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Title: Past Perceptions It is time for Mulder and Scully to come to terms with their pasts. University Hospital "One of these years, we are going to meet under better conditions, Agent Mulder," a familiar voice says from my bedside, rousing me from sleep. I feel a rough, weathered hand on my arm, and my mind quickly places the owner of the voice. It was with me during bad times before, and now it has returned. "Albert. Nice to see you again. Or maybe it isn't. I'm never sure if I'm going to live or die when you appear," I say, opening my eyes to find the older Navajo man standing by my side. "Agent Scully wasn't too sure either when she called me last night. New Mexico is never kind to you. But from what I can see, it looks like you are going to survive this one," Albert Hosteen says, as he sits down in the hospital recliner. "Scully called?" I ask, surprised that she hadn't mentioned it. Of course, the morning was long, with doctors coming and going. And then there is Diana. Scully said I woke up claiming she was dead, but I don't remember doing this. All I remember is Scully at my side. Reid wants to talk to me later, and Skinner already called here when he got off the plane in DC, anxious to find out what I remember. Unfortunately, that is very little. "She called me yesterday evening. Agent Scully said you were comatose and the doctors couldn't pinpoint a reason. I thought I would drive down and see if I could offer any help. Of course, I had already heard about the two of you on the news," the man tells me. "I'm sorry. She should have called you back to tell you that I pulled through. Again," I say. "I don't mind. I did get to meet your son. I saw Mrs. Scully with him in the lobby, waiting for her daughter. Congratulations," Albert says, his eyes steady on mine. I can tell by his look there more that he wants to say, but isn't sure how. "Christopher. He is something, isn't he?" I say, smiling. I've already had Chris in here to visit me several times today. He has been the only little bit of sunshine during the whole day. Scully has been withdrawn since this morning, since she told me everything that happened to her after I went with Diana to the Sandia Peaks. The news about Diana still hasn't made a complete impact on me yet. I know I'm still in denial about it, even though I know for a fact that it is true. She is dead, and the injury that caused her death happened while she was with me. "He's the one," Albert says, shaking me from my revelry. "Excuse me?" I ask. "I didn't understand it until I saw him. Didn't understand what it all meant. But now I think I know," he says. He sits quietly in the chair, and just watches me. I know that he has everything from that defense department report somewhere in his head, but most of it didn't mean much to any of us, and was beyond anything we could comprehend once it was translated. "You know what?" I ask, curious as to what he is getting at. "It goes back further than you thought, Agent Mulder. And there's more sides to it then I think they even know. Many women documented in those reports died, yet Agent Scully survived. Someone allowed her to survive, and someone has allowed you to have that child," Albert says. "Albert, was there anything ever called 'Project Weather Control' in anything you translated?" I ask, hoping the answers are closer than we ever imagined. "No. That wasn't in there. There were mentions of opposing projects, but they said they effectively eradicated them," he says. "But what if they didn't? What if it was a false report, made by someone they trusted, someone . . " I start to say, and then realize my he doesn't understand the complexity of any of this. He just knows the words, not the people behind them. "Agent Scully also had some questions. About visions. Do you know what she wanted to know?" Albert asks. "Scully had questions about visions?" I ask, surprised that she would mention such a thing to anyone. "She said that while she was held hostage, she felt 'connected' to you, through a series of dreams. She believes that you shared some of those dreams," Albert says, as if this is a perfectly natural topic for hospital conversation, and perfectly natural for Scully to bring up. I have tried to maintain contact with Albert Hosteen for the last several years, and he knows the differences between Scully and my 'ideology,' so to say. "I only remember vague and fleeting images. Not much of anything, really," I say, for that is all they are. Fleeting bits and pieces of Scully and myself in strange places. I also had dreams with scattered images of Diana, of being with her somewhere, but I'm not sure where. I remember less of that than I do of Scully. I talked briefly to Diana's sister already this morning, trying to console her, but failing miserably. Scully told me the news of Diana's death only a few hours ago, and then Carol stopped by. She was already flying home late this afternoon and wanted to know if I would be attending the funeral. I told her I would try to make it. I probably won't. I could tell by the look on her face that she knew I wasn't going to be there. Not after this. "It is to be expected. There is a bond between the two of you now that cannot be broken. You have a child together," he says, and I wonder if that is what held me to Diana, also. "But that bond has been there longer than that. Something ties the two of you together, child or not." I wonder if Scully knows about that bond between Diana and me now, of that child lost years ago? From the way she reacted to Carol coming to visit, I'm guessing she has a clue, and now I have to deal with it all. Plus, I now have to add to that whatever Albert is trying to tell me, about more factions. "That child is apparently quite valuable to someone. Besides us, that is. Now we just have to figure out who that someone is," I say, looking out the window. I'm ready to go home. I can come back here later and try to figure more of this mess out, but right now I want to be home with Scully and my son. I want to find out what in the hell Senator Erickson really knew before we ever set foot in New Mexico. I want to know what connection he really had with Diana, why we were set up the way we were. And I want to know what is in that vial he has. Hopefully, I will be released in the next day or two. Scully is even more eager to get home than I am. Of course, she never wanted to be here in the first place. Now not only did we not answer the questions we came here to answer, we have had more questions heaped on top of us. Plus a death of an agent that I was supposedly in a 'compromising' situation with. Nothing like reading a crime scene report in which you've been caught with your proverbial pants really down. It has been one hell of a day. I returned to the world to be greeted with this crap. "Let me know if there is anything I can do for you, Agent Mulder," Albert says, as he stands to leave. "Thank you for coming all this way, Albert. I appreciate it a lot," I say. "Just promise me that you will take better care of that little boy than you do of yourself," Albert says with a smile, and visions of Christopher's recent hospital stay flashes through my mind, causing me to wince. I never want to relive that. I can hear a small, familiar giggle in the hallway, moving in this direction. Christopher is so always so happy. It is almost as if he possesses all the happiness his parents were missing over the last few years; as if he is where we misplaced our smiles. "Oh, I can almost guarantee Christopher is going to be well taken care of," I say, as Scully enters the room holding him in her arms. "I see you've witnessed Mulder's 'miraculous' recovery," Scully says to Albert, with a warm smile. "I wonder how many more of those miraculous recoveries Agent Mulder is going to be able to pull off?" Albert Hosteen asks, as he places a hand over my son's chubby little fingers. "I ask that myself all the time, Albert," I say, feeling every bit my age right now. Sometimes I'm certain that at forty I have no business trying to do what I did at thirty and hoping I have all the answers by fifty. Or at least sixty. "It was nice seeing you both again. If you need anything ever again, please don't hesitate to call," Albert says, before he leaves the room. "Why didn't you tell me you called him?" I ask Scully, as she sits down. Christopher is trying to wiggle his way towards me, but Scully manages to keep him confined to her lap. "When you woke up this morning, I forgot all about it. Besides, I'm sure it was nice seeing him again," Scully says, as she untangles her hair out of Christopher's small fist. He turns to me and smiles, revealing those few baby teeth he has, and a trail of drool rolls down his chin. "Yes, it was. I'm just a little surprised you mentioned your dreams to him, Scully. Living life on the edge these days?" I ask her, and receive only a slight grin as a response. "I was just thinking," she starts to say, not looking at me, "that perhaps the reason you were in a coma so long is because you were somehow 'connected' to Diana, that you knew she was going to die, and couldn't leave her to die alone." Usually, it is Scully's eyebrow who spikes up when such statements are uttered from my mouth. But this time I know mine is about to hit the ceiling. "I can't tell you the answer to that question, Scully. I don't remember enough of anything to be sure," I say honestly. "That is your nature, Mulder. You would never abandon anyone if they needed you, someone you loved. That is ..." she stops suddenly, and I know she knows. I don't want to discuss this here, not now. I want to be able to explain the unexplainable to her somewhere besides this hospital room. "When are we going home, Scully?" I ask, and she looks squarely at me again. "Soon, I hope," she says, as she continues to bounce our son on her lap. Albuquerque International Sunport "Where is he?" Teena Mulder says impatiently, looking at her watch one more time. The question pertains to her son, who is late meeting us at the airport. Our flight leaves in twenty minutes, and we haven't heard from Mulder in hours. I don't know where he was going today. He said he had things to take care of before we left New Mexico for home. I'm sure we will have to come back eventually, to wrap this whole disaster up, but we both wanted to get our son home. He also said that if he didn't make it to the airport, he'd catch the next flight to DC. I was hopeful he'd make it here to help with Christopher. Mulder took Diana's death better than I though he was going to, knowing what I know now. It was if he already knew she was dead. He doesn't seem ready to talk about it yet, and I honestly don't think I am ready to talk about it either. Whenever I try to bring up the questions I need to ask, I choke up. I know he spoke to Carol Fowley-Osgood in the hospital, but I don't know what was discussed. She flew back to New York the day Diana died, to prepare for the funeral. I told Mulder he should attend it, but he declined, saying they would understand due to the trauma he just went through. Mulder also filled me with his version of events that day in the Sandia Mountains. He knows or remembers so very little, but he was able to place the senator's father there that day. His doctors were just glad that he recovered so quickly and completely, showing no residual effects from the coma. I have yet to tell him about my 'visitation' in the desert. I have no idea who Dylan Keanally is, and no explanations seem to be forthcoming about how he knew me so well. "You seem awfully quiet, Dana," my mother says to me. She is rolling Christopher back and forth in an umbrella stroller, hoping he doesn't get too fussy before the flight. "Is everything all right, honey?" "After all of this, I bet you and Fox can't wait to get back to your own house with Christopher. It will feel good to get back into your old routine," Teena says, and I give her a weak smile. How can we ever get back to the old routine? I know something he obviously didn't want me to know. And now I have to wait for him to tell me. I want him to do it. "Come on, sweetie," Mom coos to Christopher, "Why don't you sit with your mommy while Grandma checks on when they are going to begin boarding." I push the stroller gently back and forth with my foot, trying to pacify a tired, cranky baby. It will be good to get him home. "What's wrong, Dana?" Teena asks me, as she sits down in the vinyl-covered chair adjoining mine. "Did something happen with Fox?" "Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe you can explain him and the things he does," I say to her. "Me? Explain Fox? That's laughable. I think you know him better than I do. They say no one knows you better than your mother, but in this case I don't think that applies. You two share everything," she says, as she leans back into the chair and takes over the stroller pushing duty. "How much do you know about his life when he first started working for the bureau. Or when he first opened the X-Files?" I ask. I don't want ask anything directly about his marriage to Fowley, in case his mother never knew about it either. "I don't know much of what he did then. He was young and ambitious. I would hear from him every once in awhile, but not like now. And he didn't speak to his father at all. I don't know anything about his personal life then. All I know is I doubted the day would ever come that he would have a family, that I would have a grandchild. He seemed so involved with work," she tells me. I nod my head, wondering what she would say if she knew we were all 'involved' with his work, somehow tied together because of it. "If he had been seriously involved with someone, would he have told you?" I ask, wondering why he might have kept quiet about this for so long.
"Probably not. But then again, he didn't tell me the two of you were having a baby until you were eight months pregnant. That is just the way Fox is with me. He always has been like that. He will only let me so close," she says with a deep sigh. I watch as my son begins to nod off from the constant rocking. We've got to get him into a carseat yet on the plane. I was really counting on Mulder being here to help. "Sometimes I just don't know what to say to Mulder," I tell his mother, and she puts one of her hands over mine. "Dana, I can tell you honestly that there are no other people on earth that Fox loves more than you and that child. No one. I know I'll never be able to explain my son and some of the things he does, but I do know how much he loves you," Teena Mulder says, my hand still under hers. "They are going to start boarding people with children in about two minutes. What do you want to do?" Mom asks me, as she looks at her watch. "He said to go on ahead without him if he didn't make it time. He can catch a later flight," I say, as I begin to gather up all the baby's stuff and walk towards the gate. I'm sure Mulder will find his way home again. Cont. in Part 2 Penitentiary of New Mexico "Where's Agent Scully?" are the first words out of Mulch's mouth as he is escorted into the same old cinder block interview room we've crossed paths in before. I nod at the two guards with him, indicating that they can leave. I don't mind if they observe through the window, I just want to be alone with this man when I question him. I want him to realize the mistakes he's made over the past few days. I want him to know exactly how fucking alone in the world he is now. "Agent Scully has better things to do than waste her time questioning you, you piece of low life shit," I say, coldly. He sits down in the chair, while I remain standing, hands on my hips, wanting the bastard to feel threatened. I look up at the clock held behind a wire cage, and guess that Scully is probably getting ready to go to the airport. I'm never going to make it from Sante Fe to Albuquerque on time. His whole demeanor has changed since I saw him last. He's no longer the cocky con getting out on an unfair parole. Oh no, he is so much more reticent now that he realized whoever his own personal savior was has abandoned him. Like they were ever going to take him with them. Not only did they abandon him, they left him caught red handed with a missing FBI agent, made a trail of homicides that matched his MO, and then got his parole overturned before any other charges could even be thought up. And to top it all off, they shot the fucker in the ass and left him to bleed out in some New Mexico ghost town. "I'm the low life shit that called the FBI and saved Agent Scully's life," Mulch tells me. This is the story he keeps repeating but so far no one has been able to verify it. "You just keep saying that, and sooner or later you might convince someone," I say. The staring matches we had last week have eased slightly, and he is clearly shaken up by this betrayal. "Why in the hell else do you think they shot me? They found out what I did," he says emphatically. "I think they shot you just to get rid of your stinking self. I'm sure they never really planned to do anything else but kill you. And if you think otherwise, then you are more stupid than I thought," I say, shuddering with the passing thought that this man feels responsible for saving Scully's life. "I can't be too stupid. You obviously need something from me or your Fed ass wouldn't be sitting in the same room as my stinkin' self," Mulch says, crossing his arms in front of him and settling back into his hard metal chair. "I want you to tell me exactly what they did to Agent Scully. All of it. You seem to like her, so for her sake, you are going to share with me everything you know. Going back to Ellen Erickson," I say, and his eyes shift away from mine with the mention of that name. Scully remembered his story, that he was involved with the whole Erickson disappearance, just not in a way that most people imagined. "I didn't do nothing to that Erickson woman. I just handed her over to them. I don't know nothing more about what happened to her after that," he says, and I believe him. They used him then, like they used him now. He got to do the dirty work. "And Agent Scully? What did they do to her?" I demand. "Tests. I don't know what kind. They had a van they would come in ... one of those big, custom jobs. They would take her out, do whatever it is they did, and bring her back looking just like she did when they took her out. The only thing I ever saw them do was mess with her neck," Mulch says. I don't know how much of his narrative I can believe right now. It is just giving me a background I can fill in later. "What did they do to her neck?" I ask him. "They took something out of it, and put something else back in. They said that should take care of the problems they'd been having. That is the only time they ever said anything in front of me. I swear," he says, as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Who in the hell are they, Mulch? You've been dealing with them for years. You must know something," I say, watching him closely. "I don't know. They don't have names and they all look alike. That seemed fucking bizarre at first, but I got used to it. They call themselves the project, but I don't know what in the hell that means. Something to do with weather control..." he starts. "What does it have to do with 'Weather Control,' Mulch? Did they ever say? Think long and hard and don't fuck this one up," I interrupt, my voice demanding answers. "Something to do with kids. That's all I ever heard. Someone called Jasper," he says, shrugging his shoulders at me. Kids? Kids like Christopher? Who in the hell is Jasper? Is that why this was done to Scully and me, so they could find out what about Christopher made him 'have to be,' as everyone keeps telling us? This whole fucking thing is a cloudy mess, and it isn't getting any clearer with time. "Anything else you'd like to tell me, Mulch?" I say, as I lean against the table, standing over him. "No," he answers back. "Okay, now to some personal business. Agent Scully had a ring on when she fell into your hospitable care, and she says you wore that ring the whole time she was there at Chez Mulch. Now it seems that ring is missing. Do you have any idea where it might be? What pawn shop you might have taken it to when you realized they weren't taking you with them, so you could make a quick buck?" I ask, as calm and collected as possible. "I have no idea what you are talking about," Mulch answers back bluntly. "Are you saying Agent Scully is lying about the whereabouts of her engagement ring? Do you really think a woman would lose track of a ring like that and make up a story about it?" I ask again. "I'm saying that it is none of your fucking business. I'm sure the prick who gave her that ring took insurance out on it. I don't see why you would care anyway. It ain't like that ring was yours," Mulch says, with a smug smile across his face. "I am the prick who gave her that ring, you son of a bitch, and I want to know exactly where you pawned it off so I can go get it and place it on her finger again. So I suggest you answer me before I reach over that table. If that happens, you will have a whole damn string section playing that fucking diamond music out your asshole for the rest of your life," I yell at Mulch. His jaw drops with the realization that I'm not just 'fucking' Agent Scully on the side, but I am the fiance who put that ring on her hand. The asshole guessed wrong the whole time and never caught on. "You cocksucking lying son of a bitch! You figure out where I left it yourself," he spits at me, surprise resonating through his voice. "I already know where it is. I just wanted to see that look on your face when you found out she's mine," I say to Ronald Mulch, as I bang on the door for the guards to let me out, hoping I don't have to see this man's face ever again for the rest of my life. Scully-Mulder House "Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a fairy princess and a dashing young prince," I tell my son, making up a bedtime story as Christopher drinks his nighty bottle. We are back in his room, comfortable in the rocking chair, like it should be. He is getting so big, yet when he is in his pajamas and all snuggled up in my arms he still looks so much like my baby. He always will be my baby. "The fairy princess was quite beautiful, far too beautiful for just any man. Oh, no. There was only one young man in the entire kingdom good enough for her, and there was only one young woman good enough for him. They were destined to be together. They just didn't know it yet," I continue, and Christopher smiles up at me and then continues with his bottle. Christopher's eyes have finally picked a color to be. Well, as much as anyone could call it a color. Hazel brown with sparkling flashes of blue and green. Is that a color? He looks up at me, his small hands wrapped around his bottle, holding it himself. That is the only way he is satisfied, when he is doing it himself. Christopher has a horribly independent streak. I wonder where he got that from? Certainly not me. "One day, the prince saw the princess and they eventually fell in love," I say, wishing it was all really as simple as fairy tales make it out to be. Boy meets girl, girl falls for boy and everybody rides happily off into the sunset. He will learn the hard lessons himself someday. He doesn't need to know otherwise right now. "Right when the prince was about to confess his undying love to that beautiful princess, the evil sorcerer kidnapped the princess, taking her to his Ice Palace," I tell him, and watch as his eyelids begin to get heavy. I hold him tight to my breast, and the bottle begins to slip from his mouth. He should be tired, after what he has gone through the last several days. Cross country trips, living between a motel room and a hospital, missing parents. Too much for someone only nine months old to have to deal with. "But that young prince wasn't going to lose his princess that easily. He followed the evil sorcerer to that Ice Palace, and risking life and limb, he found his princess frozen in some form of biostatis ... um, frozen in a block of ice," I say, as his eyes finally shut for the final time, and his fingers release their hold of the bottle. "And he rescued her, and she saved him, and they lived as happily ever after as a frosty fairy princess and a brave young prince could possibly live," I say, as I place a kiss on his forehead, and rise to put him into his crib. I wind up his musical stuffed animal, and tuck it next to him, letting him drift off to where ever babies go in their sleep, and I shut the door to the tinny sound of "You are My Sunshine." With a sigh, I go downstairs. I have some reports to finish before I return to work again. Mulder has yet to get home. He hasn't even called. I can only imagine what detained him in New Mexico. It had better be good, though. Christopher cried most of the trip, and nothing any of us did could soothe him. Not that Mulder would have been able to, but it just would have been nice to have someone else carry him around for the forty minute lay over in Chicago. I enter the tiny corner off the kitchen that was supposed to be a breakfast nook, but instead is my office area. Mulder has his room upstairs, I have my nook downstairs. I prefer mine. It is surrounded by bay windows and looks out over the big back yard. While my lap top is downloading the mail I haven't checked for days, I pour myself a glass of red wine, and turn on my small stereo near my desk. I can have a glass of wine again. No more worry about breastfeeding, even if I still leak whenever my son cries. The doctor assured me that would be over soon. I carefully put some CDs into the tray, and hit the play button, adjusting the volume so I can hear if Chris cries out, or if the phone rings, or if Mulder comes in the door. On the flight, between struggling with my son, I tried to figure out how I'm going to deal with this deluge of information that has been dropped into my lap over the last few days. Christopher is the one, and I have to figure out why. I'm the only one who can have Mulder's children, even though I'm not supposed to have children at all. It could never be with Diana, and there is a failed marriage to prove it. A marriage I never knew about, one that didn't even show up on Mulder's FBI records. I take a sip of wine, and put my glasses on. I'm tired and should just go to bed, but I wanted to wait for Mulder. I slowly pick through my mail and delete most of it, having already missed most of the meetings they were telling me about. Only one catches my eye. I don't recognize the sender, and I click it open. There is only one line of text. No signature. No indication as to whom it came from. 'Jasper is the key,' is all it says. Who in the hell is Jasper and why is he the key? The piece of e-mail is saved off and I send the address off to Frohike, hoping maybe he can trace it back to its originator. I doubt it, though. It would never be that simple. I begin the tedious duty of filling out reports concerning the incidents of the past week. How could one week seem to have lasted so long? Scully-Mulder House This place sounds like what I now consider home, with the wash machine whirring in the laundry room and the dishwasher clicking into the next cycle in the kitchen. Hard to believe it has only been a week since we left here. Hard to believe that the two of us are returning in one piece again. I can see the soft lamp light coming from Scully's corner office space, and an opera aria plays quietly out of her stereo. A soprano belts out 'Un bel dì vedremo,' feeling the character's pain of betrayal and lost love. Madama Butterfly. I drop my bags at the entrance to the kitchen and watch Scully working. Her brow is furrowed as she types away at something, and she doesn't notice me here. "Is that supposed to mean something?' I ask, nodding at the source of the music, remembering a scene from 'Fatal Attraction' years ago. "Not at all," she replies, without looking up from her lap top monitor. "Everybody get home okay?" I ask, not really knowing which direction to take this conversation. "Your mother is staying with my mother, and Chris and I are okay. And since you are now here, I guess we all got home okay," she says, still not looking up at me. I sit down, on the opposite side of the antique oak desk from her, and just watch. Sooner or later she will say something. I know she will. "How was your flight?" I ask, as I shove my hand into my coat pocket. My fingers feel the box her engagement ring is in, and I don't know whether to offer it now or not. I don't want it flung at me, but I want to know how she feels. "Our flight was fine," she says tersely. "I'm sorry I missed it. I had to take care of something before we left," I offer up to her, but she doesn't ask what it was I might have been doing. She just types away, and the CD shuffles to another song. It is some piece of classical music I don't recognize, but it is an improvement over sad opera arias. "So, are you returning to work tomorrow?" she asks, as her fingers finally stop typing. "I'm not sure. I would like to talk to Senator Erickson ..." I start, but stop when she finally meets my gaze. She doesn't say a word, just sighs and takes her glasses off. Her eyes betray nothing, not one scrap of information in which to gauge how she feels. This can only mean that she is pissed. "Sounds good," she says, as she shuts her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose. Scully doesn't move her hand away from her face for several moments, and I wish to hell she would just say something. Scream. Yell. Throw pencils at my face. It would be easier than this. This half-silence has gone on since the day I came out of that coma. She teeters between happiness and sorrow. "It's not like you don't have a past," I say after a long silence, hoping to start something. I would even prefer her anger to this. "Yes, Mulder. You are right. I do. And so do you," she says, her eyes piercing into me. "I don't know everything about you," I offer, knowing that their is nothing in her life that would compare to what I didn't tell her. "No, you don't," she says calmly. "But now I'm ready to tell you," I say, only to be greeted by the coldest look I've ever seen. "I don't know, Mulder. Why don't you just wait until *we* are married," she says, as she starts to shut down her computer. "Diana and I were married. It was a mistake. I didn't love her enough to marry her, didn't love her enough to have a family with her," I say, closing my eyes to the memory of losing that child so many years ago. "So that's it? The big secret? All these years, Mulder ..." she says, her words trailing off as she closes down the lid of her lap top. "I'm sorry I hurt you," I say, not knowing what else to offer to her. "It just explains so much. It would have been nice to know, a long time ago. It would have explained why you trusted her in the way you did. Or maybe you just felt sorry for leaving her," Scully says, as she turns off the banker's lamp. We sit opposite of each other, the only light coming from the kitchen behind me. The stereo is still playing what seems to be an endless, droning piece of music. "It hurt a lot, Scully. It was something I just wanted to get past and forget. Then she showed up again," I say, remembering that miserable year. 1998. If it could go wrong, it did. "Mulder, it's just that after all of this," Scully says, her right hand raised in the air to indicate her surroundings, *our* house. "All I can do is say I'm sorry," I say. I can't change what I've done. I don't even know if I would want to. "I just don't know what else you never told me about, what other secrets you're keeping," she says to me. "And you don't have secrets?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level and calm. Any other 'secrets' I might have been keeping don't matter now, anyway. "Such as?" she asks back, her arms crossed tightly in front of her. "Did you? With him?" I ask her, not really knowing why. It is something I've wanted to know for years, ever since I came to see her in that Philadelphia hospital. Diana was before I ever met Scully. *This* was while we were partners, because of something I did or didn't do. I loved her even then, yet she went elsewhere. "Yes," she answers back, not even having to ask who I'm talking about. I know she doesn't want this to hurt, but for some reason it does. I'm sure this hurts just as much as it did when she found out the truth about Diana. "I always wondered," I simply say, not knowing what else there is to be said at this point. "That has nothing to do with this, Mulder," Scully says, ending that line of the conversation. We sit quietly in the shadows, and her CD player finally spins to a stop. The house is silent now, except for those customary *house* noises. "Do you want me to leave?" I ask for the second time since our child has been born. I close my eyes, not really wanting to hear the answer. I have my apartment, but I don't know how I could go back to that. "No," she says, as she gets up from her chair and tucks it in, scraping it across the tile floor. "Scully?" I ask her, as she stands behind her chair, her face turned down. "What?" she asks back, sighing heavily at the end. "Will you marry me?" I say, as I hand her the little velvet box that contains her ring. She holds it in her hand for a few moments, and flips it open. Her eyes register nothing. They are void of all emotion right now, and I can hardly blame her for feeling this way. Our lives have been sent into a tailspin in the last few weeks. Both of us are exhausted, and the thought of what we have yet to go through only compounds it further. She snaps the box shut before setting it down on her desk. "Ask me again tomorrow. Right now I'm not sure," Scully says, as she walks away from me and from her ring. Scully-Mulder House Reaching out into the darkness, all my hand finds is the other side of the bed. Empty. I run my hand down the linen sheets, and find them to be cool to the touch. He didn't even come to bed. Our bed. He is probably sleeping on his couch, in his study. That is how he escapes me, I guess. I'm not that angry. Just disappointed. He really should have told me, and in a much better way than he did this evening. Yes, I have a past and I know he does, too. But somehow, names from my past don't come up in conversations with strange figures in the middle of nowhere. Diana was a part of this whole thing, though I'm not sure how. Just as I don't know how we all fit into the picture yet. I'm also sure her death wasn't an accident. Mulder would also be dead if that was the case. They let him live, and let her die. After turning on my bedside lamp, I discover that he was in here. His bags are sitting near the closet, and the clothes he had on today are piled up on the laundry hamper. I don't know why Mulder wouldn't just come to bed. I quietly walk out into the hall, and open the door to his study, fully expecting to find him sprawled out over his couch. Instead, I find the room empty and dark. Nothing has been touched in here for over a week. I close the door again, and stand in the hallway, the only light spilling out from a tiny nightlight plugged in near the floor. The gentle creak of the rocking chair in Christopher's room is the only noise in the house. I go into our son's room, and find Mulder sitting in the chair, facing Christopher's crib. He is just watching our son sleep. I've done this myself in the past, but I didn't know he had any desire to do this. I thought this was something only mothers did, watching their baby breathing in the night. Perhaps he is thinking about the child he created with Diana. I don't remember if she ever mentioned the gender. He could have a pre-adolescent son right now, going to football games and playing catch. But as everybody has said recently, that could never be. I wonder why they let it go so far, if it could never be? I stand beside him, and Mulder stops rocking. I place my hand on his shoulder, afraid to speak, concerned about waking up the baby. He puts his hand over top of mine. We both watch the little person in the crib. The person we created together. No matter what happened in the past, he is the future. Somehow we just have to get by this. There are so many more important things than what we did in the past. His past might even be the answer to what is going on now, and it shouldn't have been hidden. It is too late to worry about that now. Tomorrow we have to figure out how to explain what went on this past week. It is going to be a long day. "Come to bed," I whisper, leaning down to his ear. We both leave our son's room together, and go to our own. "It's tomorrow, Scully," Mulder says, his voice heavy with sleep. I know what he is asking. He wants to know whether or not I'm going to put that ring back on before we go to work. "Yes, Mulder," is all I say, before we both climb into bed together for the first time in over a week and our shared exhaustion pulls us into sleep. The End
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