Even on a good day, Dana could be a challenge.  Or 
just difficult, depending on how generous he was 
feeling.  She had and trusted her own opinions, and 
wasn't hesitant about sharing them, particularly with 
him. When he didn't agree with her, she folded her 
arms, pursed her lips, pushed her eyebrows together, 
and looked at him like he'd just blown his nose on 
her skirt.
  
At first, he'd blamed it on relying on herself for so 
long. The war had taken able-bodied men from their 
homes for years, leaving women in the south to assume 
previously unheard of roles and responsibilities. 
He'd thought, in time, she'd stop questioning his 
every move. 
  
He'd been dead wrong, but he'd married her anyway.  
She was generally difficult in an unintentionally 
erotic way, which might explain why most of their 
arguments began in the library and ended in bed.
  
But when she wanted to work at it, she could turn 
being difficult into an art form.  
  
Until he'd thought about it, he hadn't realized he 
didn't know Dana's maiden name, let alone her 
mother's name. He didn't have an address or a 
description of her mother, aside from being Irish and 
a midwife.  The only link he could think to track 
down was that her father and brothers - Bill and 
Charlie - had died on the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay.  
Less than a hundred men had been aboard, so it wasn't 
hard to find a William - two Williams - and a Charles 
with the same last name.  Two Lieutenants and a 
Captain Scully. From there, he'd checked the pensions 
for Federal widows and arrived at a series of 
tenement buildings in the immigrant section of 
Manhattan on Houston Street.
  
"Wait here," he told Sam, closing the door of the 
cab.
  
His son was busy sketching the street vendors, and 
nodded, not really listening.
  
Mulder stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by the 
lilting Gaelic and gravelly German voices around him, 
and trying to develop some plan.  The address he'd 
been given wasn't a single residence, but almost an 
entire city block.
  
"Mrs. Margaret Scully," he said slowly, stopping a 
passing redheaded matron. He patted his stomach, then 
held his arms as if he was rocking a baby and looked 
at her urgently.
  
She answered something Gaelic that wasn't 'I love 
you,' 'I am fine,' or 'Get off my hair,' and pointed 
to the top of a brick building on her left.  
  
Using that method, he made his way through maze of 
buildings, alleys, and staircases, which were crowded 
with the sounds and smells of too many families' 
laundry and suppers and children. "Mrs. Margaret 
Scully?" he repeated, reaching the top floor, and a 
stout German man pointed at the door again, then 
gestured for Mulder to knock. 
  
"Mrs. Margaret Scully?" he asked the petite woman who 
answered, fairly sure it was.  She was dressed in 
black calico, and the small gold cross around her 
neck was identical to the one Dana wore. Her coloring 
was darker, but the delicate bone structure was the 
same, as though there were a few fairy folk among her 
long-forgotten ancestors.
  
She nodded, looked him up and down, and asked, "Hat 
ihre frau das kleinkind?" as she dried her hands and 
untied her apron.  When he wrinkled his forehead, 
trying to translate her bad German, she tried, "Do 
bean cheile - An bhfuil do bean ceile ag iompar 
clainne?"
  
He continued staring at her, so she sighed and asked, 
"Bean chabhrach?" very slowly. "Torrach?  Bab?"
  
"Baby?" he responded, catching the last word. "Yes - 
I mean no," he answered.  As he'd pantomimed his way 
to her door, he'd gotten congratulations in four 
languages and that German man had patted his shoulder 
and offered him a tattered cigar. "I mean yes, my 
wife is going to have a baby, but no, not yet, and 
no, that's not why I'm here."
  
Mrs. Scully regarded him warily.  Now he knew where 
Emily had gotten that expression.
  
Gesturing for her to wait, Mulder took a small, 
framed daguerreotype from his coat pocket, which he'd 
taken from Dana's dressing table and hidden in his 
valise before he'd left DC.  It was a picture of 
Dana's father and brothers in their Navy uniforms, 
with her father seated and his sons standing on 
either side of him.
  
"Was this your family? Husband?  Sons?" he asked 
slowly, pointing back and forth between Margaret and 
the sepia-colored daguerreotype.
  
She responded with a long explanation that sounded 
affirmative.
  
He looked past her, into the flat, trying to see 
something Dana might find objectionable.  It was 
clean, comfortable, homey, warm.  Not lavish, but not 
impoverished, either.  As a midwife, Margaret Scully 
lived better than most immigrants.  Unfortunately, 
there was no big sign with an arrow that read 'this 
is why I won't speak to my mother.'
  
Mrs. Scully was still standing in the doorway, 
waiting.
  
Hoping he was making the right decision, he opened 
his pocket watch, showing her the photograph inside 
front cover.  He liked pictures, but Dana detested 
posing, and it had taken a week's pestering before 
she'd agreed.  He'd been standing just behind the 
photographer, teasing her, and her expression was a 
charming mixture of annoyance and amusement. He loved 
the resulting photograph as much as she hated it.
  
"Dana," she said immediately, then looked at him, 
wondering who he was.
  
In response, he tapped his wedding ring, then turned 
his watch over and opened the back cover, showing her 
one of the two pictures secreted there. "Emily."
   
She examined it closely, then pointed to the third 
picture he carried in his pocket watch.  It was the 
last one he had of Sam with Melly, taken the spring 
Sam was thirteen and before Melly was showing with 
Sarah.
  
"Samuel," he answered, nodding, then put his hand on 
his chest. "Mine. My son."
  
She pointed to Melissa's image, then to his wedding 
ring, and he nodded again.  He'd probably just 
communicated that Melly was his wife and Dana was his 
mistress, but it was the best he could do.
  
She turned away without responding.  Uncertain 
whether they were finished speaking, he waited, 
occasionally turning his head and noticing Mrs. 
Scully's neighbors hanging out of their doorways, 
keeping tabs on him.
  
"Dana," Margaret Scully said, returning with a stack 
of a half-dozen letters, tied with twine into a neat 
bundle. "Dana," she repeated, handing them to him.  
The top one had been postmarked in New York in 
October 1861, sent to a street address in Savannah, 
and returned unopened.
  
"All right.  Yes, I'll give them to her.  To Dana."
  
She nodded, and, after a few uncomfortable seconds of 
silence, put her hand on the door as if she expected 
him to leave, so he did.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
Byers seldom mentioned it, but his parents had been 
killed in an accident when he was in his teens, 
leaving him completely alone in the world.  He'd 
attended Harvard on the last of the insurance money, 
a few scholarships, and an evening job clerking in 
the Dean's office. Mulder refrained from carousing 
with the other students because of Melly, and, aside 
from being too shy, Byers just couldn't afford it, so 
they'd spent many evenings bent over their books 
together. 
  
As odd a pairing as it was - Mulder who'd had every 
luxury handed to him and Byers who'd struggled for 
every morsel - they'd become close friends.  John 
Byers was quiet, honest to a fault.  Earnest in a way 
that made people want to pat him on the head and 
pinch his cheek.  He'd discuss politics and 
literature for hours, but mention women and he'd 
blush scarlet.  How he ever managed to ask Susanne to 
marry him was a mystery; Mulder had always suspected 
she'd asked him.
  
"Do you have a few minutes?" Mulder asked, sticking 
his head around the corner of the lobby and into 
Byers' office.
  
His editor-in-chief looked over the stacks of books 
and articles on his desk, smiled, and answered, 
"Always.  Come in."
  
"I thought we could get a cup of coffee." 
  
Byers shrugged and stood, pushing his chair back into 
place before he put on his coat and picked up his 
hat.  Mulder had the feeling he could have said, 
'let's go roll in manure' and Byers would have agreed 
- he was that kind of friend. 
  
"I'd like to ask a favor," Mulder said, after hemming 
and hawing through two cups of coffee in the almost-
empty cafe, across the street. "Which I'd like you 
to keep to yourself."
  
"Of course," Byers responded, and he had no doubt 
that he would.
  
"I'd like you to read these," Mulder asked, pulling 
the bundle of letters out of his inside coat pocket. 
"I'd like you to tell me what they say.  I've tried, 
but I only understand a few words."
  
"I'll try.  I don't read Gaelic as well as I speak 
it." He took the letters, scanning the first page, 
and began to read aloud slowly. "'My dear daughter, I 
do not understand why you have not written to us.  We
are..." Byers paused, trying to decipher the word. 
"Worried.  Concerned, maybe. 'We are concerned for 
you.  Please write as soon as you are able,' and it's 
signed 'Margaret Scully.'"
  
"What about the others?"
  
Byers flipped through the pages. "It's more of the 
same, I think.  The handwriting's different in each 
letter, so the mother's dictating and others are 
writing for her.  Some of the spelling and grammar 
isn't very good.  Here, I believe she's saying her 
husband and sons have been killed in the war.  She 
asks several times about a doctor named Waterston.  
In this one, she says she'll be moving and gives the 
new address and directions to the new flat."
  
"Is there anything else?"
  
"Not really.  It would be better to ask someone more 
fluent in Gaelic, but I think it's the same type of 
letter, over and over.  She's concerned about her 
daughter..." He glanced again, scanning for a name.
"Dana."
  
Byers quickly put the pages face down on the table as 
his face started to redden.
  
"Dana's been married before.  Her husband didn't 
return from the war. His name was Waterston."
  
Byers waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. "If 
you wanted to know what the letters say, wouldn't it 
be simpler to ask Dana?" he said coolly. "And more 
polite, since they are addressed to her?"
  
"It would be nice if I could.  They were returned to 
her mother unopened," Mulder answered, folding the 
pages and tucking them back into his coat pocket. 
"She's never read them.  Either that, or she never 
received them; I'm not sure which."   
  
"Oh," Byers responded, standing and laying a few 
coins on the table for the waiter - his share of the 
bill. "I'll see you back at the office. Actually, 
I'll see you after Thanksgiving.  The presses are 
running; I think I'll take the rest of the afternoon 
off." 
  
"Are you angry?" he asked in surprise. "Byers- John?" 
When he didn't stop, Mulder got up, following him out 
to the busy sidewalk. "What's wrong with you?  Stop.  
Please stop!"
  
Byers stopped, looking at the slushy street and 
considering for a moment what he wanted to stay. 
"What if Dana was to read all those letters you write 
to Melissa?  What if she stumbled onto them and read 
them without your knowledge or permission?  Or what 
if she brought them to me to read for her?"
  
"Those letters aren't her business.  Or yours."
  
He pointed at Mulder's coat pocket. "Those letters 
aren't your business."
  
"Why?  What has Dana told you?  You two spend enough 
time with your heads together these days.  You're in 
my kitchen every time I turn around."
  
Byers pushed his eyebrows together angrily. "What are 
you implying?" he said slowly. "I run your business. 
I fix your broken window and check on your mother.  
If I've talked to your wife more than usual lately, 
it's only because she's needed someone to talk to and 
you're always busy with something else.  We've been 
friends a long time, Mulder.  We know each other 
pretty well, so what exactly are you implying?" 
  
"Nothing.  You're married.  She's about to have a 
baby.  Of course I'm not implying anything."
  
"Good," Byers responded angrily, walking away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
There was no special occasion.  He'd worked late, 
tying up loose ends before Thanksgiving, and come 
home to a house that smelled of pies and silver 
polish and freshly pressed tablecloths.  It just 
seemed like the kind of night he didn't want to spend 
alone, so he'd told himself he'd lie down with her 
for ten minutes, rationing closeness like a precious 
commodity.
  
After so many nights on the sofa, he felt like a 
stranger to his own bed.  Dana must have felt the 
same, because as he slid between the sheets and 
curled up to her warm back, she whispered, "I warn 
you, Mr. Frohike, I am expecting my husband home any 
minute.  He's a very jealous man."
  
"He's a very foolish man - leaving you alone at night 
like this."
  
"He has other things to worry about," she answered, 
humming contentedly as his arms surrounded her.  
Between her pregnancy and Sam's tendency to roam the 
house at night, they'd seldom been close, let alone 
intimate, in months, and he missed it - just the 
softness of her skin against his. 
  
"Your husband - he thinks about you more than you'd 
expect.  He just has lots of squeaky wheels, and 
you're the one he can always count on to run 
smoothly."
  
On cue, a door opened at the other end of the hall.  
Mulder pushed up on his elbow and listened, making 
sure his son was headed downstairs and not to the 
master bedroom.  Once the footsteps faded, he 
relaxed, laying his head on the pillow again.  
  
He said they slept separately so she could rest, and 
so Sam wouldn't feel awkward coming in if he wanted 
his father during the night.  Dana had said she 
rested better if Mulder was with her, and that most 
teenage boys could master knocking.  A smart woman, 
she'd only suggested it once, probably knowing logic 
couldn't compete with guilt.
  
"Four more weeks," he commented, searching for 
something neutral to say. 
  
"A little longer, maybe.  I do not think I am as big 
as I was with Emily at eight months."
  
He put his hand on her round abdomen, feeling. "How 
much longer?  Five weeks?  Six?"
  
Four more weeks was Christmas.  Six was early 
January.
  
"I cannot tell you.  I wish I could."
  
"You're sure you don't want someone here, just in 
case I can't be?  Or just to make you feel better?  
Your mother?  Or someone else?" he added quickly.
  
"Yes, I am sure."
  
He cleared his throat. "I checked the train 
schedules.  I can leave the evening of the twenty-
ninth and, if I don't stop, still be in Massachusetts 
before the new year.  I wouldn't be in Boston proper, 
but I'd be across the Massachusetts state line." He 
jiggled her, trying to ease the tension. "So you 
hurry up with my boy, all right?"
  
"God and I are creating a life for you as quickly as 
we can, Mr. Mulder."
  
"You know that's not what I mean.  It's just... This 
husband of yours - the one who sleeps on the sofa and 
always seems to have something on his mind besides 
you - maybe he's not as big an ass as you think he 
is, sometimes.  He likes you, you know.  He even 
worries about you, sometimes."
  
"Yes, I know," she whispered back. "I worry about him 
too."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
It started when he caught Dana with the turkey.
  
No, it started six hours earlier when he'd asked 
Poppy where breakfast was and been tersely handed 
some soda crackers, a jar of jam, and a spoon.  Or 
maybe twenty-two hours earlier when he quarreled with 
Byers, but it really started with the turkey.
  
"Don't you dare!" he ordered, lurking hungrily in the 
kitchen doorway. Dana was leaning over her belly, 
preparing to lift the heavy roasting pan from the 
oven while Poppy chopped carrots and the cook rolled 
out piecrust. "Dana, get away from there right now!"
  
Dana stopped, turning her head toward him. "I am 
basting," she answered curtly.
  
"We have a half-dozen people who can baste," he 
responded, not sure what basting involved. "Let Poppy 
do that. Poppy: see to the turkey.  Dana, you sit 
down.  Right now."
  
She frowned, closed the oven door more forcefully 
than usual, and followed him to the dining room, 
where the long table was already heavy with silver 
and china.
  
"Please do not do that," she requested angrily as 
soon as the door was closed.  A maid was arranging 
the floral centerpiece, but took one look at Dana and 
recalled something she needed to do elsewhere. "If 
you want to order me around in private, that is your 
right, but please do not do it in front of Poppy."
  
"Oh, Poppy's used to us.  She doesn't mind."
  
"I did not say she minded.  I said I minded.  Poppy 
probably finds it quite entertaining."
   
She adjusted a place setting, making sure all the 
forks lined up perfectly.  Straightening, she pushed 
her fists into the small of her back, massaging the 
ache. If he asked her, she'd tell him it didn't hurt.
  
Just looking at her belly made his back hurt.
  
"Dana, you're just tired and cranky.  This is exactly 
why I asked her to be kind to you, to make sure you 
don't do too much."
  
"You asked her?" she said slowly, her cheeks getting 
redder and her eyes bluer. "To be kind to me?"
  
"Yes.  All I had to do was tell her I needed her, and 
she's been wonderful.  She's helped with Emily; she's 
kept Sam out of your hair. She'd run the house for 
you, if you'd let her, but of course you won't, Miss 
Difficult.  Why did you think she's been spending the 
night?  Did you think she just liked sleeping down 
the hall from our bedroom?"
  
"How dense are you, Mr. Mulder?" she asked 
incredulously. "Did you see her expression when she 
came to wake me this morning and found you asleep 
beside me?  Are you really that blind?  "
  
"Apparently I am," he retorted. "Because I have no 
idea what you're talking about."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
And from there it got worse.
  
For the first time in history, Sam announced he 
wasn't hungry, which wasn't the correct thing to say 
as the cook carried out a twenty-pound turkey.  He 
came to the table at his father's insistence, sulking 
and looking like he'd rather be anyplace else.
  
Teena Mulder looked at Sam, then at her son, then 
back at Sam again, seeming confused.  Just as she 
always called Emily 'Sam,' despite the lack of any 
resemblance, as of late, Sam was "Fox," and she 
couldn't figure out why there were two Foxes at the 
table.
  
Dana appeared in an empire-waist dinner dress, which 
was all the fashion for pregnant women who couldn't 
fit into anything else.  She took her place at one 
end of the table, managing a polite smile for 
everyone but Mulder.  Mulder got an icy stare that 
promised their discussion about Poppy wasn't over 
yet.
  
He wanted to tell her once again how much he cared 
for her.  He wanted to put her and Harvey on a shelf, 
and stop time while he got the rest of his life in 
order.  Love was infinite, but time and energy 
weren't, and since Dana seemed to be the only one who 
could wait for his attention, she was the only one 
who did.
  
Emily, sitting on Sam's lap, immediately sneezed all 
over the dish of green beans in front of her.
  
No one really liked green beans anyway.
  
As Mulder took his seat at the head of the table, his 
stomach growling, the back door opened and Poppy 
ordered someone out of the kitchen.  Judging by the 
angry voices, it was Alex asking to see Sadie, and 
Poppy was having no part of that.
  
Spender, drunk and unwanted and uninvited, stormed 
into the dining room, demanding to know what Mulder 
thought he was doing by taking 'his' senate seat.  
Mulder tried to reason, then asked him to leave, but 
when Spender made a snide remark about Dana, Mulder 
lost his temper and knocked him out cold, sending him 
sprawling across the table as the china, the silver, 
most of the food, and the floral centerpiece crashed 
to the floor.
  
Mulder thought, of all things, that he should have 
planned that better, like a lumberjack planning which 
way to fell a tree.  If he'd hit Spender with his 
left fist, the china cabinet would have suffered, but 
the sweet potatoes would have been spared.
  
Teena, upset by the yelling and violence, began to 
cry silently.  She didn't understand what was 
happening, and asked Mulder repeatedly when his 
father was coming home.  Mulder wanted so badly to 
yell that his father wasn't ever coming home, to let 
off a little steam before the boiler inside him 
exploded.  Instead, he exhaled, answered that his 
father was still at the office, and told Sam to take 
his grandmother upstairs and have her lie down.
  
Poppy stormed through, carrying Sadie, with Alex 
dogging her heels, still demanding to see his 
daughter.  He grabbed the back of her dress in 
desperation, and she whirled, slapped him hard, then 
stalked off, taking Sadie with her.  From Mulder's 
viewpoint, Alex didn't seem to have any intention of 
hurting her, but Poppy had always had a flare for 
drama, so once again, Alex was left standing alone, 
rubbing his cheek and looking embarrassed.
  
Grace waddled in and appraised the mess.  He sniffed 
Spender, who was laying unconscious across the table, 
then started pulling pieces off the mangled turkey.
  
Dana handed Emily a roll to gnaw, and sighed, 
propping her chin on her fist and raising her 
eyebrows at Mulder.  In spite of the irritated 
expression on her face, she almost seemed amused.  
  
"I know," Mulder responded, flexing his sore hand, 
"Just another holiday with the Mulders."
  
He growled back at Grace and finally retrieved a 
drumstick that was perfectly edible except for a 
little dirt and dog spit.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
And worse.
  
"Women," Alex commented, flopping beside him on the 
sofa in the library, looking a little tipsy.
  
"You do have to wonder sometimes," Mulder answered 
tiredly, putting down his book, "exactly what God was 
thinking."
  
The only thing salvaged from their feast was the 
wine, and Mulder poured Alex a glass, then refilled 
his own.  He didn't like Alex, but he didn't dislike 
him, either.  The man had a pitiful quality about 
him, like a dog that followed anyone who promised him 
a bone.  And like a dog that would bite the hand that 
fed him, given half a chance.  Mulder didn't mind 
offering him a drink, but he didn't fill the goblet 
all the way to the top, either.
  
Everyone else was upstairs - his mother resting, Dana 
with the children in the nursery, Sam hiding out, and 
Poppy just avoiding Alex.  China fragments scraped 
and a broom whooshed in the next room as the maid 
raked Thanksgiving dinner off the floor. Spender was 
still sprawled across the table, so she cleaned 
around him.
  
"Mulder- Fox, I didn't mean to interrupt.  Spender 
told me he was coming, so I had a few drinks and 
decided I'd tag along and try to talk to Poppy again.  
I didn't realize he wasn't really invited to dinner. 
Or that he'd cause such a scene.  He had no business 
saying that to your wife.  Congratulations, by the 
way.  I hadn't seen her recently, and Poppy hadn't 
mentioned it.  I didn't know."
  
"It's just a bad bowl of clam chowder," Mulder said 
lightly, rolling his neck and shoulders. "Speaking of 
which, did you get anything to eat?"
  
"The dog carried the turkey carcass past me.  It 
looked delicious."
  
He said it in such a drunkenly earnest way that 
Mulder tilted his head back and laughed at the 
ridiculousness of the whole situation. "Oh, God. 
Thank God this day is almost over.  What else can 
possibly go wrong?"
  
Alex chuckled, chucked him on the shoulder as though 
they were best friends, then asked, "Clam chowder?"
  
"It's a long story."
  
Alex reached in his coat pocket, "Well, regardless, 
let's have a cigar in honor of your bowl of clam 
chowder."
  
"That's a wonderful idea," Mulder answered, noticing 
he was starting to slur his S's.  Three glasses of 
wine were enough on an almost empty stomach.  He left 
the fourth sitting on the end table, untouched.
"Outside, though.  Poppy was after me for a week the 
last time I smoked one in the house."
  
November days were cool in DC, but seldom frigid, so 
they sat on the back steps, looking out at the empty 
tree limbs and flowerbeds.  A few roses were still 
blooming, looking strangely out of place against the 
dying world.
  
"Can I ask-" Mulder said, then paused to savor the 
first lungful of smoke. "Oh, that's nice.  Cuban?"
  
"Spanish Honduran."
  
"Very nice.  Can I ask about Poppy?  Tell me if it's 
none of my business, but... You two are yelling at 
each other in my house, so I suppose it is my 
business."
  
"There isn't much to tell.  As Poppy has made clear 
on several occasions, she no longer wants anything to 
do with me. I don't think we've quarreled, but it's 
hard to tell with her.  She won't take money from me.  
She won't accept gifts.  She won't let me see Sadie. 
What I want doesn't seem to make a difference." 
  
"Is there someone else?"
  
Alex turned his head, looking directly at Mulder. "I 
don't know. Is there?"
  
Mulder shrugged that he had no idea.
  
Alex smoked his cigar for a while, then consoled 
himself by deciding, "She'll come to her senses.  And 
I may or may not take her back when she does."
  
Mulder didn't comment, and after a few minutes, heard 
himself ask, "What about Spender?  What are you doing 
scurrying around with him these days?" He took a deep 
breath, feeling the wine warming his stomach and 
loosening his lips.
  
Alex didn't seem to mind. "I didn't get very far in 
school. I don't have a trade except to be a soldier.  
There aren't a lot of jobs for one-armed ex- 
soldiers." He shrugged, as though that excused 
selling bonds to nonexistent government railroads and 
levying taxes to build Negro schools that never got 
built.  Alex would never be one of those men whose 
conscience kept him awake at night.
  
"I've always liked you, Alex," Mulder fibbed. "Just 
some friendly advice: be careful.  If you lie down 
with dogs, you'll get up with fleas.  You're young 
and you're bright.  One arm or two, you can do better 
than his kind."
  
Holding both in one hand, Alex alternated a sip of 
his wine with a puff of his cigar, and leaned back 
against the banister, relaxing.  Neither of them 
suggested checking on Spender or sending for a 
doctor; he'd wake up and wander off eventually, only 
to reappear the next time the rats came out of the 
woodwork.
  
"I saw the book you were reading in the library.  I 
know the cover.  Do you favor Walt Whitman?" Alex 
asked, abruptly changing the subject.
  
"Yes, I do," Mulder answered. "Dana got me his new 
book for Christmas, though I think my friend Byers 
helped her choose it.  I doubt she knew I'd like it."
  
"Probably not.  Do you know him?"
  
"Whitman?  Yes, he's had dinner with us.  That one 
was a little less eventful, by the way."
  
Alex sat up straighter. "Did he stay the night?  With 
you?"
  
"No, he has a flat close by," he answered, wondering 
at the odd question. "He invited me to visit him, 
though."
  
"And have you?"
  
"Not yet.  I haven't found the time.  With Dana, and 
Sam home now... I want to someday."
  
"I have.  Visited him.  It was very nice," Alex said. 
"He writes about the war, doesn't he?  About the 
bonds between men in battle?"
  
"That's right," Mulder said, surprised Alex was so 
interested.  "He's right. I've shared experiences 
with men during the war that I couldn't explain to 
any woman.  When you live with your men, eat and 
sleep and try not to die with your men... It's like a 
marriage of sorts. Not that I care any less for my 
wife, but it's not something I could duplicate with 
her.  And nothing I'd want to duplicate with her."  
   
"Loving men - that doesn't mean you love women any 
less."
  
Alex put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder 
looked at it curiously.  He might be a little tipsy, 
but he'd thought they were discussing poetry, not 
having a heart-to-heart talk.
  
"No, it's just different," Mulder answered, 
uncomfortable by the sudden closeness.  During the 
war, he'd slept in tents so cramped all eight men
had to turn over at the same time, but that was 
different. "Men are different from women, of course."
   
"Your friend Byers - the one who also favors Whitman 
- is he your only friend?  Or do you have others?"
  
"He's, he's, Byers is probably my closest friend.  My 
oldest.  We went to school together, roomed together, 
but, yes, of course I have other friends."
  
"Good," Alex whispered, then leaned forward and 
kissed him softly on the lips.  
  
For a second, Mulder was too shocked at the sensation 
to do anything except sit there.  Alex's mouth tasted 
of fine red wine and smoke, and his skin was rough, 
stubbly against Mulder's instead of smooth like 
Dana's.  He couldn't have been more surprised if Alex 
had shot him, but when he realized the other man 
wasn't going to pull away, and was urging Mulder to 
open his mouth farther, he strung two thoughts 
together and jerked back.
  
"What was that!" he demanded. "Why did you do that?  
How dare you-"
  
"My mistake," Alex said quickly, getting to his feet 
and backing away. "A little too much wine."
  
"Damn right it's your mistake!  You unnatural animal!  
What the hell gave you the idea I wanted you to do 
that?"
  
His face felt hot, his ears burned, and his mouth 
tasted like another man's tongue.  He was as 
humiliated that Alex had thought to kiss him as he 
was that Alex had actually kissed him.
  
"I'm sorry.  It won't happen again.  Fox, you can't 
tell anyone."  
  
Mulder stood, knocking over a wineglass in his haste. 
"Get out of my house," he ordered, stubbing out his 
cigar. "Off my property.  Don't come back.  Don't 
come near me; don't come near Poppy or her daughter. 
Ever!"
  
"Please, you can't tell anyone," Alex pleaded again, 
still sounding tipsy. "You can't tell Poppy."
  
"I have no intention of telling anyone.  All I want 
is you out of my sight!  Now!" he yelled, and Alex 
retreated, stumbling.
  
Mulder wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and 
jerked open the back door, finding Sam standing in 
the kitchen.
  
"Did you see what he just did?" Mulder asked, still 
livid. "Alex?"
  
"No sir," Sam said softly.  He examined the floor, 
then turned and walked away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He put the letter in his desk drawer and locked it, 
then debated whether he should add wood to the 
library fireplace.  He'd used all his energy for the 
day, so he decided to let it burn out for the night.
  
Spender had slithered off the dining room table and 
gone to wherever reptiles went at night.  To Hell, 
hopefully.
  
The sun was setting, so Mulder stopped to close the 
heavy drapes, then continued up the stairs.  He felt 
out of place, like when he'd been sick as a child and 
slept for three days straight.  He'd gone to sleep on
Wednesday and woke on Friday, and had a difficult 
time adjusting to the idea that he'd missed an entire 
Thursday.  
  
He blamed it on the wine, although it took more than 
three glasses to make him that tipsy.  And he didn't 
feel tipsy; he felt odd.  He blamed it on Alex, but 
he wasn't confused about the kiss so much as he was 
offended, and that was fading.  What remained was the 
feeling that he was off-balance, as though something 
was wrong and he just hadn't yet figured out what.
  
Reaching the landing, he stopped to stretch, then 
lowered his arms as he saw his mother coming down the 
hall, wearing a different dress than she'd had on 
earlier.  She was taller than Dana, but not quite as 
tall as Poppy, so unless she'd found one of Melly's 
old ones, Mulder couldn't imagine where she'd gotten 
it.  With its high waist, it could have been one of 
Dana's early maternity dresses, except the matching 
bonnet she wore had been in fashion before Mulder was 
born.
  
"Mother, did you change clothes?" he asked. "That's 
lovely, but where did you get it?"
  
She stopped, smiled, and walked past without speaking 
or touching him. He watched her go, making sure the 
back of her dress was closed, then froze when he saw 
a gentleman standing patiently at the top of the
staircase, waiting for her.  He wore the same old-
fashioned clothes as his mother, and he seemed too 
bright for the dark hallway.  He almost glowed, and 
the closer his mother got to him, the more luminous 
she became.
  
His father took off his top hat, transferring it and 
his walking stick to one hand and offering his arm to 
his wife.  Bill said something to Teena, and they 
paused to smile fondly at Mulder - his father raising 
his hand in greeting - then turned and made their way 
down, disappearing around the bend of the staircase.
  
"Mother?" he said uncertainly, following them. 
"Father?"
  
They'd vanished. The grand staircase was empty, and 
the mahogany banister gleamed in the low light.  He 
could have sworn he could smell his mother's perfume 
and the sweet cherry tobacco from his father's pipe.  
It lingered in the air, and he stayed still, not 
wanting to lose it yet.
  
"Fox," Poppy called from behind him, her voice hoarse 
and uncertain. "I was checking on your mother and 
she..." 
  
He ignored her, still focused on the stairs and 
already knowing what she was going to say. 
  
"Fox, honey, come here and sit down."
  
"Did you see them, Poppy?"
  
"See who?"
  
"They were beautiful," he said breathlessly.  He 
turned, finally looking at her. "She was beautiful."
  
"She's gone, Fox.  I was checking on your mother, and 
she's gone.  In her sleep.  A few minutes ago, I 
think.  She's in a better place now."
  
"Yes, she is," he told her calmly.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus IX