew old. Lived a longer and fuller life than many. Eventually, her body wore out. Short of the unethical solutions his enemies tout — hybridizing alien with human DNA or sticking chips in people's necks — we are born and we die. Best to use our time wisely while we can.

Which is why Mulder wants so very badly to get back together with Scully and bring their son home.

Maybe his and Scully’s shared pain will draw them closer together. Something good might come from something bad. It’s what Maggie wanted. Almost as much as Mulder wants it himself.

HOOVER BUILDING
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2016
8:16 AM

Their next case doesn’t come down through proper channels. In fact, the higher-ups would never sanction such a farfetched venture, which is saying a lot given the extreme nature of the cases they’ve investigated over the years. It is the X-Files, after all. But authorized or not, a couple of young agents persuade them to travel to Texas to lend their special expertise to a terrorist case. Mulder and Scully initially decline.

Alone in their office after the disappointed agents leave, Mulder refers to Miller and Einstein as “our Baby Doppelgängers.” Scully calls them “a stark reminder of the passage of time.” Mulder doesn’t disagree. Time has slipped away at a revoltingly rapid pace.

In a departure from the norm, Mulder and Scully travel separately to southwest Texas. They purposely don’t share their itineraries or their intentions with one another.

While Scully and Agent Miller attempt to use science to gain intel from the injured terrorist, Mulder and Agent Einstein try a decidedly different tack. Thanks to some magic mushrooms — or a placebo, depending on who you ask — Mulder takes a trip to Woo-woo Land where the Gunmen are alive, Skinner sports a Stetson, and Mulder dances like he’s still young enough to avoid being achy-breaky the next day. His hallucinations include Delirium Dom Einstein with a riding crop. What the f*ck? Mulder tries not to overthink it. Kinky or not, intentionally or not, Agent Einstein facilitates the booking of his passage on a rowboat to Hell…or maybe Heaven, he’s not sure. Smoking Man whips him from the stern while the Madonna della Pietà sits in the bow, the injured terrorist draped across her lap like Jesus down from the cross. It’s a front row seat to a mother’s unconditional love, which, no surprise, makes Mulder think of Scully and William. What else is new?

The tragedy has a happy ending…sort of. Phantasm Shiraz whispers something to Mulder in Arabic, which proves useful in stopping a terrorist cell from blowing themselves and who-knows-how-many innocent people to kingdom come. But the wounded man dies of his injuries in his mother’s arms, just as Mulder had foreseen. Somehow. On a placebo? Something magical was a work, if not the ’shrooms.

Mulder is back on his porch contemplating all this when Scully appears like a vision herself, dropping by unannounced at Farrs Corner. This is something she’s done only once in more than two years and the last time was to warn him about Tad O’Malley, not to pay a social visit. Today she’s smiling, which is another miraculous departure from the norm.

She climbs his front steps to join him on the porch, the very place where he nearly ended his life with both a whimper and a bang. They chat about the strangeness of the case, the mysteries of God’s intent, and the misunderstandings that happen when people don’t speak a common language. Today it feels like they’re on the same page at last and it’s an enormous relief.

“Walk with me, Scully.” Mulder rises from his chair and holds out his hand. Praise God — not the wrathful one they’ve been discussing but a benevolent God that allows old wounds to heal — Scully grasps his proffered hand. Their fingers intertwine. The warmth of her palm makes everything seem right in his world. If only he could convince her to stay.

You belong with me, Scully, I belong with you, ho hey, runs through his head like a round as they saunter in the sunshine, listening for the sound of celestial trumpets.

He swears he hears them. Of course she doesn’t.

They step off the gravel drive to amble upland toward the tree line. Wanting her to stay as long as possible, he steers her away from the house and her car. But before they cross the overgrown lawn, she pulls up short, gives his hand a squeeze, then releases her hold.

“I have to get back, Mulder. I left Daggoo on his own.”

Another damned dog. “Knowing how you feel about kennels, what did you do with him while we were in Texas?”

Maggie used to be her default dogsitter, but… He doesn’t mention this.

“A neighbor watched him. It didn’t go particularly well. Daggoo destroyed several pairs of pricy Santonis. Which is why he’s not at the neighbor’s and I have to get back.”

Mulder reluctantly releases her to her responsibilities. To have her back home even for an hour has been a blessing. It almost makes him believe in a Higher Power.

X-FILES OFFICE
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2016
4:30 PM

Scully’s 52nd birthday is coming up on Sunday and Mulder decides he wants to do something special to mark the occasion. Not “get down on one knee and ask her to marry him” special — he isn’t delusional…any more. More like a “take her out to dinner” kind of thing. Or maybe a picnic in the Botanic Garden conservatory. Do they let you bring food in there? How about a visit to the National Zoo? Scully likes pandas, right? Who doesn’t like pandas?

“Where are we going?” Scully asks when he helps her on with her trench coat a full thirty minutes before the workweek officially ends.

“To celebrate your birthday.”

Her expression falls. “Mulder…I…I don’t feel much like celebrating this year.” She tries to remove her coat.

He pats it back into place across her shoulders and straightens her collar. “It’ll be fine. No fireworks or clowns jumping out of cakes, I promise.”

“Clowns jumping out of cakes? Please, don’t ever put that on our itinerary.”

“There goes number three on my bucket list,” he says with mock disappointment.

“Wait…am I dressed okay?” She’s wearing a black skirt suit and heels under her trench coat.

“You look great.”

“But is what I’m wearing appropriate? We aren’t going bowling or line dancing or batting practice, are we?”

They’d only ever done one of those things...together. “No, Scully, we’ll save those for my birthday. You’re fine.”

At the door, he suddenly remembers Daggoo. “Oh, what about your dog? Is he okay on his own for a couple of hours?”

“He’s not on his own. After a lot of soul searching, I gave him to a loving family down the street.”

“You did?” This is a welcome announcement. It means Scully is now free, today and on any future date. To do…whatever.

“I’m not home enough, Mulder. It wasn’t fair to Daggoo to leave him alone so much of the time. He was beginning to take out his anxiety on my furniture.”

“Kinda like me two years ago,” he says, referring to their upended coffee table and broken plant pot.

“At least you didn’t chew the upholstery.”

“That only happened after you left,” he teases, surprised he can joke about that awful time, given how desperate he’d felt then and how very much he still wants her to move back to Farrs Corner.

“Well, the furniture at my new place isn’t even mine,” she said, ignoring his comment. “It’s leased. I’ll never get my security deposit back.”

He grimaces and slips into his own coat. “I’m sorry about Daggoo,” he says, not sorry at all. “I know what he meant to you.”

“It's fine, Mulder. I can visit Daggoo whenever I want and he’s a whole lot happier with his new family.”

“Are they lizard-people?”

She side-eyes him. “No, but there are two children, ages eight and ten, who adore him.”

Mulder steers her out of the office, palm to her back, and clicks off the lights as they pass into the hall. Unlike the old days, he leaves the door wide open and unlocked. He figures anyone who is interested in what they do down here will find their way past the inadequate security of a single cylinder deadbolt. Over three decades, it's never kept anyone out.

“So…where are we going?” She heads for the elevator.

“You don’t want to be surprised?”

“Do I?” She arches a brow at him.

“I think you do.”

Twenty minutes later, he steers them onto L'Enfant Plaza in his car.

“The Spy Museum?” she asks when she spots it, sounding pleased.

He hums a little of the James Bond theme as he pulls into the parking garage.

They start their tour of the museum at the Briefing Center, where they receive new cover identities and RFID-enabled badges for the interactive Undercover Mission in the museum's permanent exhibitions.

“Do you have it what takes to be a spy?” Mulder whispers as he admires Scully’s fake badge.

“We’ll see.”

When they peruse the Covert Mission Failures and Successes exhibit, Mulder pretends to be indignant. “We’re not listed.”

“For failures or for successes.”

“We’ve had failures?”

She gives him a playful slap.

They stop at each of eight special digital stations spread throughout the museum to test their spy skills. They pass with flying colors.

“Maybe we should’ve flubbed one on purpose,” Mulder says.

“Why?”

“To keep our true identities a secret. That’s what real spies would do.”

In the Spies and Spymasters exhibit, Mulder reads off the profiles for Morten Storm, Dmitiri Bystrolyotov, Mata Hari, and more. He shakes his head.

“Humph. Forgotten again,” he says, looking disappointed.

“We’re Special Agents, Mulder, not Secret Agents. Besides, we haven’t retired yet. There’s still time.”

Later while they explore the permanent collection, Scully is impressed with the Lipstick Pistol, used by KGB operatives during the Cold War. Theoretically, the 4.5 mm, single shot weapon was small enough to slip past suspicious border guards. It fired by pressing the barrel into the victim. “That would’ve come in handy,” she says.

When she asks which item strikes his fancy, Mulder is torn between the Cold War gutted rats used to hide secret messages, money, and film, and the 1960s CIA Scrotum Concealment Device, specifically designed to be used by downed male pilots to conceal a small escape radio.

“Huh, it says SCD was never used in the field.”

Scully doesn’t comment.

They both cringe at the Rectal Tool Kit.

“We’ve had to take it up the ass plenty of times over the years, Scully, but thankfully never quite like that.”

“Thank God.”

In the gift shop, Mulder buys Scully a cipher wheel keychain — a “museum exclusive” — to replace the Apollo 11 keyring she regifted to Agent Doggett, who then gave it to Agent Leila Harrison. For himself, he gets the peel-and-stick fake mustache kit. It includes six distinctly styled mustaches, all made of plain black felt. None look remotely real. He opens the pack immediately and puts one on. It makes Scully laugh — her unexpected crazy giggle. Best $5.99 he’s ever spent.

“Wouldn’t you rather have the Deny Everything wrist band?” Scully asks and makes a grab for his mustache.

He dodges her easily. “Everybody’s wearing those these days, Scully.”

He keeps the fake mustache on until they sit down at Charleys Philly Steaks in the L’Enfant Plaza Food Court,a two-minute walk away from the museum.

“I can’t believe you wore that thing all the way over here,” Scully says. She opens her turkey club and removes the bacon slices, which she specifically asked to be left out.

“Do you even know me?” Mulder bites into his foot-long kimchi cheesesteak sandwich. “Holy sh*t, this is good,” he says with a full mouth.

“I hope you have Tums at home.”

“I have a cast iron stomach, Scully. How do you think I put up with the Bureau BS all these years?” He snatches the bacon from her plate and eats that, too. It feels like old times.

For dessert they walk to Auntie Anne’s where he buys an order of sugar and cinnamon pretzel bites and a small tub of sweet glaze dip.

“Do you have any birthday candles?” he asks the young man at the counter.

“Uh…no, sir. Sorry,” the kid replies, not looking especially apologetic.

After they’re out of hearing range, Mulder complains, “Spoilsport.”

They wander the food court, dipping and eating their pretzels. He’s tempted to smear a dollop of frosting on the tip of her nose, or better yet, her lower lip, to watch her lick it off. It takes all his willpower to not do either.

“Happy birthday, Scully,” he says when the last pretzel is gone. He tosses the empty container into a nearby trash can.

“Thank you, Mulder. This was very nice.” She licks her fingers, which is every bit as sexy as watching her lick her lips.

“Better than you expected or better than you hoped?”

“Is there a difference?”

He shrugs. The urge to take hold of her hand is so strong, he thrusts his fists into his pockets rather than take the chance of ruining the camaraderie they’ve been enjoying all evening.

“What was your best birthday ever, Scully?” he asks as they stroll back to his car.

It’s spitting snow and ice is forming on the sidewalk. Their breath plumes every time they speak. Scully’s nose is turning red.

“This one ranks right up there—”

“Thank you.”

“But I think my favorite was my 16th. After celebrating at home with the family, Missy invited me to a gathering at a friend of a friend’s house. Of course, she didn’t tell Mom this. She said we were going to the mall to pick up a copy of John le Carré's current bestseller at B. Dalton’s.”

“You were into spy novels as long ago as that!”

“I was. And I did get the book eventually, but that particular evening I partied with Missy’s crowd. We listened to music. Michael Jackson, Queen, that silly Piña Colada Song. I drank my first beer. And…” She blushes.

“And…?”

“There was a boy there. Handsome. Smart. Older.”

“Older?”

“Seventeen…and a half.” She chuckles. “His name was Stevie. Steven Bartlett. He wasn’t put off by my braces and kissed me. It was my first real boy-girl kiss. I didn’t feel so much like Missy’s kid sister after that.”

“Was he a good kisser?”

“Yes, but it’s not like I had anyone to compare him to.”

“Bet you were a heart breaker…dream maker…love taker—”

“Don’t you mess around with me,” she finishes the lyrics for him. “I certainly dressed like Pat Benatar but I wasn’t much of a sex-as-a-weapon, love-is-a-battlefield kind of girl.”

“Hit me with your best shot.” He winks at her.

“What about you, Mulder? What’s your favorite birthday memory?”

“Hmm. My thirty-fourth was pretty memorable.” When she gives him a questioning look, he supplies the details. “1995. You and I met Clyde Bruckman. We learned you were immortal while I was going to meet an undignified end.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“Not for lack of trying.” He shares a sly smile before continuing. “We solved the case. You got a dog. Okay, that part wasn’t so great.”

She elbows him in the side. “But, Mulder, we didn’t celebrate your birthday that day.”

“Hey, you don’t know what I did after we went our separate ways.” His grin widens. “I swear it didn’t involve a ligature.”

“Good to hear.” At an icy spot on the sidewalk, she links her arm with his, which both surprises and pleases him. She’s wearing heels and likely just wants to avoid a fall, but he hopes her motives are less practical and more a show of affection. Is it possible she misses him as much as he misses her? “Was there ever a more, uh, traditional birthday that stands out for you?” she asks.

“Hm…birthdays as a kid were nonexistent after Samantha disappeared. I don’t recall celebrating as a teen or in college either. I guess my favorite was probably in 2013.”

“What happened in ’13?”

“I got released from the looney bin and your mom came to visit.”

“Oh, right.”

“Did I tell you she made me wish on a candle? Damned if it didn’t come true.”

“What did you wish for?”

He doesn’t pause or make a joke, which he would’ve done as recently as six months ago. Instead, he tells her the truth. “To know you wanted me back in your life. She told me that you did and I believed her.”

She needs you, Maggie had said. She desperately wants to see you. It meant the world to him at the time. It means the world to him now, too.

“She loved you, Mulder.” She squeezes his arm, warming him all over. “It was nice of you to help her with her downsizing project.”

“I loved her, too, Scully. I miss her.”

They enter the parking garage. His car is just two rows over but she suddenly stops walking, which pulls him up short, too. She looks up at him with earnest eyes.

“You’ve changed, Mulder. And I’m not talking about your depression or mental health issues.”

“Well, I’m not destroying the furniture anymore.”

“No, I’m talking about how you were when I first met you and how you are now.”

“Longer in the tooth?”

“No, you’re…I don’t know…calmer? More thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful? Not sure I agree with that assessment, Scully.”

“But you are. You’re more reflective and considerate…I’d call that thoughtful. You’ve matured, Mulder, in the best ways possible.”

“I did use to be pretty self-centered.” It shames him to think how selfish he was. At her expense. At everyone’s expense. But viewing life through older, wiser eyes, he realizes he’d been a fool. “I wasted a lot of time and energy thinking I was right about everything when in reality, I knew nothing, Scully, I was being led around by my nose by bad actors and their conspiracies. I was willful, angry, and smug and careless, and it got me nowhere. Hopefully, I’ve learned to be better. I’m…trying to be better.”

She remains silent as they walk the rest of the way to his car, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his assessment. Just as he’s about to open her door and ask what she’s thinking, she astonishes him by throwing her arms around his waist and pressing tightly against him.

“Scully…?”

“I can’t believe you ever thought I wouldn’t want to see you again, Mulder,” she says, her words muffled by the fabric of his coat.

He strokes her hair and she lets him. It’s been a remarkable evening and he’s the happiest he’s felt in…well, maybe ever.

A vision? A hallucination? A premonition? A nightmare? Whatever it is, it’s disorienting. And terrifying. Scully sees and hears things she’d rather not. Seemingly impossible things. Chilling things. A contagion let loose on an unsuspecting population, a virus called the Spartan Virus, which decimates the immune system. Hundreds of thousands falling ill, dying. Mulder is dying, too.

The Smoking Man, somehow alive, is behind it all. He plans to unleash this pandemic. A vaccine made from the alien DNA in Scully’s blood could be the cure. Or stem cells from William, if she can find him.

Mulder had been right to look for him. If only she’d listened…

Scully squeezes her eyes shut. She holds her pounding head. Bombarded by wild, inexplicable images and sounds, she cries out, “What is happening?”

CHAPTER 11: Not Beyond the Realm of Extreme Possibility

BAsem*nT OF THE HOOVER BUILDING
TUESDAY, JANUARY 3, 2018

Scully is lying unconscious on the floor beside Mulder’s desk. Paramedics surround her.

“Heart rate elevated to 186 bpm,” one of them announces. “Dilation unresponsive.”

“You found her where she is?” The question is aimed at Mulder.

“She must’ve fallen,” he says, concern etched in his face.

“She’s bit her tongue but no trauma to her head.” A line of blood drools over her lower lip. “Has she had seizures before?”

“No, she’s perfectly healthy.” Mulder hovers near her. “She’s a doctor, she would’ve told me.”

This is the scene that greets Skinner when he enters the basem*nt office. He opts to follow Mulder to the hospital. Jesus, what the hell happened here?

Skinner waits with Mulder in the corridor outside the ICU, while doctors try to determine what’s wrong with Scully. Mulder paces and complains. Skinner tries and fails to calm him down.

After a seeming eternity, Dr. Joyet, the neurologist assigned to the case, arrives and explains Scully is showing extremely abnormal brain activity. “Neurologically speaking, her brain is on fire.”

They watch real-time scans, where they see Scully’s hypothalamus, the area of the brain associated with “fight or flight,” flash with rapid, bright lights. Skinner reads it as code and says so.

“Him. Find…him,” he translates.

Oddly, Mulder scoffs at the idea. “Find who?”

“Who would you be asking for? Your son.” It’s obvious to Skinner, but Mulder refuses to believe it. Skinner presses his point. “I’ve seen you believe far more absurd things, Agent Mulder. Far less personal.”

But Mulder is adamant he won’t leave Scully’s side. “Where I’m needed is in there.” He hooks a thumb at Scully’s room.

His devotion to Scully is crystal clear to anyone with two eyes and Skinner can’t help wonder why these two are living apart after working so hard to be together. Yet she lives in Bethesda while he lives in East Bumf*ck, Virginia. Not that their personal struggles are any of his damn business.

They become his business, however, just hours later when CGB Spender slides into the passenger seat of Skinner’s car. He tells Skinner a terrifying tale of a pathogen that will kill billions in a world-wide plague. Then he offers Skinner a deal: immunity from the virus. He pulls a small vile of vaccine from his pocket and holds it out like a tempting treat to pacify a misbehaving child. There’s a price, however. Spender wants the boy, Scully’s son, in exchange for Skinner’s immunity. The boy is the key, the end-product of a decades-long experimental project.

The Smoker’s next words chill Skinner to the bone. “Dana and I have a history. A very important history that goes back seventeen years.”

After listening with growing horror to the details of Spender’s sordid tale, Skinner cuts to the chase. “You impregnated her?” The words leave a bitter taste. He’s both appalled and furious on Scully’s behalf. His finger twitches on the trigger of his Glock, which is still aimed at Spender’s nonexistent heart.

“With science, Mr. Skinner. Alien science. To create the first superhuman child.”

f*cking bastard! Skinner forces out his next question, “Mulder’s not the father?” When Spender just smiles, he presses the son-of-a-bitch, “I’m asking. Who’s the father?”

“I am. William is my son.”

Mulder leaves Scully’s bedside in the ICU only when she threatens to go after Spender herself.

“I’m on it,” he says.

A cat and mouse chase ensues. In the end, Mulder doesn’t find the Smoker, but does find a reorganized cabal bent on populating space with a small group of select elites, ensuring their survival during the coming apocalypse. They offer him and Scully a place among them. Distrusting their motives and disgusted by their lack of human compassion, he returns to Scully.

When he reenters her hospital room, he’s shocked to find her on the floor, struggling with the very man Mulder had followed earlier in the day. A blade across the man’s throat ends his life and saves hers.

To say it’s been a horrible 24 hours is an understatement of massive proportions. But Mulder is grateful for the revelation of one important piece of information. Jeffrey Spender supplied Scully with the surname of William’s adoptive parents: Van de Kamp.

A second bright spot had come earlier, before Mulder left the hospital on his hunt for Old Smokey, when Scully urged him to search for William.

“You have to find our son,” she’d begged him. “You need him and I need you.”

This was the change of heart Mulder had been longing to hear. It meant no more lying, no more hiding his activities. They’re on the same page at last and although their search is temporarily stymied, they will discover the truth through their work on the X-Files…together.

“They won’t find him, Mulder,” Scully says, referring to the dark forces who hunt for their son, “but he will find us.”

Scully is adamant. She shares a mysterious connection with William. Her visions come from him, she’s certain. She’ll know if he needs their help and wants to be found. This seems to satisfy her more than it does Mulder, but he’s willing to let it go.

For now.

OFFICE OF DR. ERIC JAMES
FRIDAY, JANUARY 12, 2018
2:10 PM

“You’re looking the worse for wear, Mulder. What happened to you?” Dr. James asks, eyeballing the scrapes and bruises on Mulder’s face and knuckles.

“I got into a tussle with with a Russian operative from Purlieu Services,” Mulder says, downplaying the fight, which in truth, took a lot more out of him than it would’ve a few years ago. On the upside, he did get his phone back.

Even better, Scully referred to his house in Farrs Corner as “our home” when talking with Skinner. She doesn’t live there, but she has been visiting more often. He hopes she truly does consider the place her home, too. Then again, maybe it was just an unintentional slip of the tongue.

“Purlieu?”

“An American security contractor, headquartered in Moscow.”

“Can you tell me more?”

“About Purlieu, probably not.” Purlieu’s activities, like the Titanpointe Transfer Tunnel in Manhattan, are top secret, but the simulation created by Erika Price and her ilk isn’t, not by any sanctioned department of the government. “I can tell you about a program that promises ‘life eternal.’”

James raises his brows. “Go on.”

“The process involves scanning and copying the salient features of your biological brain.”

James huffs in disbelief. It’s the first time he’s ever reacted like that to something Mulder has said, which is noteworthy, given the many unbelievable things Mulder has told him. “And how exactly is that accomplished?”

“Through your cellphone, I’m told.”

James regains his composure. “Then what?”

“The data is uploaded into a simulation, where it stays inactive until you die in this world. In that world, you live forever. Allegedly.”

“Allegedly. Were you tempted to have your consciousness uploaded?”

“I was.” The idea of eternal life with Scully was enticing. It still is.

“But…?”

“But, there was a catch.”

“Only one?”

Mulder barks a laugh. He decides not to mention the bargain he would’ve had to strike to earn the privilege: killing his father, the Smoking Man…not that he necessarily opposes the idea. But James would certainly object to killing a parent for personal reward, reading some sort of Menendez Brothers-like motivation into it and extending Mulder’s therapy for…well, probably forever. Mulder also doesn’t want to get into the whole Neo-Syndicate thing with James. It’s too damn convoluted. Instead he skips to the most compelling argument against the simulation.

“When I asked if Scully could be uploaded with me, I was told, and I quote, ’It won’t be her…and it won't be you.’ After hearing that, the proposal seemed pointless.”

ST. RACHEL MOTEL
HENRICO COUNTY, VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 17, 2018
11:32 PM

A shared suite with a pullout couch at the St. Rachel Motel turns into an unexpectedly romantic stay. After twenty-five years of wishful thinking, Mulder’s “Sorry, sir, we only have one room” fantasy finally comes true.

Oddly, they don’t share Scully’s nice and comfy bed for their impromptu lovemaking, but end up together on his sleeper sofa when she tiptoes into his adjoining room in the middle of the night and asks him to hold her. Apparently, the Poundstone case is getting under her skin. Evil twins Judy and Chucky are strange, to be sure. But it seems it was Little Judy’s comments about Scully’s age that hit a nerve.

Mulder lifts the bedcovers and Scully slides in next to him, her back to his chest. He spoons around her, delighted by the intimacy and reminded of better times. She’s wearing satiny pajamas that slip and slide against his skin when he wraps her in a one-armed embrace. He buries his nose into her hair and thinks how much he’s missed this.

They talk about the their ages, the future, how he’ll always be around to offer bulletproof theories of genius that she’ll fail to assail with her inadequate rationality.

The conversation turns more serious when she asks, “What if you meet someone? What if you meet someone…younger who…wants to have kids.”

Oh, Scully. The subject of children will always be painful for them.

When he reminds her that she could just as easily meet someone and have kids, she scoffs at the notion. “I’m at the end of that journey.”

“Do you want to have more kids?”

He certainly does…with her. Only with her. He’s a father but not a parent and he’d like to field-test the role more fully.

“Well…I would’ve liked to have had another.”

Why did she never say this when they were still together? They could’ve made it work.

“At the risk of sounding insensitive, what’s stopping you?”

“Besides the fact that the first time was a miracle? And besides the fact that I don’t have anyone to have one with even if I could?”

This hurts him. Stings like a slap. He’s right here. He’s willing. He showed her he was willing when he said yes to IVF nearly two decades ago. He’s wanted to give her a chance at motherhood ever since the opportunity was stolen from her. Taken away because of her association with him and the X-Files. He wants to father her children, be a family. He had hoped that William—

He shuts down that thought, not wanting to go there right now.

“You’re a woman of science…” he says, thinking of IVF, surrogacy, egg donation and implantation, procedures couples go through everyday to conceive when natural conception isn’t an option. Less high tech, there’s always adoption. Or foster parenting. He’s not opposed to any of these possibilities.

No surprise, she changes the subject. Which may be for the best at the moment.

“What if we lose our jobs?” she asks.

He senses from this and her earlier comments about growing old, retirement, and meeting other people, that her real concern is losing their close relationship — a decades-long bond and sometimes unhealthy interdependence. It’s his concern, too.

“Yeah. Then what would we do?” he asks, when what he really wants to say is that it’s not their jobs that are keeping them together, not really. It’s their love for one another.

Then again, maybe that’s true only for him.

Something astonishing happens next. She rolls over to face him. She stares into his eyes and smiles. Her focus drops to his lips.

Oh! He knows that look.

“We’ll think of something,” she says, making him smile, too.

He curls a hand over her shoulder and gently but firmly presses her down toward the mattress until she’s lying flat on her back. Shifting his position, he leans over her and pins her in place with the weight of his upper body. He knows she likes this. It’s a somewhat aggressive posture that she responds well to. Whereas she’s commanding as an agent in the field, in bed, she often likes him to take the lead. He appreciates her trust.

She chuffs a laugh, knowing full well what he’s doing and why. Her awareness makes him chuckle, too.

He ducks his head and burrows his nose into her neck. She responds with a lift of her chin, granting him fuller access. He nips at the satiny skin below her ear with his lips. Teases her outer ear with his tongue. It’s just the beginning of a well-practiced performance, a dance of sorts played out countless times over the years. A niggling worry that he’s grown rusty passes quickly. Muscle memory kicks in. He rolls with it.

Her fingers plow through his hair, tingling his scalp and raising gooseflesh on his arms, across his shoulders. It’s his cue to reach beneath her pajama top to bracket her bare ribs with his open palms. He skates his hands upward until he meets the mounds of her breasts. He pauses there, his thumbs at her breastbone, his fingers just grazing the upward curve of her breasts. He doesn’t cup her or grab, he simply waits. Anticipation makes her whine, then curse. Delaying gratification is part of the game, to stall the reward and make the sensation more intense, for her and for him.

She kisses him, deeply and passionately, in an attempt to spur him on. But he’s a patient man. He returns her kiss with equal fervor, explores her mouth with his tongue. She spars with him, pushes her tongue past his once more. Her taste makes his mouth water, sends blood rushing to his co*ck. He’s rock hard. He presses his erection against her hip.

Approval hums low in her throat, which prompts him to explore the sides of her breasts with his fingertips. He follows her curves to her cleavage, avoiding her nipples, steering clear of those sensitive peaks until she wriggles, trying to position herself beneath the path of his circling caresses. But no. Not yet.

Her own fingers trace wavering paths up the backs of his arms from elbows to shoulders. She kneads the muscles there and the bones in the back of his neck. All the while, they kiss and bite and nuzzle.

When at last his right thumb scuffs over the pebbled tip her left nipple, she gasps. Wanting to hear her gasp again, his repeats the motion with his other hand and she rewards him with a second surprised intake of breath. He presses into her flesh with his thumbs. Shifts his body so that he can bow his head and take a nipple into his mouth. He sucks. Tender at first. Then more insistent. He swirls the tip of his tongue over the puckered bud. Nibbles it with his lips. Tests her tolerance with his teeth, careful not to apply too much pressure. He wants to excite her, not hurt her.

One slow tug and she moans his name. She digs her nails into the fabric of his t-shirt across his back. Her hips shift beneath him as she spreads her legs.

“Not yet,” he murmurs against her skin. It’s too soon. He’s not finished playing with her.

He grasps both breasts and squeezes. Hard. Harder. She thrusts her chest upward into his clutching fingers, as if the contact isn’t already merciless. He manhandles her until her skin heats beneath his hands. He’s left red marks, he’s sure.

“Enough,” she says, biting down on her lower lip.

Immediately, he releases his hold. He soothes her with delicate touches. She sighs, relieved, satisfied, content.

He snakes an arm between them, his fingers searching out the vertex of her legs. He plans to tease her there, too, just as he’s teased her breasts. She knows this strategy, as well. She helped him establish it long ago. They’ve been together for so long, they’ve honed the act of their lovemaking, sifted and perfected each move, discarded anything that doesn’t please or excite.

“Yes,” she says, when his fingers graze her cl*tor*s. It’s the last touch she’ll feel there for several minutes.

He slides his middle finger between her folds. As expected, she’s wet, slicked by her desire. No matter how often he encounters this miracle of biology, he’s both grateful and thrilled. It’s proof she wants him. He circles her opening with his fingertip, round and round a half dozen times. A full dozen. He dips into her. Only a little. A half inch or less, not even as deep as his first knuckle.

She frets, whimpers in his ear. He knows she wants more, but her desire will grow if he holds off. Circle. Circle. Push. A little deeper this time.

In a maneuver to hurry him along, she nips at his chin. Kisses his cheeks, his brow, his temple. She pecks at his lower lip. His nose. His earlobe. It’s all a delight.

Her desperation mounts. His own self-restraint helps him time his next move. He waits for that point between her need and her frustration. He never wants to make her beg but he does want to prolong her pleasure. When he feels she’s waited long enough, he plunges his finger all the way into her. She cries out with relief.

He withdraws and sinks back into her again. And again. Her inner heat is a source of amazement. Her lubrication and snugness a thrill. Her moans and writhing captivate him. On his next thrust, he inserts two fingers.

“Oh my God! Don’t stop.”

“As if.”

He presses his thumb to her cl*tor*s as he jams his fingers deep inside her. His hand is slippery with her secretions. The smell of her passion fills his sinuses. He swears he can taste her salty flavor, right there on the tip of his tongue. He rubs and pumps, finding the rhythm she needs to climax.

The wait isn’t long. Her breathing becomes more rapid. Her inner pulse thrums against his fingers. He detects the flutter of muscles deep inside her just before she throws back her head, squeezes her eyes shut, and howls his name. Her jaws clench and her face contorts in ecstasy as she rides out her org*sm. He doesn’t ease up until she releases her held breath and stills his hand by gripping his arm. “Okay,” she says, signaling him to withdraw, “okay."

He does, then paints her lower lip with her own juices. She opens her mouth and he revels at the draw of her lips and tongue on his fingers as she sucks and laps him. He imagines those lips wrapped around his stiff co*ck, that tongue spiraling up his length.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffs, blaspheming the name of a deity he doesn’t believe in, but thinks maybe he should, if only to offer up his heartfelt thanks.

“I want you, Mulder.”

“These have to come off.” He plucks at her PJs.

“You do it,” she says, coy and a little co*cky. She knows he’ll oblige her and enjoy doing it.

He rises to his knees and languidly unbuttons her top. The fabric shimmers in the scant glow from the streetlight beyond the half-closed blinds. He pushes her shirt aside, exposing her torso, then ducks to kiss her bellybutton. It makes her giggle, which makes her breasts jiggle in a most alluring way. He’s tempted to tickle her just to watch them bounce and sway but he doesn’t want to get sidetracked. They do tickle one another on occasion, but it’s not part of this particular routine. Instead, he draws her pajama bottoms over her hips, down her legs, and off her feet. He leaves them in a silky puddle at the foot of the bed.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Scully?” he asks as he appraises her nudity.

“When was the last time you had an eye exam?”

“Hey, none of that,” he gently scolds. He wants no reminders he’s getting old and may be exhibiting signs of physical decline.

He shifts, positioning himself between her legs, but pauses when the question of safe sex comes to mind.

“I-I didn’t bring any condoms,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting…”

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about my infertility?” She sounds annoyed. Of course she’s annoyed.

“It’s not that—” sh*t, this is awkward. He needs to ask about other partners. Just because he’s been celibate while they’ve been separated, doesn't mean she has. “Have you had…unprotected sex? Lately?”

Her frown deepens. “The only unprotected sex I’ve had was with you before I left in July of 2014.”

That was more than three years ago. Three years? Has it really been as long as that? No matter, that wasn’t entirely what he wanted to know, though it is what he asked. What he really wants to know is whether she’s had sex, unprotected or otherwise, while they’ve been separated. But now he can’t think of a way to ask without sounding just plain nosey. It’s really none of his business, as long as she’s STD-free.

“Good.” He decides to drop the subject. She’s here with him now and that’s all that matters.

Then another question pops into his head. “Oh, uh, did you want me to…or you to…go down on…you…or me…or both…though probably not at the same time, though that’s a possibility, too?”

Oral sex is a part of their repertoire they add or skip depending on their mood or the amount of time they have. He’s in the mood. She appears to be in the mood. And they have the whole night, so…?

“Raincheck, please. I want you inside of me, Mulder. Sometimes, that feeling is…well, overpowering and supersedes my other desires.”

“I’m good with that. We can always circle back.”

Any type of sex with Scully is spectacular, and Mulder certainly has nothing against experimentation, but there’s something to be said for the good ol’ missionary position. He adores the feel of Scully’s lithe body beneath his, his hips cradled between her upraised knees, her heels digging into his lower back. He’s able to control the speed and depth of his thrusts, which helps him last longer, allowing her time to org*sm a second or — please, please, please — even a third time…if he distracts himself with thoughts about flukemen or the Peaco*ck family or Bill Jr., a tactic he’s employed on more than one occasion. She seems to like this position, too. She’s mentioned more than once how his weight on top of her is a turn on. Other benefits include being able to kiss while f*cking. He can look into her eyes, study her face. And touch her breasts!

Why do women not touch their own breasts all the time? Or any of their other glorious attributes? If he were a woman…

Anyway, right now he’s glad to be a man, buried to the hilt inside the woman he loves. He thrusts into her again and again, picking up speed only after she comes with a throaty growl and a cry to God. Forget about waiting for her to have a third org*sm, he’s past the point of no return. Flukeman, the Peaco*ck brothers, and not even Bill Jr. are going to stop his impending climax. Two, three more pumps and he ejacul*tes. The release is glorious. The love he feels for her overwhelms him.

When he’s emptied and sated, he clings to her while his erection softens, his breathing returns to normal, and his pounding heart quiets. Tears sting his eyes. He hides them by burying his face in her neck. She pets his back with soothing caresses and murmurs loving words into his ear.

“Wow,” she says, sounding impressed.

“I’ll see your ‘wow’ and raise you a ‘whoa.’”

They laugh as he rolls off her. He gathers her close, tucking himself against her. Drowsiness ambushes him as it often does after a satisfying round of sex. Too spent to fight it, he drops off to sleep. He dreams of a future with Scully, William, and a second child, a baby that never quite comes into focus but fills his heart with joy.

An hour later, Mulder wakes up parched. He leaves Scully sleeping peacefully in their bed to get himself a drink of water. In the bathroom, he turns on the faucet in the sink and gulps directly from the tap. Thirst slaked, he wipes his lips and smiles at his reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t felt this pleased with the way his life was going since encountering his first real-live mutant in 1994.

His complacency ends abruptly when he catches a glimpse of his doppelgänger in the mirror, looming behind him with malevolent intent.

Mulder hurries to the bedroom to wake Scully. After some panicky encouragement on his part, she dresses and goes off to face Demon Judy while he ends up locking horns with his own likeness in Chucky’s weird little house. During his prolonged and bruising struggle, he briefly wonders what Dr. James would have to say about this battle with himself. It brings to mind Dr. Rumanovitch’s comment, It’s easier to believe in monsters out there in the world than to accept that the real monsters dwell within us. Well. Whatever. He’s in a fight for his life and doesn’t have time to psychoanalyze it right now. Any emotional insight will have to wait.

The mayhem ends with Judy and Chucky both dead, murdered by their nasty, competitive natures and their lethal game of Hangman. Mulder and Scully meet back at the motel.

He suggests they catch up on some sleep. She starts packing her things.

“But if you need anything,” he says at his door, “you just, uh, call me?”

“I can’t imagine that I will.”

Oh really? he thinks.

Minutes later, she opens the door that separates their rooms and he’s there leaning against the jamb, waiting for her. She’s not the least embarrassed by her change of heart. She walks right in and heads for the bed.

But before she gets far, he grabs her arm and twirls her around. “Let’s use the comfy bed this time,” he’s says and herds her back to her room, where he yanks the comforter off the bed, sending her files and open toiletry bag tumbling to the floor.

A tube of lipsticks rolls to a stop against the toe of his shoe.

“You’re lucky that’s not a concealed spy pistol,” she says.

“The ultimate ‘kiss of death.’”

Their two-hour window to catch some additional shuteye turns into a three-hour round of fabulous sex, which includes fellati*, fingering, and fornication. It’s f*cking fantastic! Of course, that nearly makes them late for their commuter flight back to DC. With no time to top off the gas tanks in their two rental cars, their FBI credit cards are charged double the pump price for filling both tanks. The beancounters at the Bureau will flag it, for sure, and questions will be asked. And yet…

Worth. Every. Penny.

Looks like Special Agent Fox Mulder is tapping the tasty little redhead, Chucky! Who’s bustin’ a move now?

CHAPTER 12: Going Home

DANA SCULLY’S RESIDENCE
FRIDAY, JANUARY 19, 2018
7:20 PM

Scully takes what she considers a bold step: she sets up a dinner date with Mulder. It's not a date date. That seems a step too far. She’d succumbed to temptation at the St. Rachel Motel back in Henrico County, Virginia, but an ongoing romantic relationship still seems out of the realm of possibility, extreme or not. At least as far as she’s concerned. There are too many issues left unresolved.

In all honesty, the issues are hers, not Mulder’s. He’s managed to work through his difficulties and come out more resilient, more determined. His strength of will comes as no surprise. No matter which way or how hard the wind blows, he has always been able to set a true course. Meanwhile, she feels directionless, without compass or rudder. Her terrible guilt for abandoning William has never ceased or eased. It grows worse with every passing year, not knowing how he is or where he is, if he’s safe and happy, or...not.

She carries guilt for abandoning Mulder, too. She fled their relationship at his lowest point, when he could have used her help most. It was unconscionable. Unforgivable.

She doesn’t doubt that he would forgive her, likely has forgiven her for both of her trespasses. Unfortunately, she isn’t able to forgive herself and until she does, she has very little to offer Mulder. This isn’t something he can fix for her, as much as she wishes he could. She needs to find her own way out of this darkness, not heap more burdens on him.

That said, she misses him when they aren’t together. She can’t help it. She still loves him. She never stopped.

She prays God will give her a sign and guide her on her path forward. She also suggests takeout at Mulder’s place on Saturday night, her treat. Eating in is a pleasant way to spend time together outside of the office, but it presumes no serious romantic commitment.

She dials his number — again — to confirm their non-date. She’s been trying his phone all afternoon and he’s yet to pick up.

He better not blow her off after she worked up the courage to extend an invitation.

When he answers, she’s surprised, so much so, she chastises him for being unavailable and asks where he’s been all day.

“Out squatchin’,” he says, like it's a thing.

“We still on for dinner tomorrow night?” she asks, hopeful.

He is, so the next day she orders Thai takeout and drives to Farrs Corner. But when she gets there, she finds him on the living room floor, surrounded by hundreds if not thousands of video tapes (she dreads to think what some of them contain), and he’s going on and on about a missing Twilight Zone episode that changed his life and if he doesn’t find it, he can’t eat. He claims he might never eat again.

“Can we talk about this over dinner? Please?”

Apparently not. He searches through his stash of recordings like Indiana Jones digging for the Lost Ark. Meanwhile, the Thai food is cooling in its containers and her stomach is about to start eating itself. She shouldn’t have skipped lunch.

She huffs a sigh he doesn’t hear, tells him to call her after he finds his tape, which he also doesn’t hear, and leaves. She takes the food with her. There’s no point in both of them going hungry.

OFFICE OF DR. ERIC JAMES
TUESDAY, JANUARY 30, 2018
2:01 PM

“I slept with Scully while on a case,” Mulder admits before he’s fully seated in his chair across from Dr. James, his “a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell” policy cast aside in his excitement. “Two weeks ago. Actually, thirteen days ago.”

“I assume that’s a good thing, judging from the smile on your face.”

“A very good thing.”

“Does this mean the two of you are together again?”

“Not exactly, but I’m working on it. I plan to ask her to move back in with me.”

“When?”

“Soon. I hope. When the time is right.”

“How will you know when the time is right?”

“I’ll-I’ll just know. Won’t I?” Whatever happened to his “spooky" sixth sense that allowed him to intuit stuff like this? Though on second thought, it never worked all that well on Scully. “Anyway, that’s not what I want to talk about today.”

“No?”

“Question: It’s the ‘Mandela Effect,’ right? Not the ‘Mengele Effect’?”

“When someone has a memory of something that’s not shared by the majority or the factual record? Yes. It’s always been called the Mandela Effect.”

“That’s what I said!” Mulder thinks back to his strange encounter with Reggie Mergatroid, Goup-O ABC (the cherry flavor, not the lemon-lime that tastes like leprechaun taint, according to Scully; Mulder hasn’t had the pleasure), woozle-wozzle-bloober-blubs, and Thaddeus Q They. Can he properly convey all this to James? Without sounding like a nut?

Probably not.

Mulder changes the subject. “When do you think it would be a good time for me to ask Scully to move home?”

“I can’t answer that, Mulder. Only you can make that decision.”

Can he? He thinks he may have already missed his best opportunity, when Scully decided not to eat her Goup-O ABC and said in a tone that was both nostalgic and wishful, I want to remember how it was. I want to remember how it all was.

Me, too, Scully, me, too, he thinks now and hopes they’ll be able to make lots of future memories together that they’ll never want to forget.

HOSPITAL MORGUE
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2018

They find William. In the worst possible way.

Jackson Van de Kamp, who in all likelihood is their son, lies dead on an autopsy table, still partially zipped inside a body bag. His head is exposed. Bloodied. A bullet through the brain blew off the back of his skull. Scully has swabbed her cheek and clipped a lock of the boy’s hair to compare their DNA. Clearly distressed, she takes a moment to sit with the body and unburden her conscience. Not wanting to intrude on this private moment, Mulder listens to her confession from the open door of the autopsy bay, giving her the opportunity to have her say. He knows she needs this. Maybe he needs it, too.

“I don’t know if you are who I think you might be,” Scully says, “but if you are William…this is what I’d say.”

Mulder feels the sting of tears as he anticipates what’s coming next.

“I’m sorry,” Scully says to the corpse on the table. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t get a chance to know you. Or you didn’t get a chance to know me, or your father.”

A lump forms in Mulder’s throat.

Scully goes on, her voice thick with grief. “I gave you up for adoption, not because I didn’t want you, or because you were any less loved. I was trying to keep you safe. I hope you know that. And maybe…maybe I should’ve had the courage to stand by you. But I thought I was being strong, because it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I mean…to let go. And to know that…I was going to miss your whole life.”

Mulder nearly announces his presence then, shamed by the accusations he once hurled her way. It’s unforgivable the way he blamed her for being selfish, claiming she robbed him of a say in their son’s future. Depression had blinded him to the truth. It seems a weak excuse now. How could he have once thought she would give up William easily?

“But it turns out that this…” Scully sniffs. Tears fill her eyes. “This is the hardest thing. To see the outcome. And how I failed you. I…need you to know that I never forgot you. And I thought, I felt that…even recently, that we were going to somehow…be reunited. I wish I could’ve been there to ease your pain. Oh my God.” Scully gulps in a lungful of air. “This is so inadequate. I’m just sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She’s weeping openly now and Mulder can’t stand by and watch a moment longer. He crosses the room and wraps her in his arms.

“You have nothing nothing to apologize for,” he says, holding her, willing her to know how much it distresses him to see her in such pain, how sorry he is for every hurtful thing he’s ever said or done.

* * *

On Jackson’s laptop, Mulder finds hundreds of posts to ghouli.net and a backdoor to files at the DoD. The files include redacted reports about a top secret eugenics program called Project Crossroads. The program was initiated in the 70s by a Dr. Masao Matsumoto, using components of alien technology. The experiments were ultimately deemed a failure because the doctor couldn’t predict what attributes the test subjects would inherit from their hybrid DNA.

No wonder the DoD was after Jackson. They wanted to cover up their own involvement in the conspiracy. It sickens Mulder to think that he and Scully may have led them right to their son. And the boy truly is their son. Mulder checked the results of Jackson and Scully’s DNA. She is, without any doubt, the boy’s mother.

But what additional DNA makes up Jackson’s genome? Mulder’s? Matsumoto’s aliens?

Thankfully, Jackson has disappeared, escaped from the DoD thugs who were sent to capture or kill him. Somehow risen from the dead, he walked out of the morgue undetected. This hints at powers the boy must posses, powers Mulder can only guess at.

Scully visits Dr. Scholtz, Jackson’s psychiatrist, while Mulder does a little forensics work to prove his initial suspicions that Jackson didn’t kill his adoptive parents. He never bought the theory that this was a murder-suicide. Who cracks open a soda just before committing a double homicide and then offing themselves? Mulder knows as well as anyone what it takes to make a person desperate enough to put a bullet through their own head. Not that Jackson didn’t have reason to feel desperate. The clozapine and diazepam in his desk drawer suggest he was struggling. Scully had speculated Jackson might be schizophrenic. But being a target of the DoD and knowing your DNA has been tampered with are more likely reasons for the boy’s desperation.

The blood patterns at the crime scene clearly indicate there were two shooters and Mrs. Van de Kamp’s body was moved after she was shot, in order to make Jackson look like the killer. Mulder had been right and feels vindicated by the evidence at hand.

A short time later, he meets back up with Scully and she reports that, according to Scholtz, Jackson loved the Van de Kamps and would never have killed them.

Mulder feels compelled to tell Scully the truths he’s learned about Jackson…though it won’t be easy for her to hear or for him to relay. He fears there’s nothing normal about Jackson’s conception, which shatters his belief that their son was conceived naturally in an act of love. What is his connection to this boy? The realization there may be none is soul crushing.

“Scully, I believe that through the Smoking Man, you were an unwitting participant in a eugenics program.” He doesn’t want to think about the when, where, or how, and he certainly doesn’t want to share any detailed conjecture with her when they’re both feeling so raw after the events of the past 24 hours. But he does want her to know how William managed to elude his pursuers and how he may have been able to telepathically send warnings and glimpses of the future to Scully. “Project Crossroads was spearheaded by a Dr. Masao Matsumoto. He disappeared two years after William was born. I believe our son was one of the test subjects. Jackson knew he was being hunted, so he hid the only way he knew how. He created an alternate reality playing dead.”

Does she suspect the things he isn’t saying? Can she hear the grief in his voice?

Maybe so, because she locks him in an embrace. In the circle of her arms, his cracked spirit begins to reassemble, shard by shard. Like Japanese kintsugi, he thinks, Scully repairs the breaks with the golden threads of her devotion. She can’t make him whole. He’ll never be whole if what he suspects is true. But maybe the vessel of his heart can hold her love without leaks or loss. She has always brought meaning to all the broken fragments of his life, and somehow, she’s been able to recreate him anew, time and again, more durable than he was before.

MUD LICK, KENTUCKY
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2018
8:13 AM

While accompanying Skinner to the hospital after he’s gored by a punji stake in a pitfall trap set by Davey James, Scully experiences a few minutes of disequilibrium. She chalks it up to a long night and not enough to eat. It passes quickly and she decides not to mention it to Mulder. It’s nothing, she’s sure.

OVER EASY DINER
WASHINGTON, DC
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2018
7:24 AM

Half a slice of cinnamon-swirl French toast and scraps of scrambled eggs remain uneaten on Scully’s plate.

“Not hungry?” Mulder asks.

She shrugs. “Stomach’s feeling a little off this morning.”

He nods. “Understandable, given the night we just had.”

Chased by high-tech robots, barely escaping a gas explosion at her rental, getting shot at by bullets appearing like magic from a 3-D printer. Instinct kicked in as the bullets flew at them. He shielded her as best he could with his body, covered her head with his arms and hands, as if his flesh and bone could’ve stopped those rounds from drilling into her skull.

“You’re welcome to stay with me,” he says tentatively. She looks up, clearly surprised by the offer. “While you wait for your insurance payment to come through,” he adds.

She chews her lip.

“No strings,” he assures her. “No expectations.”

Her mouth quirks into a shy smile. “Okay. Just until I find a new place.”

A few moments of companionable silence passes between them, while patrons and waitstaff bustle at the periphery of his vision. The homey aroma of bacon and eggs drifts through the air. Cutlery clinks against china dishes. Mulder feels Scully gently grasp his hand where it rests on the counter between their breakfast plates. A wave of nostalgia and warmth washes through him and his chest fills with love for her. He returns the squeeze her fingers.

“I’ll bring you your change,” their server says, eyeing the two twenties he’s laid atop his $18.15 bill.

He waves her off. “Thanks, Shirley, keep the change. I’m good.”

And he is. In every way that counts.

FARRS CORNER, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, MARCH 10, 2018
7:10 AM

Never in her wildest dreams did Scully ever imagine describing Mulder as ebullient, especially after the past few weeks, but it’s pretty on-the-nose since she's moved back to Farrs Corner, despite the fact that it’s only temporary and they aren’t sharing a bed or having sex.

Though lately, she’s been rethinking the no-sex rule, which admittedly, was her idea, not his. Sharing a house with Mulder has been…well, distracting, to say the least.

They’ve just returned from a case in Eastwood, Connecticut, where Mulder swears he saw a hellhound. They both witnessed Anna Strong go up in flames in a Puritan graveyard while chanting the recantation of an alleged witch’s curse from a grimoire borrowed from her philandering husband’s home library. For just a moment, Scully considered the possibility of spontaneous human combustion, only to come to her senses and point a finger at the proliferation of candles that burned brightly among the dry leaves of the Connecticut woods.

Coywolves, familiars, protective salt circles, and demon spirits aside, the case turned out to be a crime of passion. Prejudice and mob rule then led to a witch hunt of a different sort. Mulder had been right about Melvin Peter, if not about the paranormal aspects surrounding the deaths of youngsters Andrew Eggers and Emily Strong, as well as both sets of parents. It was a bloodbath that sent seven bodies to the Eastwood morgue with no one left alive to be prosecuted.

The hardest part of the case for Scully was examining little Andrew’s bloodied corpse. No matter how many times we do this, Mulder, a child is always the hardest, she’d said. It never gets easier. She can’t help but think of William in those situations. Innocent and helpless, like little Andrew.

It wasn’t that long ago the boy on the table was William, older than Andrew, but no less innocent. A wave of nausea washes through her at the memory. She reminds herself that William is alive, out there somewhere, hopefully safe.

Scully leans against the kitchen counter and takes her first sip of coffee of the day. It seems to clear her head almost instantly, though she knows it takes several minutes for caffeine to kick in…45 to 60 to reach its peak. She’s still in her bathrobe, having put off her morning shower so as not to wake Mulder. When she’d moved back in, he offered her their old bed, volunteering to sleep in the guest room, but she declined, not wanting to put him out. Farrs Corner is not going to be her permanent home. No point getting too comfortable.

She drops a slice of bread into the toaster and pushes down the lever. A minute later when the smell of toast floats through the kitchen, her stomach balks unexpectedly. It occurs to her, she hasn’t been feeling all that well for a couple of weeks. It’s probably just a bug or a case of being tired and a little rundown, but she decides to make an appointment with her GP to get checked out as soon as she can fit it into her and Mulder’s busy work schedule.

“Hey.” Mulder shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair matted on one side. “You’re up early.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.” He waves off the idea. “Is that toast I smell?”

“Yes.” It pops up as if on cue. “Help yourself.”

He does and takes a bite without bothering to butter it. Crumbs cling to the bristle of his unshaved jaw. He swallows and nods his thanks. He’s bare-chested, dressed only in pale yellow pajama bottoms, the fabric of which is so thin, she can practically see through it.

Lord help me, she thinks and makes a mental note to start her hunt for a new apartment today.

BARBARA BEAUMONT RESIDENCE
553 ERINDALE APARTMENTS, APT. 4D
BRONX, NEW YORK
TUESDAY, MARCH 13, 2018
5:46 PM

Mulder drags Scully out of a dumbwaiter full of garbage, relieved to find her alive and okay. But, holy crap, the smell! “Oof, you stink.”

She sways and steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder. He grips her arm to keep her from falling over. He’s just about to ask if she’s alright when she says, “My fall was broken by decades’ worth of trash.” She wobbles, tilts backward, grabs his shoulder again for balance. “But I’m okay.”

Juliet Bocanegra gives herself up and is arrested for the murder of Barbara Beaumont. Her sister Olivia, who is sutured to the back of Randolph Luvenis, is sent to the hospital to be surgically cut free. The investigation of human organ theft is brought to a close.

In the aftermath, Mulder and Scully return to the Cathedral of the Sacraments. Scully lights a prayer candle only to have it snuffed out as if by the breath of God Himself.

“That must be a sign,” she says to Mulder, who joins her at the stand of flickering votives. “I’m all out of miracles. Turn back. Give up. Accept your place in the numbing embrace of the status quo.”

“Uh uh.” Mulder isn’t willing to let her defeatist attitude go unchallenged. He offers to relight her candle and extend her prayers through his.

She waits until the candle is burning again before she asks, “What prayers?”

He shrugs. “I can’t tell you. They won’t come true.”

She laughs. “It’s a prayer candle, Mulder. Not a birthday cake.”

He chuckles, too, wishing it was a birthday candle because he knows from experience those carry powerful magic and can make dreams come true.

He listens patiently as Scully explains that prayers aren’t a sentiment but a conversation. “You can do it like a meditation, or if your needs exceed your grasp, you can ask God to act on your behalf. But you don’t believe in God. So you’d essentially be talking to yourself.”

He feels there’s a joke there somewhere about paramasturbatory self-gratification, but decides this might not be the time nor the place to work it out…in case there is a God and He’s listening.

“Well, I-I may not believe in God, but I believe in you. Therefore, I speak to Him through you. Through the transitive property of equality. If ‘A’ equals ‘B’ and ‘B’ equals ‘C,’ therefore ‘A’ equals ‘C.’ Reason and faith in harmony.” Reason and faith. Their quintessential qualities. “Isn’t that why we’re so good together?”

Her brows go up. “Are we together?”

The question is a knife to his heart. He knows they’re not together, not really, but he’d been hoping they’d become close enough to reconcile eventually, close enough that she might consider accepting his love in the not-too-distant future. Has he misread her? Is their relationship truly unsalvageable?

All trace of humor gone, she says, “You know, I believed I could protect our son, and I failed. I believed that we could live together, and I fled. I gave up on that, too.”

Old notions return like demons pouring from Hell. Things he’s almost said to her numerous times in the past. Things he should have said but didn’t. “If only you’d fled earlier. You know how many times I envisioned that scenario, where you left that basem*nt office before I even needed glasses?” Only once, after returning from Antarctica, did he try to push her away for her own good. Regretfully, she had refused. “You’d have your health, your dog, your sister. You’d be Kersh’s boss at the FBI, and be married to some brain surgeon, and…have a bunch of kids…that you wouldn’t have to give up.”

Normalcy, happiness, children — these were always his hope for her, even if it meant he couldn’t share them with her. But he’d been too goddamn selfish to let her go. How is it she doesn’t hate him? How is it she’s standing here beside him?

“Mulder, I don’t begrudge you any of those things. That’s not what I was talking about.”

Okay, he’s confused.

“Well, what are you talking about, Scully? Because I don’t know if any God is listening, but I’m standing right here, and I’m listening. Right beside you. I’m all ears. That’s my choice.”

It’s always been his choice. Hasn’t she noticed?

She glances around the church as if searching for the truth…or maybe a way out. But then she surprises him by rising up on her toes, leaning close, and whispering into his ear, something he hadn’t expected to hear.

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, Mulder,” she says. "My hope is to be reunited with you. In all ways. That’s my prayer.”

He looks down at her, trying to determine if what she said is real and true.

Aloud she says, “That’s not my 4-year-old self looking for a miracle. That’s my leap of faith forward. And I’d like to do it together.”

It’s so unexpected, he’s overcome and has a hard time finding his voice. He swallows. Wills himself not to cry. “I always wondered how this was going to end,” he says, at last.

In his own leap of faith, he lights a new prayer candle, likening the flame to a bright future, a new beginning.

She takes in his uncharacteristic nod to the divine. His hope is to extend her prayers through his. The transitive property of equality. If any God is listening. It sparks something in her, which she keeps to herself. What are you thinking, Scully?

On the drive back to Farrs Corner, he finds out. Scully is quiet in the passenger seat, until a mile from home she clears her throat and softly announces she doesn’t plan to look for a new apartment. She’s decided to stay with him. As his lover and life partner.

His head swivels. He stares at her and gapes.

The car swerves into the breakdown lane and hits the curb. He quickly returns his attention to the road. Blinking, fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, he tries to process what he just heard…or thinks he heard. What she said at the church…she’d meant it, apparently, and not for some unspecified, distant point in time, but now, effective immediately.

At f*cking last.

“Unless…you don’t want me to.” Her voice wavers, uncertain.

“Of course I want you to!”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“Angry? What are you… I don’t…?”

“About William. About giving up on him. On you, too.”

Oh, Scully, no… “I don’t feel that way. Those things I said…” His knuckles go white, the bones feel like they’re going to burst through his skin. “You did nothing wrong. You did what you thought was right, for him and for me.”

“But it wasn’t—”

She shakes her head and swipes at a tear. Prying his fingers from the wheel, he reaches out and takes hold of her hand.

“At the time, yes, it was. And now William knows.” He squeezes her fingers, remembering her confession to Jackson, who they thought was dead but was in fact very much alive and listening to her every word, just as Mulder was doing. “Come back home. I want you with me. Always.”

She sniffs and nods.

Back at the house, she hurries upstairs to transfer her things from the guest room into the master bedroom. Her half of the closet fills up once again. Her bureau drawers, too. Her robe drapes the foot of the bed and her books and medical journals are stacked neatly on her nightstand.

Taking in these changes, Mulder can’t help but feel pleased and hopeful. He imagines them sleeping in the same bed tonight. Maybe making love, though to be truthful, it’s simply holding her that he’s missed most.

The Beaumont case taught him that youth can't last forever. Hell, his progressive lenses taught him that. But love? Maybe it is eternal. In this life — no computer simulation required.

It’s been a long struggle since that grim day when he contemplated suicide on his front porch. He considers what he would’ve missed if Scully hadn’t contacted Dr. James, hadn’t given him the space he needed to heal when he was at his worst. Unbelievably, he’s found joy, achieved peace of mind, and rediscovered an inner strength he thought had vanished forever.

More amazing still, he and Scully are together again. Against all odds. They’ve managed to forgive their past grievances. They’ve learned they’re at their best, their strongest when together. Whatever the future brings, they will do more than endure it; they will fight as one. They carry their love for William between them. Not as a burden but as a strength. Holding their son’s memory in their hearts, they are reunited and will do whatever it takes to ensure that nothing, nothing, will ever come between them again.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

This story ends just before MSIV begins. If you want know my take on what happens next, I invite you to check out “More Than Impossible,” if you haven’t already.

As I said at the beginning of this story, I always wondered what it would take for Scully to leave Mulder in the years between IWTB and the Revival episodes. My head canon said it had to have been something altruistic, not petty or selfish. That’s just not who Scully is, IMHO. While Mulder and Scully might argue and show anger toward one another, I want to believe they would never, ever stop caring for and loving each other. Not even during Scully’s most stressful moments or when Mulder was lost in a pit of despair. To me, it’s who these characters are and the reason why I’ve followed and returned to the XF again and again for over three decades. And it’s the reason I wrote this story. It's the reason I write all of my stories.

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