Title: My Battalions
Author: supernova
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, don't sue.
Rating: R
Spoilers: S9, specifically 'William'
Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com
Archive: Ask and ye shall receive.

Summary: If I did the right thing, then I wouldn't be telling myself I did the right thing, now would I?

Author's Notes: It's official: Dana Scully is the most tortured character in the history of television.


"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions." -William Shakespeare


I've had dreams of Mulder saying hateful, terrible, unimaginable things to me. I embrace those dreams with a quiet reverence, the words my very own cat o' nine tails. His words bleed me, scar me, and make me ache in ways I never knew possible, yet I never find redemption.

IdidtherightthingIdidtherightthingIdidtherightthing. If I did the right thing, then I wouldn't be telling myself I did the right thing, now would I?

I pick up the last suitcase and glance around my bedroom, taking it all in, allowing myself to remember in technicolor glory the events that took place in this room. Mulder and I made love in my bed surrounded by a soft down comforter, safe for a few moments from the rest of the world. After Mulder left, William slept in my bed, his small body curled around my breast while the life flowed out of me and into his sweet mouth. I said goodbye to both of them in this room.

I walk to the front door of my apartment, and look over the fine details one last time. I don't know why I memorize the way the light glints off the wooden furniture, or the way the rug under the coffee table looks comfortable; maybe it's because those things are so mundane. I try to forget how I spent an hour scrubbing puke off my couch after William informed me with a burp and projectile vomiting that he didn't like peas. I try to forget that I secretly liked that stain, and that it was one more notch in the belt of normality. I had a child, and he puked on my couch, and my God, I loved him for it.

I glance down to the floor where I stand and try to forget how Mulder came over one night, pounding on the door like a madman. I'd opened the door and he'd grabbed me roughly around the waist and pressed his lips to mine. He'd kicked the door shut, and slammed me against it, pulling down his pants in one fluid motion. He'd told me he loved me afterwards, as we sank to the floor in a pile of love and lust. We'd ordered Chinese food, and hardly moved from the couch all weekend.

I wonder if anyone will ever know how hard this is for me. William is my son, my flesh and blood, a miracle; a creation born out of love, and everything good two people could ever give. He was not supposed to exist, he is a statistical improbability; he is his own person, but he is also a testament to the fortitude of the love that went into creating him. How cruel then that fate would play her hand, laying down cards that I cannot beat, shaking her finger in my face, and saying "just one more sacrifice." Fate began to deal her hand nine years ago, taking all that I am, slowly, but we all know the house is never happy until it has all your money. Well, I am penniless now.

There were times I felt as if people who knew us, knew our situation, felt as though I didn't love William because I didn't understand him. There was an anxiety regarding what he might be, I don't deny that, but what they will never understand is that the reason my guard was up, the reason I tensed when they were around, the reason I smiled less was because I didn't know how to explain it to them. It mattered, to them, that William was different; I never found the words to tell them that it didn't matter to me.

I didn't give a damn if William was normal. He was mine, and he was Mulder's, and he drooled in his sleep, and made me smell like a mother.

I pick up my suitcase, and close the door behind me.

We had a contingency plan. We agreed to try and email, but if things got crazy, an absolute emergency, then we had one final strategy. He'd left me an enormous sum of money in a bank account under the name Katherine Hale, just in case I needed a quick get away. I emptied the bank account after I resigned from my position at Quantico. Along with that, he'd paid for a post office box in Tennessee, promising to check it every eight weeks, the last Friday of whatever month it was. He told me if things got "hairy" to send a post card to the post office box that read: There is only you, Deen; I miss you. There are only three words in that sentence that are important, and one of them is spelled backwards.

I've needed you, Mulder. I never stopped fucking needing you.

I thought he might want to know that his son is in the care of another family, so I wrote him a twelve-page letter. I didn't bother to try and put it in any kind of code. I didn't give details about where William is, although not even I know for sure, but I explained my sins in pretty cursive that he would recognize anywhere. After leaving my apartment, I'd gotten into my newly purchased SUV and headed as far away from Tennessee as possible.

I end up driving in one big circle. I realize that if I know where to send a letter to Mulder, then I can, perhaps, see him. If he never wants to see me again, fine, but I am not a coward, and I need to face him.

It is a laborious drive to Murfreesboro, out in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. It is pretty; it is green, and every once in a while there is the rise and fall of a mountain on the horizon.

I have to ask three times how to get to the post office, but finally, I arrive. I go inside and look for Mulder, but he isn't there. I'm not really sure what I was expecting. I go back to my oversized vehicle, and climb inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind me.

I want to sleep. I want to sleep for a long time, and wake up when this nightmare is over. Deja vu. I've had that feeling too many times over the years. Four hours pass, and I keep watch for Mulder.

A light tapping on my window awakens me, and I turn my head to see who the hell is bothering me now.

It's Mulder. Of course it's Mulder.

He doesn't say a word, just looks broken, and sad. He comes around to the passenger's side and climbs in, shutting the door gently once he's in the seat.

"I got your letter," he mumbles. It's not really necessary though, I see the crumpled up pieces of white paper in his hand, and his face. "I knew you'd come."

"How?" I ask.

" I know you, and I figure you got halfway to Boston and then turned around, and came back, because you always do the right thing. Don't you, Scully?"

Drive the knife in a little deeper, Mulder. Yeah, it feels good, right there, now don't move it, because I am comfortably numb.

"I don't know what to say. You read the letter; I said all I had to say-"

"Stop, I don't want to hear anymore," he interrupts.

"Okay," I sigh.

He looks out the windshield, tears rolling down his face, and says absolutely nothing for eighteen minutes.

He smiles a bittersweet smile, and looks me up and down. His next words take me by surprise: "I want to talk to the writer, where's the writer?"

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