Begin: Paracelsus XIII
   
  *~*~*~*
  
The historical revisionists had begun their work 
before the smoke cleared from the last battlefield, 
decreeing the north had fought a war to end slavery.  
Mulder couldn't speak for anyone else, but he'd 
fought a war to preserve the Union.  In fact, he 
recalled seeing white Union soldiers intentionally 
firing on black Union soldiers.  Freeing four million 
slaves was a byproduct of ruining the south.  The 
north didn't want slaves in the south, but it didn't 
want ex-slaves in the north, either.
  
Until his father became a senator and they'd spent 
part of each year in Georgetown, Mulder had never 
seen a Negro. When he did, the slaves he had 
encountered were his friends' mammies and maids: well 
fed, well groomed, devoted, and polite, just like his 
parents' white servants.  He hadn't understood that 
Rebekah was free to leave her position but Poppy 
wasn't.  Slavery was more a concept than an 
actuality, and he'd had no idea what went on behind 
closed doors.
  
When he was eight, he'd asked why a Negro woman was 
on an auction block in Center Market with her dress 
open to her waist.  Rebekah had said it was none of 
his concern and hurried him past.
  
When he was seventeen, he and Byers had read "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin" in their room at Harvard and been 
appalled along with the rest of the nation.  He'd 
realized who fathered Poppy's stillborn baby and why 
she'd been so eager to stay with Melissa at Mulder's 
parents' home instead with Jack Kavanaugh.
  
When he was twenty-two and it was finally his house 
and his money, at Melissa's request, he'd bought 
Poppy from Kavanaugh and signed the papers ensuring 
her freedom.  The next day, Kavanaugh sobered up and 
tried to back out of the deal, but it was too late.  
He'd been furious with Mulder for months before his 
liver finally gave out and he'd taken his predestined 
place in Hell.
  
When he was thirty, he'd seen General Sherman, an 
unabashed racist, defy President Lincoln's order to 
allow Negro soldiers in his army.  As the troops 
marched through the south and up the east coast, 
Sherman had "freed the slaves": burned the towns and 
farms they'd called home, stripped the landscape of 
any scrap of food, and then perversely promised each 
forty acres and a mule - which he had no means or 
plans to deliver.  Legions of homeless, hungry 
families followed the army north to Washington, 
waiting for Sherman to make good on his promise.
  
Some found work in DC, some returned south as 
sharecroppers or went west, and the rest of the 
exodus was absorbed into the sludge of saloons and 
shantytowns.  Washington - the bottom of the north 
and top of the south - epitomized 'the Colored 
problem,' as it was politely called.  In every large 
city, whites called for Negroes to go home, 
forgetting they had no homes left to go to.  They 
called for them to find jobs, but then refused to 
hire them.  Everyone was quick to point fingers, and, 
as the displaced, destitute masses reached epidemic 
proportions, guns.
  
The Ku Klux Klan germinated in the rot of the 
decaying south and spread like the plague.  Its 
members, concealed by darkness and old bed sheets, 
burned Negro schools and churches, intimidated Negro 
farmers and businessmen, and added fuel to a fire 
that was already burning out of control.
   
"Are you going to shoot them?" Dana asked, following 
him down the upstairs hallway.
  
He paused long enough to button his trousers and 
shrug on his wrinkled dress shirt. "I'm shooting over 
their heads, but I might miss."
   
Cally's frightened Negro wet nurse peeked out of the 
nursery.  He told her to stay with Cally and Emmy, 
lock the door, and not unlock it until he told her 
to.  
"Stay here," he ordered Dana, because he liked to 
waste his breath.  She pulled her wrapper tighter 
around her and hurried down the stairs after him. 
"Then stay back," he conceded.
  
"Samuel is outside," she said, pushing the drapes 
aside and looking out the narrow window beside the 
front door. Grace watched with her, alternately 
barking and whining to be let out.
  
"Outside?" 
  
Mulder saw men in white hoods encircling Sam in the 
front yard.  Sam was backing away, but there was 
nowhere to back.  Each time he reached the edge of 
the human circle, one of the men shoved him back to 
the center.
  
"Pretty boy," one taunted. "Where's Daddy and 
Granddaddy now? Come on, pretty boy: fight."
  
"Mulder-" Dana started, but he already had the front 
door open and his revolver cocked.  Grace bolted past 
him and into the yard, sinking his teeth into the 
closest leg.
  
"Let him be," Mulder said loudly, the men turned. 
"You get away from him."
  
Forgetting Sam, they focused on Mulder, suddenly 
unsure what to do. They usually threw their bricks, 
burned their crosses, and ran like rats.  The idea 
was to cause terror, not risk their lives.  Having 
someone point a gun at them in downtown DC, seeming 
un-terrorized, was a novel situation.
  
The men shifted their feet uncertainly. "Let's go," 
one said snidely, backing away. "We're done here."
  
Another danced in one-legged circles, trying to get 
Grace's teeth out of his ankle. "Somebody get the 
Goddamn dog off me," he yelled, and a weapon fired, 
the crack echoing in the still night air. 

Grace yelped, then slumped onto the lawn.
  
"Jesus, you fool!  You'll wake everyone!" the 
ringleader hissed as the neighbors began to emerge.  
Mulder stayed where he was, keeping his weapon 
trained on anyone who came within a few feet of Sam.  
Fearful they were about to be outnumbered, outgunned, 
and unmasked, the men began disappearing into the 
shadows.
  
Mulder exhaled and lowered his revolver, and realized 
that Dana, beside him, was doing the same. She'd 
retrieved a rifle from the library and was standing 
in the doorway in her robe, pointing a gun bigger 
than she was. It wasn't loaded, she probably couldn't 
hit the side of a barn, and it would knock her on her 
lovely backside if she did fire it, but she could 
point it, just the same.
  
Somehow, he wasn't surprised.
  
He descended the steps, holding the gun against his 
thigh as he knelt down to check Grace.  The dog's 
pink tongue lolled out its mouth, and, in the cold 
air, there was no vapor in front of its muzzle.  
Mulder found the bullet hole behind one ear.  

Now he wished he had shot someone, but he didn't know 
how many KKK members it took to equal one good dog.  
Six bullets was a start, and he could always reload.  
  
"Mulder," Dana said again, nodding for him to look 
behind him. 
  
The Klansmen had left Sam standing on the front walk- 
roughed up but not seriously injured. When Mulder 
turned around, Sam was on the ground, straddling one 
of them and pummeling him with his fists.  Sam jerked 
off the man's hood, revealing Alex, and then 
continued landing one blow after another.  Alex 
struggled to fight back with one arm, but Sam had the 
advantage.
  
Mulder watched in astonishment, Grace momentarily 
forgotten.  Sam would defend himself if he had to, 
but he was never the aggressor.  
  
"Sam," Mulder finally shouted, afraid he'd beat Alex 
to death.  That would be no great loss to humanity, 
but Mulder would have to explain it to the police. 
"Samuel William Mulder!"
  
Sam stopped, paused, then got up, leaving Alex barely 
conscious.  The boy looked at his own fists as he 
backed away, seeming perplexed by the blood on them.
  
"Is everything all right, Fox?" one of the neighbors 
called, standing on the front porch in his silk robe 
and slippers, his genteel eyebrows almost even with 
his hairline.  Mulder, still leaning over Grace under
the burning cross, waved that it was just another 
night on the old homestead.  Neighbor waved back - 
being neighborly - and returned to bed.
  
"Are you all right?" he asked as Sam passed Grace's 
body without seeming to see it.  Like his father, 
he'd dressed hurriedly, and his dangling suspenders 
bounced against his legs as he moved.  His black hair 
was tousled, and there was a cut on his cheekbone 
that would probably scar. He'd worked up a sweat 
pummeling Alex and, in the last of the liquid orange 
firelight, he lacked only some war paint and feathers 
to look exactly like one of his Indian ancestors.
  
After half a minute, Alex got to his feet, wiped the 
blood from his face, then, once he got his bearings, 
stumbled down the street after the other Klansmen.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He realized his head hurt long before he realized he 
was gritting his teeth.  When he did, he tried to 
stop and found he was clenching his fists instead. If 
he'd thought he could find him, he'd go after Alex 
and hit him a few times, just for good measure.  It 
seemed to have made Sam feel better.  Maybe it would 
make Mulder feel better, too. Vindicated. Less used.  
He didn't give a damn how it would make Alex feel.
  
He was angry that, despite his promise to himself, 
Poppy's idle words had stolen into his bed and come 
between him and Dana.  He was angry Dana had to beg 
him to stop rather than him realizing he was hurting 
her.  He was angry that a group of cowardly fools in 
bed sheets had the gall to burn a cross on his front 
yard.  He was angry his son's dog was dead.  He was 
angry he hadn't shot someone.  He was angry he'd been 
in a warm bed while Sam was outside trying to fight 
off the KKK.  He was angry they were out of sugar and 
he had to drink his coffee black.
  
He glanced at the calendar pined up beside the stove, 
checking to see if it was a holiday.  The first 
Saturday of Lent probably wasn't anything significant 
but, God help him, Easter was coming.  
  
Dana poured coffee, setting a cup in front of Samuel 
along with the cream pitcher.  She and Sam drank 
their coffee the same way, but Mulder wanted sugar, 
damn it.
  
He was gritting his teeth again.
  
He'd wrapped Grace in an old blanket and brought him 
inside, laying him in his usual place beside the 
stove until morning.  Sam took his cup and sat on the 
floor beside him, stroking the top of his dog's head.
  
"Sammy..." Mulder started, but his son didn't look 
up. "Sammy, he wasn't in any pain.  We'll bury him 
tomorrow."
  
He got no response.
  
"We can bury him in the woods where you and 
Grandfather liked to hunt."  
  
No response.
  
"I'll buy you any puppy you want.  You could get 
another basset hound. Or would you like..." Mulder 
offered, but stopped as he saw Dana give him a 
'please just stop speaking' look.    
  
Mulder closed his mouth, clenched his fist underneath 
the table, then exhaled to cool his coffee. 
  
"What happened to your neck?" Sam asked as Dana bent 
over him, holding a candle to see and a rag to wash 
the cut on his cheekbone.
  
The skin around her mouth and on her neck and upper 
chest was red and irritated from his beard. Thirty 
minutes earlier, he'd thought he was kissing her 
passionately, but he couldn't recall her kissing him 
back. He remembered her struggling angrily, then 
submitting, and then pleading. He wondered how badly 
he must have hurt her that she'd ask him to stop.  
Having intercourse with him whenever he wanted, 
however he wanted, was one of her marriage vows. 
Refusing was grounds for divorce.
  
Mulder looked down, studying his coffee cup.
  
"Nothing," Dana answered casually. "Tilt your face so 
I can see."
  
Sam tilted, Dana dabbed, and Mulder blew his hot 
coffee again.
  
"I don't think Alex shot Grace, Sammy.  Did you think 
he had?"
  
His son nodded 'yes' unconvincingly.  Mulder started 
to ask, but decided it could wait until another time.  
Whatever the score was, he assumed Sam had evened it.
  
"Well, if Alex is involved, Spender's behind this 
somewhere.  He must have enlisted the KKK to do his 
dirty work.  To spook me, I suppose." Mulder paused, 
reconsidering the events in his head. "Why were you 
in the yard in the first place?"
  
"I had to go out."
  
"It's thirty degrees outside."
  
Shrug.  Dab.  Blow.
  
"The front door was locked," he said skeptically.  He 
turned his head, checking. "So is the back.  Do we 
lock the door to go to the outhouse now?"
  
His son focused on stroking Grace's graying muzzle.
  
"Sammy, I was clear about this; you will be home at 
night."
  
"I was." 
  
"No, you weren't.  Home is in the house, and you 
weren't in the house.  When Dana and I came back from 
dinner earlier than you'd anticipated, we locked the 
door, and you got locked out. Which merits the 
question: where were you coming home from?"
  
Sam hunkered lower, watching Dana from underneath his 
eyelashes.
  
Mulder followed Sam's gaze, then shook his head, 
trying to keep his temper in check.  He didn't mind 
his son talking with Dana, but he disliked him 
conspiring with her.  It was his house, and for once 
he'd like to know what was happening.  
  
"Dana has nothing to do with this, Sam.  Dana doesn't 
have to deal with it when some girl's angry father 
shows up on my doorstep."
  
"That won't happen."
  
"How won't it happen?  Are you saying you aren't 
seeing a girl?"    
  
Sam stiffened, his eyes still locked on Dana.
  
"Then you must be attending one of those midnight 
cello societies.  Do I have a 'fool' sign pinned to 
my back?"
  
"Mr. Mulder," Dana warned.
  
"What?" he demanded.
  
There was that look again, indicating if he didn't 
already have a sign, she felt he merited one.  
  
"Damn it, I am the boss around here!  You - go to 
your room," Mulder ordered his son. "And you," he 
snapped at Dana, "I want to talk to you."
  
"Mr. Mulder," Dana repeated sharply.
  
"What?"
  
"I locked the back door.  I locked it when I came in 
to make coffee. You and Samuel were still in the 
front yard with Grace."
  
Mulder tipped his head from side to side, stretching 
his tight neck muscles. "No, you didn't," he said 
evenly.  She and Samuel were equally poor liars.
  
He glared at Dana, then slammed his coffee cup down 
angrily and stood, tipping his chair backward so it 
crashed to the floor.
  
Sam startled and looked as though he'd like to crawl 
under the stove and stay there.
  
Mulder waited for someone to apologize and tell him 
what was really happening, but no one did.  To stem 
his hemorrhaging pride before he bled out, he 
announced he was going to see what the Klan had done 
to The Evening Star building.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Byers had followed the firefighters down Pennsylvania 
Avenue and helped the firemen put out the flames 
before they could spread past the lobby. Afterward, 
according to Frohike, he'd looked around at the 
broken glass, overturned furniture, and smoking ruin, 
and said, "Someone find a broom and we'll get this 
cleaned up before Mulder gets here." That seemed 
unlikely, but Frohike swore it was true.  
  
Byers was standing ankle-deep in soggy newsprint, his 
shirt sleeves rolled up, surveying the damage when 
Mulder arrived.  The firefighters had moved on; other 
buildings on Newspaper Row hadn't been so fortunate. 
There was barely a silver sliver of moon, but the 
flames from across the street illuminated the lobby 
as well as daylight.
  
Mulder stood the coat rack upright so he had a place 
to hang his coat and hat as he asked, "Is everyone 
all right?"
  
"So far," Byers answered. "They ransacked the lobby, 
but everything upstairs, including Frohike, is fine.  
Susanne and I got a brick through our parlor window, 
though."
  
"They must know I own the place; I got a burning 
cross in my yard."
  
Byers' eyes widened. "Is everyone all right?"
  
"Grace is dead," Mulder answered tiredly, unbuttoning 
his cuffs and then rolling up his sleeves.
  
"I'm sorry."
  
"So am I."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Dinner had been served so long ago that even the 
smell of it was gone. All that remained in the dark 
kitchen was a faint aroma from the bowl of fruit on 
the table and last of the soapy wet-wood smell from 
the clean floor.  Mulder dropped his coat over the 
back of a chair and didn't bend to pick it up when it 
slid off.
  
The stove's hot water reservoir was almost empty, the 
water was tepid, and his razor was dull.  He used 
Dana's embroidery scissors to trim his beard before 
he shaved it, and didn't put them back in her sewing 
basket because he didn't want to hear her fuss about 
them being dull.  As he wiped his smooth face with a 
towel, he debated going to the trouble of relighting 
the stove and heating enough water to wash the rest 
of him, but decided not to bother.  The sofa wouldn't 
care how he smelled.
  
When he checked the nursery and Sam's room, he 
discovered he'd lost his family, but found it had 
only migrated to the end of the hall.  Emily and 
Cally were in bed with Dana, Cally's wet nurse was 
asleep on the sofa, and Samuel was on the rug beside 
the bed.  Sam had the pillow from his bed, but he'd 
pushed it aside as he slept and instead rested his
head on his upper arm.  The cut on his cheekbone had 
an ugly scab, and several bruises Mulder hadn't 
noticed earlier had deepened to black and purple.  In 
one hand, Sam held a pistol, his fingers loose around 
it as he slept. 
  
Mulder stepped over his son and sat carefully on the 
mattress, watching Dana until she woke.  She opened 
her eyes the way she always did, blinking slowly as 
he came into focus. 
  
"You shaved your beard," she mumbled, scooting up on 
the pillows.
  
"It smelled like smoke."
  
He pulled off his boots and let them slide to the 
floor with two soft thumps. "Easy, Sammy," he 
cautioned as Sam started to sit up and aim the pistol 
at the noise.  Mulder reached down, gently taking the 
gun from him. "I'm here.  I'll keep watch.  Let me 
have that." 
  
Sam let go of the gun and sank back onto the rug, 
immediately drifting back to an unquestioning sleep.
  
"Rebekah said the newspaper is still standing," Dana 
whispered. "I sent her with breakfast, but someone 
told her you were too busy.  I sent dinner and 
supper, as well."
  
He lay down across the bed, putting his head on her 
abdomen and his arm around her waist.  As he shifted 
to get comfortable, soot from his hair left dirty 
smudges on her white nightgown. "It's standing.  It's 
a mess right now," he said tiredly. "But everyone's 
alive.  Everything's repairable, I think."
  
"That is good."
  
"Yes."
  
He was quiet a while, closing his eyes as she stroked 
his hair.  His body ached, but his mind raced, too 
full for sleep.
  
The newspaper made money, but not a fortune.  It 
didn't print the conglomeration of sordid crimes, 
society news, and serial romances that appealed to 
the masses.  Most of Mulder's income came from his
investments in other papers, although his family's 
money made even those unnecessary.  The racial and 
political problems in DC could only worsen as 
Reconstruction began in earnest, and some of 
Washington's finest didn't appreciate seeing their 
names on The Evening Star's front page. As the 
previous night evidenced, Mulder was making dangerous 
enemies who believed his home and family, as well as 
his employees' homes and families, were fair game.
  
"Your head is heavy, mo run," Dana said quietly.
  
"Sorry," he apologized, starting to sit up, thinking 
it was a ruse to get him to leave.
  
"No, I mean you seem to be thinking too many things.  
Is that not the way to say it?  Heavy?"
  
"Hearts get heavy.  Heads get full," he explained.
  
"Hearts do not get full?"
  
"Sometimes," he exhaled, relaxing and resting his 
cheek against her abdomen again. "If you're lucky.  
Hearts also get very empty."
  
"What about souls?"
  
"They get weary," he admitted tiredly. "May I stay 
here?  And sleep?  Just for a little bit.  Is that 
all right?"
  
"Yes, it is.  Of course it is.  It is fine."
  
"All right," he mumbled, feeling every muscle in his 
body go limp in exhaustion.  Emily kicked in her 
dreams, Cally hiccoughed, and Sam snored softly.  
Dana's warm hand and the sounds of a city night 
covered him: a Hanson cab's wooden wheels across the 
cobblestones and the mournful echo of a train whistle 
in the distance.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
Mulder was the only man who had dreams of falling 
that started with the part where he hit the ground.
  
He groaned as consciousness surged over him like a 
tide, but didn't quite let him break the surface for 
a moment.  He felt the merciless Georgia sun on his 
face, and a woman's cool fingertips stroking his 
cheek.  His shoulder blade hurt, and the back of his 
shirt was wet with something he hoped wasn't blood.
  
"Are you awake, Mr. Mulder?" Dana's voice asked, 
sounding like she was just above him.  Whatever he 
was laying on shifted and a shadow passed over his 
face as she leaned forward. "Mr. Mulder?"
  
Without thinking, he moved his hand slowly in search 
of hers, and she laced her fingers though his, 
murmuring comfortingly and telling him to stay still 
a little longer.  He felt the soft, thin fabric of 
her calico skirt against his skin and realized he was 
laying on the ground with his head on her lap.  She 
smelled nice: like a baby's head and soap and 
sunshine and the bed sheets after lovemaking.  She 
continued caressing his face to keep him calm, and he 
kept his eyes closed.  Her touch was different from 
Melissa's: more confident, more soothing.  He'd 
gladly lie there and bleed a little longer if she'd 
keep touching him like that.
  
That had a faintly pitiful quality he chose not to 
dwell on.
  
"Is he all right?" a man called in a French Creole 
accent.  Mulder recognized it as Benjamin, Dori's 
mulatto husband of nine weeks 
  
"Yes, I think so," Dana answered. "He is waking up."
  
The previous night's lightening storm had struck a 
tree near the plantation house, and it threatened to 
fall through the roof.  Cutting it down hadn't looked 
to be a tricky operation and had to be less risky 
than staying in the house.  As angry as Dana was to 
discover Dori had been Waterston's octoroon mistress, 
Dori was equally unhappy to learn Waterston had a 
white wife and baby in another state.  The two women
were painstakingly polite to each other, but there 
was danger in the air and Waterston wasn't around to 
be its target.  When Mulder mentioned the tree after 
lunch, Benjamin had seen a chance to escape the tense 
silence and quickly volunteered to help.
  
It was a good plan, but there had been problems in 
its execution, namely that when he wasn't a soldier 
Mulder ran a newspaper, and Benjamin had been a slave 
doorman at the New Orleans balls where white men came 
to meet their Negro mistresses - and neither knew 
beans about playing lumberjack.
  
As he finally opened his eyes, squinting at the 
yellow autumn light that streamed through the leaves, 
Dana looked at him, her lips pursed and her auburn 
eyebrows pushed together anxiously.
  
"I told you I'd get it down," he mumbled, sitting up 
slowly as the earth rocked from side to side.
  
"You were only supposed to cut the tree down, not 
break its fall," Dana reminded him. "Are you hurt?  
Where does it hurt?"
  
"I think I'm all right, Ma'am."
  
As the yard stopped spinning, he saw Dori with 
Benjamin, checking him for injuries.  The beautiful, 
dark-haired woman seldom spoke, but she tended to 
stay near Benjamin, as though he made her feel safe. 
Benjamin got to his feet, brushed off, kissed her 
cheek reassuringly, and patted her flat stomach 
before he went back to work.  Dori sat on the tree 
stump, content to watch him.
  
"Your back, Mr. Mulder," Dana observed, helping him 
to his feet, steadying him as he swayed. "Come sit 
down and let me see," she said, guiding him to the 
porch steps.
  
He sat, then looked at her expectantly, still dazed 
and trying to remember what he was supposed to do. 
  
"May I unbutton your shirt?" she asked gently, as 
though he was a shy virgin and might refuse.  He 
wasn't overly modest, and, after Chattanooga and a 
stray bayonet, he'd been bare-chested in front of 
more doctors than he cared to count. It wasn't 
exactly proper - allowing a woman who wasn't his wife 
to undress him - but neither was lurking in her 
bedroom doorway, watching her nurse her baby the 
previous night.
  
He nodded and tried to help, his fingers getting in 
the way of hers.
  
"Let me do it," she requested. "Relax."
  
He nodded again and watched, fascinated and blaming 
the inappropriate thoughts that crept into his brain 
on a recent blow to the head.  There was nothing 
seductive in her manner, and they weren't likely to 
end up in the throes of passion on the front porch 
with Dori, Benjamin, Dori's sons, and two bored cows 
watching.
  
He swallowed dryly, embarrassed.  He was a little 
war-worn to be smitten with a girl not much older 
than his teenage son.  He was just confusing kindness 
with affection, loneliness with desire, and he was 
making a fool of himself.  Even if she'd been the 
slightest bit interested, Mulder wouldn't know how to 
approach the situation.  As he'd told Dana, he'd 
never courted a woman; he'd just married her.  
  
"It is all right," she assured him, peeling one 
sleeve off, but leaving the other on so he was 
covered as much as possible. "It is not bad: lots of 
mud and barely a scratch," Dana decided, then told 
him to stay put while she went for water and a rag.
  
Mulder waited, sitting on the warped front steps of 
the plantation house with his elbows on his knees.  
In the overgrown yard, Benjamin put Dori's two older 
boys to work picking up sticks.  He surveyed the tree 
he and Mulder had cut down, raised his ax, swung, and 
missed the trunk by six inches.  Benjamin glanced at 
Dori, his brown eyes dancing mischievously.  He 
murmured something in colloquial French, Dori 
murmured back, and he swung a second time, hitting 
his mark.
  
"She's expecting again," Mulder said quietly as Dana 
returned, bringing a basin and washrag with her. 
"Benjamin told me.  He's excited.  He wants a girl; 
he says they have enough boys."
    
Dori's three boys were Waterston's, but the only 
provision Waterston had made for them was deeding 
them a rundown plantation in the middle of Nowhere, 
Georgia.  The doctor had made no provision at all for 
Dana, though she and her daughter were probably low 
on his list of priorities. 
  
Mulder didn't think Dana had realized that, and he 
wasn't telling her if she hadn't.  She was already 
humiliated.  She already had a two-month old baby, no 
income, and nowhere to go.  He saw no need to make it 
worse by telling her the truth: she'd been a pretty 
distraction when Waterston was in Savannah, but there 
were almost certainly other pretty distractions 
elsewhere, and one of them was a legitimate wife.  
Wealthy, established gentlemen just didn't marry 
immigrant Irish girls, no matter how tempting those 
girls might be. The doctor probably agreed to 
'marriage' because he couldn't bed her any other way, 
which spoke well of Dana and vilely of Waterston.  He 
must have written his will years ago, leaving Dori's 
sons a plantation he seldom visited, but then  
forgotten to change it when he stashed Dana away 
there.
  
"I like him," he said, remembering he'd once had a 
topic. "After I talked to him, I like him.  Benjamin.  
Dori's lucky to have him.  He's a good man, and he's 
waited a long time to be with her. He'll take good 
care of her and her boys.  Dori seems to- She needs 
someone to take care of her.  She's not like you. I 
don't think she could survive alone."
  
Dana didn't comment.  
  
"I didn't mean that what your husband did was right.  
I didn't mean to upset you, Ma'am."
  
"You did not.  I was just thinking."
  
"About?" he asked.
  
"About a great many things."
  
He heard water splash and felt the washcloth pass 
gently over his bare shoulder blade.  A few drops 
trickled down his back, but she caught them, wiping 
them away.
  
"I think that's why they came here," he continued. 
"There is not place for them in this world. Dori 
could pass as white, but he's obviously mulatto.  
They couldn't live together in a city, but out here 
they're safe." Mulder smirked as Benjamin 
determinedly tackled the tree trunk, sinking his ax 
into the dirt more often than the wood. "He knows 
nothing about farming and they may starve to death, 
but at least they'll starve together."
  
An hour earlier, when Dori had looked for a place for 
her toddler to nap, she'd asked him which was their 
bedroom, assuming he and Dana were lovers and not 
wanting to intrude.  They'd never even kissed, but 
Mulder  had liked the sound of that: their bedroom.  
He'd liked the idea of being a 'them; with Dana 
instead of just a 'him' alone.
  
As soon as he returned to DC, the pressure would 
begin for him to remarry.  His mother would drag him 
to parties where hopeful fathers would introduce 
their daughters, auctioning smooth white flesh like 
polite slave traders. "Oh, you own a newspaper, Mr. 
Mulder?" the wide-eyed girls would say as if they 
didn't know his net worth down to the penny. "That 
must be so exciting," they'd gush, and he'd sigh and 
glance at the clock as he sipped his punch.
  
There was nothing wrong with those girls.  They were 
exactly what they'd been brought up to be: decorative 
and adoring, and unable to ever be anything but 
decorative and adoring.  They were a product of a 
society with too much time on its hands, but it 
wasn't a product he was interested in being sold.  He 
wanted something more. A challenge. Someone to keep 
him on his toes and to understand rather than idolize 
him. He could pay women to keep his house, care for 
his children, sew his shirts, and, if it came down to 
it, warm his bed.  Finding someone who understood his 
sarcasm and truly cared if he was hurting - that was 
a rare thing.
  
"At least they have the courage to try," he 
commented, turning his head to look back at Dana, 
making sure she wasn't upset. 
  
She held his gaze for several seconds while the 
washcloth in her hand, forgotten, dripped cold water 
on his shoulder and soaked his muddy shirt.  Her blue 
eyes were as deep as a mountain lake, promising there 
was more in their depths than on their surface.  Her 
tongue parted her lips, moistening them.
  
For a moment, the male animal lurking inside him 
wanted to take her upstairs, strip off that old 
dress, and do things to her that he'd only read 
about.  Then afterward, to lay nude across the soft 
sheets with her in his arms and sleep away the long 
warm afternoon.
  
"Yes," she said.  He'd long forgotten what they'd 
been discussing, but her 'yes' sounded more like 
permission than agreement. 
  
He wondered, if he asked - was that her answer, 
already decided?  Did she even think of such carnal 
matters or was he imagining things?  Yes, if he 
asked, she would let him make love to her - not out 
of obligation or friendship or gratitude, but because 
she wanted him to.  Because he wanted her and there 
was an empty place inside her body that craved his.
  
"Yes," he agreed.
  
Even if she would allow him in her bed, he couldn't 
be with her and then just walk away afterward.  He 
knew that.  Already she was more than that to him. 
But he knew he couldn't return to DC chaste and 
alone, to spend the rest of his life in polite 
society wondering 'what if,' either.

There was no place for them in this world. Wealthy, 
established gentlemen didn't marry immigrant Irish 
girls, no matter how tempting those girls might be.

Inside the house, a baby woke from its nap, crying to 
be fed and changed. 
  
"That's Emily," Mulder said softly, still not moving 
and barely even breathing.
  
"Yes," Dana said. "I should get her."
  
He wanted to be the father of her child.  And he 
wanted her to be the mother of his.

"Go get the baby," he suggested hoarsely. "I'll wait 
here."
  
"I-I will.  I am.  I will get her right now." Her 
eyes flitted over his face one last time, then she 
stood, still holding the dripping cloth, and 
disappeared into the house.
  
He exhaled, not sure what had just happened, but damn 
sure he wanted it to happen again.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
The bedroom door closed and the bed shifted as Dana 
returned, curling up to his back and adjusting the 
covers.  She put her arms around him, holding him 
invitingly close.
  
"You didn't need to send everyone away.  I told you 
all I wanted was to sleep," he said without moving.  
  
"I did not send anyone away.  The baby was hungry, 
and Samuel took Emily to the nursery when he left," 
she murmured. "You are restless.  You were mumbling.  
Maybe you will sleep better if it is quieter."
  
It was still dark, and the air on his bare face felt 
foreign and cool. Mulder stretched and rubbed his 
eyes, trying to convince his body it was rested on 
four hours of sleep in two days.
  
"Mulder, please..." Dana said softly, stroking the 
back of his shirt.
  
"Gotta go to work, love," he mumbled, pushing up on 
his elbow and getting halfway to sitting.  Sitting 
was halfway to standing, and standing was halfway to 
work.  
  
"It is three in the morning," she responded as he sat 
with his back to her, still in the wrinkled shirt and 
trousers he'd worn to work twenty-four hours ago. 
"You have barely slept.  Please stay." He felt the 
bed dip as she sat up, scooting closer and sliding 
her arms around his shoulders. "What can I do to 
convince you to stay?"
  
He shrugged away in annoyance. "Nothing.  Go back to 
sleep.  You should rest."
  
"Have- Have I done something?" she asked uncertainly. 
"Are you still angry about last night?  I am sorry.  
You said to tell you-"
   
"No, I'm not angry about that," he said quickly. "I'm 
not angry with you at all.  I don't want you to think 
that."
  
"The newspaper?  The men in the yard?" she guessed.
  
He shook his head tersely. "No."
  
Dana slid her fingertips down his shoulder, then arm 
as she leaned close and whispered into his ear, "I 
want you to stay with me."
  
"Stop it," he ordered curtly, and she moved back.
  
"What is wrong?  If you are not angry with me, what 
has changed?  I know you do not want Samuel seeing 
us, but it is more than that.  You are not yourself.  
Last night, you seemed different.  I do not think you 
wanted me so much as you wanted to prove.... 
Something.  I know you have too much on your mind and 
you are pulled in too many directions, but..."
  
Mulder sat slouched on the edge of the bed, watching 
his feet dangle and curling his fingers around the 
corner of the mattress.  He told his legs to get up 
and leave, but they refused. "It's too soon after the 
baby," he mumbled. "And too soon for you to be having 
another."
  
"That is not the only option and you know it.  I will 
do whatever you want - I want to do whatever you want 
- but you have to tell me what that is."
  
He clenched his teeth as he worried his tongue around 
his mouth.  She was right; they might quarrel about 
everything else under the sun, but they'd always been 
compatible in bed.
  
"Mulder," she said softly, stroking his shoulder 
again. "What is it? What has happened?"
  
If he could have applied the concept of rape to a 
man, that was what he'd tell her had happened.  Poppy 
was no stranger to men's bodies, and she'd known no 
matter what his body might have craved in its 
morphine haze, he'd never choose to be unfaithful to 
Melissa.  He'd trusted her to take care of him when 
he was weak, but instead, according to her, she'd 
taken advantage of a weak moment.
  
Dana was still watching him, wanting to know what 
she'd done wrong when the answer was nothing.
  
He exhaled and answered hesitantly, "It's not- it's 
not what you think. Yes, something happened.  I wish 
it hadn't, but it did, and I can't stop thinking 
about it.  It's like dirt that I can't wash off my 
skin. I thought I could, but I can't. I didn't know 
it would be like that; I thought I could just forget 
about it. I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed 
and ashamed and I didn't want to hurt you.  I'm still 
ashamed. You were big with Cally and then you were so 
sick, and I didn't think you'd ever know."
  
He heard her take a shaky breath, misunderstanding. 
  
He ordered his mouth to open and explain, however 
humiliating the explanation was, but the words just 
wouldn't come.  Once the moment passed, it was lost. 
  
"What did I do-"
  
"Nothing.  You didn't do anything wrong.  It had 
nothing to do with you. Dana, I'm sorry.  I'm so 
sorry," he mumbled, knowing that couldn't possibly 
fix anything.  It was probably better to let her 
think it had been a two-dollar street-corner whore 
than Poppy. Street-corner whores were faceless; Poppy 
wasn't.  Poppy had diapered Emily and made their bed 
and lived in their home, even over Dana's protests.  
He'd sworn to Dana on numerous occasions that he'd 
never been with her.
  
"I think I would like you to go to work now," she 
said slowly. "If you would, please."
  
He nodded, stood, and grabbed a clean set of clothes 
and his boots as he left. He trudged down the stairs, 
reached the bottom, then turned and trudged back up.
  
"What about Grace?" he called, standing outside the 
closed bedroom door. He'd noticed there was no longer 
a dead dog in the kitchen.
  
"Samuel and I buried him in the back yard.  He wanted 
to wait for you, but you did not come home from 
work," Dana answered, and he trudged away again.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
It was called Murder Bay for a reason.  It wasn't a 
part of DC he normally frequented, and not a part it 
was wise to frequent at all, especially late at 
night.  Between the sewage-filled Washington Canal 
north of The Mall and the reek of the fish market, it 
seemed dangerous to even take a deep breath.  Hungry 
eyes watched him from the shadows, and dirty bodies 
huddled under the eaves of the rundown tenement 
buildings.  It was part of the town where anything 
was for sale, and usually for sale cheap. 
  
There was no moon, and no gaslights.  The sounds of 
crying babies, shrill voices, and flesh meeting flesh 
- in anger or in lust - drowned out his footsteps. 
Fog rolled off the canal, hanging low over the muddy 
streets and obscuring everything the darkness didn't.  
Mulder turned his collar up and kept his head down as 
he made his way through the narrow alleys.
  
He found the address he wanted and waited in the 
alley, sitting at the bottom of some rickety wooden 
steps. The businesses had front entrances, but no one 
used them.  If men of Mulder's class kept mistresses, 
they kept them near The Capitol.  If they visited 
prostitutes, they went to the elegant houses and 
saloons on 1st and 2nd Streets or Pennsylvania 
Avenue.  Working class men went to Tin Cup Alley or D 
Street.  Anyone in Murder Bay at night was there for 
something he couldn't get elsewhere, and he didn't 
want to be seen going in the front door to get it.
  
The black overcoat had been his father's - made for a 
shorter, stockier man.  It had been in fashion before 
Mulder was born, but now the cuffs were ragged, it 
was missing a button, and moths had made a meal on 
the lapels.  Bill Mulder had worn it during his free 
time at West Point, and it had probably seen numerous 
youthful escapades.  The hat had been his father's as 
well, and Mulder pulled it lower over his forehead, 
hiding his face in the shadows as he waited.  The 
revolver in his waistband was his own, and it was 
loaded.
  
After half an hour, the side entrance opened and 
Spender emerged.  He shrugged on his coat, then 
paused to light a cigarette.  He took a deep draw 
before passing it to the skinny young man who'd 
followed him to the door, and lit another.  The boy 
collected his money, stepped inside, and the door 
closed. Transaction complete, romance over.
  
Spender descended the steps, but stopped cold when he 
saw Mulder.  His cigarette fell from his tar-stained 
fingertips and sizzled on the wet ground.  Mulder was 
taller and slimmer, but the features were similar, 
and in the darkness, in the right clothes, the 
resemblance to his father was uncanny.
  
"You're white as a sheet.  You look as if you've seen 
a ghost," Mulder said softly, assuming a more 
pronounced Boston accent.
  
Spender stared at him as wisps of cigarette smoke 
escaped his gaping mouth, making him look like a 
dying dragon.
  
"Boo," Mulder exhaled, standing up and stepping 
forward.
  
"What do you want, boy?" Spender demanded, recovering 
some of his poise.
  
"Come, Claudius - let's go for a walk." He nodded to 
the second-rate whorehouse. "I assume you're finished 
here?" 
  
Spender looked around for another way out of the 
alley besides the one Mulder was blocking.  There 
wasn't one. "What do you want?" he repeated  
venomously.
  
"We're just going for a little walk."
  
Mulder stepped forward, crowding Spender until he 
moved back, turning toward the canal.  Mulder fell in 
step beside him: just an uncle and nephew taking a 
stroll through the bad part of town at midnight. 
Spender had been drinking; he could smell the whiskey 
on him.
  
"Do you like Shakespeare, Uncle-father?" Mulder 
asked, as though he was striking up a friendly 
conversation. "My father favored Shakespeare a great 
deal."
  
"Go to Hell," Spender muttered.
  
"Uncle-father, where's your witty banter?"
  
"What do you want?"
  
Mulder paused, leaning casually on a metal railing 
and looking out at the murky canal water. There were 
gunshots on the next block that sent the neighborhood 
dogs into a barking frenzy. "In Hamlet, the king is
murdered by his brother Claudius, who then marries 
the king's widow and assumes the throne."
  
"Yes, I'm familiar with the play.  You aren't Hamlet, 
boy."
  
"No, but there's something rotten in the state of 
Denmark." 
  
"You're wasting my time," Spender hissed, then turned 
and walked away.  
  
"I can't prove you killed my father," Mulder called 
after him, and Spender stopped. "Poisoned him, 
smothered him - I don't know what.  But you'll never 
be a senator.  You can marry his wife, you can live 
in his house, you can even wear his suits, but you'll 
never be anything but a bottom-feeder.  My father was 
ashamed of you.  My grandfather was ashamed of you.  
I don't know how you can claim kin to them and be so 
completely morally bankrupt - and I don't care.  I'm 
telling you for the last time: don't come near my 
family again."
  
"Or what?  You'll speak to me in a stern tone of 
voice?"
  
"If I suspect you or your cronies so much as breathe 
on anyone I care about, you won't live to see another 
sunrise."
  
Spender considered, then smirked, the alcohol making 
him over-confident. "You don't have the stones, boy," 
he responded, fumbling for something in his coat 
pocket. "To shoot a man in cold blood?  You couldn't 
do it."
  
"Couldn't I?  I could put a bullet in your head right 
now, walk away, and no one would ever know the 
difference."
  
"Not if I do it first," he responded.  In the 
darkness, Mulder only saw a quick glint of metal in 
Spender's hand before the hammer clicked, but the gun 
misfired.  
  
"It's a wet night," Mulder responded, pulling the 
revolver out of his waistband. "You let the powder 
get damp."
  
"You won't shoot," Spender said blandly as Mulder 
fired, putting a bullet in the old man's calf.
  
"That's for my son's dog," Mulder said calmly.
  
He hadn't planned to do that, but once he had, his 
finger itched to pull the trigger again.  He thought 
of his mother's empty expression as she asked him why 
her brother-in-law was living in her house, unable to 
remember he was her husband.  He thought of the 
healing gash on Sam's face and a dozen men taking 
turns shoving him around the yard.  He thought of 
Cally, with her grandmother's eyes and grandfather's 
dimple - which her grandparents hadn't lived to see.  
  
Spender looked from Mulder to his calf, realizing 
he'd just lost his right leg, but not yet registering 
the pain.  Surgeons wouldn't be able to heal the 
wound, so it would have to be amputated.  
  
"You impudent little bastard!" He fumbled with his 
gun, trying to get it to fire.
  
Mulder raised the revolver, hand steady.  Spender was 
right: he'd shot thousands of men in battle, but 
never killed one in cold blood before. "When you get 
to Hell, you give Jack Kavanaugh my regards."
  
The shots set the mongrel dogs barking again, and 
drunken voices yelled for them to shut the hell up.  
No police came running so Mulder could explain and 
claim self-defense.  No one bothered to step onto the 
porch and investigate.  No one cared.
  
Mulder stared at the body in the gutter, gun still 
warm in his hand, wondering how death could seem so 
mundane.  So much evil and hate couldn't come from 
nowhere, and it couldn't just bleed away into 
nothing.  He expected the drops of blood and bits of 
flesh to reform into a thousand miniature demons, but 
they didn't.  
  
He wondered what had driven the old man - whether it 
was a cancerous jealously of his baby brother or just 
a pure, twisted lust for power. Spender took his 
answers with him and died with as little dignity as 
he'd lived.
  
"That was for my father," he told him, still feeling 
strangely calm.
  
As Mulder walked away, a gang of young boys was 
stripping the body: clothes, boots, money, and 
jewelry.  Once they were finished, they dragged it to 
the canal and dumped the corpse into the dirty water. 
When someone found it, if anyone ever found it, it 
would have been floating for days and unrecognizable.  
  
Mulder tucked the revolver back in his waistband, 
shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly 
down 15th Street toward home.  Near The White House, 
a young prostitute asked through chattering teeth if 
he was looking for a lady friend, and he took off his 
father's coat and gave it to her, then walked on 
through the fog.
  
  *~*~*~*