Title: Illumination
Author: Jori
Rating: NC-17

Summary: A very special occasion is celebrated.

July 4, 2002

Christopher's eyes light up as the sky explodes around him. He jumps in my arms every time another boom resonates across the sky He struggles to get down, wanting to do his usual exploring. Not even the loud noises discourage him. For now, at least. I set him down on the picnic blanket and watch to see what his reaction is going to be to the next firecracker going off now that he is on his own. He has hardly toddled two feet before I see the flare go up and wait for the inevitable pop. I wonder which one of us he is going to run to? Will it be me?

"Da! Up!" he demands, hanging around his daddy's legs. Daddy. I actually think that in sentences now. And say it all the time. 'Daddy will be home soon.' 'Daddy is out of town.' That is sometimes more amazing then the rest of this. We are now two entirely different people, to each other and to this tiny person.

Mulder scoops him up in his arms and holds him tight while pointing to the sky and explaining why light travels faster than sound. Christopher nods his head as if he understands all of it. Then the two of them look toward the sky together, with matching eyes, waiting for the next sparkle and bang to come.

He whispers something to our son and Christopher giggles happily. I am amazed at his abounding joy with everything. Sometimes I think it is too good to be true. No child could be this happy all the time, can they? And then I worry about the proverbial other shoe dropping. It is coming and always has been. But still he smiles. He smiles because he doesn't know any better.

Of course we have yet to reach the toddler years. Maybe I won't be so pleased with his zeal for life when he channels all his vivacious energy into coloring the walls.

Soon the fireworks are over and we begin walking back to the car. Just the three of us. Make that the four of us. It doesn't seem real yet. Soon we will be four. A kid in each of our arms since Christopher will still be a baby.

It is well past his bedtime and Christopher falls asleep on Mulder's shoulder, nestled in close to his daddy. He looks like it is the most comfortable place in the world and this time I have to agree with him. That is a nice place to fall asleep. I have done it myself many times.

"Mulder, do you know anyone who is a notary?" I ask casually. I have thought about this a lot lately and it is time. Not because of one kid or the next, but because I want to.

"Yeah, I think Byers ... why do you need a notary?" he asks, looking puzzled.

"I just can't imagine us getting married in a church, can you?" I ask and he smiles. I have changed my mind so many times about this that it surprises him every time I make a move forward.

"I'll ask. Can you imagine what a wedding that will be? I can already see the blurb on the society page. 'Agents Mulder and Scully, notorious for their exploits into the paranormal, were joined in marriage today with one mysteriously begotten child in tow and another one on the way. The ceremony was performed by another confirmed paranoiac while the best man wore a fuzzy vest and the maid of honor wore his long blond hair in French braids.' It is going to be something, Scully," Mulder says as he shifts Chris around to get him in his car seat.

"I promise it will be better than that," I say.

"Oh, really?" he asks, curious as to how I'm going to do that.

"Yeah. I'll make sure Frohike leaves the fuzzy vest at home."

'em

July 9, 2002

Scully-Mulder Household

"Happy birthday, dear Christopher ... happy birthday to you," everyone sings to our overwhelmed baby boy. His eyes are big and bright as he is urged to blow out the candle. Scully does it for him and gives him a big kiss on the cheek.

"Mama cake," he says, pulling his mom toward him. He is dying to get his little fingers into the frosting and smear it everywhere. That is what first birthday parties are all about.

Of course, ours is not just a celebration of the first year of life for our baby, but a celebration that we have survived. Scully looks at me and smiles, her face glowing. We have not only survived, but we have flourished.

"That is one little tasty morsel of a nanny," Frohike says, watching Soprano move around the table, trying to get pictures of everyone here and of Christopher covering himself in icing.

"Why do you think I hired her, Frohike?" I say, and he looks from me to Scully and back again. "I'm kidding. She does a great job. And Kit ... I mean Chris loves her."

"The boy has good taste. Just like his father," he says. "By the way, we are still working on ..."

"Shh," I say as Scully walks over to us. Christopher has two grandmothers and one surrogate grandfather doting over him right now. Who in the hell needs parents when you have that?

"Would you like some cake?" she asks Frohike. Frohike can't decide whether to stare at her or look away.

"I, um ... will go get some cake," he says, not meeting her eyes.

"What is wrong with him?" Scully asks after he gets out of earshot. "He keeps avoiding me but then I catch him staring at me from across the room. Byers and Langly keep doing the same thing."

"I don't know what is wrong with them. Probably just not used to be out," I lie. I haven't told her about the downloadable internet sex yet, not with all the other things going on. Then we have been busy with Christopher's party.

The dining room is decorated in balloons and streamers. Although I think it is a bit much for a one year old, I let her do it. I just stood back and said 'that looks nice' whenever I had to. At least we didn't all have to go to Chuck E. Cheese's for a party. I had to draw the line there.

"Dana, can I make a pot of coffee or do you expect us all to drink this diet Faygo red soda?" her mother asks, holding up a half-empty bottle of the overly sweet soda. I look at Scully and can see her stomach turn from just the mention of coffee. The smell of it makes her quite sick.

She hasn't told her about the pregnancy yet. I told her to. She said she was going to wait until after the party. This was to be about Christopher, not about her or the next baby. And, of course, I haven't told my mother. But I did promise her I would tell Mom before Scully was eight months pregnant.

"Um ... yes. Go ahead," Scully says hesitantly. I'm sure this is going to precede a trip to the bathroom. Gets her every time.

"You have Faygo red soda?" Langly asks from behind Mrs. Scully. He sounds like an excited child and I can't wait to see him with a little red mustache.

"A whole refrigerator full of it. Let me get you one," she says and the two of them walk off together.

"What is with you and red food? Between the chocolate covered cherries and the maraschino cherries and the red soda, I'm beginning to think you are craving FD&C red 40. Especially when I saw you picking red M&Ms out of a bag," I whisper to her.

"Perhaps I'm just trying to counter balance anything that might be green about this baby," she says with a smile. "Besides, I though you were colorblind."

"I can read the word 'red' when it is printed across a bottle of soda so you can't hide it from me. I'm just thankful it isn't potatoes," I say, and she her face gets pale. It is amazing that what sustained her through her first pregnancy makes her sick during this one.

"Don't say the 'p' word," she says, making a face. At least I don't have to take part in her search for bizarre red food. And I can go without mentioning spuds for a long time.

"So, where are you going to run when the coffee starts brewing?" I ask, looking to see if she has a clear path to the downstairs bathroom.

"I am hoping this time it doesn't bother me."

I wash my face, brush my teeth and hope that Juan Valdez has come to pick his damn Colombian coffee beans up by the time I get back downstairs. I can't believe I'm spending my son's first birthday party vomiting due to the fact that I am pregnant. Again. Oh God. How am I ever going to do all of this? I'm just happy I made it upstairs and into our bathroom. And away from that sickening smell.

The only time I ever panic about what is going on is when I'm alone. I'm tired. I'm sick in the morning. And the afternoon. And sometimes part of the evening. I expect it to be calming down after I get out of the first trimester. I hope it does. I have too many things to take care of.

Someone knocks on the door. "Mulder, I'll be right out, okay?"

"Dana, honey. It's Mom. Are you okay?" she asks. Damn. I knew she would come looking for me.

"I'm fine, Mom. I'll be down in a minute," I say. I don't hear her walk away and leave the master bedroom. Instead I hear her sit down on the bed and settle in.

I brush my hair and put on some lipstick before leaving the relative safety of my bathroom.

Mom is sitting there on the edge of the bed, waiting for me in the darkness of the room.

"You could turn on the light, Mom," I say, trying to change the inevitable subject that is coming. I turn the bedside lamp on to discover that I forgot to make the bed. I usually never forget, but I needed a nap before the party.

"So, are the two of you going to get married before this one is born or are you going to continue living in sin?" my mother asks with a smile on her face. I know she doesn't really care how we live as long as we are happy.

"That depends on whether you want to serve coffee at the reception or not," I say and we both laugh.

"How?" she asks. "Never mind how. I know how. But how?"

"That is something we haven't been able to answer yet, Mom," I say. The tone of my voice makes the smile disappear from her face.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, and for the first time in days, I feel like crying again. She comes to me and folds me into her arms. This is one of two places in the world where I feel safe.

"There are some things that we don't know yet, Mom. About the baby. It happened while I was being held hostage in New Mexico. Or shortly before that. One way is good. The other way isn't," I say. I feel a tear trickle down my cheek, and I know I'm losing the composure I've worked so hard to maintain.

"Whatever happens, it will be okay, sweetheart. What does Fox say about all of this?" Mom asks. She lets go of me and wipes that single tear away.

"He says that whatever happens, it will be okay," I say, repeating her sentiments.

"And you do believe him, right?" she asks. She is never on my side or his side, but has always been on 'our' side of any problems since we have been together like this.

"Yes, I believe him. But so many things happened ..." I say, my voice fading to nothing.

"Dana, it will be okay. I can't promise you that nothing will be wrong, but I know God will never give you more than you can handle. Never. Look at all that has happened to you so far. And you have always gotten through it. I believe that God gave you each other so you would survive this world that you both decided to take on," she says, pulling me in close again.

"I'm so afraid, Mom," I say. It feels so good to say these words to someone besides Mulder. I know underneath it all, he is just as frightened as I am. We can laugh and joke about it, but it is there, like an strong, cold undercurrent we can't get out of.

"You two will get through it together. I already thought both of you were dead once this year. I was there when they brought him to the hospital. He looked dead. He was so cold and suffering from exposure. Then you came in ..." she stops and looks at me. "What's wrong?"

He was suffering from exposure after being found on that hillside. I can hardly remember the report. I know it suggested that he and Fowley were involved in something that I don't even want to think about. Why would they think that? Something else had to be there. Evidence that I can't recall reading about.

"Nothing is wrong, Mom. You ready to go open some presents?"

Christopher is playing with the wrapping paper as if he is making a large tossed salad. It is in shreds all over the living room floor, while the contents of all those packages go ignored in a circle around him. We should have just bought him a roll of wrapping paper and wrapped it -- in what? More wrapping paper?

"So, does this mean you are going to start potty training?" Reid's girlfriend asks. Jenny is her name and she looks like she can't be any older than 19. Of course, Reid is a lot younger than I am so I guess he still has the ability to pick up teenage girls. I'm marrying a woman more than 20 years her senior. And I prefer it that way after watching Jenny fidget and primp all night. She lacks the self-awareness and confidence of a woman in her thirties.

"Potty training? At one?" my mother asks with a hearty chuckle so unlike her. I know what is coming next and I cringe. "We were lucky we had Fox out of diapers by the time he was in kindergarten."

"Mom," I say sternly, and she just smiles at me, dismissing any protest I might make with a wave of her hand. As if she is brushing away an annoying fly. I know she is going to continue the story. Mothers always do. She has changed a lot in the last year. It is as if Christopher has given her a chance to start over.

"He could read before he could go potty. I think he was just stubborn and he put up a good fight," she says. I hate it when the word 'potty' is used in reference to adults. Especially when it is used in reference to me. "Finally, when I was pregnant with Samantha, he gave in. Thank God. I don't think I could stand two in diapers at the same time."

I look at Scully who just closes her eyes at that last sentence. Her mother knows. She told me when she came back downstairs. Now I have to tell my mother.

"Dana was trained by 15 months," Mrs. Scully says, proudly. Well, leave it to Scully to be meticulous enough not want to sit in a wet diaper before she was even two.

"Well la tee da. Can we change the subject now?" I ask and the Gunmen agree. I'm sure they don't need to know any more about my 'potty' habits than they already do. Then again, why the hell not? They've now seen everything else, right down to watching Scully lick certain bodily fluids of mine off of my lips. I'm sure that amused the hell out of them.

Soprano sits next to 'Kit' and begins to show him what all his toys do. The toys are getting more and more complicated as he grows. Now he even has his own baby basketball hoop, thanks to the boys. As everybody begins to get up and get ready to go home, I notice Frohike sitting with Soprano and Christopher. I hope to hell he behaves.

"I'll see you in the office tomorrow," Reid says, and Jenny gives me a shy wave as I escort them to the front door.

"Thanks for stopping by. And thanks for the gift wrap," I joke. They don't get it. Well, they just aren't parents yet.

Byers is helping Scully clean up the mess while Langly is trying to rewire the entertainment center. Frohike is engaged in an animated conversation with Soprano even though Christopher toddled off to his grandmother's arms. Soprano appears to be listening intently and doesn't look like she needs to be rescued yet.

My mother holds Christopher, rocking him in her arms. He's getting sleepy and it is time for him to get in his pajamas and go to bed. She sings something to him and the song brings back a flood of memories. I remember her trying to rock me even though she was very pregnant with Samantha. I can't remember why I fled to the safety of my mother's arms. I just remember her cooing gently and singing that song to me. I once loved her like Christopher now loves me. With none of the expectations and conditions placed on love as we grow older.

I still love her. But not in that way that babies do. I know all her faults. I guess in one way it is a much better love to accept someone with all their faults and love them anyway. I hardly know her. I know nothing of her childhood. I was told the story of how she met Dad once. She never told me again.

"Hi, Mom," I say, sitting next to her on the couch. She stops singing and her composure changes slightly. She always acts as if she has to defend herself against me. Or anything I might say.

"Coming to put him to bed?" she asks, switching a sleepy Christopher from one arm to the other.

"No, not yet. There is something I have to tell you."

Mulder comes into the bedroom carrying a bottle and two champagne flutes. He smiles, shows me that once again it is sparkling cider he is bringing into this room, and pours some for each of us. I put the book I was reading aside as I take the glass from him.

"So, what exactly are we celebrating?" I ask, as he lies down next to me.

"We are celebrating that we survived the first year of the hardest job we will ever have," he says. He clinks my glass with his. "Here is to ... us."

"To us and the people who decided we should be parents in the first place," I say, taking a sip of the sweet, bubbly cider. "And here's to hurricanes and weather control."

"Scully, they couldn't have made you have sex with me that night. Admit it. You wanted to," he says, a lascivious grin crossing his face.

Somehow, admitting to this is one of the hardest things I have ever tried to do. It as if that one act was a moment of weakness, and I don't like to be weak. I should have been able to resist, no matter what they might have done to me out in that storm. And if I would have resisted, we wouldn't be here now. He would be sitting in his apartment flipping through TV channels. Alone. And I would be in my apartment. Reading or writing something. Alone. There would be no Christopher.

"Okay, I'll admit it. The thought had crossed my mind a few times before then ..." I start to say. "We have covered this all before, remember? The hotel in New Mexico? Or did you forget all about that?"

A strange look passes over his face with the mention of New Mexico. I guess he still hasn't healed from everything that happened to us there.

"Scully, if I recall correctly, and I might be wrong about this because as you know I was in a coma for awhile, but I thought we were talking about being in love then?" he asks. He sets his champagne glass on the table and puts his hand over my slightly rounded belly. "And I think we discussed the first time you would have *let* me make love to you. Not the first time you thought about it ... wanted it. Fantasized about it."

God damn that memory of his. And now how do I get out of this?

"I don't remember," I lie. I do remember, and it is painfully embarrassing how long ago it was.

"You do remember. Tell me, Scully. Or I'll make you name the baby Cleetus whether it is a boy or a girl," he says, licking his lips. Yes, those lips were part of it, too. And that tongue that just swept over them. And this is silly because I can have him now. He is right here wearing next to nothing bringing me 'champagne.'

"Right before my abduction," I say softly, almost whispering.

"What did you say?" he asks, trying to goad me into saying it louder. "I really couldn't hear you."

"Right before I was abducted. Okay? Are you happy now?" I ask, wishing he'd wipe that damn grin off of his face.

"Are you serious?" he asks, sounding just a little stunned.

"We weren't working together. I missed seeing you every day. I wanted to see you. I think that is the first time it ever crossed my mind. But it was just a fleeting thought. Not anything I would have acted upon," I say. That is the truth. I remember when and where I thought it. He was on the phone with me while he was out with Krycek somewhere. We were discussing some case that I don't even remember. But I remember the thought that came to mind.

"What was that fleeting thought?" he asks, his hand moving from my abdomen upwards, under my pajamas until he is feeling the curve of my breasts.

"It was just a kiss," I say, closing my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his hand on my already sensitive breasts. How does he do this? How does he get to me so completely so quickly?

"Just a kiss?" he asks, his voice softer and closer. His other hand takes the glass I still have between my fingers and sets it aside.

"Just a kiss. And then we were doing it on the hood of a Ford Taurus. To this day I can't look at one without wanting to smile," I finally admit. "But it was just fleeting."

"The hood of a car? Scully, I'm shocked," he says. He can't be too shocked because his hand is still under my top, still caressing me.

"Your turn, Mulder. Fess up. When was the first time you thought about it?" I ask him, my mind trying to focus on both this conversation and the sensations coursing through my body. The stimulation is causing a warmth to spread everywhere, but it is definitely centered between my thighs. It is almost an ache, but the most pleasant kind.

"I'm a man. I thought about it the first time you walked into my office. But I figured if I acted on it, I wouldn't make a very good impression," he says, and his hand moves down to accommodate my needs and satisfy my aches.

"You were trying to make a good impression?" I say with a smile, remembering as all couples do the very first time we met. He was so young, so sure of himself and what he believed in. I was so young and so sure I could prove him wrong at every turn, trying to shoot down his every move. And now that young, cocky FBI agent is a forty year old FBI agent who just happens to have their hand moving in and out of my body, ever so gently. I'm not shooting down this move.

"Yes. You did actually catch me trying really hard to behave myself that time. If I hadn't been behaving, I would have had you on my desk moaning my name within twenty minutes," he says. I open my eyes and look at him, my eyebrow arched. "Okay. Maybe not on the desk, but at least up against the filing cabinets."

"And you thought of all of these in that short time I was in your office that first day?" I ask.

"Those and a few more. None involving any kind of Ford Taurus, though," he says. "Those didn't come until later."

I close my eyes again, and bite my lower lip. His fingers keep working their magic. I know he is watching me. Even in the darkness of my mind I can feel his eyes on me, studying me. Always trying to figure me out at just that moment. Sometimes he does a really lousy job of it. And sometimes he does a great job of figuring out exactly what I need. Like right now. I open my eyes, because I take pleasure in watching him watch me.

My hand moves to him, and he's already hard just from doing this. I slip my fingers into his boxers and wrap my hand around his erection. He doesn't stop looking at me, his eyes holding all the intensity that they usually do. Now the game begins. He twists around and gets his boxers off and throws them to the land of lost underwear at the side of the bed.

And we continue. His hands on me, mine on him and our eyes on each other. Long before the first time we ever were together this way, I could read everything he was thinking through his eyes. Sad, happy, lonely or afraid. It didn't matter. Now I can read only one thing. This person loves me more than he loves anyone on earth, with the exception of his love for a certain one year old tucked away in bed in the other room.

"You like this?" he says, his voice raspy now.

"Yes," I say, and start moving my hand faster and applying more pressure. I know what he likes. It has only been a year and nine months since that first time, and now I know most everything about this person. Unless he has any more ex-wives out there.

"I've never seen you come and keep your eyes open," he says, offering up the challenge.

"And I've never seen you come without making those funny little noises," I say.

"If you keep your eyes open, I promise not to make any noises, funny or otherwise," he says. I know he wants to look down to watch what our hands our doing, but he doesn't. Those hazel eyes focus on my eyes, unrelenting in their intensity. I pick up the intensity of what I'm doing to him, and he matches it. It is enough to send both of us over the edge quickly.

He comes first, silently. But that silence comes at a cost, I can see. His poor bottom lip is now even more pouty from him biting it to control himself. And all I have to do is keep my eyes open.

I move my hand away from his stickiness and now he concentrates solely on me again. Really concentrates on me. Just like everything Mulder goes after, his drive for me to reach orgasm is unrelenting. I should be thankful. Some men just don't care.

Then it comes, washing over me and I get lost for a moment trying to reach the surface again. And I know the blackness isn't due to a lack of oxygen from drowning in the sensations. No. It most certainly isn't.

"You closed your eyes," he says, as he bends over and kisses each of my eyelids.

"I'm sure you will make some funny noise yet tonight," I say to him before I open one and then the other eye. Still he watches me with one hand on my belly.

"I wonder what that feels like in there? Like someone rocking the hot tub?" he asks with a smile. I never thought of it the whole time I was pregnant with Christopher.

"Or maybe it feels good, knowing that his parents love each other," I say softly, my hand now resting on top of his.

"Do you?" he asks. I know he still doubts it. Just as I doubt that this will all have a happy ending yet for everybody.

"I do," I say.

I pull my hand away from his. It is still sticky from the semen that we have yet to clean up. Still sticky and all over the place now. All over the place. A thought crosses my mind again, that I'm missing something. Something I don't even want to think about. Maybe they didn't tell him everything about that night he spent out on that mountain. Before I can ask, I hear him gently snoring next to me. I have to find out for myself.

July 11, 2002
National Airport
3:35 p.m.

"Congratulations, Agent Mulder," he says, coming out of the darkness where he resides. I'm in the damn airport parking garage. How in the hell does he find me?

"Yeah. For what?" I ask as I throw my bags into the trunk of my car and slam it down hard. This action causes several car alarms to go off, and some people passing by look at us. Maybe that will keep him from killing me this time. Then again, if that were the plan, I'd have been dead a long time now.

He blows out a puff of smoke into the incredibly hot July air. Even he looks like the heat has gotten the best of him. He has his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie looks like it has been loosened all afternoon until he approached me.

"Several things, actually. First, for keeping that son of yours relatively safe for a whole year now. There was that one little incident back in ... what was it? March?" he says, and I watch some ashes drop off the tip of his cigarette and land on his shoes. I suppose it is a lot to hope they will cause him to combust.

"You know exactly when it was," I say to him as I move to the car door.

"And congratulations on the new one you are expecting ... in January, isn't it?" he asks. He knows the answer to that one, too.

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me?" I ask him, as I try to get around him. He doesn't move. He has always been a goddamn brick wall that I keep bumping in to in my life. "You seem to think you have all the answers."

"I can't tell you everything. But I do know someone who wants to answer all your questions," he says. He drops his cigarette to the cement floor, and steps on it until it is completely flattened. I would guess that is a demonstration just for me, a show of just what he could do to me. To all of us. Or so he thinks.

"I'm sure you do. Now, if you excuse me, I have to get home. You know ... barefoot and pregnant woman in the kitchen. One mouth already to feed," I say to him snidely. I finally move by him.

"I thought you would be more curious as to exactly what ... or who Jasper is. But if you don't care, I will just tell this other person ..."

Now he has my attention. I only say one word. "Talk."

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
3:50 p.m.

"Isn't that nice," I mumble as I look at the signs on the door. Special Agent Fox Mulder on top. Special Agent Joshua Reid right under it. New plates and everything from the last time I was here. I let myself into the office with my key, and flip on the lights. One half is its usual mess. The other half is relatively tidy. I hope what I'm looking for is on the tidy half. I don't think the occupant of the messy half even wants to look at this again.

Luckily, it is easy to pick out. It is a large case file and one I know hasn't been solved yet. The names Mulder, Fox and Fowley, Diana are written across the sticker on the front. I know that the Albuquerque police are handling this as two separate crimes. One is now murder. This is Agent Reid's folder of information and crime scene details. He was one of the first agents out there, after Mulder and Fowley had been air lifted to the hospital.

I sit down at Mulder's desk, swipe some sunflower seed husks into the trash and begin reading. I know I've seen it all before, but I was under a great deal of stress that time. I had Skinner and Reid watching me, each giving me their own individual assessment of what happened. This time I want to search through this file by myself.

"Damn it," I say out loud after combing through everything for over an hour and not finding what I'm searching for.

"Agent Scully, I didn't expect to see you down here," Skinner says to me from the door. I look up at him, surprised at being found here in the basement. He usually doesn't descend this far down into the bowels of this building unless he's looking for something.

"Sir," is all I say. What does he want me to say? I am sure this area isn't off limits to me now.

"What are you looking for, Agent?" he asks, as he leans against the door frame and crosses his arms in front of him.

"I am trying to answer some questions, sir. Some of them are rather personal in nature," I say. I close the folder in front of me, and fold my hands on top of it.

"Maybe I can help," he says. He comes into the office but doesn't sit down across from me. Perhaps that would diminish his position of authority.

"I don't think so ..." I start to say, but he points to the file.

"Obviously, you have some idea as to what you are looking for," he says. His eyes do not move from me and I feel like a disobedient school girl being scolded for smoking in the bathroom.

I can either keep this up or ask. In asking, I will have to reveal certain things. And I might have to accept answers I don't want to hear. But I have to know.

"Sir, at the scene ... the crime scene in the Sandia Mountains," I start and try to figure out my next words.

"Yes?" he asks "Go on with your question."

"Was there any evidence that either Agent Fowley or Agent Mulder were sexually ... um ... I don't even know what to ask, sir," I say. I catch him looking away from me quickly, for just a second, before meeting my eyes again.

"Any evidence of sexual battery?" he asks, filling in words for me.

"Yes. Any evidence ... anything on either of them or in the area where they were found," I ask.

He stands there in silence. Damn it. I knew they weren't telling me everything and I was too tired to ask back in the hospital. I had so many other things to worry about then.

"Who else knows?" I ask quietly "And why was it hidden?"

"The only people who would know are the crime scene technicians and the hospital staff that took care of them in the trauma rooms. After that, it wasn't to be mentioned again. Agent Fowley showed no signs of any sexual trauma and there were no traces of semen on her. Agent Mulder, on the other hand ..."

I put my hand up for him to stop.

"The order for it to be buried came from someone a whole hell of a lot higher up than me," he says.

"Like a senator?" I ask.

"Yes. Like that. Why is this so important to know now, Agent Scully? What are you trying to find?" he asks me. I can't believe that they didn't tell us this earlier. What in the hell went on up on that damn hill?

"This is important because I'm pregnant. And we don't exactly know when. Or how. And if someone else had a hand in this," I say, and stop, cringing at my choice of words. "If someone else did this, orchestrated this whole thing, I would certainly like to know their purpose."

His eyes scan me closely, looking for any signs that I'm telling the truth. It is too early for that. He will just have to trust me.

"I will send everything I have to your office at Quantico, Agent Scully. Will that be sufficient?" he asks, as if that will make up for any of this.

"For now," is all I say. I get up, fling the useless file of information I can't even trust now on to Reid's desk and walk past Skinner. "Lock up on your way out."