by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com
 
 

Date: 12 Jun 2002

Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully are not mine.  They belong
to 1013 and Fox Television.  I'm merely borrowing them
for fun.  Sadly, no profit is being made.  At least by me.

Rating:  PG-13

Classification:  A, MSR

Keywords:  "Requiem", Reunion, Amnesia, Baby

Archive:  That would be lovely.  Please make certain my
name remains attached to the story.  Thank you.  I'm sorry
I can't give you guys the option of downloading a single file,
but as it stands I don't have a web site.  Some people have
mentioned to me my old URL (home.earthlink.net/~krasch)
is still active.  I find that odd as I haven't had an Earthlink
account in almost a year.  Regardless, I don't seem to have
any control over that page anymore.  If you're missing chapters
I'm happy to email them to you.

Spoilers:  "Requiem" specifically, though really anything
through Season 7 is fair game.  This is a Doggett-free universe.
Nothing against Robert Patrick, but I started this story before
I fully understood his role in this new XF season.
Summary:  Stop the madness--it's another "Requiem" story!
Although, some time has passed so perhaps the fanfic market
isn't quite as flooded as it was a few months ago.  This piece
isn't necessarily a follow-up to "All We Know."  It can work
in that universe or it can stand alone.  Whichever you prefer.
Months have passed and Mulder is back.  But things are not
as they once were.  He doesn't know who he is or what Scully
and he are to each other.  Together they must reclaim the past
before their enemies take away their future.

**************************************************
"Oh lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again."
- Thomas Wolfe ("Look Homeward Angel")
**************************************************

November 18, 2000
11:14 p.m.
Washington, D.C.

Nurse Tamika Taylor was little over three hours into her
shift and already the night was one for the record books.

Never, in all her years at Washington General, had a man
magically appeared on a gurney in Admittance, unknown
and unattended to.

And never had a pregnant woman threatened her.

A small pregnant woman with a badge.  And a gun.

Tamika had been standing at the desk, her head bowed,
riffling through the array of papers in her hands, when
the tiny terror barreled her way to the counter.

"Excuse me.  I'm here about the John Doe that was
brought in earlier this evening."

Engrossed, Tamika didn't even look up.  "Just a second,
please."

"Nurse...Nurse, I'm sorry to interrupt whatever it is you're
doing--"

"I'll be right with you," Tamika promised, brow furrowed
as she searched for the patient history she had assured Dr.
Moretti would be run upstairs to him at once.

But before Tamika could find the missing form, a slim,
manicured hand dropped heavily atop the documents she
held, flattening them in her grasp.

"Not good enough."

The three short, soft words lifted Tamika's gaze level.
Inches from her nose was shiny federal badge.

"I am Special Agent Dana Scully, with the Federal Bureau
of Investigation.  I have reason to believe that the man
abandoned here tonight in one of your hallways may be a
colleague of mine who has been missing for several months.
I need you to take me to him immediately.  If you do not,
you will leave me no choice but to place you under arrest
for impeding my investigation.  Do you understand?"

Taking a step back, Tamika looked around the badge to the
woman holding it.  Agent Scully stood petite and proud, her
chin lowered, her lips pressed tight in an impatient little moue.
Temper flashed in her eyes and resolve, the fierce, manic
kind.

Tamika considered calling Security, thought about rallying
her co-workers around her and claiming home field advantage.

<This is =my= hospital, little Ms. Special Agent Bitch.  I know
my rights and I know procedure.  You can wave your credentials
all you like, but you don't have particular jurisdiction here.  You
will see our John Doe if and when his doctors say it's safe for you
to see him, and not a moment before.  Do =you= understand?>

Only she didn't say or do any of that.

Because beyond the badge, past the spirit and command
Tamika recognized when looking into Agent Scully's gaze,
she caught a glimpse of something else.

Fear.  Hope.  Desperation, just barely held in check.

I don't know what your story is, Special Agent Dana Scully,
Tamika mused, her eyes dark and discerning, but I'll bet
that up till now it hasn't been the happily ever after kind.

So rather than putting the other woman in her place, Nurse
Taylor stepped out from behind the Admissions desk and
gestured towards the hallway on her left.

"He's this way," she said, leading the agent down the
corridor.  "We kept him here rather than sending him
upstairs.  We don't have all his lab work back yet, and
with us not knowing who to call as next of kin and it being
typical Saturday-night-busy--"

"Is he all right?" Scully asked, her long winter coat flapping
around her legs as they walked.

Tamika shrugged.  "It's difficult to say for sure.  He's been
drifting in and out of consciousness, so the doctors haven't
had the opportunity to question him in any detail.

"Based on what we do know, however, I'd say the prognosis
is good.  He shows signs of mild hypothermia and shock, and
he seems under-nourished.  Otherwise, everything checks out.
Unless some surprises show up in his blood work, I see no
reason why he shouldn't make a full recovery."

"Thank God," the agent murmured beneath her breath,
her eyelashes dipping in what looked to Tamika like a
combination of weariness and relief.

The nurse smiled, feeling a trifle awkward, not knowing
either this woman or the situation well enough to adequately
comment.

"Well, here we are," she said, drawing to a halt outside one
of the treatment rooms.  "Your John Doe is behind the last
curtain there."

"Thank you," Agent Scully said.

"No problem," Tamika assured her, their earlier confrontation
all but forgotten.  "I hope he's your man."

Agent Scully smiled tightly, then nodded.  "So do I."

Intrigued despite herself, Tamika watched her, watched as
the other woman crossed away from her and towards the far
bed.  She wasn't able to see the bed's occupant, not from her
station near the door, but Agent Scully remained in view.

Tamika saw how the other woman straightened her spine
and squared her shoulders before beginning her short walk
across the linoleum tile.

She noted the way she paused just before reaching the
opening of the curtain and wiped her palms against the
sides of her coat, her hands seeming to tremble.

In profile, she saw the agent's lips part and her eyes widen
before she whispered, "Mulder?  Mulder...is that you?"

And she heard the unseen man reply in a voice that
was wrinkled and worn as week old newsprint.

"I don't...I'm sorry...Who are you?"

* * * * * * * *

Continued in Chapter II

"By the Wind Grieved" (2/13)
by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com

Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1

***************************************************

"I don't...I'm sorry...Who are you?"

The man in the bed looked up through bleary eyes.  He was
exhausted.  And thirsty.  And hungry.  He couldn't remember
the last time he had eaten.  The inside of his mouth tasted dry
and rough, like it was lined with burlap.  He suspected he
might be drugged.  It was hard to think, hard to see.  No
matter how intently he focused, everything appeared wrapped
in gauze.  And white.  All around him was white.  The bed
linens, the curtain cocooning him, even the walls themselves.
Blank.  Sterile.  Cold.

All except her.

The woman who spoke as if she knew him.  With her bright
head of auburn hair, she stood at the foot of his bed, glowing
in the midst of all the chalky nothingness like a flame.  Chilled
despite the blankets covering him, the man wished he could
reach out to her, draw her near and warm himself at her side.

But that was out of the question.

He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stretch out his
hand.

Then the woman moved, took a step or two closer, as if she had
somehow sensed his yearning.  She drew even with his waist,
her coat draped around her, dark and full, concealing her body.
So the man concentrated on her face.  Her expression was gentle,
yet pensive, her brow wrinkled with concern.  She was pretty,
this woman.  Her eyes were blue.

Vivid, summer sky blue.

"I'm Scully," she told him softly, speaking slowly and carefully,
as if the matter were of great import.  "Dana Scully.  Do you
remember me, Mulder?"

He wanted to, wanted to please her, this stranger who looked
at him so kindly.  He wished he could tell her what she so
obviously longed to hear, to smooth the tiny crease between
her worried eyes.  But he so tired.  Far too tired to lie.

"No," he admitted in a whisper, his lashes drooping.

She bit her lip and nodded.

"That's okay," she said.  "You've been through a lot.  Why
don't you get some rest?  We'll talk more tomorrow."

Tomorrow.  She was coming back to see him.  That was a
good thing, he thought.  Heartened by the notion, he closed
his eyes.  "'kay."

She touched him as if to silently say good-bye, took his hand
in hers and gave it a quick, firm squeeze.

He was asleep before she had left the room.

   *****

Walter Skinner found the woman he was looking for curled
over a cup of decaf in the hospital cafeteria.  She was sitting
alone, dressed in narrow black pants, white T-shirt, and a long,
loose, gray v-neck.  With it being well after midnight, the
serving line was closed, but the room's vending machines
shone brightly, wordlessly hawking their wares.  A handful
of other people sat scattered elsewhere around the room.

"Agent Scully."

Her eyes lifted from their contemplation of her coffee.  Skinner
could see her weariness reflected in them from twenty feet away.

"Sir.  Thank you for coming out so late."

He pulled out a chair and sat down across from her.

"How is he?"

She moistened her mouth with her tongue.  "His doctors
haven't gotten all their test results back yet, but based on
their initial findings, he appears to be in amazingly good shape.
He looked a little thin, I thought.  And he shows signs of mild
exposure and shock.  But for the most part...I'm hopeful."

"That's good," Skinner said, his face splitting with a grin.
"That's great.  Excellent news."

"Yes, well...there is one thing."

She was watching her coffee again, studying the path made
by her spoon as she absently swirled it round the cup.

"And what would that one thing be?" he asked, leaning in, his
arms folded atop the table.

Scully didn't look at him at first.  When she spoke she tried
to smile as if the curving of her lips might somehow leaven
what she had to say.

"When I saw him...he didn't seem to recognize me."

Skinner pulled back a touch in surprise, his eyes narrowed.
"Well, maybe..."  He hesitated to even raise the issue, hated
to see this woman's dreams dashed when she had been
disappointed so many times before.  Yet he couldn't help
but wonder, "Scully, are you sure this guy is really him?"

Her head remained bowed.  He was getting very familiar with
the part of her hair.  "We won't have a positive ID, of course,
until we're able to check his fingerprints and DNA against the
information on file.  But based on visual identification alone..."

Her eyes met his.

"...yes, Sir.  I'm sure."

Skinner nodded, eyebrows raised like twin flags of surrender.
Of course she was sure.  She wouldn't have called him otherwise.
And if this man had passed Scully's own personal muster,
chances were good the fingerprints and DNA would check
out as well.

After all, no one knew Fox Mulder as well as his partner.

"So what do you think is going on?" Skinner asked.  "Was he
just tired or could it be maybe that his mind has been somehow
...impaired?"

Lips pressed thin, she shook her head and, tapping her spoon
against the rim of the cup, set it on the table.  "I don't know.
He seemed kind of out of it when I spoke to him.  The nurse
said he had been conscious only intermittently since they'd
found him.  It's possible he just needs time...time to adjust."

Skinner nodded, but couldn't help but hear his own doubts and
fears echoed in Scully's husky voice.  "Where is he now?"

"They're moving him to his own room.  The two agents
you sent were standing watch when I left.  I'm going to head
back up there, I...um...I just needed a minute."

His mouth lifting in a lop-sided smile, Skinner laid his large
hand on top of Scully's far smaller one, hoping the gesture
lent her some small measure of comfort.  A minute.  Christ.
A year probably wouldn't be sufficient time for this woman to
process all she had been through in the past six months.  He
didn't know how she did it sometimes, how she managed to
hold together not only the X-Files, but her life.  And that of
her partner.

She had done it on her own; Skinner had no illusions about
that.  No matter how often he had attempted to help, to offer
emotional support, be a friend, he was politely, yet firmly
turned away.  Scully was more than willing to accept from him
professional assistance--greater access to the Bureau's vast
resources, introductions to his own network of contacts--but
she drew the line at anything personal.  He suspected it had
been the same for others who had tried to get close.

The toll such isolation had demanded had been high.  Looking
at her now, drinking from her largely untouched cup of coffee,
he could see the cost staring back at him from across the table.
While her middle was swollen large with child, Scully's face
was pale and pinched, circles pooled beneath her eyes, hollows
throwing her cheekbones into even greater relief.

He knew the kinds of hours she had been putting in.  Alone,
because she had resisted any and all attempts to partner
her with someone else.  She had worked the cases she had
been assigned, then had routinely put in what amounted
to another day's labor searching for Mulder.  All of this
accomplished while another life matured inside her.

God.  He was exhausted just thinking about it.

"Come on, Scully," Skinner said, pushing to his feet.  "Let's
check in on Mulder one last time, then I'll take you home."

Her eyebrow arched.  "I'm not going home, Sir."

His lips thinned in exasperation.  "Scully, you told me yourself
Mulder was pretty much out of it.  I'm sure he'll sleep through
till morning.  You can be back here before he wakes up."

She didn't even blink.  "I'm not going home."

He didn't want to argue with her, didn't want her to expend
the energy necessary to go head to head with him.  Bracing
his hands against the tabletop, he leaned down and spoke
quietly, his voice as gentle as he could make it.  "Dana, he's
going to be okay.  He's resting in a room protected by two
armed guards.  He's safe.  He's home."

Her eyes began to glisten suspiciously.  "Sir,...knowing
what you know...about Mulder and me...do you really believe
I could leave him on his own again?"

Unable to hold her liquid gaze, Skinner sighed and looked
away, his own guilt over Mulder's disappearance destroying
both his ability and desire to sway her.  "No.  No, I guess not."

She nodded, her expression showing no pleasure in his
acquiescence, and taking one last sip, set aside what remained
of her decaf.

Standing straight again, he smoothed a hand over his bald
head and glanced towards the door.  "If you're finished with
your coffee, what do you say you and I take a walk?"

Her brows lifted in surprise.  "Where to?"

"Upstairs," he said, checking his watch.  1:03.  It was going
to be a long night.  "I'd like to get a look at our supposed
prodigal son myself."

"Okay," she said, levering herself awkwardly out of her
chair.  Skinner hesitated just an instant before reaching out
his hand to help her.  His hesitation, however, was enough
to make the move unnecessary.  She rose, seemingly belly
first, without his assistance.  Gathering up her cup and spoon,
she crossed to the trash bin, tossed them inside and returned
to him.

"He's in room 417," she said, tucking a strand of hair
behind her ear.

Skinner nodded and fell into step beside her, just barely
resisting the impulse to take her arm, knowing the courtly
gesture would be unwelcome.  There were some things
Dana Scully just needed to do on her own.

* * * * * * * *

Continued in Chapter III
 

"By the Wind Grieved" (3/13 )
by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com

Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1

***************************************************

It wasn't the light filtering in through the room's blinds that
awakened Scully.

It was the sensation of someone else's eyes watching her.

Pushing her tangled hair out of her lashes, she struggled to sit
upright.  Not an easy task given her present girth.  She had
fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning, slumped to the
side in one the room's molded plastic armchairs, a spare pillow
cushioning her head, her coat serving as a makeshift blanket.
Despite her brave words to Skinner, she ached all the way up
her spine, the pain most intense at her neck, which felt as if
somehow during the night the muscles there had been tied in
a series of macrame knots.  Blinking away sleep, she directed
her gaze towards the head of the room's single bed.  The man
she believed was Mulder sat there, propped against a mound
of pillows, staring back at her.

"You're awake," she croaked as she grabbed at the coat
wadded in her lap, trying to keep it from slithering away and
onto the floor.

He nodded, his eyes shadowed and solemn.

Clearing her throat, she tried again.  "How do you feel?"

At first, he said nothing.  Then...

"Better," he whispered hoarsely.

Better than what, Scully wondered, looking at him with a
mixture of wonder and dismay.  True, his eyes seemed clearer
than they had the night before and a touch of color had returned
to his complexion.  But his sharp cheekbones slashed his face,
slicing through its usual boyish softness like razors; his hair
was long and unkempt, his jaw and upper lip covered by beard.

"He looks like Rip Van Winkle," Skinner had murmured when
he had first laid eyes on him not all that many hours before.

Yet, if this man was who she thought he was, he had been
removed from his world not for years, but months.

Only months.

Not all that much has changed, has it, Mulder? Scully longed
to ask.  We're still who we were, aren't we?

"I spoke to your doctors while you were resting," she said
instead.  "You seem to be responding well to treatment.
They think you'll probably be up and around in no time."

He just looked at her, a wariness she wasn't used to seeing
from him, hardening his features.

"What do you remember?" she queried softly, gently,
determined to win his trust.

Again, he said nothing, yet his eyes never relinquished
their hold on hers.

"Do you know your name?" she asked.

He frowned and seemingly thought about it for a moment.
"You said...last night," he rasped at last.  "Miller...?"

"Mulder," she said quietly.

"Is that...my name?" he asked, his voice louder than hers,
harsh, demanding.

"Yes," she replied.  "Yes, it is.  Fox Mulder."

"Fox Mulder," he echoed as if trying on the moniker for size.

"Is it familiar to you?" she asked after a time.

He held her gaze for a second longer before lowering his
head and shaking it with remorse.  "No."

"It's okay--" she began soothingly.

"No.  No, it's not!" he suddenly growled, his eyes once more
boring into hers.  "I don't know who I am."

The outpouring of words must have tickled something in
his obviously parched throat.  He began to cough then,
almost immediately, gag.  Wincing at the pained sound,
Scully hoisted herself out of her seat as quickly as she was
able and crossed to the bedside table to pour him a glass of
water.  Behind her, her coat puddled unnoticed on the floor.

"Easy, easy now," she murmured, handing him the styrofoam
cup.  "Just take it easy."

His eyes closed against their tearing, the man in the bed
sat hunched over the glass, seemingly oblivious to her,
taking small, careful sips.  The water appeared to be doing
its job.  Slowly, he quieted.

"You'll remember," Scully said as she watched him, just
barely resisting the urge to comfort him with her touch.
"You will.  You just need to give yourself time."

"How do you know?" he ground out, lifting his head.

But before Scully could answer, all her would-be assurances
wilted like blossoms under a dessert sun.

His expression...

Why was he looking at her like that?

"Who are you?" he whispered, shrinking against the bed
clothes, his eyes wide with a kind of dread.

"What--?" she began, confused by his actions.  "I told you.
My name is Dana Scully."

"No...not what I mean," he mumbled, shaking his head, his
hands all but crushing the now empty cup.

"What do you mean, then?" she asked, wondering at his
sudden mood swings.  Such shifts were to be expected,
she supposed, given all he had no doubt been through.
But that didn't make dealing with them any easier.  "I don't
understand.  What's wrong?"

"How do you know me?" he asked her, his gaze now
averted, focused instead on his lap.  "Who are we...?"

"We're friends," she said, stepping closer.  "We work
together."

"Friends," he echoed softly, as if he didn't quite believe her.

"Yes."

"And that's it....friends?"

"Well, no.  I mean...we're partners," she said, struggling to
find a way to distill all Mulder and she had been through
over the years into a simple line or two.

"Partners?" he parroted weakly, his eyes lifting to hers before
dropping to her middle.  Swallowing hard, he paled and stared
at the rounded expanse sheltering their unborn child.  Scully's
gaze followed his.

Oh, she realized with dismay.  I see.  I get it.

"Yes.  We're partners, Mulder," she said, her voice determinedly
calm and low, her hand resting now atop his shoulder.  "We've
worked together for years.  You're my dear, dear friend."

He gazed up at her for a breath or two, intent, his posture still
and taut.  "So, then this...?"

Scully took a deep breath, hesitating just an instant before
assuring him, "We're =friends=."

Their eyes held for a moment or two more before the man
she hoped was her partner dropped his head into his hands
and expelled a long, shaky breath.  "Oh, thank God....Thank
God."

Trying hard not to feel hurt by his fervent relief, Scully
didn't notice at first the man framed in the room's doorway.

"Agent Scully, may I have a word with you?"

Assistant Director Skinner.  Dressed in his tailored nine-to-
five garb, the suit and trench coat a marked contrast to the
previous evening's sweatshirt and jeans.

Unable to read her superior's shuttered expression, she
gently patted the bedridden man's shoulder in farewell and
joined Skinner in the hallway.  He immediately took her
by the arm and, stepping past the room's two gun-toting
agents, guided her away.

"You want to tell me just what the hell that was all about?"
Skinner muttered, practically dragging her down the corridor
in his rush to put space between them and the mystery man.

"What are you talking about?" she fired back, pulling herself
free from his grasp.

"What do you mean telling him that child isn't his?" he
demanded, bending down to stage whisper the words into
her face.  "Why would you do such a thing?"

"I fail to see how that's any concern of yours, Sir," she
retorted, her nagging conscience lending a measure of
belligerence to her tone.

"Normally, I'd agree with you, Scully," he said.  "What my
agents do in their off-hours is their own business.

"However, in this particular instance, things are different.
With you and Mulder it all gets mixed up--personal,
professional --maybe you can see where one ends and
the other begins, but I sure as hell can't."

"Either way--"

"Scully, if that is Mulder in there, he deserves the truth,"
Skinner said swiftly, his tone gentling just a touch.
"After all he's been through...anything less would be
unfair.  Especially from you.  He's lost months of his life.
According to what you've told me, his memory--"

"Sir, how long were you standing there just now?" she
queried softly.

"Long enough," he replied.

"Long enough to see the look of horror on his face when he
thought perhaps this child might be his?" she asked, trying
hard to ignore the tears she could feel pricking at the
backs of her eyes.

Skinner grimaced in sympathy.  "Scully, I'm sure--"

"I know he didn't do it to hurt me," she said wearily, looking
away as she pushed her fingers through her still tousled hair.
"In fact, I'm sure he didn't give his reaction any conscious
thought at all."

Skinner reached out and touched her gently on the arm.
Scully wished he hadn't.  It was so much harder to hold it
all together when someone made an effort to be nice to
her.

"That man--whoever he is--is frightened and terribly
confused.  He's ill.  He doesn't know who he is or where
he's been.  And he certainly doesn't know how the hell this
baby or I fit into the picture."

"That's still no reason to lie to him," Skinner said gruffly.

"I didn't lie to him," Scully insisted, looking up at him
once more.

"Maybe not outright," Skinner admitted begrudgingly.  "But
there is a little thing known as 'the sin of omission'."

"Don't you think I wanted to tell him, Sir?" she asked,
struggling to keep her voice from cracking.  "To share this
with him.  Don't you think I would have told him everything
if I could?"

Seemingly unable to hold her gaze, Skinner studied instead
the tile at his feet.  "Scully--"

"We don't even know for certain that man in there is him," she
continued, striving for a reasonable tone.  "My gut tells me
that it is.  And yet, I could be wrong.  What point is there in
discussing this at all until we know for sure?"

Lips pressed thin, Skinner glanced up at her and nodded.

"And besides--even if that is Mulder in that bed.  He's not
ready for it, Sir," she said with a sad, sure smile.  "Believe
me.  That man in there is barely able to consider his own
identity, let alone the responsibilities that identity may
have waiting for him."

"So what do you want to do?" he asked.

Scully shrugged, one brow lifting in tandem with her shoulders.
"First, confirm who he is.  Then, we help him heal."

"And if this guy is indeed Mulder, when during that process do
you tell him he's a father?"

"When he's ready."

Skinner chuckled mirthlessly.  "How do you plan on knowing
when that is?"

"I'll know."

He shook his head, seemingly bemused.  "You sound awfully
sure of yourself, Scully."

"Do I?" she queried with rueful surprise, allowing herself the
luxury of leaning against the hallway wall for support.  "Well,
that's good to know."

"How's that?"

"Because, Sir," she said wryly, "I have never been less sure
of myself in my entire life.

And yet, the last thing that man in there needs is for me
to show doubt, she thought to herself.  About him.  About me.
About any of it.  I need to be strong.  For all of us.

Strong, she repeated silently.  I've got to be strong.  For just
a little while longer at least.

* * * * * * * *

Continued in Chapter IV

"By the Wind Grieved" (4/13)
by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com

Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1

***************************************************

The results came back from the lab in a matter of days, the
process driven by the Assistant Director himself.  The
fingerprint analysis and DNA findings bore out Dana Scully's
initial ID.  The man who had been abandoned in Washington
General's corridor was indeed none other than the previously
missing Fox Mulder.

One mystery solved.

Yet so many others remained.

Namely--at least, in the mind of a certain recently returned
FBI agent--where the hell had he come from and where did
he go from here?

Some of the answers weren't all that long in coming.

Without consciously meaning to, Mulder soon fell into a kind
of routine with the woman he had come to accept as his partner.
She visited him in the hospital everyday, sometimes more than
once.  Often, she would stop by in the morning on her way to
work and then return in the early evening before she headed
back home again.  On the weekends, her presence was even
more pronounced.  She camped out in his room from breakfast
until well after his dinner tray had been cleared.

In the beginning, when he did little more than sleep the hours
away, it seemed neither of them knew quite what to say to
each other.  Which wasn't exactly surprising, Mulder would
later acknowledge to himself.  After all, he had no history
to draw upon with which to make conversation and Scully
appeared too concerned with his well-being to do much
more than sit beside his bed and murmur reassurances.

For the first few days, he allowed it, allowed her to treat him
like hand-blown glass.  Precious, yet delicate, and far too
easily broken.

Soon, however, as his energy increased and a vague sense of
himself began to form, it galled him that this tiny pregnant
woman believed it her duty to protect him.  He started to
get angry.  At himself, at the great gaping void that was his
past.  And at her, for knowing him better than he did himself.

"Why are you the only one who visits me?" he asked a week
into in his convalescence, his query voiced with a petulance
he regretted but could not contain.  "You and that bald guy."

"Assistant Director Skinner," she clarified, seemingly set on
ignoring his fit of pique.  "He's our boss, the man we report
to.  As for anyone else dropping by...we've um...well, we
haven't exactly publicized your return."

Fears about his blasted safety again, he guessed.  He knew
he was being guarded, not only by this Scully woman
but by the two armed behemoths patrolling outside his
doorway.  They had even installed a security system on
his windows.  As if anyone was going scale four floors
just to get to him.

"But my family...," he began, dismissing such a ridiculous
idea.  "You've at least told them, right?"

At that, Scully looked away, and moistened her mouth
with her tongue.  "Mulder...I'm sorry," she said to a
point somewhere near his left hip.  "But I'm afraid there
really isn't anyone to tell."

"No one?" he asked, the revelation coming as a bit of a
shock.  He realized he was no longer a child, but surely
he wasn't of so advanced an age that he had outlived the
rest of his immediate circle.  "What--I've got no mother
or father?  What about a brother or sister?"

"Your father passed away several years ago; your mom,
earlier this year.  You had a sister...but she died when you
were both in your teens."

Hearing the unfortunate news, he fell silent for a time,
chewing on his lower lip and staring sightlessly at the wall
opposite his bed.

"Do I have a wife?" he finally queried.

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

She hesitated for an instant before saying softly, "No.
You don't."

He couldn't decide which was worse, the wave of loneliness
that, at that moment, threatened to drown him or the pity he
was certain would be waiting for him when he again met his
partner's gaze.  Closing his eyes against both, he drew up his
knees and, balancing his elbows atop them, dropped his head
into his hands.  "Shit."

"Mulder?"

"How long did you say I was missing for?" he asked, scrubbing
his now smooth cheeks with his palms.  A few days before, he
had let them shave him and cut his hair.  The hospital barber
had used his FBI badge as a guide.  "How many months?"

"Six.  You disappeared last May."

Chuckling without a trace of humor, he shot Scully a
sideways glance, his temple resting wearily against his
knee, his arms now looped around his calves.  "Tell me
I at least have a dog who noticed I was gone."

With what looked like regret, she shook her head.  "No dog.
Fish."

"Fish," he said with disdain, his eyebrows arching towards
his hairline.

"I've been taking care of them," she assured him.  "You've
...or rather =I= have lost a couple, though.  We'll need to
take you shopping for more."

"Fish," he said again, the word mumbled, his face once
more pressed against his knees.  "Who the hell keeps fish?
They're not pets, they're accessories.  Like lamps or ashtrays.
What good are they?"

"Given our lifestyle, I'm sure you--"

"'Our lifestyle'?" he echoed, sitting back and twisting to
face her more fully.  "See...that's another thing I don't get."

"What?" she asked, all calm and composed in her tailored
wine-colored pant suit.  It made him crazy how cool she was,
how perpetually in control.  But then, why wouldn't she be?
he reasoned.  After all, he was the one in the spotlight.  The
one everyone was watching, the odd one who had vanished
only to reappear like some sequined magician's assistant.
It wasn't fair.  She was supposed to be his friend and yet it
seemed whenever they were together, all she did was ask him
questions, grilling him, like he had done something wrong...

How do you feel, Mulder?

Do you remember me, Mulder?

Do you even know your fucking name, you stupid, stupid
man?

Screw that.

Let's see how Agent Scully likes being on the receiving
end for a change.

"So, what does your husband think about all this?"

"M-my husband?"  she sputtered.

Hmm.  Judging by the look on her face, that little salvo
caught her by surprise.

Good.

Mulder shrugged.  "Husband, boyfriend...whatever.  What
does he think about you hanging out here all the time?  Is he
the jealous type?"

Scully cleared her throat and sat up a bit straighter in her chair.
"What makes you think I'm married?"

He made a show of eyeing her up and down.  "Well, you may
not be wearing a ring," he conceded after a beat or two, his
gaze slipping from her now flushed face to her prominently
expanded middle.  "But you certainly didn't get like that all
on your own."

"Mulder, I-I don't think...this is neither the time nor the place..."

No question about it.  He had struck a nerve.  The auburn-
haired agent was good and flustered.  And angry.  If looks
could kill, he'd be dead ten times over.

Wow, he thought.

This was fun.

"I mean...what's a guy to think?" he goaded, warming now
to the game.  "You sit here day after day, hour after hour,
presumably to keep me company.  You tell me we're only
friends, yet =clearly= there is someone with whom you've
been 'friendlier' in recent months.  So, I've gotta wonder--
what's going on here--?"

Moving clumsily, Scully pushed slowly to her feet.  "Mulder,
enough--"

Only he wouldn't stop.  Couldn't.  All the frustration, all the
anger he held towards his predicament and the nameless,
faceless faction who were responsible for it finally had an
outlet.  A target.

And, what do you know--it was even painted red.

"Come on, Scully.  Tell me the truth," he demanded with
a sneer, leaning towards her now from his place amongst
the bedclothes, his manner as aggressive as he could manage
given his weakened state.  "Am I the other man?"

Lips pressed tight, she shook her head.  "I'm not going to
even--."  Then, deciding to say no more, she stopped and
turned away, her intention clearly to leave the field of
play.

Yet, Mulder couldn't help but get in a final parting shot.

"Am I the other man, Scully?" he called after her, his voice
insinuating and snide.  "Or is he?"

Scully had gotten all the way to the door, her heels tip-tapping
smartly against the linoleum tile.  The hour was late--at least,
for hospital time--and in deference to their privacy, Skinner's
bodyguards had allowed her to close the door.  Her hand circled
now around the knob.  But rather than turning it and continuing
her march to the hall beyond, she paused there, her head slightly
bowed.

"Y-you know, Mulder...you say you wonder if anyone noticed
you were gone."

She was sputtering again, speaking with the same strangled
timbre which earlier had signaled her anger.  Mulder sat
there in his bed, paralyzed with an exhilarating mixture of
anticipation and fear.  Was she was going to return to the
game, he wondered, would she whirl around and let him
have it, eyes flashing, both barrels blazing?

Part of him welcomed the idea, wanted to see this particular
woman with a full head of steam, her usual composure melted
away by the heat.

Only, there wasn't a bit of him who yearned for what he got
instead.

When Dana Scully faced him once more, her posture straight,
her stance strong.

Tears shining in her stormy eyes.

"I did," she told him.  "I noticed.  I missed you every minute
of every day for the last six months."

He didn't know what to say to that.  All the words that had
been pushing and shoving inside his mouth in their rush to
be spoken had seemingly already been voiced.

"Seven years we've been together, Mulder.  For seven years,
you've been my best friend," she continued quietly.  "I've
worked beside you, fought for you and with you, covering
your back the same way you covered mine.  We were a team.

"Then one day you went into the field without me.  You left
me behind, and took Skinner in my place.  Only...only he
came back alone.  He told me...he told me he had lost you.

"Lost you," she repeated in a whisper, her shoulders lifting
and falling in a forlorn little shrug.  "Like a mitten or a shoe.
I-I tried to find you.  For months, I tried.  But there weren't
really any clues for me to follow and even with what I did
know, I had no idea where to begin looking."

Shamed, Mulder listened to her, regret finally urging one
soft word past his lips.  "Scully..."

"So, I'm sorry if you feel trapped in this bed," she said,
ignoring his entreaty, an errant tear escaping from between
her lashes.  "I'm sorry you're frustrated and confused and
undoubtedly frightened by all that's been going on.

"But I'm not sorry we've got you here safe and secure.
You're back, Mulder.  Finally.  That's what's important
to me.  And if having that means I've got to put up with a
few temper tantrums along the way...well, if you could
remember anything about us, you'd know I've been through
a hell of a lot worse."

Wiping her cheek dry with a single, impatient swipe of her
fingertips, she turned back towards the door.

Only, he couldn't let her go.  Not now.  Not yet.

"Scully," he tried again, this time a little louder than before.
"Wait."

"What?" she asked with a sigh, both hands wrapped around
the knob this time, her face averted from his view.

At a loss for what to say, but suddenly desperate to keep
her there, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"When are you due?"

She hesitated a moment, then looked over her shoulder at
him.  "January fourteenth."

"A Capricorn," he said.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he assured her, although he couldn't fathom why he
knew such a thing.  "Just like Jesus."

She stood there for a beat or two longer, still only partially
turned towards him, her hair hiding much of her expression.
"Good night, Mulder," she said at last, twisting her wrist
and cracking open the door.

"Scully?" he called again, stopping her before she could make
her exit.

"What?" she asked, now silhouetted in profile by the hallway
light's glare.

"Whoever he is, he's a lucky guy."

The corners of her lips quirked.  "Yes, he is," she agreed.

She then pulled the door shut behind her, murmuring, "Luckier
than he knows."

* * * * * * * *

Continued in Chapter V

"By the Wind Grieved" (5/13)
by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com

Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1

***************************************************

Scully hated lying to him.

It had been bad enough at the beginning, when he had been
frail and whiskered and confused, so unlike the Mulder she
had known.  But as time passed and his strength returned,
she found her deception increasingly difficult to maintain.

The Fox Mulder she knew was back.  Or so it seemed.  Every
day, she watched his personality develop, take shape before
her eyes, its form familiar and sorely missed.

She discovered, to her delight, that his intelligence remained
intact, that his sense of humor was as droll as ever.  He looked
now just as he always had, his hair trimmed, his face shaven.
He had even regained the weight he had lost, the junk food
he had charmed her into smuggling past the nursing staff
no doubt assisting in the effort.

She spent every spare hour sitting by his bedside, talking
to him, answering questions and calming his fears.  Together
they played board games and cards, watched television, and
discussed the books and magazines she brought him.  Stories
were told; history was shared.  Bit by bit, Scully relearned
him, while at the same time, tutoring Mulder on her.

She had to.

Because while Mulder was now able to hold discourse on
any number of subjects--from the Chaos Theory to Sandy
Koufax's curve ball--he still had no knowledge whatsoever
of his own life or any of the other lives that had touched it.

Which was ultimately why, despite her grave misgivings,
she yet refrained from telling him her child was his.

This Mulder had no memory of their years together, she
reasoned when she lie awake at night, twisting restlessly
beneath the covers.  He didn't know of their joint sacrifices
and devotion, their triumphs and their trust.  He couldn't
even remember loving her.

So how could she burden him with the responsibilities of
that love?

No.

She would wait.

Wait until he was better, until he was completely restored.

And with any luck, that day wouldn't be all that long coming,
she assured herself one December Sunday morning as she
greeted the guards sipping coffee outside Mulder's hospital
room.

She had gotten the official word from his doctors.  The latest
round of test results were in.  Aside from his highly selective
case of amnesia, her partner had a clean bill of health.  The
psychologist assigned to the case recommended he continue
with regular therapy sessions.

Otherwise, his physicians saw no reason why he couldn't be
released.

Mulder didn't know it yet, but she had come to take him home.

"Hey, Scully--am I into college football?"

"I don't know," she said, entering the room and closing the
door behind her.  "Are you?"

Mulder sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, dressed in
a pair of black sweatpants, a heather gray henley, and floppy
white socks.  He had his glasses on and was surrounded by
sections of the Washington Post.

"That's just it.  I don't know," he said, gesturing to the
sports page.  "I'm reading the paper and there's all this talk
about the bowl games coming up--national championships
and all that--and it means nothing to me.  You said that...
before...I liked sports.  So shouldn't this...shouldn't I care
who wins and who loses?  I mean...shouldn't this interest
me in some way?"

She considered as she eased her coat from her shoulders.
"Perhaps.  But, honestly, Mulder, while it's true you
followed sports, I don't recall you rooting for any particular
college team."

He frowned.  "So, I =didn't= like football?"

She shook her head.  "I didn't say that.  I just remember
you being more into pro ball.  Like the Redskins, for
example."

This seemed to perk him up.  "I liked the Redskins?"

"Well, they =are= the home team," she said with a smile.
"But, yes, to answer your question, you were a fan.  You
even invited me to a game once."

"I did?" he said, seemingly pleased at the revelation, his small
smile mirroring her own.  "What happened?  Did we go?"

Her smile fading slightly, Scully shook her head again.
"No, we didn't.  We couldn't.  The case we were working
on got in the way."

"Too bad," he murmured with what sounded like real
regret, his eyes drawn once more to the newsprint circling
him.

"Mulder, what's this all about?" she asked, crossing
towards the bed, her coat folded over her arm.  "What
does it matter what team or even what sport you liked
before?  You're not bound by your past, you know, any
more than anyone else is."

"You're right," he said, gathering up the newspaper sections
and stacking them in a ragged pile.  "I have absolutely no ties
to my past.  That's the problem."

"I didn't mean it like that--"

"Don't you get it, Scully?" he asked, tossing the paper to
the foot of the bed and swinging his legs around to sit
facing her.  "I've been meeting with my shrink every day
for the past two weeks.  We've tried talking it out, drawing
it out, hypnosis--you name it.  And I still can't remember a
damned thing prior to waking up in this hospital.  I don't
know anything about myself.  Nothing except what you've
told me.  I can't tell you my favorite food, what movie I saw
last.  I can remember how the game of football is played
but I haven't a clue whether I cheer for Florida or Florida
State.  You tell me--how is that possible?"

"I don't know.  I don't know what's causing this.  But I do
know you can't rush the process," she said, reaching out
her hand and laying it lightly on his shoulder.  "You've got
to give yourself time--"

"I'm sick to death of time," he muttered, looking up at her
from the edge of the mattress, his gaze hectic.  "I have a
seemingly endless supply of it, but nothing to do with it.
Do you know what I do when you're not here, how I spend
all my precious time?  I read.  I watch TV.  I wait for some...
something.  A moment, an instant.  Some flicker of a memory.
But it never comes, Scully.  It never does.  So I look at the
paper some more, I watch the news, I talk to the guys at the
door.  I fill my days with other people's lives, not my own."

"Mulder...," she murmured, lifting her hand to skim it
gently through the hair at his temple.  The strands sifted
between her fingers, silky and cool.  "I know it's hard, but
it's not going to be like this forever.  You just need to be
patient."

With her touch, he bowed his head and sighed.  "Shit.  Oh,
shit.  Scully, I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry.  I swore to myself
I wasn't going to do this again."

"Do what again?" she asked, repeating the caress.

He lifted his gaze to hers, his lips twisting with what appeared
to be chagrin.  "Be a selfish, ungrateful son of a bitch.  Like I
was before."

She draped her coat over the foot board and sat down beside
him.  "Before what?" she asked.

Removing his glasses, he closed his eyes once more and
rubbed the lids with the heels of his hands.  "Like that night...
when I was such a bastard.  I told myself I wasn't going to
let that happen a second time."

"And you haven't," she said with shrug.  "Nothing happened
here but a little venting, Mulder.  That's all.  Given all you've
been through, I'd say you're entitled."

He turned his head and peered at her through his lashes,
his eyes now bleary and bloodshot from their massage.
"I don't need to take it out on you, though."

"Don't worry about it," she said, bumping companionably
against his shoulder with her own.  "I'm tougher than I look.
Besides, that's what friends are for.  To be a sounding board.
You'd do the same for me."

He looked at her for a breath or two, studying her face, his
expression thoughtful.  Then, setting his glasses aside, he
reached over and captured her hand in his.  Focusing on
their clasped palms, he said quietly, "I would, you know.
I would do that or anything else you asked.  I owe you,
Scully.  I owe you a lot.  Don't think I don't realize how
much."

All but hypnotized by his nearness, by Mulder's soft voice
and the slow sweep of his thumb across her knuckles, she
spoke in a hush, as if fearful anything louder might shatter
the fragile mood.  "Mulder, you don't owe me anything.  I
don't expect some sort of 'payment' from you.  I'm here
because I want to be here.  Because I don't know where
else I would be but with you."

Her confession seemed to surprise him, and he hesitated
an instant before asking shyly, "So does that mean you're
going to continue coming to see me, even though the
possibility exists I'm going to act like a jerk?"

"Your being a jerk has nothing to do with it," she said,
taking the opportunity to transition their conversation, to
broach the main reason for her being there, "but I'm afraid
I won't be coming to the hospital anymore."

Mulder's look of panic made her instantly rue her wording.
"What...why not?"

Giving his hand what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze,
she said, "Because you won't be here."

He shook his head, clearly confused.  "Why?  Where will I
be?"

"Home," she said simply.

"Home?" he echoed with a frown.

"Yes," she said, taking hold of his other hand.  "Your home,
Mulder.  Today's the day.  I've spoken with your doctors.
They see no reason to keep you here.  The work that still
needs to be done can be done on an outpatient basis.  As far
as they're concerned, you're free to go."

He blinked at her.

"I talked to Skinner.  I know this probably wouldn't be your
first choice, but he wants to keep the guards assigned to
you," she went on, "at least initially.  While we're getting
you checked out of here, I'll have them do one last sweep
of your apartment.  We've been over it before, but you never
know.  I think it's better to be safe."

Gnawing on his lower lip, he nodded, his gaze dropping away.

Puzzled by his continued silence, Scully leaned in closer, her
head cocked in question.  "Mulder?"

"Wow," he said breathlessly, his eyes yet evading hers.

"Aren't you happy?" she asked, sitting back and releasing his
hands.  "I mean...I thought you'd be excited about this, about
the opportunity to start living your life again."

"What life?" he queried darkly.  "The life I can't remember?"

"You will," she assured him, tamping down all her own
doubts and fears in the face of his.  "You've got to believe
that."

He sighed and looked at her at last.  "Scully, I can't even
remember where I live."

Smiling, she once more covered his hand with hers.  "Lucky
for you, I can."  Reaching into her coat pocket, she grabbed
hold of the key chain Mulder had once given her, and
dangled the shiny ring between them.

"And if you're nice to me, I'll even lend you my key."

   *****

Mulder didn't know what he expected when he entered his
apartment for the first time.  A part of him half suspected
some crazed villain might be waiting there, his still unnamed
kidnapper ready to greet them with a gun.  Another hoped
perhaps the space might spark something, a familiar smell
or sight at long last urging some deeply buried memory to
the surface.

He was unprepared, however, for what did occur.

Nothing.  No images of the past floated to mind, no
snippets of conversations long forgotten or moments
frozen awaited retrieval.

This place was to him like any other.

Only colder and dustier than most, its rooms smelling
of stale air and neglect.

"We need to bump up the thermostat," his partner said
from somewhere behind him.  "I'd turned it down to try
and conserve energy."

He heard the door close and turned to face her.  Scully
looked back at him, dressed in her weekend get-up of
stretch pants and sweater.  While she met his gaze directly,
Mulder saw in her eyes a kind of wariness.  This was
uncharted territory for them both and, despite her brave
front, he could tell Scully was as nervous about it as he.
Oddly enough, he found comfort in that.  She didn't know
what would happen now.  Neither did he.

"So this is the place, huh?" he said for want of anything
better.

"This is it," she confirmed.

"If I haven't mentioned it before, thank you for keeping it
for me," he said, setting down the small bag he had brought
with him from the hospital.  "I'll pay you back whatever
I owe you."

"I know," she said, crossing away from him to adjust the
thermostat.  "I'm not worried about the money."

"I am," he admitted, sliding his arms free from his leather
jacket and hanging it on an odd-looking coat rack just
inside the door.  "I don't even want to think about my
hospital bills."

"I wouldn't worry about that either," she said as she
moved to the living room windows and drew open the
blinds.  Outside, the gray winter sky hung overhead with
a gloom that matched Mulder's own.  He wondered if he
could make it any cheerier inside by flipping on a light.
It was worth a try.  "You'd be surprised what the FBI's health
insurance will cover.  Besides, you were working on a case
when you went missing, all the proper paperwork filed and
everything.  As the investigation into your disappearance
remained open all these months, you've continued to draw
a salary.  The paychecks should be piling up."

"Great," he murmured absently as he wandered in her direction,
taking in his surroundings.  "Maybe I can afford to buy some
new furniture then."

Standing at his desk, Scully looked appalled at the notion.
"Why would you want to buy new furniture?"

He glanced again at the shelves, the prints, the chairs and
tables--all functional, yet far from fashionable.  "Why
wouldn't I?" he asked.  "I mean...look at this place.  It's not
exactly the lap of luxury."

She shrugged.  "I don't see anything wrong with it."

"You don't see anything wrong with it?" he echoed.  "Scully,
open your eyes--it's a pit."

"Mulder, it hasn't had anyone living in it for six months,"
she said reasonably, although the urgency with which she
argued her point suggested she wasn't entirely disinterested.
"The place is bound to look a little rough around the edges."

"Maybe," he conceded, his lips pursed in thought.  "I don't
know, though.  If nothing else, this couch has got to go."

To his surprise, Scully stepped between him and the sofa,
almost as if she thought to protect it from him.  "You can't
get rid of this couch."

"Why not?" he asked, smiling, amused by her vehemence.
"It's all beat up.  Look at it--it's scratched and scuffed.  It's
even got a little tear here along the seam."

"Mulder, you love this couch," she said, her arms folded
firmly against her chest.  "When I first met you, you slept
on it practically every night."

He looked down into her upturned face.  "Why did I do
that?"

Thinking about it for a moment, she shook her head.
"I don't know.  Probably because you kept falling asleep
while you were in the middle of things.  You've always
driven yourself pretty hard, but it was especially true back
then.  We had a lot going on.  I don't think you cared where
you laid your head."

Mulling over that particular insight, he crossed back towards
the entry hall, thinking he would check out the kitchen next.
"What about you, Scully?  You seem pretty driven, and yet
I'll bet your place is more Martha Stewart than this."

"Oh, I don't know about Martha Stewart," she said, trailing
after him.  "I'll admit, there was a time in my life when things
like whether the curtains matched the rug were important to
me.  But... I don't really feel that way anymore."

"You don't?" he queried, looking back at her, surprised
yet pleased she was revealing something personal.  Their
conversations tended to revolve around him.  It was a treat
to hear her talk about herself instead.  "That seems odd.
Especially with the baby coming.  Don't most women like
to nest?"

His mentioning the child appeared to make her uncomfortable.
Frowning, she unbuttoned her coat, then removed it, draping
it over a nearby chair, all the while avoiding his eyes.  "It's
funny you should say that.  My mom has been bugging me....
I haven't even gotten a nursery together yet.  No crib, no
nothing."

"Why?" he asked, standing across the dining room table from
her.

She shrugged, seemingly still self-conscious.  "I don't know.
I was focused on other things, I guess.  I kept thinking I had
time.  You know?  That I'd get to it sooner or later."

"Tick-tick, Scully," he said with a smile.  "You're getting
close now.  Better put Pampers on your Christmas list."

He had expected a quick retort, a chuckle, or a perhaps only
a smile.  Instead, Scully said nothing at first.  Rather, she
stared at him, stared hard, a kind of wonder in her gaze.
He had no idea what he had done to prompt such a reaction.
Yet, he would have given anything to know its cause.

He would have given anything to have her look at him that
way again sometime.

"I already got my Christmas gift, Mulder," she said at last,
circling around the table to stand less than an arm's length
away.  "It just came a month early.  That's all."

She was looking at him with such feeling, such emotion,
he couldn't speak.  His throat felt suddenly thick, almost
as if it were swollen with strep.  He swallowed hard against
it, but the words still wouldn't come.  Scully didn't seem to
notice.  She too was silent now, her eyes bright amidst the
shadows, her lips curved in a tremulous smile.

Something was happening between them here, he thought,
something important.  He could sense it, but couldn't name it.
It was all too new.  This life, this woman...

What had he done to prompt this?  What had he said?  What
did she want from him?

What would the old Mulder do?

Thankfully, he didn't have to answer any of those questions.
Scully found her voice first.

"You don't need to say anything, Mulder," she told him calmly,
almost as if she had read his mind.  "I just want you to know...
it's really good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," he replied, her seeming calm somehow
relaxing him as well.  He might not fully understand what had
just passed between them, but the certainty he saw in her made
his own doubts seem silly and unnecessary.  Whatever it was
they had--friendship, partnership--it was good.  That, he knew.
He could trust it.  And her.  "Thank you for being the one to
welcome me home."

Smiling, she fell silent again and, opening her arms, stepped
into his embrace.  His eyes closing, Mulder clasped her to
him carefully, mindful of her size and the life she sheltered
inside her.  She felt small against him and warm, her heat
chasing away the apartment's stubborn chill.  As they stood
there, holding each other, he marveled at how quickly
perception could change, at the speed with which a person
could long for something they once had shunned.

When he had first realized Scully was pregnant, that this
woman who had appointed herself his guardian angel was
with child, he had panicked.  He had thought her concern
was for him alone, that she had found him, slept by his
bedside, armed and ready to defend him, because she
cared for him, worried for =him=.

Weak and confused, he had desperately needed that kind
of strength, had relied upon it almost instantly.  Without
understanding why exactly, he was convinced this woman
could help him.  She knew him, after all, had called him
by name.  Yes.  She would make sense of all the nonsense.
He believed that.  He had to.

Until her coat dropped from her lap, and he saw his protector
was only months away from giving birth.  Then, an odd
irrational fear took root inside him.

What if Dana Scully had come to him with needs of her
own?  What if she was the one looking to him for support,
for comfort?

What if he was her baby's father?

No, no.  It was all too much.  He couldn't be that man.  Not
just then.  He had his own problems to deal with, he couldn't
shoulder hers as well.

Please, don't let the baby be mine, he had pleaded shamelessly
to the heavens.  Please, please, don't let it be mine.

God may not have answered him directly, but Scully had
responded readily enough.

Her child belonged to another man, she had told him.

They were merely friends.  Just friends.

The knowledge had soothed him then.

How ironic that in recent days he had begun to yearn for
something more.

But then...who could blame him? he mused, his cheek nestled
against her hair.  Scully was a beautiful woman.  Her body fit
well with his, he noticed, even with her swollen tummy.  He
liked the way her head tucked neatly beneath his chin, how
the base of her spine was positioned perfectly for his hand.
She smelled of Ivory soap, warm womanly skin and the faintest
hint of lavender, her subtle perfume wholesome, yet strangely
erotic.  He imagined for a moment what it might be like to
wake up to that same smell on his pillow.

If he wasn't careful, he could get used to this, he admitted to
himself, breathing her in.  He could grow accustomed to
holding her, soft and supple in his arms.

And wouldn't it be easy to want still more? a small voice
needled inside his head.  Don't you wonder what her lips
might taste like, how her body would feel sliding hotly over
yours?  Aren't you curious what sounds she would make if
you touched her just right?

But that wasn't going to happen, he reminded the voice.  None
of it was.  Much as he might be tempted to learn the answers
to those and so many other questions he had regarding Dana
Scully, the truth was she belonged to someone else.  Her life
was with a man whose name he had not yet even learned.

It wasn't lack of curiosity that kept the information from him.
He was dying to know just who this bozo was.  But after the
previous week's fiasco--the one where he had basically
accused her of two-timing--he had made himself a vow to
stay out of his partner's affairs.  That was the least he owed
her, especially after the way he had behaved.  If she wanted
to tell him about the father of her child, he would gladly listen.
But he wasn't going to pry it out of her himself.

After all, he had no idea how long her attentions would last.
Sooner or later, he would lose her to this unknown rival, when
their baby was born, if not before.  He wanted to enjoy what
time they had left together.  For them to be the friends she
had assured him they were.

"Hey," he murmured now into her ear, searching for a friendly
topic to help ease them apart.  "I know I haven't been much
of a host up to this point, but are you hungry?  You probably
haven't eaten since breakfast.  Do you want to order food or
something?"

She slid her arms from around his waist and brought them
up between their bodies so that her palms rested against his
chest.  "Actually, I'm not all that hungry," she murmured to
his breastbone.  "But I wouldn't mind something to drink.
Do you want a cup of tea?  I could make a pot.  You usually
keep some around."

"Yeah.  Yeah, that would be nice," he said with a smile.  "But
later, I'm thinking pizza.  What do you say?  My treat."

"Sounds good," she said, stepping past him and into the
kitchen.  Reaching up, she pulled open a cabinet door and
peered inside.  "Just make it a large one.  Thin crust.  Onions,
green peppers and extra cheese."

His smile broadened as he backed away, watching her stand
on tiptoe to root through his cupboards.  He was just about to
offer his assistance when she found what she was looking for
--a battered box of herbal tea bags.  "So it's true then what
they say about pregnant women and their cravings, huh?"

"Be thankful I don't have a taste for anchovies."

Chuckling, Mulder grabbed his duffel bag and headed off
in search of his bedroom.  He found it and the bathroom
next door without too much effort.

It took him even less effort to put away his belongings.
While he waited for the kettle to whistle, he poked around
in his closets and dresser drawers.  What he found there
was encouraging.  It seemed his taste in clothes was better
than his decorating sense.  All in all, his wardrobe wasn't
half bad.

Soon, however, he returned to Scully.  She greeted him at
the archway leading to his living room and handed him a
mug of tea.

"I put sugar in it," she said.  "Though I wound up scraping
the bottom of the bowl.  We're going to have to take you
grocery shopping, Mulder."

He took a sip; the brew was hot, scorching his tongue.  "I
assumed as much.  Grocery shopping and fish shopping--
I hope I don't get the two confused."

She chuckled and, with her tea, strolled past him to take a
seat on the couch.  Mulder smiled at her choice, then sat
down beside her.

"You know, Scully, I'm beginning to think the one who
'loves' this couch is you, not me."

He expected her to deny his playful accusation.  But to his
surprise, she did nothing of the kind.

"You're absolutely right," she said, casting him a sideways
glance over the rim of her mug.  "I do.  I have a lot of fond
memories involving this couch."

"Ooh.  That's sounds interesting," he teased.   "Anything juicy?"

"Not in the way you mean," she retorted with a smile.  "It's
just that your couch has been witness to a lot of history between
us.  I'd hate to see it go."

"What kind of history?" he asked, taking another careful sip of
his tea.  It tasted like what he imagined tree bark must taste like,
woodsy and bitter.  He couldn't imagine he had actually liked
this stuff before.  Maybe he had kept it around for her.

"Oh, I don't know," Scully said, her hands cupped around her
mug.  "All sorts of things.  A lot of it was work related, of
course.  Our discussing various cases, writing up reports, that
sort of thing."

"Sounds exciting," he drawled, setting the tea aside.

"Some of it was fun, too," she said.  "You introduced me to
'Caddyshack' on this couch, and 'Plan Nine from Outer Space'."

"Ah, the classics," he murmured, somehow knowing these films,
although he couldn't recall ever having seen them.

"I've slept here," she admitted, "waiting for you to come back
from whatever mess you'd gotten yourself into, furious that
you had left me behind."

"I had a habit of that?" he queried.

"A nasty habit," she grimly assured him.  "One I'm hoping
you won't take up again."

Abashed, he nodded, imagining the fierce dressing-downs
he had no doubt received when he had returned from his
misadventures.

"I sat here with you, Mulder, after your mom had died,"
she continued.  "We talked all night.  You told me about
your childhood, the Vineyard.  I tried to make you smile
by telling you stories about being a Navy brat.  We were
hoarse by the time Skinner came by the next morning."

"I wish I could remember that," he said pensively.  "I wish
I could remember any of it."

"I know you do," she said, laying her hand atop his arm
in comfort.

He sat there, enjoying her touch, yet at the same time so tired
of the melancholy that had prompted it.

So very tired.

Enough was enough.

Sighing, he pushed to his feet.  "Hey, Scully.  Let's go do
something.  Go grocery shopping or whatever.  I need to
get some air, I think.  The walls are beginning to close in."

Setting her half-finished tea beside his, she nodded.  "Okay.
There's a supermarket a couple of blocks from here.  I'll
phone the guys downstairs and tell them where we're going.
We can take my car and they can follow us."

Smiling at her easy acquiescence, he reached out and took her
hand in his, pulling her up to stand beside him.  She had just
released his hand and stepped past him when he heard a sharp,
hollow ping, then the crack of shattering glass.  Before he could
even wonder at the cause, Scully gasped, then stumbled, listing
sideways into him.  He caught her by the shoulders to stop
her fall and was all set to tease her about her clumsiness when
she looked up at him, her head lolling weakly against his chest.

"Mulder, get down," she rasped, tugging at him, her gaze
glassy, her voice pained.  "Get down on the floor."

He bent his head to ask her why and was astonished to see
blood trickling from her hairline, staining her pale complexion
red.

"Scully!" he whispered, horrified.

"Get down," she pleaded again, clinging to him.

Another pane of glass splintered to pieces.  This time, the
bullet that had torn through it glanced off the coffee table
inches from where they stood.

"Shit!"

Trembling with adrenaline and fear, Mulder finally did as Scully
had instructed, cradling her against him as he pulled them both
behind the arm of the couch and to the floor.

"Scully...Scully?  Oh, God.  Where are you hurt?" he queried,
leaning over her on the rug, his fingers probing gently at her
scalp, searching for the wound.  "Can you tell me where you're
hurt?"

"Scratch," she whispered, her eyes battling to stay open.  "Just
a scratch.  Stay down, Mulder...stay down.  There's a sniper--"

"I know there's a sniper," he muttered, wincing as violently as
she when he found what he had been seeking.  Jesus.  The gash
hidden beneath her hair didn't look all that deep, but there was
an awful lot of blood.  "We've got to get you to a doctor."

"No," she argued softly, her hand clutching at his sleeve.  "Just
wait....we need to wait.  Gotta let the guys catch him first."

The guys.  That's right.  His two bodyguards were outside in
the car, supposedly keeping watch...

...while blood ran in a rivulet down the side of Scully's face.

"Where's your cell phone?" he asked hoarsely, peeking out
over the arm of the sofa.  He couldn't see anything, but that
didn't mean they were in the clear.

"In my coat pocket," she mumbled, her lashes fluttering.
Damn it.  He was losing her.

"Stay here," he said gruffly, squeezing her fingers tightly with
his.  "And try to stay awake.  I'll be right back."

"'kay."

Jaw set, he turned and crawled on his belly to the dining room.
No further shots rang out.  Scully's coat was where she had left
it, draped over a chair.  Keeping low, he plunged his hand into
one of the pockets and retrieved her phone.  Stabbing wildly at
the buttons, Mulder dialed the number he had learned just that
morning.  On the third ring, the agent known as Montrose
answered.

"Montrose here.  Who is this?"

"It's Mulder, you asshole.  Where the hell are you?  We're
being shot at."

"We're aware of that, Agent Mulder.  Back-up has been
called for, and Agent Renfrew and myself are in pursuit.
Just sit tight and stay away from the windows."

"It's a little late for that," Mulder growled.  "Agent Scully
has been hit.  We need medical assistance immediately."

"S'okay, Mulder," she called softly from the living room,
her words slurred and slow.  "I'm all right....not shot, just a
scratch."

"=Now=, Montrose," he insisted, Scully's faint assurances
doing more to frighten him than anything else.  He didn't
like how distracted she sounded, how thin and reedy her
voice had become.  "You listening to me?  You get the
paramedics up here now."

"Will do," the agent said before hanging up.

Feeling marginally better for the exchange, Mulder scuttled
back across the floor to his partner.  They were going to be
all right, he told himself.  Even if he didn't know what the
hell he was doing, the agents outside did.

"I'm back, Scully," he murmured when he had reached her
side.  "Just like I promised.  You take it easy now.  Help is
on the way."

Only she didn't answer him.  She just lie there, her eyes
closed, her lips parted and blanched.  Blood now matted her
hair.

She was unconscious.

"Scully?"

And all Mulder could do was hold her until the paramedics
arrived.

* * * * * * * *

Continued in Chapter VI

"By the Wind Grieved" (6/13)
by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com

Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1

***************************************************

Dana Scully woke with a whopper of a headache.

But as bad as she felt, Fox Mulder looked far worse.

She had glimpsed his expression earlier, before coming to
in the hospital treatment room.  She had been loaded onto
a gurney at his apartment and was being wheeled down the
hall to the waiting elevator.  Rocked side to side by the gentle
motion, she had roused to the sensation of her fingers being
all but crushed, seized in a warm, moist grip.  Curious as to
who was clinging to her so, she had raised her heavy lashes
and seen Mulder trotting alongside the stretcher between
the two paramedics, his worried eyes locked on her face.

"Mulder," she had murmured dreamily, trying and failing
to muster a smile for him.

"Shh," he had said quietly, his attempt at a smile a shade
more successful than hers.  "It's okay.  You're going to be fine.
They're just taking you to the hospital to get checked out."

"They catch him?" she had asked, her voice matching his
in volume.

"No," he had said, shaking his head.  "No sign of the guy.
Skinner has got agents out there now, though, canvassing
the neighborhood.  They'll find him."

She hadn't had the heart to tell him just how unlikely that
was.  "S-stay with Montrose and Renfrew, Mulder," she
had implored instead.  "Don't...it's not safe.  Not yet."

He had seemed surprised by her admonishment.  "Scully,
don't worry about me.  I'm fine.  You're the one they're
carting off to the hospital."

They had reached the elevator.  Moving into position, the
paramedic at her feet had swiveled the gurney through the
open door and  Scully's world had spun with a sickening
lurch.  Her sight had wavered, then dimmed, promising a
return to unconsciousness.  Her breath shallow, she had
struggled against the threatening oblivion, needing to tell
Mulder just one more thing.

"They were gunning for you, Mulder," she had insisted even
as the edges of her vision began to speckle and darken.

"Sir, if you could move out of the way, please," the paramedic
near her head had requested.

Softly, her fingers had slipped free from Mulder's hold.  She
had wanted to keep him with her, but couldn't seem to make
her hand do her bidding.  She couldn't even see him anymore.
As if from nowhere, a dense gray fog had rolled in, filling the
elevator car and stealing her sight.  Still, she had known he
had yet lingered nearby.  Before the door had slid shut and
darkness had claimed her fully, she had heard him whisper.

"Yeah.  But they hit you."

Then nothing.

Until now.

Good Lord, the lights in here are bright, she silently noted,
the observation her first upon awakening.  She squinted
against the overhead fluorescents, their glow nearly blinding
in its power, and sharply turned her cheek to try and escape
the fearsome glare.  Unexpectedly, that small movement was
enough to aggravate the wound above her left ear.  The skin
there pulled and burned, adding to the headache the lights
had seemingly spawned.  Moaning softly, she closed her
eyes again and lightly fingered the dressing secreted in her
hair, wondering just how serious her injury was.

"Scully?"

She knew that voice.

Taking care not to make the same mistake twice, she pivoted
her head slowly in its direction.  Once there, she lifted her
lashes a second time.  Mulder sat beside her, hunched and
miserable, his chair pulled close to the bed, her blood on his
sweater.

"Hi," she said, studying him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She thought about it for a minute.  "Like I got kicked in the
head by a mule."

His eyes flitted away from hers to focus on the floor.  "Close
enough."

She wet her lips with her tongue.  "Have you spoken to the
doctors?"

"Yes," he said, his face brightening just a touch.  "You were
right.  It was just a scratch.  Hell of a headache, I'm sure, but
no concussion."

She blinked rather than nodded.  "What about the baby?"

Mulder took her hand.  But instead of holding it vice-like
as before, he raised it to his lips.  Scully watched, astonished,
as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of it.

"The baby is fine," he told her gruffly.  "The doctors were
concerned at first about your blood pressure, but that seems
to have stabilized.  You're going to walk out of here with
a half dozen stitches, Scully, but it could have been worse.
We were lucky."

With that, he smiled, seemingly thankful for their fine fortune.
She smiled back at him, thankful for that and a good deal
more.  Safe there in that bed with Mulder whole beside
her, the months all at once melted away.  Her partner and she
had never been separated.  She had never cried herself to
sleep with fear and longing.  Mulder had never had things
stolen from him that others shouldn't even have had the
right to touch.  This was just another in a long line of hospital
room conversations, another scary near-miss.  Nothing they
hadn't triumphed over before.  But then, the man she loved
whispered...

"Do you want me to call him for you?"

Scully frowned, jarred from her reverie.  "Call who?"

"The baby's father," he said just as quietly, her hand still
clasped in his.

The baby's father?

Her eyes welled at his concern, at the way he was looking at
her, his gaze troubled and intent.

Oh God, Mulder.  How could you believe I would want anyone
else?

"Y-you don't need to call him," she began hesitantly, wishing
she had had more time to prepare an explanation.  "He isn't--"

"Agent Scully?"

Instinctively, she stopped and turned her head towards this
new, yet familiar speaker.  Instantly, pain flashed from temple
to temple, searing across her brow.

It felt to her like no more than she deserved.

"Sir?" she answered back weakly, her eyes narrowed against
the ache.

Assistant Director Skinner crossed into her line of vision,
dressed in gray slacks and a black turtleneck, his trench coat
covering both.  "How are you holding up?"

Gently, she pulled her hand free from Mulder's grasp, needing
to put some distance between them.  She couldn't touch him
just then, could barely look him in the eye.  "Not too bad, all
things considered."

Skinner nodded.  "That's good to hear.  I spoke briefly to your
doctor on the way in.  He'd like to keep you overnight for
observation.  However, I'm thinking we may need to get you
out of here sooner than that."

Pushing to his feet, Mulder stood and faced their superior.
"With all due respect, Sir, it seems to me Scully's physician
should be the one to make that call, not you."

"Normally, I'd agree with you, Agent Mulder," Skinner said
mildly, seemingly unmoved by the younger man's harsh tone.
"Unfortunately, given what happened today it may not be safe
for her here.  For either of you."

"What have you learned?" Scully asked, amused in spite of
herself by the display of testosterone.

"Not a whole hell of a lot," Skinner growled, his hands
buried deep in his coat pockets.  "Which is why I think we
should get the two of you someplace safe until we figure out
what's going on."

"There's no lead on the shooter?" Mulder asked in disbelief.

Skinner shook his head.  "Judging by the angle of the shots,
we're guessing he was positioned on the roof of an apartment
building across the street from yours.  Our men have been
up there, but they've found no footprints or shell casings to
confirm our suspicions.  We have agents going house to
house, but I'm won't be surprised if they come up empty."

"They won't find anything," Scully murmured, pressing
her fingers to her temples in the hope it might alleviate the
pounding there. "The guy was a professional."

"I agree," Skinner said.  "I just wish I knew who hired him.
And why he waited until Mulder was discharged from the
hospital before he came after him."

"Wait a minute," Mulder demanded.  "Why is everyone so
sure it was me he was firing at?  Scully was the one who
was hit."

"Only because I stepped in front of you," Scully reminded
him.  "Besides, if someone wanted me dead, they would have
tried something long before now.  Why wait until you returned?"

"Why return me at all if they want me out of the picture?"
Mulder countered, a hint of anger creeping into his voice.
"If they wanted to kill me, when didn't they do it when they
had the chance?"

"Mulder, over the years you and I have made enemies, not
all of whom have the same agenda.  It's possible that one
faction may have been responsible for your kidnapping,
while another might be behind today's shooting."

As if dumb struck, Mulder stared at her for a beat or two,
his mouth hard.  Finally, he shook his head.

"Shit," he spat, his fingers combing roughly through his hair.
"I am next to useless like this."

"What are you talking about?" Skinner asked.

"What do you think I'm talked about?" Mulder said, dropping
his arms.  "My God.  A bullet was fired through my window
today, and I didn't have the presence of mind to hit the deck
until Scully told me to.  She could have been killed because
of me.  We both could have."

"Mulder, you can't blame yourself--," Scully began, stretching
out her hand to him.

He ignored her entreaty, choosing to pace instead.  "Then who
the hell should I blame, Scully--you?  We're supposed to be
partners in this and yet I can't even remember how to load a
gun, let alone fire one."

"No one expects you to," Skinner said reasonably.  "None of
this is your fault, Mulder."

"Of course it is," he argued, whirling to face them both.  "You
said so yourself.  I'm the target.  And anyone who gets near
me is going to be at risk.  Christ, I'm a danger to everyone I
come in contact with.  The best thing I could do would be to
disappear all over again."

"No!" Scully cried.  She had been sitting there, listening, doing
her best to be patient.  She understood that, as before, Mulder
needed to vent, to release some of the fear and guilt he had no
doubt been feeling since the shooting.  But all patience dissolved
at the thought of him vanishing again, leaving her alone...

She struggled to sit upright, to raise herself from her current
angled position.  But with the baby and her aching head, she
didn't get very far.  She managed only to lift her shoulders from
the pillow when the room began to dip and twirl.  Moaning in
frustration, she wilted sideways.

"Whoa," Mulder murmured in her ear.  She didn't know how
he had managed it, she hadn't seen him move.  But somehow
he had caught her, his arms holding her strong and fast.  "Take
it easy, Scully.  Take it easy.  I'm not going anywhere.  Not yet,
anyway."

"Not ever," she said fiercely, her lashes drooping against
the dizziness, her cheek resting high now on his chest.  "I'm
not going to lose you again, Mulder."

Their faces were close, their voices hushed, Skinner's presence
forgotten in the heat of their exchange.

"I'm only thinking of you," Mulder insisted, tenderly brushing
a strand of hair from her face.  "You and the baby.  It's not safe
for you to have me around."

"Just because you're the one they want doesn't mean the baby
and I aren't targets too," Scully said, her vertigo gradually
subsiding.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Mulder, our separating doesn't necessarily guarantee my
safety," she said.  "They can use me against you, as a hostage...
or worse."

"Or worse?" he echoed.

"They've done it before," Skinner said quietly from the foot
of the bed.  "Scully was...taken herself.  To punish you, we
believed.  She was missing for months.  She came back so
sick from whatever it was they had done to her, we didn't
know for certain she'd pull through."

Mulder glared at first one, then the other of them, as if
demanding they take the revelation back.

"It's true," she murmured softly, lifting her hand to his face
in a kind of mute consolation.

"Jesus," he muttered finally, easing Scully away from him
and lowering her gently back onto the pillow.

"Mulder, we need to stick together," she said stubbornly,
grabbing hold of his ruined sweater before he could walk
away, her fingers clinging to its hem.  "It's the only chance
we have.  Please.  You have to trust me on this."

For the longest time, Mulder stood motionless, his eyes averted
from view.  At last, he spoke, his head still lowered.

"All right, Scully.  We'll do it your way.  Only you have to trust
me too."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, her hand falling away.

"I need to know what we're up against," he said, his gaze
now meeting hers, sure and resolute.  "No more trying to
protect me.  No more telling me only what you think I need
to hear."

"I haven't--," she protested.  Even though she had.

"Look--I'm not trying to point fingers here," Mulder said,
cutting her off.  "I'm sure you had your reasons.  But, frankly,
those reasons aren't good enough anymore.  There's too much
at stake.  Like it or not, you need me, Scully.  And I'm no
good to you the way I am."

She couldn't argue with that, not with any of it.  A reluctant
smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.  "All right, Mulder.
You have yourself a deal.  Just what exactly do you want to
know?"

"All of it," he said flatly.  "I need to know everything you and
I have been through over the past eight years."

"Then you need to know about the X-Files," she replied.

He nodded.  "You've told me they're made up largely of
unsolved cases, cases other departments have passed on."

"That's true," Skinner offered.  "Only these particular cases
often have...unusual elements to them."

"Unusual how?" Mulder queried.

"Mostly supernatural or extraterrestrial," Scully murmured,
watching closely for his reaction.

Mulder took the news better than she had anticipated.  He
simply pondered it for a moment, his hands on his hips, his
brow furrowed.  "So are you telling me we've got aliens after
us?"

"More likely alien collaborators," she said with a wry smile.

He stared at her.  "I don't suppose you've got documentation
on any of this?"

"Files and files of it," she assured him.

"Shit," he said heartily, turning away from her to stride towards
the window, then back again, his hand rubbing slowly over his
mouth and chin.  "Sounds to me like I've got some reading to
do."

   *****
Upon hearing Skinner's plan, Mulder realized he would have
more than enough time to get that reading done.

"I already have a car and a team of agents waiting," the A.D.
said.  "As soon as we can get Scully squared away, I want
to get you two out of here."

"Will we be going to a Bureau safe house, Sir?" Scully
inquired.

"No.  Given what's happened, I don't trust there aren't leaks
within the FBI itself."

"Our own people are against us?" Mulder asked.

"There have been instances in the past where that has been
the case," Skinner explained with some measure of regret.

Mulder could only shake his head.  Aliens, alien collaborators,
ghosts, goblins--God only knew what else.  Was there anyone
who wasn't after him?

"I have a friend who owns a vacation home in northern
Pennsylvania," Skinner continued.  "I've visited there several
times over the years and am familiar with the house itself
and the parcel of land it stands on.  I've spoken to this
friend and he is willing to let us borrow it indefinitely."

"Where is it exactly?" Scully asked.

"The property is part of the Allegheny National Forest.  It's
pretty isolated up there, not a lot of people--especially during
winter.  But there's only one access road to the place and the
sight lines from the house to the surrounding woods are good.
All in all, it should be easy to defend."

"Against who?" Mulder muttered, almost to himself.  "Or
what?"

"I don't know," Skinner admitted.  "Not yet.  That's why I
want you two tucked away somewhere safe.  The property
actually has two sets of living quarters--the main lodge and
a smaller guest cottage down the drive.  You two will take
the big house, Montrose and Renfrew will be in the cottage.
They'll rotate with two more sets of agents who will patrol
the perimeter."

"Sir, what about Agent Scully?" Mulder asked, glancing in
her direction.

"What about me?" the small redhead murmured, glancing
back.

"Well...how isolated is it exactly?" Mulder queried.  "I mean
...she's close to her due date now.  If anything should happen..."

"You'll be about 30 miles outside of Brookville," Skinner
said.  "They have a small, but fully equipped hospital.  If
the situation should arise, the agents on duty will be able
to get Scully whatever care she needs without too much
trouble."

"Besides, Mulder, I'm more than six weeks out," Scully
assured him.  "I can't imagine we'll be hidden away up
there anywhere near that long."

With a smile, she looked to Skinner for confirmation.

The Assistant Director looked back, saying nothing one
way or another.

Feeling like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas--after his
heart had expanded to its proper size--Mulder watched as
Scully's smile faded.  He was certain she had no idea just
how much her face gave away.

Damn.  Because of him, not only would the poor woman be
away from her child's father at this crucial time, but she would
quite possibly miss spending the holidays with her family as
well.

"Sorry about all this, Scully," Mulder mumbled.

"Don't be silly," she said with a determinedly upbeat tone of
voice, one Mulder didn't entirely buy.  "It's the only way."

Perhaps.  But that didn't stop him from feeling badly about it
just the same.

Once the plan had been laid out, matters moved with impressive
speed.  Agents known and trusted by Skinner were dispatched to
both Mulder and Scully's apartments to pack them bags.  Others
were sent ahead to the house to stock it with supplies and ready it
for occupancy.  Mulder didn't know what the hell kinds of strings
Skinner was pulling to make it all happen, but he couldn't help
but admire the big man's efficiency.

In the midst of this whirlwind of activity, it was Scully herself
who remembered the most important provision of all.

"You sure you're really ready to go through the files, Mulder?"
she asked, propped against the pillows.

"Yes," he said.  "I am."

"Well, in that case...Sir, back when we had the basement fire,
Agent Mulder made digital copies of whatever files we could
salvage," she said to Skinner and Mulder both.  "He wanted
backups in case, God forbid, something like that happened again.
I have a set of copies in my safety deposit box.  I believe Agent
Mulder keeps his in a similar place.  A third set is stored with
the Lone Gunmen.  It seems to me that, given the circumstances,
theirs would be the easiest to retrieve."

"The Lone Gunmen?" Mulder echoed, wondering just who in
the world these particular shooters might be.

"They're friends of yours," Scully explained.  "Of both of
ours, actually.  Among other things, they're conspiracy theorists.
The three of them publish a magazine with that title."

"If they're friends, why haven't I met them?" Mulder asked.

Scully grimaced with chagrin.  "That's my fault.  They know
you're back, but I had asked them to hold off visiting until
things got more ...settled.  Their...enthusiasm can be a bit
overwhelming at times."

"I'll pick the files up myself," Skinner said.  "Just do me a favor
and call the Gunmen first, let them know I'm coming.  I don't
want to show up at their door unannounced.  I don't think they
trust me."

"I wouldn't take it personally," Scully said with a wry smile.

It wasn't long before Montrose delivered their suitcases.
Excusing himself, Mulder stepped out of the room to change,
allowing Scully the chance to get dressed herself.  When he
returned, clad now in a clean pair of jeans and sweater, she
was with her physician, Dr. Talcott, signing her release papers.

"Can you give her anything for the pain?" Mulder queried, even
though he recognized it really wasn't his place to ask.

"I'm sorry.  But with the baby, I can't really prescribe anything
more powerful than Tylenol," Talcott said with regret.  "And
even those need to be restricted in terms of dosage."

"Don't worry, Mulder," Scully said, sitting dressed and woozy
on the side of her bed.  "I'll be all right.  I just need to get some
sleep.  That's all."

"Might as well do that in the car," Skinner said, choosing that
moment to enter the room.  "It's going to be a five or six hour
drive.  You won't get in until well after midnight."

"Great," Scully said without enthusiasm, her eyes closing
wearily.

"Best of luck, to all of you.  I'll have an orderly bring a
wheelchair around for Dr. Scully," Talcott said, exiting with
his clipboard under his arm.

"That's not necessary," Scully called after him, eyes snapping
open.  Without waiting for assistance, she began to scoot to
the edge of the mattress.

"A wheelchair would be fine," Mulder said, crossing to her
and placing a heavy hand on her shoulder, effectively keeping
her seated.

Scully looked up at him with annoyance.  "When did you
get to be so bossy?"

"I'm just doing what you would do for me," he assured her.

"Oh, I see," she grumbled.  "Pay back, huh?"

"Not at all," he argued, giving her shoulder a squeeze.  "I'm
looking out for you.  That's all."

"Mulder, I'm fine," she insisted with a sigh.

"Scully, you have stitches in your head because =a bullet
hit it=," he said slowly and sternly.  "You have admitted
to me you have a headache, you haven't eaten since this
morning, and you're nearly eight months pregnant.  For
God's sake--let the guy wheel you to the door!"

"I'll be waiting outside," Skinner said, ducking out of the
room, a small smile softening his mouth's firm line.

Neither acknowledged the other man's departure.  Scully
sat there, eyeing Mulder through her lashes, her expression
unreadable.  Much as he believed he was doing the right thing,
Mulder couldn't help but worry he had in some way overstepped
his bounds, behaved in a way counter to what he once might
have in the past.

Finally, Scully spoke, her voice scraping the bottom of
her register.  "So...you're looking out for me?"

He shrugged, then lifted his hand and tucked a few flyaway
strands of auburn hair behind her ear, feeling oddly
embarrassed as the object of her scrutiny.  "Trying to,
anyway."

She hesitated a moment more before saying, "Thank you."

His hand faltered, his fingers still twined in her hair.  "For
what?"

"For taking care of me," she said softly.  "It's been a long
time since anyone has done that for me.  I'd forgotten what
it felt like."

A long time since anyone had taken care of her?  A woman
like Scully, someone who was weeks away from giving birth?

Just who was this idiot she was seeing?

"It's the least I can do," he said lightly, sliding his fingertips
one last time over her tousled hair.  "Especially now that we're
going to be roomies."

"Are you okay with that?" she queried, a frown creasing her
forehead.  "With all of it?  A lot has happened today.  How
are you doing?"

Chuckling ruefully, he shook his head.  "Honestly?  I don't
think it's clicked yet.  You know?  None of it feels real."

"I'm not surprised," she said gently.  "The things you've
heard...it all must seem pretty incredible."

"To put it mildly," he said dryly.

"It'll probably seem even weirder when you go through
the case files," she warned.  "The things you're going to
read about, Mulder...it may be difficult for you to take in."

"Is that why we haven't talked about it before now?" he
queried, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," she said, her eyes dipping guiltily from his.  "I'm
sorry for that, for keeping things from you.  I only did it
because..."

"You wanted to take care of me?"

"Yes."

He looked down at her from where he stood.  Scully sat,
clearly exhausted, pale, circles beneath her eyes, specks of
dried blood clinging to her hairline.

"Funny how that works, isn't it?" he murmured, although,
at that moment, amusement was in no way what he felt.

Rather, a kind of resolve flowed through him instead.  Resolve
tempered by fear.

Scully had seven years of friendship to draw upon when it
came to him, seven years of memories binding her to his side.
By comparison, he had enjoyed scant weeks in her company,
less than a month total for him to forge a bond.

Yet, in the end, what did time really matter?

It could have been only minutes they had shared and yet he
would still feel the same pull, the same affection, the same
trust.  He was sure of it.  He cared deeply what happened to
Dana Scully, to her and her unborn child.  Their welfare had
quickly become as much his responsibility as it was anyone
else's.

And he would do whatever he had to do to keep them both
safe.

* * * * * * * *

Continued in Chapter VII

"By the Wind Grieved" (7/13)
by Karen Rasch
kmrasch@hotmail.com

Notes etc. prior to Chapter 1

***************************************************

The car Skinner had spoken of was, in fact, a van, made for
situations just like theirs.  Navy blue in color with Virginia
plates, tinted windows, and plenty of cargo room in back, it
had been designed to be as nondescript as possible.

But in case the whole incognito thing didn't work out, the
windows, windshield, side and back panels were bulletproof.

It was like driving in a tank made by Ford, complete with
cup holders and an in-dash AM/FM cassette stereo.

Behind the driver and co-pilot bucket seats was a single
upholstered bench.  Agents Montrose and Renfrew climbed
in front while Mulder guided Scully inside with a hand to her
elbow.

"Upsy-daisy, Scully.  Watch your head."

Moving slowly, she settled on the far end of the bench.
Mulder sat beside her.

With the last of the gear stowed in back, Skinner stuck his
head in through the open side door.

"I'm going over to Gunmen's to pick up the files and then
I'll stop by your place, Scully, to get your laptop.  From there
I'll head out and meet you two later at the house.  Is there
anything else you think you might need?"

"Sir, you'll have to borrow a zip drive from the Gunmen too.
My computer isn't equipped with one," Scully said from her
seat near the window.

"That shouldn't be a problem.  I'm sure they have one lying
around somewhere," he said, hand braced against the edge
of the door.  "I guess that's it, then.  Have a safe trip.  I'll see
you both there."

But before the A.D. could step away, Scully called out, "Oh,
Sir!  There is one more thing."

"What?" he asked, turning back.

"I don't know if you want to take them with you or what,
but...would you mind feeding Mulder's fish?"

Skinner's jaw worked from side to side before he answered
with a sharp bob of his head.  "Okay."

"Thanks." Mulder murmured with a smile, the notion of his
no-nonsense boss fish-sitting amusing him somehow.

"Don't mention it," Skinner growled, grabbing hold of the
door handle.

The noise the door made sliding shut muffled the sound
of Mulder's laughter.

Turning the key in the ignition, Renfrew started the engine.
Adjusting his seat, Montrose glanced over his shoulder at
Mulder and Scully, the African-American agent's eyes
shining almost black in the shadows.  "You two think you
can sleep if I turn the radio on?"

Scully smiled wanly.  "I can't speak for Agent Mulder, but
I could probably sleep through just about anything right now."

"Go for it," Mulder told him, watching as Scully removed her
coat and began folding it into a neat little square.  "Just stay
away from easy listening and Rush Limbaugh, okay?"

The big man chuckled.  "How do the blues sound?  There's an
all-night program I like to try and catch.  I'll keep the volume
low."

"Sounds good.  I could go for a little Buddy Guy."

With Montrose searching the FM band, the van pulled out of
the hospital drive.  Shrugging out of his jacket, Mulder looked
to his left and saw Scully trying to wedge her coat between her
chin and the window.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Pillow," she said, gesturing to the fast wrinkling trench.

Poor Scully, he thought fondly.  Exhaustion had reduced her
to caveman speak.  She couldn't hide the fatigue in her eyes,
the slump of her shoulders.  The day had taken its toll.

Mulder thought he might be able to do something about that.

"Come here, Scully," he said with a smile.  "I've got a better
idea."

"What?"

Reaching across her body, he took the coat from her hands
and placed it on his thigh.

"Lay your head down," he said, patting his leg in what he
hoped was an inviting fashion.  "You're not going to get
any quality sleep propped up against the glass like that."

Her gaze flitted from his lap to his face and back again.

"Aren't you tired?" she queried, clearly tempted, yet not
entirely convinced.

He shook his head.  "Nah.  I'm too wired to sleep.  You go
ahead, though.  Stretch out, get comfortable."

She hesitated for a half second more before saying softly,
"Thanks, Mulder."

Swinging her legs up onto the seat, she turned sideways and
laid her head gingerly on his leg.

"Oh.  Hang on a minute," he said before she was entirely
settled.

Scully started to rise, only to have Mulder lay a hand on
her shoulder, stopping her.

"No.  It's okay.  Just let me do this."

Taking his jacket, he draped it on her like a blanket.

"Mulder, you'll need this," Scully protested as he covered
her.

"No, I won't," he assured her, arranging the black leather
over her.  "I'm wearing a wool sweater and Renfrew up
there has already got the heat cranking.  I'll be fine."

Turning her head, she peered up at him, the smallest smile
shaping her mouth, her cheek inches from his crotch.  God
help him.  Mulder knew it was wrong.  Scully was his friend.
But with the picture she presented, sleepy and sweet, and
near, so very near to a rather responsive part of his anatomy,
he couldn't stop his thoughts from turning ...somewhat more
than friendly.

"You're sure?" she asked him, her voice throaty and low,
its husky alto feeding all those pesky impure musings.

Focus, Mulder, he coached himself.  Focus.

Now what were they talking about?

"I'm sure," he mumbled at last.  "Go to sleep."

She looked at him a moment longer, then sighed with what
Mulder thought, to his surprise, was a kind of contentment
and laid her head back on his thigh.

"'Night, Mulder," she murmured in a hush.

"Good night, Scully," he said just as quietly, resting his hand
on what he judged to be neutral territory, her shoulder.

They were speeding towards the Beltway now, Ruth Brown
on the radio, Renfrew and Montrose chatting softly from time
to time up in front.  It was dark inside the van, the dashboard
instruments the only light.  Alone in the back with Scully
curled up beside him, warm and still, the mood was intimate,
reflective.  Releasing a long, slow breath, Mulder watched
the asphalt roll beneath their tires and tried to make sense
of it all.

Hell of a day, he thought.  No other way to put it.  Talk about
your highs and lows.  And revelations, don't forget revelations.
Who knew he was an honest-to-God Man in Black, an alien
hunter?  And here he had been thinking he was basically a
federal cop, handling kidnapping, drug busts, that sort of
thing.  Elliot Ness without the fedora and bathtub gin.

It would all be too absurd, too crazy to be believed if it wasn't
for Scully.  She gave the whole thing credibility.  She was a
doctor, after all, a scientist.  If she gave credence to the work,
their investigations had to be some basis in fact, some evidence
her wonderfully rational mind couldn't ignore.

And what exactly was that work?  Part of him couldn't wait
to get his hands on the files Skinner was busy retrieving, to
learn precisely how he had spent the last several years of his
professional life.  With any luck, the information in those
records would be the key to unlocking his past.  How could
it not?  Scully had told him more than once that the X-Files
had been his obsession.  If they couldn't jump-start his memory,
he didn't know what would.

But another part of him worried about what he might find on
those discs, afraid the data stored there might reveal a life he
wasn't ready for, make demands he wasn't prepared to meet.

It wasn't the supposed supernatural bent of their investigations
that bothered him.  Oddly enough, he was more intrigued by
the notion than fearful.  With no history of his own, he had no
prejudices to color his perceptions.  He was open to the possibilities.
He wasn't so naive as to think that what Scully and he did was
by any measure "normal."  But he also didn't see how the exotic
nature of the work automatically cheapened it or made it any less
valid.

What concerned him more was the idea that his existence to
this point had apparently been subjugated by these files, that
he had put on hold any sort of private life to chase creatures
from both Earth and beyond.  While he hadn't been able to
draw from her many details, Scully had explained that he had
viewed their work as personal, motivated in the beginning
by his desire to find his missing sister.

That was all well and good, he supposed.  One might even label
it a noble quest.  But...he couldn't even remember that sister or
her tragic disappearance, an event that had seemingly shaped
his life from an early age.  Without that loss, that need, to drive
him forward, Mulder wondered just how motivated he would
be to keep on as before, the X-Files his all-consuming passion.

The woman resting beside him shifted in his lap.  Her head
heavy against his leg, he judged she was already asleep, his
conclusion confirmed a moment later when she nuzzled his
thigh with her cheek.

No way would she have done that awake.

Smiling, Mulder lifted his hand and slid it softly through her
hair.  She sighed, her eyes darting beneath their lids.  Watching
her dream, he did it again.  The strands were tangled but soft.
Carefully, he combed through the matted silkiness, separating
pieces with his fingertips.

There was Scully to consider, too.

If he were to go back to work in the basement, he would
get to continue working with her.  Or he thought he would.
They really hadn't discussed her plans after the baby was
born.

Given what he knew of her, he would be surprised if she
chose to give up her career in favor of raising a child.  Of
course, he really had no sense at all about the man in her
life.  For as generous as she was about most things, Scully
could be remarkably stingy with information about her
significant other.  Even tonight, when he had inquired
as to whether she had been able to get hold of the man to
let him know what was going on, all she said was, "I spoke
to him.  He knows where I am."

Mulder had no idea if he was tall or short, old or young; he
didn't even know what the man did for a living.  None of that
should have mattered--after all, he wasn't the one involved
with the guy.  But, like it or not, his curiosity was slowly
eating away at his complacency.  Mulder wanted to know
who the hell he was.  He wanted to be able to put a face on
the lucky bastard.

He wanted to know what kind of man he would have needed
to be to win Dana Scully's heart.

   *****

Scully was awakened to Mulder brushing his knuckles softly
against her cheek.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," he whispered, his mouth hovering
above her ear.  "We're here."

She started, then stilled, remembering where she was and who
she was with.  She opened her eyes, but couldn't see much from
where she rested.  It was still dark outside.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, pushing awkwardly to her
elbows.  Mulder's large hands gripped her gently by her upper
arms and helped her the rest of the way up

"About quarter after three," he said, reaching out and tucking a
fall of hair behind her ear.  "You slept straight through.  How
you feeling?"

She captured a yawn before answering.  "Better, I think.  My
head doesn't hurt as much.  I'm still kind of tired, though."

Mulder smiled.  "Lucky for you the night life around here
sucks.  You can crash out and not miss a thing."

With that, the two rear doors swung open.  Scully turned and
looked over her shoulder.  Agent Renfrew stood at the back
of the van, his craggy face thrown into harsh relief by the
cargo hold light.  Just behind him she could make out
Montrose's linebacker silhouette.

"Agent Mulder, if you want to help Agent Scully into the
house, we can take care of your bags and the rest of this
stuff," Renfrew said.

"Thanks, guys," Mulder said before she could object.  "Is
the door open?"

"Just unlocked it myself," Montrose said, stepping forward,
a suitcase already in his hand.

"Come on, Scully," Mulder said, stretching to the right to
throw wide the van's sliding side door.  "Let's get you to
bed."

Drowsy and stiff from her long nap, the persistent pain at
her temples beating in time with her heart, Scully decided
to allow her partner's coddling.  It had been a tough day.  If
Mulder wanted to tuck her in, who was she to object?

Scooting along the seat, she reached for his hands and let
him guide her to the ground below.  It was colder outside
than she had anticipated.  Ice crunched beneath their feet
and a light dusting of snow coated the ground.  She was
glad they had each taken the time to put back on their coats.

 "The radio said a storm is on the way," Mulder reported, his
breath expelling from his mouth in fluffy clouds of white.
"We're supposed to get anywhere from four to six inches
by tomorrow night."

"Looks like we got in just in time," she said as they made
their ways to the stairs, Mulder's arm locked around her
shoulders, hers around his waist.  The change in weather
surprised her.  It had been mild when they had left the
D.C. area.

The only light available came from the inside of the van
and the steps were slick with nearly invisible patches of ice.
Just to be safe, they took it slowly, Mulder hanging on to the
railing while she hung on to him.  With night and the whipping
wind impeding her vision, it was difficult for her to get a sense
of what the house looked like.  All she could tell was that it
was big, two-stories, and covered with what appeared to be
cedar shingles.

"Here we are," Mulder said, holding the front door open for
her.  Scully stamped her feet free of what snow she could
and entered, Mulder followed close behind.  Once inside,
he closed the door and began feeling along the wall with his
hand.

"Where the hell is the switch?"

A second later, he found it.  A simple flick and suddenly the
entryway was flooded with light.  Narrowing her eyes against
it, Scully had to bite back a moan.  No question about it--her
headache was better, but not entirely gone.

"Hey, this place isn't half bad," Mulder said from somewhere
off to the side.

Eyes now adjusted to the light, she took a moment to look
around.  Mulder was right.  "Not bad at all," she agreed.

If they had to be holed up somewhere, they could do a lot
worse than this.  From where they stood, she could see a
central staircase basically divided the house in two.  To their
right was the kitchen and dining room, a breakfast bar separating
one from the other.  To their left was the living room, complete
with fireplace and big screen TV and a hall which looked like
it might lead to another room or two in back.

Whoever owned the house had decorated in Eddie Bauer casual.
The furniture looked rough hewn, but well-crafted.  The sofa
was overstuffed and piled with throw pillows; the tables and
chairs were made from honey-colored oak.  Braided rag rugs
dotted the gleaming hardwood floors; the knotty paneled walls
were hung with landscapes and dried flower arrangements.  The
atmosphere was homey and welcoming, not at all like a typical
safe house.

From outside, Scully could hear footsteps on the stairs.  Opening
the front door, she saw Renfrew and Montrose struggling onto
the porch with their gear.

"Where do you want your things, Agent Scully?" Montrose
asked, shouldering his way across the threshold.

"Um...upstairs, I guess," she said, unsure where she was
sleeping.

"Scully, why don't you go up with him," Mulder suggested,
coming to stand beside her.  "Not all that much is going to go
on down here.  I'll wait up for Skinner to arrive with the discs
and then I'm probably going to hit the hay too."

"I could wait up with you," she volunteered, only to ruin the
offer with a yawn.

Chuckling, Mulder shook his head.  "There's no need for
both of us to stay up.  I'm still wide awake, while you, quite
clearly, are not.  Go to bed.  I'll see you in the morning."

She hesitated a second before acquiescing, common sense
winning out over pride.  "Okay.  But don't stay up any later
than you have to, Mulder.  You need your sleep too."

"Yes, mom."

Giving her partner the evil eye, Scully turned and trudged up
the stairs after Montrose.

"This room okay, Agent Scully?" the agent asked when they
had reached the second floor.  They stood outside one of two
front bedrooms.

"Oh, I don't care," she assured him with a weary smile.  "A
bed is a bed.  I'm sure this one will be just fine."

"All right then," he said, entering the room and turning on
a floor lamp he found just inside the door.  "We'll be right
down the road if you need us.  Use your cell phone.  You have
the number.  Have a good night."

"Thanks.  You do the same."

The room was actually far better than just fine.  It was charming.
Smallish, it had been decorated in a manner more feminine
than the rooms downstairs.  A double bed and matching night
stand dominated one wall, each piece whitewashed so that,
in places, the darker wood showed through from underneath.
Across the room stood an equally distressed armoire and a tufted
green chaise.  A dresser that looked as if it might be an antique
completed the furnishings.  A handmade quilt in shades of green
and purple and yellow covered the bed while canvas sprinkled
with faded violets covered the walls.  It was all terribly inviting.

The only problem was Scully was too pooped to appreciate it.

"In the morning," she mumbled to herself, turning off the light
that Montrose had just turned on.

Toeing off her shoes and shrugging off her coat, she ignored
the suitcase by the door and crawled up onto the bed fully
clothed.  Tugging on the quilt, she pulled half over on her while
laying on the rest of it.  Cocooned in its cushioned depths, she
thought to herself as she drifted off to sleep, 'This place is so
nice.  It's almost like going on vacation.'

Almost like going on vacation...

Except for the men who were out to kill Mulder.  Or possibly
herself.

   *****

When next she rose, it was to the sound of drawers opening
and closing, and some kind of kitchen gadget--a grinder?--
whirring noisily.  Peeking out from under the covers, Scully
sniffed the air.

Coffee.

God, she missed coffee.

She wondered if the stuff downstairs was with or without
caffeine.

Only one way to find out.  Rolling ponderously out of bed,
she glanced over at the clock on the night stand.  10:00.  Damn.
She hadn't meant to sleep so late.  She got up, crossed to her
suitcase and popped it open.  Rummaging through the contents,
she searched for whatever toiletries she could find.  Surprised
yet pleased to discover a bag filled with soap, toothpaste and
other essentials, she took it with her and headed down the hall
to the bathroom.

Setting her bag on the sink, she peered into the vanity mirror.
Good Lord, she grumbled to herself, shoving her fingers through
her sleep flattened hair.  Look at me.  She was wearing yesterday's
clothes, yesterday's make-up, and she hadn't even brushed her
teeth before going to bed....

She needed to get cleaned up.

Twenty minutes later, she felt like a new woman.  Freshly
showered and dressed in maternity jeans, a long-sleeved
white T-shirt, with a plaid flannel shirt over that, she checked
her reflection in the bedroom's full-length mirror.  She had
brushed her hair but hadn't washed it.  She couldn't yet, not
with her stitches.  So rather than wear it down, she had pulled
it back in a low ponytail, securing the slippery strands with a
clip.  Studying her reflection, Scully couldn't help but chuckle.
With her dress, hair, and lack of make-up, she looked far
younger than her years, more like a grad student or twenty-
something slacker than a middle-aged M.D.

"That is...if you can look past Junior, here," she mumbled,
her rounded middle seemingly the only thing at that moment
standing between her and the Fountain of Youth.

As if in response to her droll observation, the baby she carried
poked her with its foot, the jab striking her high in the belly.

Smiling, she rubbed her hand over the spot and watched in
the mirror as her face transformed with wonder.

"Good morning, little one," she murmured, her eyes
misting, her heartbeat stuttering like a bashful child.  "How
you holding up?"

Rubbing her hand slowly over her abdomen, Scully waited,
eyes locked on her reflection, to see if perhaps the infant
inside her might choose to do it again.  But after a minute
or two of standing there, breath all but suspended, she
realized the kick was probably not going to be repeated
any time soon.

"Just like your father," she mumbled with the faintest of smiles,
fondness, not anger, rumbling beneath the surface of her words.
"I leave you alone and you run wild.  But when I want you to
do something, you just sit there like a lump."

Where was Daddy, anyway?

She needed to share this with him.

Padding down the stairs in her stocking feet, Scully found
Mulder in the kitchen, flour, sugar, eggs and other assorted
food items arranged before him on the counter.

"Hey, good morning," he said, greeting her with a smile.  "How
did you sleep?"

"Like the dead," she said, smiling back at him.  "I don't suppose
the coffee I smell is decaf, is it?"

"No, sorry," he said with regret.  "It's the regular kind.  I didn't
see any decaf in there on the shelf."

"That's okay," she said, crossing past him to the refrigerator.
"I kind of figured that would be the case.  It usually is."  Opening
up the stainless steel side-by-side, she saw it was stocked to the
brim.  The agents Skinner had sent had done their job admirably.
Pulling out a carton of orange juice, she opened up a nearby
cabinet and took down from it a glass.  "How about you?  What
time did you go to bed?"

He shrugged, leaning against the counter, watching her.  "I
don't know.  Skinner got here about an hour after we did.  Your
computer and the discs are in the study in back, by the way.  I
went to sleep right after he left."

She poured the juice and put the carton back.  Coming to stand
beside Mulder, she eyed the mess on the counter before asking,
"What are you doing?"

He seemed to preen just a little.  "Making breakfast."

"You know how to cook?" she asked, taking a sip from her
glass.

His face fell.  "Why?  Don't I?"

Smiling, she shook her head.  "I don't know.  Maybe.  I couldn't
really say.  We ate out a lot, you and I, or ordered in.  I don't
think I ever saw you actually make something more involved
than toast."

Mulder thought about it for a second, then shrugged again.
"Well, how hard could it be?  I mean...this guy has a shelf
full of cookbooks.  All I have to do is follow the instructions."

"What are you planning on making?" Scully asked, coming
around the breakfast bar to take a seat on one of the stools
there.

"Pancakes," he said from th