Dinner would be waiting in the oven: still tepid if 
he made it home by eight, cold and near petrified if 
it was ten.  By midnight, he might as well be eating 
a brick.  He'd feed it to the dog, but there was no 
dog to feed it to.
  
Rebekah packed a lunch for him each morning in case 
he couldn't find time to come home at noon.  Dinner 
was at six, and Mulder was usually milling around the 
kitchen, stomach growling, making a nuisance of 
himself by a quarter 'till.  The presses stopped 
running mid-afternoon, the reporters left, and there 
was little for him to do in his office after four-
thirty.  Except, for the last week, to sit at his 
desk and not go home.  
  
When he hadn't appeared for dinner Monday, Dana had 
let his plate sit on the dining room table all night 
in protest, but Tuesday there was a note saying it 
was in the oven.  By Thursday, according to the 
number of goblets drying on the rack, she didn't even 
set a place for him.  By Friday, there was only one 
place setting, indicating either Sam hadn't come home 
either or Dana hadn't eaten.
  
Mulder ate alone in the kitchen after everyone else 
was asleep, slept in one of the spare bedrooms, and 
left for work before dawn.  The only time he'd seen 
Dana in a week was when Emily had a nightmare and 
he'd heard her calling for "Dahdah" as he came home. 
By the time he'd gotten upstairs, Dana was already in 
the nursery rocking her.  Mulder had watched from the 
doorway for a few seconds, waiting for Dana to say 
something, and then turned and left silently when she 
hadn't.
  
It was almost one in the morning, but Dana was 
sitting at the kitchen table as he unlocked the back 
door.  Mulder hesitated, knowing she didn't want to 
see him, and almost turned away before he realized 
she was asleep, her head resting on a stack of clean 
diapers she'd been folding.  
  
Having two girls younger than two years old meant 
dozens of diapers each day.  The maids laundered 
them, but as a wet winter slid into a cold, wet 
spring, getting them dry was difficult. The cook hung 
them on racks near the stove each evening, and Dana 
must have been folding them when she fell asleep.
  
He tried to be quiet, but Dana looked up as he closed 
the door, disoriented.  She inhaled, blinked, and 
shook her head to clear it, then stood and pushed the 
diapers aside to make a place for him. "Please sit," 
she offered, like he was a restaurant patron and this 
was her job. 

Mulder sat.  She looked at him oddly as he pulled the 
revolver out of his waistband and laid it on the 
table, but didn't ask.  Many men carried side arms, 
especially when they were out late at night.
  
He picked up his fork and poked at the food on the 
plate she set in front of him.  New potatoes were 
easy, and he recognized the petrified green stalks as 
asparagus, but he couldn't identify what was under 
the congealed hollandaise sauce.
  
"What was this?" he asked neutrally, wanting to say 
something.
  
"It was stuffed flounder."
  
Fish.  For Dana and Rebekah, it was Lent.
  
"I bet it was good seven hours ago."
  
"It was nice," she answered politely.
  
"Is there-" Before he could finish, the butter dish 
appeared on the table in front of him. "Thank you," 
he mumbled.
  
Dana added a butter knife and the sugar bowl.
  
Mulder poked the fish a few times before he put his 
fork down, propped his elbow on the table beside his 
plate, put his forehead on his fist, and closed his 
eyes in frustration.
  
"Would you like something else?" Dana asked, her back 
to him.
  
He shook his head, kneading his knuckles into his 
aching forehead.
  
He heard her turn, and felt her eyes boring into the 
top of his head.
  
"Mr. Mulder, would you like-"
  
"Stop it!  Stop being so goddamn polite and yell at 
me.  Slap me.  Say I'm a lying bastard and tell me to 
get the hell away from you, but stop treating me like 
I'm a stranger you're obligated to serve. Stop making
sure my dinner's fine and my shirts are pressed and 
just say you hate me!"
  
He didn't have the courage to look at her, but as far 
as he could tell, she didn't move.
  
"I'm sorry," he continued miserably. "However angry 
and disappointed you are, I'm three times as angry 
and disappointed at myself.  I would kill to make it 
go away ? to never think about it again, but I can't. 
And now, neither can you.  You're going to think 
about it every time you look at me.  And, and I don't 
know how to fix that.  To fix this.  I never wanted 
this ? you, me, us, this." He looked up and gestured 
around the kitchen. "Keeping up appearances.  I'd 
rather be living in a shack and starving than have 
you look at me like that."
  
He stared up at her, his forehead wrinkled, 
alternately clenching his right, then his left 
molars.  After a few seconds, he covered his face
with his hands and closed his eyes again.  His 
fingers smelled of gunpowder, stinging his nose and 
throat.
  
"I never wanted this either." Footsteps approached, 
and he heard china and silver clanking as she removed 
his plate. "This huge house, dresses from Paris, fine 
horses, a box at the opera, dinner at Harvey's - we 
never talked about those things.  When I said I would 
marry you, you could have been a muleskinner for all 
I knew.  I did not want my daughter to be hungry or 
afraid.  I did not want us to be cold.  Aside from 
that, all I wanted was you.  Only you.  Because you 
wanted me. Only me."
  
"I did want only you. I still do." He raised his 
head, still keeping his middle and index fingers 
pressed against his eyelids. "Just tell me what to do 
to fix this.  Do you need time?  Would that help?  Do 
you want me to take Sam and leave?"
  
A chair slid across the floor as she sat near him, 
and she moved the revolver across the table and out 
of the way. "I want you to tell me what happened."
  
He lowered his hands and stared at the wooden 
tabletop before he shook his head. "I can't."
  
"Then tell me why. That is what I do not understand.  
Was it because I was going to have a baby?"

"No."

"Why, then? I did whatever you asked."  

He swallowed dryly, knowing the next two words out of 
her mouth if he didn't answer would be 'get out.'
  
"Dana, I'm not Waterston.  I didn't plan to do it. I 
was so far gone I barely remembered my own name.  I-I 
must have been thinking about it, and, and I should 
have told her 'no,' but I guess I didn't.  Or else 
she didn't listen.  It's not something I wanted to 
happen."
  
She was quiet a long time, and his chair squeaked as 
he shifted nervously.
  
"Is that why you fired Poppy?" she asked. "Because 
you were drunk and she seduced you?"
  
He swallowed again. "She quit."
  
"Dig your grave a little deeper," she said coolly.
  
He nodded. "Yes, that's why I fired her."
  
"Christmas morning?"
  
"Yes," he mumbled, just wanting this conversation 
over with.
  
"Never before then?" 
  
"Once. When I was at Harvard. I told you about it."
  
"You told me you kissed her."
  
If there was a trapdoor in the floor, he'd have used 
it.  If there had been a mouse hole, he'd have tried 
to squirm through. 
  
"It was a thorough, undressed kiss.  I was upset with 
Melly, and my father caught us and said he'd send her 
back to Kavanaugh if I ever did it again.  Looking 
back- looking back, she instigated it, but I didn't 
realize that at the time.  I was so naive I thought 
had.  I wanted to tell Melissa, but Father told me 
not to, that it would just hurt her."
  
"I am not Melissa."
  
"I understand that," he agreed humbly, in his very 
sorry voice.
  
"I told you!  I told you Poppy was dangerous.  I told 
you she'd do anything to have control over you."
  
"Yes, you did," he agreed, even sorrier.
  
"She told Samuel.  Did you know that?  He thinks the 
two of you were lovers.  He thinks you are Sadie's 
father.  He asked me and I told him Poppy was lying.  
Damn it, Mulder!"
  
He didn't have a sorrier voice, so he just looked for 
a way to melt through the cracks in the floor.  
  
"I'd like to put a bullet between that woman's eyes."
  
Mulder reached for the gun, handing it to her butt-
first. "Feel free."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He sat on the sofa, watching her as she undressed for 
bed, and wondering which of them was more nervous.
  
"The sofa's fine," he told her softly. "Or I can keep 
you warm.  Or I can sleep down the hall.  Or am I 
just the maid tonight?  Or have you decided?"
  
In response, she turned for him to untie the back of 
her corset.  He worked the laces loose, then slipped 
the stiff whalebones over her hips and massaged away 
the hurt where they'd pinched.  Her skin beneath her
chemise was warm and yielding, and she stayed still 
while he rubbed.
  
His fingers slid forward, rubbing across her soft 
abdomen and up her torso until he grazed the bottoms 
of her breasts as she stood in front of him.  He 
leaned forward, putting his arms around her waist and 
resting his forehead against the small of her back.  
Still seated, he found the drawstring at the waist of 
her pantalets, untied it, and two legs of loose 
cotton and lace fell to the floor. 
  
"You know I want you.  Only you," he said softly, 
watching the contrast between his tanned hands and 
her white skin in the lamplight as he touched her. 
"And you know that you don't have to do this," he 
whispered, looking up. "I'd never hurt you or force 
you."
  
She didn't say anything, and her reflection in the 
dresser mirror bit her lip.
  
"Are you... doing this?" he asked uncertainly.
  
The reflection nodded slowly, and he gathered her 
chemise and helped her pull it over her head, leaving 
only the delicate silk stockings and the garters that 
held them in place.
  
"Kiss me," he requested, and she turned and gently, 
hesitantly, covered his mouth with hers.  He closed 
his eyes, exhaling, and leaned back on the sofa, 
letting her set the pace.  She moved with him, 
settling half on his lap, half on the sofa cushion 
beside him.  As he'd asked, she kissed him, slowly 
making her way from his lips to his nose, his 
cheekbones and earlobes.  The fabric of his shirt 
pulled slightly as she unbuttoned it, and then rested 
her forehead against the base of his neck for a long 
time.
  
He opened his eyes, slid one hand down her shoulder, 
and cupped the other hand against her face.
  
"I love you," he promised. "You know no one and 
nothing will ever change that."
  
"I know," she murmured as she kissed his palm. "You 
smell like gunpowder."
  
"I shot Spender," he mumbled.
  
She removed her lips from his finger and asked, 
"When?" in surprise.
  
"About forty-five minutes ago."
  
"Why?" 
  
"He shot first.  I went to talk to him about the KKK 
and he tried to kill me. I was gonna tell you."
  
"Dear God, Mulder," she muttered to herself, closed 
her eyes, and resumed tracing a slow path across his 
body with her mouth.
  
Before, he would have done it automatically, but this 
time she put his hands on her breasts, giving him 
permission.  She arched her back as he pulled one 
nipple deep into his mouth, massaging the other with 
his thumb. 
  
"Bed?" he whispered, still not sure she'd say yes. 
  
"What did you have in mind?"
  
"I'm just thankful to be here.  I'll do whatever you 
like.  Or you can do whatever you like to me."
  
"I would like to put you over my knee and blister 
your behind for not telling me the truth about that 
woman months ago."
  
"Later," he promised.  
  *~*~*~*
  
He'd concede to being a little dense, and to becoming 
overly focused on some things to the exclusion of all 
else. He'd concede he was a romantic and could be so 
annoyingly optimistic that others had the urge to hit
him in the face with a shovel.  But even he wasn't 
such a starry-eyed fool that he believed physical 
intimacy equaled forgiveness.  At best, it meant Dana 
was willing to try to move on.  At worst, it meant 
she was his wife and part of her vows included ending 
up on her back whenever he wanted.  His brain leaned 
toward the former, his guilty conscience argued the 
latter.
  
"Are you all right?" he asked sleepily, shifting the 
bare leg he'd intertwined with hers.
  
"Fine," Dana answered softly.
  
"Do you need anything?  A drink of water?  A 
washcloth?"
  
She shook her head slightly and closed her eyes.  She 
felt too warm, so he pushed the covers off, then 
noticed she had goose bumps and pulled them up again.
  
Mulder was too tired to see straight, let alone think 
straight, but sleep seemed as foreign a concept to 
his body as flying.  Too many thoughts buzzed around 
his brain, too random to analyze, too insistent to 
ignore.  He tried to capture and examine them one at 
a time, but they were too transient.  One worry led 
to another, which led to another, like dominoes 
toppling.
  
"Dana, did you want me to leave?  I can sleep on the 
sofa, if you want. Or down the hall."
  
"I want you to be quiet, be still, and let me go to 
sleep."
  
"Oh.  All right," he agreed quickly.  
  
He told himself he'd be completely silent and 
motionless, which immediately caused his entire body 
to itch, twitch, or demanded to be moved.  He fought 
the tickle in his throat as long as possible, holding
his breath until he turned blue before he finally 
coughed.  
  
Dana sighed and rolled over, and he curled up to her 
back, wrapping his arms around her.  
  
"I love you.  Only you.  You know that, don't you?"
  
"Yes, I know," she answered for the hundredth time of 
the night.
  
"You know I'm sorry."
  
"Yes, I know you are sorry," she repeated. "Go to 
sleep."
  
"All right," he answered meekly. "It didn't hurt?" he 
asked, allowing himself one last question.  Or three, 
actually. "It was nice? You weren't just pretending?"
  
He was under no illusions.  There was no need to use 
a more enthusiastic adjective than 'nice.' It had 
been nice.  Adequate.  Done.  Like laundry, but less 
pleasurable.
  
"It was nice. I thought you did not want another baby 
so soon, though," Dana mumbled, her breaths growing 
slower.
  
"Oh," he remembered, about six minutes too late.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Once again, he'd heard the grandfather clock 
downstairs strike two and five, and every fifteen-
minute increment in between.  In another half-hour, 
he could consider the night officially over and say 
he was getting up to go to work.  He didn't usually 
work on Sunday, but he could be out of the house 
before Dana realized that.
  
She gave every appearance of being asleep, but the 
rise and fall of her rib cage beneath his hand 
indicated she wasn't.  When he looked, her eyes were 
open and she was staring out their bedroom window at 
the black night.  He fitted the top of her head 
snugly under his chin, wrapped his arms tighter 
around her, and helped her stare at nothing.
  
In the distance, a train pushed through the darkness, 
its steam whistle floating sadly through the wet air. 
  
"Her name was Anne," he said softly, as though they 
were already in the middle of a long conversation. 
"Not a fancy name, but there was nothing fancy about 
her.  Just Anne.  She was about the age you are now, 
and at the time, I was a few years younger.  A nice 
girl from a well-to-do family.  Quiet.  Bookish, 
though she tried not to let it show.  To see her on 
the street, nothing about her would stand out." 
Mulder paused and thought a few seconds, then added. 
"She had pretty chestnut hair, and nice hands."
  
"She'd married a New York ship-building tycoon, to 
everyone's approval," he continued. "She was a child 
bride her husband had grown tired of, though they 
were still on good terms.  He was in his fifties, 
content to smoke cigars, sip Scotch, and speculate 
about politics all evening. They never had children, 
though I never knew why.  According to gossip, they 
still tried the last Saturday of the month.  He felt 
it was his duty, and I suppose, so did she."
  
Mulder paused again, turning over old memories in his 
mind. "My father owned shares in her husband's ship-
building business, and there were quarterly meetings 
for the stockholders to attend.  Instead of going 
himself, he sent me."
  
Dana shifted slightly, moving the hand she'd slid 
under her pillow.
  
"Anne wasn't at the meetings, of course, but I'd see 
her afterward.  She and her husband stayed in a hotel 
in the city, and he'd invited the shareholders for 
dinner.  Everyone else in the room dated from the 
time when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, so Anne and I 
would take our glasses of wine and walk along the 
edge of Central Park after dinner.  Or we'd sit 
beside the fire in the hotel parlor, discussing books 
or plays.  She'd been to Europe on her honeymoon, to 
the museums and the opera, and we talked about that.  
We talked about Sam and how much she'd wanted a large 
family.  We talked about Melissa enough that she knew 
I was married, and that my wife was very ill.  I 
didn't tell her Melissa had just tried to kill 
herself and Sam, and was locked in an insane asylum 
at the time, but then, I didn't tell anyone that."
  
He cleared his throat, took a breath, and continued, 
"We were friends. Like you, she was easy to talk to.  
I began to look forward to those boring quarterly 
meetings because I'd get to talk to her afterward.  I 
never considered writing her or trying to see her any 
other time because it wouldn't have been proper.  I 
wasn't in love with her, and I never considered she 
might be in love with me."
  
Something stubborn stuck in his throat, and it took 
several tries before he managed to speak again. "It 
was January. Cold, icy, generally miserable.  That 
evening, we talked until her husband invited the men 
to his salon for brandy and cigars.  I rolled my eyes 
at her, knowing they'd pontificate until dawn about 
their own importance, and I'd be bored to death. Anne 
and I would have gone for a walk, but the weather was 
bad, and women weren't welcome in the smoking salon.  
She smiled sympathetically, shook my hand, said 
goodnight to everyone, and went to bed. It wasn't the 
last Saturday of the month, so she and her husband 
had separate bedrooms at the hotel. After she left, I 
realized the key to her room was in my hand."
  
Dana exhaled slowly.
  
"I'd swear Anne had never done anything like that 
before in her life, and it must have taken weeks for 
her to work up the nerve.  I went back to my room and 
just stared at the key.  I took a bath. Shaved. 
Dressed. Had a drink.  Had another drink.  Stared at 
my reflection in the mirror for a long time.  Then I 
sat on my bed and stared at that key.  No one would 
have ever known.  She wasn't asking for romance.  She 
wasn't leaving her husband, and she didn't expect me 
to leave my wife.  She'd wanted to have children, but 
I don't think that was the reason, either. I don't 
know that she even wanted to go to bed with me ? not 
really.  She was just lonely, and so was I.  She was 
looking at the rest of her life and terrified by what 
she saw, and so was I.  I stared at the key for hours 
until I took it to the front desk and told the clerk 
someone had dropped it.  I went back to DC early the 
next morning, and when it was time for the next 
meeting, I told Father I was too busy with the paper 
to go."
    
Dana still hadn't spoken, but he could tell by the 
tension in her shoulders that she was listening.
    
"I saw her once after that: at a ball my parents gave 
to celebrate their wedding anniversary.  All of 
Washington and half of Boston attended.  By then, 
Melissa was better and she liked parties, so we went, 
and Anne and her husband were there."
  
He paused. 
  
"For once, Mother persuaded Melissa that married 
women didn't wear pink, so she wore a dark rose-
colored silk gown from Paris, and men strained their 
necks craning at her.  You've seen the dress; Poppy 
wore it to the first symphony when Sam played.  Melly 
was so beautiful, but for the first time in ages she 
seemed happy, and she just glowed.  She liked to 
dance, so we danced and laughed and drank too much 
champagne, and as we were waltzing, I saw Anne with 
her husband across the room.  He was talking with his 
friends and paying no attention to her, but Anne 
never took her eyes off us. I'd told her Melissa was 
pretty, but she'd never seen her before.  As the 
waltz ended, I saw her leave the ballroom.  As soon 
as I could, I left Melissa with Father and went after 
Anne.  I don't know what I thought I was going to do 
or say, but I couldn't find Anne. Soon, Melissa came 
looking for me and I had to go back to the dance.  
Later, Mother said Anne had a headache and asked her 
husband to take her home ? which Mother thought was 
strange because Anne had asked him to make the trip 
to Washington for the party in the first place."
  
"You never saw her again?" Dana asked quietly.
  
"No.  A few weeks before the war began, her husband 
was giving his friends a tour of one of his new 
ships, and she accompanied him.  They took the ship 
out of the harbor, and the captain and Anne's 
husband, wanting to show off its speed, pushed the 
engines for the first time. The boiler blew.  Anne 
was killed, along with her husband and several 
businessmen. You may have read about the accident in 
the newspaper. That was Anne."
  
Dana's back shifted against his front, and he wrapped 
his arms tighter around her, nuzzling her neck.  
  
"During the war, I used to sit beside the campfire 
and watch the flames and think ? if just one thing 
had been different that day, she'd still be alive.  
She might have had a chill and decided to stay in.  
Or maybe she might have waited on the dock as the men 
took the ship out, not wanting to be in the way.  Or 
maybe, at my parents' party, I'd caught up with her, 
so the day her husband sailed the ship, she'd stayed 
home to write to me in secret.  I thought of a 
multitude of maybes, Dana, but that didn't change the 
reality, however random and unnecessary her death 
seemed.  I just wish..." He paused. "When she gave me 
her room key, I thought- I know I did the right thing 
by leaving that night and by staying away.  But when 
I read that she had died... I've never been so sorry 
to have done the right thing.  And I've done a 
multitude of 'right things' on which to base that 
judgment."
  
Dana was misunderstanding; he could feel her body 
tightening again.
  
"I don't mean I wish I'd had the affair. I mean that 
I hurt her, Dana. She was my friend and I owed her 
the truth and instead I took the easy way out.  Like 
you, she deserved more than that. If I would cross 
paths with her in some future universe, maybe I could 
make it up to her, but I don't think that will ever 
happen. Some things only happen once, and she was one 
of those things."
  
Far away, the northbound stream engine whistled again 
as it left the station, its belly heavy with white-
hot coals.

"I just wanted to tell you. I'd never told anyone 
before."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
For the first time in months, he could smell her skin 
on his the next morning, and he didn't go to the 
basin to wash it away.  Instead, he dressed quietly, 
made coffee and drank it in a dark kitchen, then sat 
at his desk for several minutes, trying to compose a 
brief note to her by lamplight.  In the end, the 
words wouldn't come, so he put the paper away and 
walked softly up the front stairs as the rest of the 
house slept.
  
When he returned to their bedroom, Dana had drifted 
to the other side of the bed, with one arm tucked 
under her pillow and the blankets draped across her 
hips.  The air from the open window was damp and 
cool, so he sat on the edge of the mattress, trying 
to pull the blankets higher without waking her.
  
"Did you want..." she asked softly, as he covered her 
with the blanket.
  
He wanted to believe time healed all wounds, 
including theirs.
  
"No," he whispered back. "Sleep."
   
She moved closer to the center of the bed, and he 
stretched out on edge, laying on his side and 
propping his head up on his hand.  Their bedroom was 
dim, and her face was only the faintest outline of 
light and shadow.  Her eyes remained closed, but she 
was no more sleeping than he was.

"Dana," he said quietly, and she opened her eyes. "I 
do want something."
  
She opened her eyes, watching him and waiting.
  
"I want a second chance. I want you to want me," he 
finally said softly. "Really. Like you used to. I 
want you to trust me again. Like you used to.  I want 
to be able to close my eyes and let the rest of the 
world vanish.  I think you want that too."
   
"I do."
  
Dana shifted again, pulling the blankets higher.
  
"I can't change what happened," he told her. "All I 
know to do now is mind my P's and Q's and wait.  I 
won't give you any reason to doubt me ever again.  
I'll be at work when I'm supposed to be; I'll be home 
when I'm supposed to be..." 
  
He didn't know what else to promise, so he just 
trailed off, closing his mouth and reaching out to 
stroke her auburn hair. "I'm not Waterston. And I am 
sorry."
  
"I know." 
  
He waited, and it was a long time before she spoke 
again. 
  
"I tell myself that it should not matter, that if it 
had happened the other way around and someone took 
advantage of me, you would-"
   
"I'd kill him is what I'd do," he said.
  
She propped her head up on her hand, unconsciously 
mimicking his posture. "You said you were with her 
once at Harvard, but-"
  
"Almost," he corrected as if it mattered. 'Almost' 
only counted with cannons and horseshoes.  Besides, 
when he was eighteen, the difference between 'almost' 
and 'just did' could be seconds.
  
"But now you are not an innocent boy lured into her 
evil clutches," she continued, her words soft in the 
pre-dawn violet-time. "You knew she told people she 
was your mistress.  You knew she despised me.  You 
knew she toyed with men, but you let her stay, even 
after I objected.  You said it was for Samuel, but he 
was no closer to Poppy than he is to Rebekah. I think 
you let Poppy stay because she reminded you of Sarah. 
I know it makes me sound like a trusting fool, but I 
believe she took advantage of you - but I also cannot 
help but believe that you put yourself in a position 
that she could.  Because you wanted her to.  And 
passive adultery is like a lie of omission: prettier, 
but no less wrong." 
  
Mulder nodded slowly, and after a few seconds, 
admitted, "Fair enough."
  
Like most of Dana's statements, it was cohesive and 
difficult to dismiss.  The facts, as she understood 
them, fit perfectly. Her words smarted because all 
she had wrong was the date.
  
He was sick and tired of Dana being right.
  
She lay down again, and, though she didn't move, she 
seemed to shrink back from him a little. 
  
He closed his eyes tightly, his head heavy against 
his hand.  He felt like there were hailstones pelting 
him from all sides, leaving him bruised and sore and 
praying that the end of the storm was in sight so he 
could begin to heal.
  
"I should not have said that," he heard her say.
  
"Yes," he responded quietly, "You should have.  I 
told you that's your job: to tell me the truth."
  
"Still, I-"
  
"No," he corrected. "Don't be."
  
He moved forward, kissing, rather than her lips, her 
bare shoulder. Her skin was cool and smooth under his 
mouth, and she stayed perfectly still, not even 
breathing. 

Inside his mind, he heard the doctor's voice telling 
him, after Cally was born, that he'd just gotten a 
miracle. Mulder had already gotten his second chance 
with Dana, and this was what he'd done with it.
  
"I'll be home for lunch," he promised, getting up, 
and heard her exhale.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
If one looked up his name in the Book of Dutiful, it 
had a star beside it and a notation 'see also: 
dutiful husband.' He knew how to mind his manners; 
he'd just never done it with Dana. She was resilient, 
self-reliant, and he'd been preoccupied with the 
newspaper, the aftermath of the war, his mother's 
illness, Samuel.  Dana didn't require the constant, 
gentle attentiveness Melissa had.  Or he hadn't felt 
she merited it.  Mulder was rather good at noticing a 
cliff only as he teetered at the edge of it, flailing 
his arms and desperately trying to grasp the wind.

Although Dana still didn't have much of an appetite, 
they went out to dinner and made painful, stilted 
conversation about nothing of great importance. 
Before she could say anything, he sent her plate back 
to the kitchen when it arrived, remembering she 
despised tomatoes.  He saw her eyeing his carrots and 
fed her one with his fingers rather than fork.  A man 
at the next table cleared his throat in disapproval, 
and their waiter looked appalled.  Dana chewed, and 
Mulder winked at her mischievously.
  
Although she tired easily and the doctor advised 
against social outings, they accompanied Sam to the 
opening of a new wing at the Smithsonian. Crowds 
still bothered his son, so Samuel wandered off with 
his young curator friend, who turned out to be real 
and was probably the only other person more 
interested in the paintings than the party.  In Sam's 
absence, Andrew Wilder's blonde wife asked Dana her 
opinion of a controversial male nude, knowing Dana 
knew little about art.  She swished her lace fan, 
batted her eyes at Mulder, and asked if Dana cared 
for Greek sculpture - had she been to Athens to see 
the ruins?  Everyone who was anyone had seen the 
ruins, she added cattily.  Dana examined the marble 
statue, its genitals eye level with her, and 
responded, "No, but I think Greece must be quite 
cold." Mulder choked on his champagne, but other men 
only started snickering when Mrs. Andrew Wilder 
looked bewildered and Mr. Andrew Wilder looked 
mortified.  Dana had blinked innocently, but Mulder 
knew better.
  
He covered her with his coat when she fell asleep in 
the carriage, then put his arm around her awkwardly.  
He steered her to bed and helped her undress.  They 
kissed, touched, murmured, made love until her orgasm 
came, and he pulled out just before his.  It was nice 
- less than passion, more than obligation.
  
He left for his office at six, putting a note on the 
night stand saying he missed her and he'd be home at 
noon.  Dana seldom disturbed him at work, but he 
urged her to have the groom drive her whenever she 
liked ? to meet him for lunch, to ask a question, to 
have him sign a bank draft: anything so she could 
see he was where he was supposed to be.  He invited 
her for two weeks before she finally came, bringing 
Cally to show him her first tooth.  He didn't grit 
his teeth as she talked with Byers, who glanced 
uncertainly at Mulder when she invited him to hold
the baby.  Dana asked Byers to Sunday dinner and 
Mulder later reiterated the invitation.  Byers came, 
bringing his wife and twin girls with him.
  
Mulder left his office at four each day and was in 
the kitchen to annoy the cook well before dinner.  He 
took Saturdays and Sundays off.  He went with her to 
the market, following with the basket as she shopped
and not saying a word about all the fancy teas she 
bought.  He drove her to Mass without complaint, and 
finally allowed Dana's priest to christen Cally.  He 
bought her a hat. And another hat. A basket of French 
soaps and bath oils. A necklace. And another 
necklace. Earbobs. And anything else he saw in a 
store window that he thought she'd like.  The DC 
jewelers began licking their lips when he entered 
their shops.
  
He signed the bank drafts, but he had her keep the 
ledgers so she knew where the all money went, not 
just what he spent on the house.  After dinner, he 
read Scientific American aloud and waded through the 
tongue-twisting articles in The Lancet.  He rubbed 
her feet.  He brought her hot tea made from her fancy 
tea leaves and asked about her day.  He listened as 
she answered.  The nights she asked if he was coming 
to bed, he did; the nights she didn't, he slept on 
the sofa.  She asked fifteen out of twenty-one 
nights, which he felt was an encouraging ratio.  
  
They'd made love seven times, been out to dinner or 
to the theater four. There had been one reception at 
the Smithsonian and one warm evening when they'd 
bundled up the girls, drafted Sam to drive, and gone 
for a buggy ride.  Poppy had been mentioned zero 
times.  On paper, the numbers looked positive.
  
Winter was passing, but the hurt Poppy left behind 
was slower to remit. He prayed he wasn't what Dana 
had given up - or given up on - for Lent, or if he 
was, comforted himself that Easter was coming.    
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He'd been married almost half his life, and in that 
time he'd learned there were some things it just 
wasn't wise to share with his wife. Gentle honesty 
was a virtue; brutal honesty meant a man lacked 
foresight and imagination.
  
There was no need for Dana to know a whore ate his 
lunch.
  
A girl, really. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Frankie had 
been one of his newsboys for years, her sex concealed 
under knickers, a floppy cap, and dirt. She was an 
orphan making her way as best as she could, so it was 
no surprise that she'd found selling herself more 
profitable than selling his newspapers. For pretty 
girls, prostitution was an alluring, if short-lived, 
career.  In DC, there were more streetwalkers than 
Methodists, but few over twenty years old.
  
The arrangement was innocent, but difficult to 
explain to a wife.  
  
Mulder often went home for lunch, so whatever Rebekah 
packed for him would have gone to waste.  Instead, he 
left his lunch in one of the empty wooden crates at 
the mouth of the alley near The Evening Star each 
morning.  Occasionally, the girl would be waiting to 
return the remnants as he left work, but if not, it 
would be there: the silverware washed, the tin wiped 
out, and the linen napkin folded, ready for him to 
take home.  He might go weeks without seeing Frankie, 
and the only evidence she was still alive was his 
empty lunch container each evening. Rebekah thought 
Frohike ate it, and there was no reason to tell 
anyone any different.
  
"Maybe she doesn't work on Good Friday," Samuel 
offered, leaning against a lamp pole as they waited.
  
Mulder stood on tiptoe to see as far into the dark 
alley as possible without entering it.  The tall 
buildings on either side blocked out the sunlight, so 
the cobblestones were slick with green moss and old 
garbage.  Pickpockets, prostitutes, and pimps lurked 
in the shadows like spiders waiting for their prey, 
and the alley smelled of whisky, urine, and sour 
dampness.
  
"No, we're early. I'll just tell Rebekah I forgot 
it," Mulder decided. "I'll get it Monday."
  
Growing up among reporters and politicians, Samuel 
wasn't innocent of the city's dark underbelly, but an 
errant lunch tin didn't merit a father-son outing 
down Rum Row.
  
Mulder turned to leave, and Sam pushed off the 
lamppost when they heard footsteps approaching. 
   
Frankie seemed surprised to see Sam with him, but 
smiled warmly and smoothed her dirty dress and 
straggly hair.  She apologized for making them wait, 
then, instead of handing the tin to Mulder, she put 
it on a crate and stepped back so he didn't have to 
come near her to pick it up. Frankie stayed in the 
shadowy alley, so passers by assumed they were either 
talking to a crate or relieving themselves.
  
He'd seen her at the loading docks behind The Evening 
Star, and been surprised at how brazenly she 
propositioned the men.  She'd asked him once, shyly, 
a year ago - possibly one of the first men she'd 
approached - and he'd have laughed if he hadn't been 
so embarrassed.  He'd given her his lunch instead, 
and the next morning, she'd been waiting to return 
the tin.  She'd still looked too skinny, so he'd 
given her his lunch again, and a tradition had been 
born.
  
"Your face's healin' real good," she observed, more 
comfortable talking to Sam.  When he wasn't making 
forts under his grandfathers' desks in Congress, he'd 
spent his childhood playing with newsboys and 
printers' apprentices, so he'd known Frankie when she 
was still a boy. "The scar makes you look dangerous." 
  
"Do you think so?" Sam answered, liking the sound of 
that.
  
Mulder rolled his eyes. Young or old, rich or poor, 
the ladies liked Sam.
  
"I do," Frankie said. "I got something that would 
help it heal, though. It's back at my flat.  Mr. 
Mulder..."
  
Mulder opened his mouth to decline, but stopped when 
her eyes asked him to come with her, cutting back and 
forth between him and Sam.  He looked at her in stern 
disapproval.  She knew better than to proposition 
him, especially in front of his son.
  
"My stepmother has something she puts on it.  Thank 
you, though," Sam responded before Mulder could.  He 
stepped back, looking uncomfortable and wanting away 
from her. 
  
"Mr. Mulder, will you talk to me?  Alone?"
  
"No," he said firmly, turning to follow Sam.
  
"Please," she pleaded. "I don't mean nothing by it.  
Just talk."
  
"I told you no.  Let's go, Sam-"
  
An unsteady figure approached behind Frankie, swaying 
drunkenly as she made her way through the crates.  
She stopped, not wanting to step into the light.  
Frankie glanced back at her, then at Mulder.
  
"Sammy, go home," he amended. "Tell Dana I'm a few 
minutes behind you." His son had been ambling away, 
but turned, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. 
"I'll be home for dinner," Mulder added. "Go on.  I 
forgot something in my office."
  
Samuel wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Father, 
don't."
  
"Just go," he mumbled, focused on the tall, slim 
figure behind Frankie. "Get out of here.  Hurry up."
  
Sam slouched away, glancing over his shoulder 
worriedly.  Mulder didn't move until he was out of 
sight. "I thought you went north," he said, stepping 
into the alley. "Did he get tired of you already?"
  
Poppy stared at him, glassy-eyed.  She was gaunt, 
hollow-eyed, and her dress was unbuttoned so low that 
most of her breasts showed. There was still frost and 
even snow in April, but she was barefooted, and her 
long black hair hung in dirty clumps.   
  
"You looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy asked, 
slurring her words.  Her face twitched, then resumed 
its drunken stare.
  
 "She gets mixed up," Frankie explained. "I been 
lettin' her stay with me - help out with the rent, 
you know - and yesterday she said she know'd Fox 
Mulder. Used to know you real friendly, you 
understand.  Got a baby and all.  I didn't know if 
that was true, and I didn't want her embarrassin' you 
in front of your boy."
  
"Thank you, Frankie," he answered without looking 
away from Poppy. "You can go now."
  
Frankie, accustomed to being dismissed, left quickly, 
vanishing down the dark alley and into the labyrinth 
of tenements and slums.
  
"You looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy repeated 
numbly.
  
"Where's your flat?" he heard his voice say.
  
"Something wrong with right here?"
  
"I'll pay," he responded, knowing the magic words.
  
She shrugged and turned, drunkenly leading the way 
into the dirty shadows.  Although it was less than a 
block from his office, he'd never been past the mouth 
of the alley.  Nice people didn't like being accosted 
on the street, but the police left prostitutes alone 
as long as they stayed in the alleys.  Like being in 
Murder Bay, any man who stepped off Pennsylvania 
Avenue did so for a reason.
  
Poppy weaved a path across the slimy cobblestones, 
then turned left and navigated a series of narrow 
passages.  He followed her up some steps, under a low 
archway, and then through a wooden door and into a 
run-down brick building.
  
"My room's this way," she mumbled as she pushed open 
another door and walked down a dim hall, keeping one 
hand on the peeling wall to steady herself.
  
Mulder swallowed and followed, glancing around.  
Whatever the building had once been, it had been 
divided into dozens of ten by ten flats, most without 
windows, and many which could only be reached by 
crossing through someone else's room.  The hallway 
reeked of alcohol and sweat, and he heard snores 
through the walls: many of the tenants, like wolves, 
slept during the day and came out to feed on the 
public at night.
  
She entered a door without knocking, and he followed, 
crossing through a flat containing an unconscious old 
man, then another occupied by a large family with 
diapers hung to dry on lines strung across the room.  
The mother sat beside a stove, nursing the latest 
baby and staring at the fire.  She didn't seem to 
notice them.
  
Poppy and Frankie's room seemed tinier and darker 
than the previous ones.  There was a soiled mattress 
on the floor, a table with a dishpan, few dirty 
dishes, and a lamp on it, and a rickety wooden chair.  
A curtain hung from the low ceiling, cordoning off 
one corner.  There was a bucket, a stove, and a slop 
jar in another.
  
She turned toward him, starting on the rest of the 
buttons of her dress. "You want this off or up?" 
  
"Poppy, do you know who I am?"
  
She nodded, still struggling to unbutton the front of 
her bodice. "Fox.  You want this off?"
  
"No, I want to know what you've done with Sadie. 
Where is she?"
  
"You want her?"
  
"I want you to tell me where she is.  Does Alex have 
her?"
  
"You want me. You love me," she said, having trouble 
articulating her words. "Not now, but you did."
  
"No, I don't love you. I've never loved you. And if I 
ever said I wanted you, I was mistaken."
  
"You do; you did," she insisted. "You wrote it to 
me."
  
"I wrote what to you?"
  
She fumbled her pocket, then produced fragments of a 
note so worn it looked like cloth instead of paper.  
She put them on the table, rearranging them like 
puzzle pieces.  He recognized the messy script as 
his, but couldn't tell what he'd written or imagine 
why he'd write it to Poppy, who couldn't read.
  
"I know what it says. I remember. It says 'Passing 
stranger, you do not know how-"
  
"...How longingly I have looked upon you.  You must 
be she I was seeking. You give me the pleasure of 
your eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my beard, 
breast, and hands in return.  I will see to it I do 
not lose you,'" he quoted. "I wrote that to Dana when 
we were first married, not to you.  Where did you get 
that?"
  
"It was in your coat pocket. You gave your coat to 
me. You wanted me to find it."
  
"When did I give you my coat?" he demanded, feeling 
violated all over again.  Nothing between he and Dana 
was any of this nasty, manipulative woman's business 
- especially not love letters.  He wanted to make 
sure Sadie was safe with Alex, then wipe the memory 
of Poppy Kavanaugh out of his mind and off his body. 
"I never wanted you to find anything.  That's none of 
your business."
  
He'd written the note, then been embarrassed, decided 
not to give it to Dana, and written another.  He'd 
put the first note in the pocket of his favorite coat 
with the rest of his clutter and forgotten about it.  
The only time he recalled loaning Poppy a coat was 
months later - after she'd discovered Dana's 
pregnancy and started crying, he realized.  He'd told 
Poppy he needed her, asked her to start spending the 
night, and loaned her a coat to wear home because it 
was cold. The next day, after months of sullen 
jealousy and covert sniping, she was the picture of 
solicitousness to Dana.  He remembered being puzzled 
but grateful for her sudden change in attitude.
  
Dana had told him he could be a little dense.
  
He started to speak, and Poppy looked up, her face 
twitching again.  The spasm spread down her shoulder 
and arm, and took several seconds before it subsided.  
  
"Syphilis," he realized nauseously, forgetting 
whatever else he'd intended to say.  The confusion, 
the spasms, clumsy movements, slurred speech: "Oh my 
God.  You aren't drunk; you have syphilis.  You've 
had it- you've had it for a long time."
  
Late-stage syphilis took years to gestate, so 
soldiers who contracted it early in the war were just 
beginning to die.  Most assumed when their fever, 
stiffness, headache, and lesions went away, they were 
cured, but the disease had only turned and silently 
attacked their hearts and brains. There were 
hospitals of afflicted ex-soldiers, but most 
prostitutes didn't live long enough to show the end-
stage symptoms.
  
"You do, don't you?"
  
Poppy looked away.
  
"Don't you?" he demanded. "And you knew."
  
"Don't tell Sam," she mumbled.
  
He heard movement behind the curtain, and little 
fingers pulled back the edge as brown eyes peeked 
out, recognizing his voice.  He opened his wallet, 
emptying it contents on the battered table.  One 
hundred, eighty-six dollars and - he fished through 
his pockets - ninety-two cents.  That would pay for a 
decent flat, a doctor, and buy as much morphine and 
whiskey as she wanted as her body and brain succumbed 
to the disease.  Without a word, he pushed the 
curtain aside, picked up Sadie, and started to walk 
out.  As he reached the doorway, he turned back, 
snatched the faded scraps of his note to Dana off of 
the table, and shoved them in his pocket as he left.  
Poppy didn't try to stop him.
  
  *~*~*~*

He kept his promise: he arrived in time for dinner.  

Half of Washington had seen him standing on 
Pennsylvania Avenue holding Sadie, and the other half 
had seen him at the door of the orphanage, looking at 
the hungry, dirty faces and trying to will himself to 
leave her.  The gossip would spread as fast as the 
streetcar, and he'd rather tell Dana before someone 
else did.
  
Sam was at the kitchen table, holding Cally and 
keeping a nervous eye on the back door, and Rebekah 
was standing in front of the stove. They turned as he 
came in, staring at the child he carried.  Sam got up 
in surprise, putting Cally back in her cradle.
  
Rebekah surveyed his face, then Sadie. "You're a 
fool, Fox," she said icily, then turned and continued 
stirring her pot.
  
Rapid footsteps pattered down the hall, accompanied 
by gleeful shrieks as Emily escaped her mother's 
efforts to get her dressed and ran naked for Sam's 
arms.  Samuel stooped to pick her up, then turned 
back to his father, still too stunned to speak.
  
Dana followed, laughing and calling playfully for her 
daughter to come back, then stopped short when she 
saw Mulder holding Sadie.  Her mouth hung open, and 
she slowly lowered the clean dress and diaper she 
must have been planning to put on Emily. In a cradle 
near the stove, Cally gurgled happily.
  
"We need to talk," he said quietly.

    *~*~*~*
  
As a last resort, he told her the truth. Dana sat 
calmly in the library and listened for half an hour 
as he explained that he didn't remember what happened 
in Louisville, and that he'd never considered Sadie 
might be his until Poppy had said so Christmas 
morning.  That he still had strong doubts. That he 
hadn't meant to mislead Dana about what happened 
when, but she'd misunderstood and he hadn't corrected 
her.  He promised he'd find a nice family to take 
care of Sadie, and Dana would never see her again, 
but that he wouldn't have her starve in an 
orphanage or live in filth. 
  
Dana nodded that she understood, excused herself, and 
went upstairs.  He stopped to check that Sadie had 
gotten a bath and something to eat, so it wasn't 
until he followed Dana to the bedroom a few minutes 
later that he'd realized she was packing.
  
"Whether she's mine or not," he argued, taking the 
clothes out of the valise as soon as she put them in.  
Dana was packing her clothes, not his. "She's Sarah 
and Melissa's niece. Her mother will be dead in a 
matter of months - weeks, maybe.  Do you expect me to 
just walk away? She's not even three years old. She's 
a slow, helpless child.  How can you be so cold?"
  
"Yes, she is a child," Dana agreed evenly, closing 
the valise and fastening the latch. "But you, Mr. 
Mulder, are an ass."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He hadn't expected Dana to be delighted, but he'd 
thought she'd understand.  He'd just explained that 
he'd never been unfaithful to her. Sadie had been 
almost a year and a half old when he'd married Dana.  
As Samuel had once described it, she was a leftover 
obligation.  He hadn't loved her mother, he hadn't 
wanted to be with her mother, but that didn't change 
her being his responsibility.
  
Dana didn't seem to see it that way, and he had to 
stand in front of the bedroom door to keep her from 
leaving.
  
"Get out of my way," she ordered through her teeth.
  
"Where is it you think you're going?"
  
"Away from you."
  
"For how long?"
  
"Forever.  Maybe longer."
  
"You're-" She reached for the knob and he blocked her 
hand. "You're serious?  You're that angry?"
  
Her eyes flashed dangerously.  Obviously, she was 
that angry.
  
"Didn't you hear me?" he insisted. "I don't remember 
being with Poppy. I can't even swear it really 
happened, but if it did, it happened years ago."
  
"I asked you to get out of my way," she repeated, 
trying for the knob again.  He grabbed her wrist, and 
they struggled. "Let go of me!" she demanded, but he 
didn't.
  
"Just listen! Listen! I-I-I-I've never been 
unfaithful to you.  I've never even wanted to. I 
didn't tell you about Sadie because I didn't want to 
hurt you.  I'm sorry.  I love you.  I don't love 
Poppy.  I've never loved Pop-"
  
She jerked out of his grasp and tried to open the 
door again.  In desperation, he grabbed both her 
wrists and pushed her back against the bed, holding 
her there. 
  
"Stop it! Listen to me!  I'm sorry I lied, but I 
love-"
  
"A man came yesterday. A landlord," she told him 
coolly. "He had a bill for rent on a flat near your 
office.  I thought it was for Miss Clara Barton, but 
he said it was not.  But he would not tell me why or 
for whom the rooms were rented, except that they were 
rented by you, just after Christmas, for a woman.  I 
put the bill on your desk, but told him he was 
mistaken."
  
Mulder let go of her hands and stepped back. "I, I 
told Poppy to rent a flat and I'd pay for it.  When I 
told her to leave.  Christmas morning. I didn't know 
she'd actually rented one."
  
She shook her head, not believing him.
  
"Dana, that's the truth!"
  
"Whose truth?  Which version of the truth?  Whatever 
is most convenient? Whatever will pacify me?"
  
"I knew you'd look at Poppy and see Dori, look at me 
and see Waterston. That's why I didn't tell you.  I 
was trying not to hurt you!"
  
"Well, you failed," she said coolly.  When he opened 
his mouth, she added, "I do not want to hear about 
any more errant notes or misunderstandings or 
oversights or whatever else you can conjure up. You 
are a very good storyteller and I was very gullible, 
but you can save your breath.  I just want to get my 
girls and leave."
  
Her forehead wrinkled, and she sniffed as she 
struggled not to cry.
  
He swallowed, trying to get the lump in his throat to 
go down.  If he was her, he wouldn't believe him 
either. "Not if you're going to have a baby," he 
answered, grasping at the closest straw. 
  
"I am not."
  
"But you're not certain.  You can't be certain yet.  
And you're not taking my girls anywhere."
  
"Why not?  You have a plethora."
  
He shook his head. She was his wife, and as much as 
it sickened him to play that card, she legally 
belonged to him.  Any income she generated belonged 
to him. She couldn't write a bank draft, transfer a 
title, or sign a contract.  She couldn't divorce him 
without his consent, and if she simply left, he could 
send a bounty hunter to bring her back.  It was his 
family's name on the guest list at The White House; 
if they went to court over Cally, Dana would lose.
  
"You can't take Cally.  You can't feed her, and you 
can't pay her wet nurse to go with you. I'm not 
supporting Emmy unless you say she's mine, which 
means you can't take her either.  If you leave 
tonight, you're leaving alone."
  
He understood as much as, "How dare you!" before she 
switched to Gaelic, so angry he flinched and so 
loudly the neighbors could follow along.
  
He stepped back again, leaning against the bedroom 
door.  He wiped his nose on his sleeve repeatedly, 
then focused on the ceiling.  She was short; she 
couldn't see him crying if he looked up.  
  
He might be an ass, and he might be desperate, but he 
wasn't forcing her to stay if she didn't want to.
  
"Wait another month.  If there's no baby, you can 
leave. I'll buy you a house here or you can take 
Emily anywhere within a day's train ride of DC. You 
can see Cally whenever you want. I'll-"
  
"What about Samuel?"
  
"Sam has wanted me to divorce you for months."
  
He heard the beginning of a sob, then carefully 
controlled silence.  He knew Dana.  If it killed her, 
she wasn't going to start bawling in front of him.
  
"I'll pay for whatever you want," he continued 
shakily. "If you still want a divorce, a legal 
separation- Just stay another month.  I won't bother 
you.  I won't even speak to you."
  
"What if there is a baby?"
  
"Then, I, uh..." He trailed off, not wanting to even 
say it.  He took a breath and answered, "Then you 
will have to stay until it's born."
  
"This baby: you would take it as well?"
  
"You would not take it with you if you left, no," he 
responded.
  
"I despise you."
  
"Yes, I know that." 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus XIII