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Title: Defining Happily Ever After Summary: Facing a future sometimes means facing a past. Another day inside my world, And then I find you here. But I'm alone for now... --Staind, Safe Place So this is what happiness felt like. Strange and foreign, it had invaded his life in a form that most would see as natural and normal. But to him, it was the most abnormal reality to have ever overcome him. A child, a perfect, flawless reality never supposed to exist was slowly changing his life. Deep within himself, where he would not need to expose that which he felt, he would willingly admit to himself how truly scared he was. He was terrified. But he could never tell her that. He could never tell the mother of his child that he was building a core of uncertainty deep within him. He could never tell her because he feared she would misinterpret his uncertainty. It was not an question of what he wanted. He could only hope that she understood the truth of his want to be a part of her, and a part of all that was suddenly encompassing them. He needed her to understand the breath that was lost at every single thing he discovered in the simplest existence of his son. He needed her to understood the breath that was lost at every sight of her within her newfound role as a mother. Four years ago, he had sat upon a bench in the small town of Home, Pennsylvania, and for the first time, imagined this woman, his partner, as a mother. Nothing he had ever imagined, then or beyond, had come any where near to the reality that he had been allowed to witness over the past month. One image in particular was forever inscribed upon the surface of his mind, idealizing all that he saw her as within her new role in life. The sun had just begun to fall behind the afternoon clouds when he had come back to her apartment that had unofficially become his home. He had wandered silently toward her bedroom where he knew he would find her. In the doorway he had stood, unnoticed, mesmerized by what he saw shadowed in the falling sunlight straining through the shades. She had been sitting in the rocking chair her mother had given her, softly singing a wordless hum in her perfectly off-key voice. Her eyes were staring downward, focused on the sleeping infant wrapped in the warmth of blankets and her arms. The expression upon her face was that of the simplest contentment, as if, for once, she could allow herself to simply exist as happy. The moment had been too perfect, and as he watched, he felt as if he had been invading a scene that was not supposed to be real, at least in his life. She had looked up at him, smiling her gently embarrassed smile, and he had smiled back, the look of amazement still resonating on his face, the feeling of disbelief still resonating in his soul. Never in his life had he ever felt such a powerful sense of disbelief. Of all the things he could believe in without a solid construction of proof, somehow he could not find it in himself to believe in that which lay before him. He did not know if he could allow himself to believe in all that was suddenly his life. Somehow, he was suddenly a father, and in some unofficial, yet perfectly natural way, he had a family. These simple truths rang oddly in his mind, as if these were things that belonged solely to other people, normal people; to those who had always dreamed of and expected white picket fences and wedding cake. He was not one of those people. He had never believed that he could ever belong to this stereotype that had always haunted him. During his childhood, even before the inevitable loss of his sister, the life that had surrounded him was not that of perfection. When he wanted to, he could remember being able to look past the perfect facade that enclosed him, seeing into the family he knew. Even then, he knew and saw the baseless connection that was barely holding it all together. He knew even then that there was something amiss even when he had every reason to believe otherwise. When his sister had disappeared, there remained nothing that would keep it all from falling apart. The perfect facade that had sheltered him had finally caved in, inevitably taking him down with it. Whether he had ever been aware of it or not, his sister's disappearance had, among other things, destroyed his idealized conception of family. It destroyed the relationship between his parents that he had never wanted to see as anything less than perfect. It destroyed his own relationship with them both, isolating him from all that he had left. He knew then that what he feared, what uncertainty that grew within him, was because of the realization that the father he had suddenly become, the family he suddenly had, were things he had been without for so long he knew not if he could ever become them. He knew not if he could be a father, when he could barely, truly remember his own. He knew not if he could be a part of a family, when he could barely recall how it felt to truly belong. And yet, as much as the uncertainty itself frightened him, he needed every moment of it. He needed to be there with her. He needed to let her show him how to do every single thing that every other father had needed to learn. He needed to wake up with her at three in the morning. He needed to fall back asleep to the sound of hushed cries. He needed to kiss her goodnight with the anxiety of a first date, but with the practice of a husband. He needed to treasure the existence of those around him who had suddenly become the completion of his life. He needed her. And he needed his son. But most of all, he needed to be there for them both. He needed to be the father that he, himself, had been without for so long. But he was afraid. He was afraid of failing this perfect, flawless child. He was afraid of failing her. His mind had been wandering all night, spanning the width of his fears and worries despite the exhaustion succumbing his body. His eyes stared open, seeing into nothing as his mind entered within himself, desperate to sort through the confusion and uncertainty that was reigning there, making sleep an impossibility. He was lying with her, in her bed, in her apartment, just as he had for the past four weeks since William's birth. And yet, despite the perfect souls that slept soundly around him; one curved against him and another only a few feet away, he could not find the same peace. He shifted his body against hers, bringing her warmth closer as if to convince himself that he was not alone. Tucking his face into the back of her neck, he finally allowed his eyes to close, letting his senses drown in hers. He sighed softly, desperate to let go of his mind, desperate to find sleep before it was too late. "Mulder?" He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, hearing her tone groggy with sleep, yet unmistakable tinted with worry. "I'm sorry, Scully..." he apologized, his voice as hushed as hers as he whispered in her hair. "I didn't mean to wake you." "What's wrong?" her worry continued. He sighed, his denial to her inquiry already forming in his mind, but he stopped himself before he could utter the familiar lie. He knew that his habit, as well as hers, had always been to deny that anything was ever wrong. He knew that it was something that they both needed to change, but it remained something that he struggled to get past. "I can't sleep," he mumbled softly, "that's all." Even as he said the words, he knew the answer to her question was only a half-truth. "Are you okay, Mulder?" she asked gently, almost as if she were testing how far he would let her dig into the matter. "Yeah, I'm fine... I just..." he started to respond, pausing a second to look for the right words. "There's just something I need to do tomorrow." He paused again, desperate to explain himself carefully. "There's somewhere I have to go... I probably won't be back till late tomorrow night, or later." He could almost feel the confused frown appear upon the face he could not see. "Where?" she asked, feeling him tense around her in reluctance. Moments passed in silence as his resistance to her question continued. He sighed before finally giving in, quietly murmuring his answer into her hair. "North Carolina." He did not need to say any more than that. In his reply, she understood enough to have an idea of where his thoughts had been all night and why he was having trouble finding sleep. She understood enough to comprehend his frame of mind. He was going to visit his mother, just as he had done before, never once letting her know. Except this time, he was. Without saying anything, she turned around within him so that she could face him, her worry evident in her eyes. "It's okay, Scully," he assured her. "There's just some things I need to take care of..." he explained vaguely. She carefully brought her hand up to cup the side of his face, her worrying eyes still searching his. "I promise... I'm fine...." he continued, desperate to assure her, his eyes falling from hers. "I just have to... resolve some things that I've left undone..." He let his eyes find hers again and she nodded, her face letting him know that she understood. "You don't have to explain, Mulder," she whispered seriously as her thumb ran across his cheek. "It's okay." "This is just something I need to do..." he continued, still trying to assure her that she did not need to worry. "I know," she responded gently, a hint of sadness glazing over her voice. With no more words between them, she pulled herself closer, offering herself as comfort, despite his assurances that he was perfectly fine. She knew this man as she knew herself, and she understood that there was so much more beyond his words with which he was struggling. She knew that there was so much more he was not telling her. But she was grateful enough for the honesty he had already given her. Mirroring her action, he remained silent, accepting her wordless offering. And finally, with his head resting on top of hers, he was able to find some sense of the peace he had been without. The early morning light filtered through the shades of the bedroom, just as her newfound maternal instinct was bringing her out of sleep. She had become able to sense almost precognitively William's need before even he could. With the cold light of the sun just hitting her where she lay, she opened her eyes, forcing herself to awaken. But she awakened to the realization that she was alone. Her arms stretched out wide, covering the bed where Mulder was supposed to be. She sat up, looking around her. The clock next to the bed barely read past six a.m. The chair in the corner of the room, where once his leather jacket had been strewn, was starkly naked. The place on the floor where his boots had been unceremoniously desposed of was just as empty in the gloomy morning light. In her mind, she knew that he was going to leave today to visit his mother's grave site in Raleigh. She knew that she would be without him. But she had not expected him to leave so early. She had not expected that he would leave without saying good bye. She had not expected to feel so suddenly alone. In the midst of her worry, the cries of her son had suddenly found an inevitable voice. His need rang harshly in the emptiness of the room, and she forced herself to leave the vacant bed to go to him. Picking him up, she desperately tried to push away her fear for Mulder's state of mind, telling herself that he was fine, that she was overreacting. But she could not. She could not help but to fear for all that he had left unsaid the night before. I sit here locked inside my head, --Staind, "For You." He sat alone, his car in park on the side of the road in the middle of the cemetery. A simple bouquet of flowers wrapped in plastic lay next to him in the passenger seat, awaiting a purpose. And yet, he could do no more than sit. He could not find the courage to fulfill that purpose. He felt paralyzed, unable to do anything but look painfully out at the landscape of etched stone and trees. He had not been here in months, not since before he had been taken. Even beyond that time, when he had come back, he had not been able to return here, even for his mother's sake. It was too much knowing that he, himself, had been buried beneath the surface that surrounded him now. It frightened him. He doubted that Scully truly knew how much it still did, but for that he could only blame himself. He ached at knowing that six months were lost from him, leaving him with nothing more than his imagination to torture him with all that could be the truth of that time. He wanted to tell her. He wanted her to understand that he had never been able to come to terms with it all. But he couldn't. He could not, for the life of him, let her share in his pain. She had shared too much. For that reason, he had kept his secret. For a year, he had lied to her with silence, hiding his illness from her, denying her even a single word of the truth. He had not had the heart to not only let her share his pain, but share his death, as well. Little did he know that none of that would matter. For months, she would share in his pain. She would share in his death. She would bury him not a hundred yards from where he sat. He brought his eyes up from his lap, staring out into the haunting landscape. He imagined her somewhere out there, the only one among many who truly had a heart to stand there and mourn him, the only one who would willingly share in his death. Yet, he could only imagine. She had never really told him that much of what she had fallen to during those months. But, for this, too, he could only blame himself. He had never given her the chance. He had never been able to give her the freedom to share what she would. His first day back from the hospital, standing in his apartment, she had laid bare her soul to him. He had guessed that, by then, she was too raw to find the strength to hide herself. But he had shut her out. He had not yet been ready to hear the words. He had not been able to hear of the pain she had taken on as her own. He had lost the ability to define where he stood in his life, where he stood in hers and in that of the child she was carrying. He had wanted her to understand his confusion, his disorientation with it all, but all he seemed to have been able to do was hurt her. All he had been able to do was bruise the soul she had bared. Since then, any mention of the emotional scars that still remained from that time was swept away, hidden beneath a familiar silence. Only general references of that time were allowed between them. She did not know anything of the anger and the fear that still resided in him. She did not know anything of the wounds that never healed, the markings upon him that had never touched his body. In the same silence, he knew nothing of the time she endured alone. He knew not of a single moment of her pregnancy before his return, of how she found out, of how she must have felt. He knew nothing of the happiness and terror she was forced to bear in secret. He knew nothing, and she knew nothing, and for both he could only damn himself. The silence was his fault. It had always been his fault. The silence he had kept over the years between himself and his parents was no different. A familiar aching guilt consumed him at the thought, his mind cruelly recalling his last words to his mother. He had promised her that he would call her back. He had been too absorbed in himself to listen to the words she had not spoken over the phone. He had never given her that chance. He swallowed hard, his eyes shutting tight as his thoughts threatened his control. But he knew that it was already inevitable. He could feel the familiar grief fill his closed eyes. He could feel the familiar ache fill his chest. Grasping for a deep breath, he opened his eyes as an accustomed tear trailed the length of his face. He stared once again outward, toward where his mother lay beneath the ground. His mind threatened him with a thousand "what ifs" that all revolved around what he could have done, what he could have changed that would have ended the story differently. Perhaps if he had been willing to listen, to be listened to, his mother would have been willing to tell him that she was dying. Perhaps he would have been able to find the courage to tell her the same. Perhaps they would have been able to find words for all the things they had kept silent all those years. His eyes were lost and focused at the same time, staring tensely at the recognizable etched stone in the near distance. And suddenly he remembered his purpose. Crinkling the plastic in his hands, he picked up the simple bouquet from the seat next to him. The mild breeze of the afternoon swept past him as he got out, walking with a pace of nauseous intent. His gaze had slowly fallen downward upon reaching his mother's grave. Formally, as he had done too many times before, he bent down to lay the flowers gently upon the earth, remaining there a few seconds before standing up once again. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, he remained silent. He wished he knew how to speak, to express all of that which overwhelmed him as he stood there. Despite the solitary silence surrounding him, he could not find the voice to speak out loud. He could only close his eyes and pray that she would hear him through the silence that seemed to define his life. The apartment was quiet. A strange silence possessed her surroundings, filling her with a sense of unease. William was finally sleeping, wearing himself out with his constant need for his mother. But now, his need had fallen silent, and she was suddenly aware of the stillness that seemed to resonate throughout the apartment. As she walked through the silence, she could not help but know what was missing. It was frighteningly obvious to her just how much she had come to recognize his presence in her daily life. Before, she had been accustomed to the silence, to being alone, but she was no longer a part of that time. She could barely recall that person she had been, that solitary life she had led. Ever since William's birth, her life had become unrecognizable. She was no longer alone, in any connotation of the word. She had her child, and he had his mother. They shared a connection, a defined set of emotions, that she had never believed she would ever have the chance to understand. And yet, she had been given that chance, and never did a moment come to pass where she would not remember the power of that gift. Within this new state of disrecognition, she was far from alone. Within it she had Mulder, and he had her, and together they were attempting to define this strange new life. And yet, nothing had ever been officially defined. Nothing ever was between them. The moment he had leaned over the infant in his arms to kiss her was about as official as it had ever become. His words, his meanings, his declarations had been etched into the simplicity of his lips against hers. She had understood, and she had never asked for the words she already knew. She had never explicitly asked him for anything. No words had ever given light to his sudden change in residence, nor were any words ever present to define for him any obligations or expectations. The changes in their lives were things that simply came to be. These were things that she knew he wanted desperately, but never really knew how to ask. And so, he had asked her without words, slowly moving into her life and her existence, as if waiting for her to inevitably say no. With every step he took toward it all, she felt as if he was waiting for her to push him away. It was as if, every day, he was waiting to wake up to nothing. He would never tell her that he felt this way, that he was taking it all in with a hint of uncertainty. A stranger watching him would never think that he was anything but happy, surrounded by all that anyone could truly ask for. But, she was not a stranger. She was not an outsider. She knew him, and she watched him, day in and day out, seeing the happiness that was true and real, but ultimately tainted. With every moment that she saw Mulder with William, she could not help but be reminded of the implausibility of what she saw. She could not help but realize, almost painfully, how neither of them should logically exist in her life. But they did. Everyday, she tried desperately to safeguard that concept, to never take that fact for granted. Thus, she watched him. She watched him when he allowed himself to feel wonder at the way his son's hand barely wrapped around one of his fingers. She watched him when he was unaware of her, as he stood over William as he slept, his expression deep with adoration; his stance tense with doubt. She knew that he wanted to be there. She knew that, in all truth, his heart was where he was. But, with Mulder, it was always so much more complicated than that. There was so much more than that simple truth bounded within the complexity of his mind. But she could not see that deep. He refused to let her. He was keeping silent, both in words and in body, as if the doubt he kept hidden would somehow poison her and their sudden 'happily ever after'. It was the silence he kept, that she kept as well, that was the only poison between them. It was a silence that held onto more than just the doubt that she felt him deny. It held onto the silence that was within her, penetrating her in his absence. She realized then, that she was no different. She awoke each day into this strange new world of hers, and had to remind herself that it was at all real. She had to remind herself that he was at all alive. For the first time since he had left, she realized why his absence was bothering her so much. Since his return, only when he had risked boarding the oil driller out at sea had he been truly out of her reach. Only to herself had she been willing to admit the feelings of fear his distance had brought forth. It still scared her. Without the proof of his presence, she had to remind herself that he was not still buried beneath the ground. After she had laid him to rest, she had tried to live with his absence as something real, as something that was not just a bad dream in her head. For three months she had tried desperately to let him go. But to let go of him entirely was like undoing seven years of her life, blacking them out as if they had never happened. She had known that she would never be able to do that, but somehow, she had been able to come to terms with the fact that he was never coming back. Only, that was exactly what he did. The mentality that had accepted his death did not know how to reverse all that she had struggled to acknowledge. She did not know how to live as if none of it ever happened. She did not know how to make it go away. At that moment, she wanted desperately to call him. All day, she had fought the need to do so, knowing instinctively that he had created a mental space that did not include her; otherwise, she knew he would have already called her himself; otherwise, he would not have left her without the slightest attempt at a good bye. He was in a place only he knew how to find, though she had willingly followed him there more than once. But this time, he was not letting her. All she could do was wait for him to return, and all she could do was hope that he would let her find him when he did. So I speak to you in riddles because 'Cause it's always raining in my head, --Staind, "Epiphany." The night had fallen quickly, far more quickly than he had hoped. Standing by the etched granite that marked where his mother lay, the sun had slipped away from him, dying away without his perception. He had hoped to start back before nightfall, hoping to return home before it was too late. The day had grown old, and with it, he had grown cold with his absence, and he knew that the warmth that he craved could be found at one place alone. The darkness had reached its peak, making the headlights of the other cars on the highway an annoyance as he drove. He felt as if he had been driving for hours, though he knew that he had not yet reached half way. He felt so far away, wishing he had started his return home earlier as he had planned. But his thoughts had kept him imprisoned, keeping him at his mother's side until he could come to terms with the real reason he had gone to visit her grave. Standing over the dirt and flowers and plastic, he had let himself come to terms with all the things that he was struggling to believe in. His mother, his past, his self, his son. Scully. He had found within himself too many things that he desperately needed to define, some of which he could not do so alone. He needed to see her, to talk to her, to have her help him define their sudden 'happily ever after'. He stared down at the digital numbers glowing blue in the darkness of the car. He would not make it back in time. She would already be asleep, depending on William's willingness to let her. Either way, he did not know if he would have the courage to demand her acceptance of a million and one words he needed to give her. He did not know if he could force upon her the depth that was pounding through him now. The night passed slowly as he drove, the headlights coming and going in numbers that varied with his thoughts. Minutes passed into hours until he finally came upon some familiarity that was drawing him closer and closer as he continued to drive. The warmth he craved had since formed a familiar ache within him, heightening his need to get home. Home. After an extended forever, he finally reached that place that had become the definition of that word. Slowly putting in his key, he carefully opened the door to the apartment. He let himself in, shutting the door behind him as silently as he could. Inside, the dim lights of the kitchen lit up the main room just enough for him to distinguish that which lay before him. Upon the couch, sleeping under the soft lighting of the apartment, was all that he wanted to see. There, lying on her side, was the warmth of home he had craved since his departure. With the rustling of his leather jacket as the only noise in the room, he walked to stand behind the couch. He could not help himself as he leaned over, habit possessing him as his fingers curved between the strands of her hair, brushing them gently away. In doing so, he felt reminded, possessed by a similar moment from a not-sodistant past. Their past. Remembering that moment, he took a few short steps to the small closet where she kept the linens. Inside, which had somehow managed to make it from his apartment to hers on one of his trips back there, was the blanket he had kept on the back of his couch. Returning to her, he unfolded it, spreading it lengthwise across her body as she slept. Possessed with the courage of a privilege he had not had when he had done this before, he bent down once again, placing his mouth to her temple, faintly kissing her goodnight. After a few moments of reluctance, he managed to tear himself away from her, making his way to his next destination. He pushed the ajar bedroom door open, moving through the doorway more carefully than he had passed through the previous one. The soft light from the main room filtered into the bedroom, giving him just enough illumination to see the child sleeping on his stomach in the tiny bassinet by the side of the bed. He latched onto the sight, letting it draw him closer with each fragile step. So as with mother, the same as with child, as his hands could not help but to search for some sense of warmth. His knuckles softly stroked the infant's back as he slept, his touch barely enough to be felt for fear that he would wake him from whatever he dreamt of. Without warning, the illumination that allowed him to watch his son's perfect sleep was swept over by a shadow. He turned his head to the doorway, seeing the outline of her figure lit from behind by the dim lights of the other room. Yet, he could still see her face, her eyes staring at him intensely, as if attempting to decipher his frame of mind, but mostly, as if simply content in having him there for her to look upon. "You're home..." she stated simply, her voice betraying her steady appearance. In her tone, he sensed something that was beyond a state of mere content at his return. He sensed in her a powerful sense of relief that was more than he would have expected. But, in the same truth, he felt the same sense of relief at seeing her. "Yeah," he responded, his expression lightening to a small smile. "I am." His words, however, were tainted as he spoke them, knowing all that his mind was still trying to define. He knew that he was still struggling to believe in the concept of coming home. He watched as she struggled to break through her own sense of doubt, finally allowing herself to step forward, to move closer to him as if that was all she had wanted to do from the moment she had found him there. She reached him where he stood, stepping into him as he pulled her closer, letting him entwine his arms around her. She remained silent, resting the side of her head against the soft leather of his jacket. "Is everything okay, Scully?" he asked after a moment, habit forcing him to demand a motive for the way they stood. "Yeah... fine..." she responded steadily, never moving from her place. "I'm just glad you're back... that's all." Her words were so plain, so honest in their simplicity, that they sounded strange to him. He could hear in her voice the difficulty to admit something so obvious, and knew that they sounded strange to her, too. But they were the truth. "Me, too," he whispered back, allowing himself to pull her closer, desperate for the warmth she radiated. They stood that way, content in having no real reason to do so, content in allowing themselves to have something so simple as each other. They remained still, immobile until she turned her head the other way, towards where William slept. "Uh oh..." he heard her utter softly. He was about to ask what it was that had caused her to say so when he heard the beginnings of an awakening infant: tiny little whimpers of frustration, growing steadily more insistent. He loosened his grip on her, letting their embrace end, just as the tiny whimpers found a voice that threatened to become a full fledged wail. He turned his hands toward the sound, their enormous size scooping up the tiny infant, carefully resting him, screams and all, against his leather clad shoulder. "Hey, buddy..," he whispered against the cries, his voice hushed in his son's ear. "What's up, huh?" he continued, questioning gently as one of his hands ran up and down his back. "Is he hungry?" he asked, turning to meet her eyes, a small degree of panic reflected in his gaze. "He shouldn't be," she replied, as she watched them. "It's too soon..." "Shhh..." he continued, his efforts to calm the infant drooling on his jacket slowly beginning to succeed. "...he's been like this all day," she continued, as she watched the scene intensely. "More so than usual." She looked back at him, waiting until his eyes found hers once again before continuing. "I think that... maybe, he missed you as much as I did." He smiled awkwardly back at her, slightly unprepared for her words, unsure of how to respond. Moments passed until William slowly began to quiet, continuing to remain somewhat restless in his arms. Scully had picked up a small clothe and began to wipe the drool from his mouth, as well as the amount that had collected on the shoulder of Mulder's jacket. "You're the only one I'd let drool on my jacket and get away with it, buddy," he murmured lightly in William's ear, smiling as he said the words. "You and maybe your mother..." He looked at her, his face painted with a grin that he saw reflected, however reluctantly, in her own expression. Finally, it seemed that their child had given up his plea for attention, slowly falling perfectly silent. "Okay, Will..," he whispered, his tone once again serious. "I need you to be good for me, now, okay? I need to talk with your mom for a while." She caught his eyes as he looked at her, his tone and expression potent with seriousness. She swallowed, anticipating the words that seemed to be defined in his gaze, the words he needed to give her. "If that's okay with her..." he said as he stared tensely into her eyes. She nodded, her expression just as serious, just as anxious. Moving closer to them both, she brushed the top of her sleeping son's head with a mother's kiss, brushing his back with a mother's touch. Taking that as his cue, Mulder carefully laid William back in his bed, letting sleep find him once again. His hands now empty, he gently took hold of one of her wrists. She looked up at him and he motioned her to follow him as he led her carefully out of the bedroom. He closed the door behind them, leaving it open just enough for them to be able to hear him if he awoke again, but shut it enough so that they would not disturb his sleep. She had let go, walking ahead of him into the main room of the apartment. He could see the anxiety that she felt that mirrored his own. He could tell that she sensed the graveness of the words he was prepared to give her. Avoiding her gaze, he took off his jacket, draping it over a chair at the kitchen table where she stood, waiting for him to begin. "You wanted to talk, Mulder?" she asked him, her arms crossed somewhat nervously in front of her. "Sit down, Scully," was all he could say, motioning to the couch where she had slept, the blanket now draping its back. He followed her as she carefully complied to his request. Sitting down, she looked up as he did the same. He found a seat on the edge to her left, his gaze directed straight ahead of him rather than towards her. His hands folded nervously between his knees, as he looked for the first word of many. "How did you find out?" "Find out, what, Mulder?" she asked, genuinely confused. He swallowed, his gaze still staring ahead into nothing. "That you were pregnant..." He finally turned to her, his expression trying to lighten his question, trying to make her more comfortable. In her face, he saw something of a sense of surprise his question had created. "I... uh..." she began awkwardly, taking her turn to look down. "It was after you had left... to go back to Oregon," she started to explain, choosing her words carefully. "I fainted, actually, and was brought to a hospital." She paused, the memory coming back to her. "They told me that the explanation was simple, that I was pregnant." He remained silent, hoping for more. "At first, I was too afraid to believe them, Mulder. I was too afraid that they were wrong." She paused, waiting a moment before continuing quietly. "It wasn't long after... that I found out... that you were gone." "I'm sorry, Scully..." She looked back at him, seeing the sadness in his eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't there." She remained silent, unable to respond to that, though she desperately wished she could. "Why do you ask, Mulder?" she asked instead. "Because I never have," he explained vaguely as if that was all there was to it. "I never bothered to ask you that, among so many other things. I never bothered to tell you just as much." "What do you mean?" she asked gently. "I've been doing a lot of thinking today, Scully... particularly about my mother." He could feel the tension between them grow, and he could see in her face the same sense of worry that she had shown in her eyes the night before. "I was thinking about how I never bothered to call her back that last time..." "Mulder..." her worry protested instantly. "...and about all the things she could have told me, all the things I should have told her, if I had given her that chance." He felt the rush of familiar grief fill him as he said those words, but he suppressed it, knowing that they needed to be said. He was looking away from her again, his concentration too strained to be able to see the pain she felt for him. "I went to visit her today for the same reason that I did every time before... to try to find some kind of resolution to that sense of responsibility." "Mulder..." His name was enriched by the gentleness of her voice as she spoke. "You can't let yourself feel any responsibility for her death." "I don't," he responded, his tone telling her the truth. "I didn't kill my mother that day, Scully. I know that. She killed herself." She remained silent, sensing more. "The responsibility that I feel, the guilt that refuses to go away, is because of the silence I created. I didn't forget to call my mother back, Scully, I *neglected* to, just as I had done too many times before, simply because it was easier than having to face her." He paused in order to control his voice, which had begun to falter, finally embodying the pain reflected in his words. "I lost my mother a long time ago, Scully," he said softly. "I killed her a long time ago." He grew suddenly silent, saying no more as his hands went to his face in an act of self-comfort that she had seen him do before. She was just as mute, unable to say anything in response to his self-damnation. Slowly, she reached across the space between them and gently broke up the shelter of hands on his face, taking one of them into hers until he allowed them to fall. "Mulder, you can't do this to yourself. You know that she wouldn't want you to hold onto this for so long..." "I know," he responded quietly, almost bitterly. "But that doesn't make it go away, Scully." He took a moment to stare down at her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. "I may not have created that silence, but I willingly fed it. I knowingly let it continue right until her death. I need to be forgiven for that. And I thought that if I visited her, I would be able to find that somehow... but I was wrong." He paused again, his focus still on her hand as if that was all that was holding him together at that moment. "I realized that I was never really looking for my mother's forgiveness. I think I always knew that I already had that... I realized that I was looking for a way to forgive myself." He paused, taking a moment to simply breathe before turning to look at her. "This is my way of doing that." She searched his face in confusion, trying to understand what exactly he meant by those words. "You see, Scully, there were too many things I never told my mother, that I never let her tell me, simply because it was too hard to hear, too hard to say. I regret that only now, when it's too late." He stared at her intently, a passion flowing through his words. "What I'm trying to make you understand is that there are too many things I've never told you, that I've never let you tell me, simply because I fear them. I've neglected to give you the same chance I denied my mother before she died." "Mulder," she protested softly, "it's not the same. You're here. You're with me. You haven't denied me anything." "I never told you that I was dying." Everything grew suddenly cold, suddenly still at his words. Her face was that of silence, caught off guard by his sudden declaration of something that was very obvious between them, but just as unspoken. Her voice had gone numb, as she suddenly understood what it was that he meant. She suddenly realized that he was right. "It was simply easier to lie to you," he continued cautiously. "It was easier to watch you go about it all in ignorance, rather than the alternative." "Why--" she suddenly interrupted, a hint of anger coloring her voice. "Why was it easier..." "Because I didn't see the point, Scully. I was dying. There was no way out of it, and I knew that if I told you, you would be determined to believe otherwise. I knew you would take it upon yourself to find a cure when there was none." He paused, his solemn tone desperate to make her understand. "I couldn't bear to put you through that sense of helplessness." She took a moment to absorb his words, reading into them more than he had explicitly said, knowing that there was more to his explanation. "That's what you went through, when I had my cancer..." she stated tentatively, her words defining, rather than questioning what she knew to be a fact. "Helplessness." "I didn't want you to know what that felt like, Scully." Her gaze lowered solemnly toward her lap. He noticed then that the hand she had offered had been taken back. She was separating herself from him in a way he could not read into. "I don't mean to use your own illness as a defense for not telling you, Scully. I do not, in any way, wish to demean that experience." "I know," she responded softly. "In fact, I'm not trying to defend myself at all, only explain why," he continued. He looked down at his hands, wishing hers was still there, wishing that he still had that contact with her. "I should have told you. I was wrong to have denied that from you." "But it was easier..." she began, her voice stained with a bitterness she could not help but feel. "It was easier to hide that from me." "Yes," he stated, his tone revealing some sense of shame. "Just as it's easier to continue to hide from you." He saw the confusion play across her features, making his words harder to find. "Just as it's easier, now, to continue to pretend that nothing ever happened to me, that nothing ever happened you." "What do you mean..." she asked in confusion. Her words sparked something in him, giving him proof of all that he was trying desperately to convince her of. "You know exactly what I mean," he responded, his tone gaining a hint of frustration, of anger, more at himself than at her. "For God's sake, Scully... I *died*. You *buried* me, and yet, we can sit here and make believe that none of that happened. I walk around as if that experience doesn't matter, and I let you pretend the same, only because it's easier to shut it all out... to shut you out." His voice grew once again quiet, realizing that he could easily waken the infant that slept a room away. But the feelings of frustration, of anger were still there. All the while, she remained silent, unable to speak as she stared downward, hiding herself from his eyes. "I can't do this anymore, Scully. I can't pretend everything's fine... because it's not," he told her, desperate for her eyes to see what it was that he was trying to convey to her. "I can't pretend I'm not afraid right now, because I am." "You're afraid, Mulder?" she asked him, finally bringing her gaze up to match his. He took a deep breath, searching for the truth he needed her to possess. "I'm terrified..." he confessed honestly. "Of what?" "Of this..." He swallowed down hard, struggling for words that would make sense. "Of everything that's happening here." "You mean... William," she asked, almost afraid of her own question. "No, Scully. Not like that. I..." he struggled, desperate not to give her the wrong understanding of what he was trying to explain. "I've never had this before. I never imagined I ever would. And now that I do..." "You don't know how to," she finished for him. "You don't know how to possess any of it." He nodded, somewhat taken by how easily she understood. She kept silent as she looked at him, her eyes displaying a fear he did not understand. She exhibited reluctance, desperate to say something, but fearful at the same time. "Mulder," she finally continued, "is this what you want?" His breath caught at her question, hearing the doubt, the fear that he had desperately tried to avoid giving her throughout his explanation. "God, yes, Scully. The thought that I would want anything else has never crossed my mind," he told her without hesitating, seeing some of her anxiety lessen at his words. "I love him more than I thought I ever could. And you know that you mean more to me than I could ever put into the simplicity of words..." He took a shaky breath, the fragility of his words making them difficult to say. "But that's exactly why this is hard, Scully." "Why?" she asked gently. "Because I'm terrified of marring up this happy ending... that I don't feel as if I belong to," he explained softly. "Because I'm terrified of failing him, and consequently failing you." She remained silent, absorbing his revelations with a kindness he recognized as distinctly her own. "Mulder..." she began gently. Her hand returned to where he sat, finding his where it rest next to him. "You have no idea how ridiculous that is..." "Ridiculous?" he repeated, somewhat stung by the word. "I know that you're doubting your place in all of this," she continued, her tone serious, yet gentle. "But I don't. I never have, Mulder. I have never believed that you would ever fail him. Or me. You have to believe me when I say that you are the *only* one I would ever trust to be his father." He was looking down at her returned hand, looking for some sense of focus in her touch. "I believe you, Scully," he responded softly. "I just wish that I could trust myself." He looked back into her eyes, letting her see the uncertainty that still reigned there. "Then trust me." After a moment, he smiled at her, his soft grin recognizable to her eyes. Unexpected to her, he suddenly broke up their hands, bringing them up to softly frame her face. His thumbs swept across her skin only a moment before he leaned down, kissing her forehead and then her cheek. "I do," he whispered with certainty, before finally letting his lips catch hers if only for a few brief moments. He broke away, letting his hands fall to her shoulders. He invited her closer, wrapping his arms around her until she settled against his side. "I didn't mean to bring all of this up as a way to question everything, Scully," he told her after a few moments of silence. "I just needed you to know. I needed you to understand what I was hiding from you." She remained silent against him, content in letting him speak. "I don't intend to go anywhere. I hope you understand that. And I hope, that one day, soon, we'll get around to making this official. But we can't do that, not if I'm afraid of being honest with you; not if I make it hard for you to be honest with me." He sighed softly, resting his face into her hair. "I want you to feel as if you can tell me whatever it is you need to, Scully. I won't shut you out." "I know, Mulder," she said softly against him, her voice showing signs of exhaustion. "Another night, though. I promise." "Kay." They remained silent, both having no words left to say, both feeling the fatigue of the late night. They wanted nothing more than to sleep where they remained, content with the moment exactly as it was, but at the same time, they both knew that it would not last. They both knew that William was moments away from reminding them that they were far from alone. So, they remained silent, awaiting the inevitable. "Mulder," she whispered after a few minutes of pure silence. "Hmm..." he responded, not opening his eyes that had fallen shut. "Has this helped you..." she began. "Helped me, what?" he questioned softly. "Helped you forgive yourself... for the responsibility you feel for your mother... for the silence..." His eyes opened at her question, but for a few moments, he did not say anything, making her fear that it was the wrong thing to ask him. He remained quiet only a moment more, his silence only because he was searching for the right response. "I think," he began, finally answering her question, "that for the first time, I'm closer to finding what it was that I've been looking for. I think I'm closer to allowing myself to let some of that go..." She smiled softly against him, letting her eyes close. "I'm glad..." was all she could say, her exhaustion letting her say no more. They once again fell silent, letting the moments pass between them, neither having the strength to move. Finally, he felt her unmistakably fall asleep, her body relaxing entirely against him. He did not have the heart to wake her, knowing that sooner rather than later, their son would do it for him. Instead, he took the blanket that was strewn over the back of the couch, draping it over her as she lay against him. This time, however, he had no choice but to stay, but he would not have it any other way. He settled against her, letting his thoughts drift him into sleep... So this is what happiness felt like. Fin :) I worked really hard on this sucker, which can sometimes be a bad thing. In other words, I obsessed over the stupidest details. Anywho, please let me know if it was worth it... BelleElle7@aol.com Archivist's note: this storyline continues in Defining the Darkness.
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