As midnight approached, Mulder glanced at the level 
of golden liquid in  the bottle, wondering how it had 
gotten so low.  Whiskey.  He'd found it in the liquor 
cabinet and had to figure out why it was in the 
house: a medicinal leftover from a sore throat he'd 
had the previous winter.  Six months ago, Dana had 
fixed him a hot toddy and put him to bed, fussing 
over him in a very satisfying manner.
  
He'd approached the bedroom door a dozen times, only 
to stare at it, lose his nerve, and then turn away.  
The battle was over.  He'd lost. All that was left 
was to negotiate the terms of surrender.
  
He poured another shot, examined it, and poured the 
liquid back into the bottle.  Most of it went in, and 
what didn't splattered across his letter, making the 
ink run purple.
  
There were footsteps on the stairs - too quick for 
the wet nurse and too light for Sam - and when he got 
up to inspect, he saw Dana in the foyer. She wore her 
long, white nightgown, and her hair was down, falling 
in red waves almost to her waist.  She looked 
ghostly, as if she was already halfway gone.
  
"Are you all right?" he asked immediately.
  
"Emily is awake.  She wants a drink, but the pitcher 
was empty."
  
"I'll get it," he volunteered, and was halfway to the 
kitchen before she could object.
  
With the clock counting down, he wanted to spend as 
much time as possible with Emily.  After dinner, 
they'd played as long as she could keep her eyes open 
- all her favorite games: no-no Emmy, and chase the 
kitten, and spin things in the dumbwaiter, and bang 
on pots. Her energy had given out before his urgency, 
and he'd carried her to bed, then sat watching her 
for a long time.
  
"She's asleep," he told Dana a moment later, 
returning downstairs. "I guess she didn't want it 
after all."
  
"I guess not," she responded awkwardly. "I didn't 
realize you were still awake.  I didn't mean to 
interrupt."
  
"You aren't interrupting."
  
"You were writing to Melissa."
  
"No. No, I wasn't. I was writing - but not to Melly.  
I'm-I'm glad to see you.  I wanted to check on you, 
but I wasn't sure... Do you feel all right?" he 
asked, equally ill at ease. "Please sit down."
  
"I feel fine."
  
"Sit anyway.  Make me feel better.  Please?" He 
offered a chair opposite his desk, and she sat, 
tucking her nightgown around her.
  
"I am fine," she assured him. "Really.  My back was 
hurting earlier, but I feel fine now. I am not ill. 
This is perfectly natural."
  
"You're sure you weren't- aren't-" He cleared his 
throat. "I can have the doctor come."
  
"No. I am sure." 
  
He noticed his lower lip smarting and realized he was 
biting it. 
  
"I almost feel like I should apologize," she said 
uncertainly. 
  
"Don't," he said immediately. "I'd rather you leave 
me now than be dead eight months from now.  I just 
wanted you to stay; I never wanted another baby in 
the first place." He sighed tiredly, pushed the 
things on his desk aside, and propped up his feet. 
"And to that end, I suppose we should talk."
  
Dana plucked some imaginary thread from her 
nightgown. "Yes, I suppose we should."
  
"I-" they both said, then stopped.  
  
Dana plucked another thread, and Mulder found a spot 
on his desk to stare at.  He picked up his pen and 
tapped it nervously until it annoyed even him.  
  
"I believe the agreement was anywhere within a day's 
train ride of Washington," he said formally, as 
though closing a business deal. "Money's not an 
issue; you know that.  I won't have you or Emmy want 
for anything."
  
"I want the baby."
  
"I'm aware of that. I want both girls. You're the one 
who wants to leave, Dana.  As long as I can see her 
and you don't take her very far, you can take Emmy.  
And you can see Cally whenever you want. That's my 
best offer.  My only offer."
  
"You cannot do that."
  
"Yes, I can. You know I can."
  
Her jaw clenched defiantly.
  
"Don't," he warned. "Don't try to take her and run.  
I'll find you.  I found Sam.  There's nowhere on 
Earth you can take Cally that I won't find her, and 
when I do, my next offer won't be so generous. Again,
Dana, you're the one who wants to leave.  So what we 
need to decide," he continued coolly, "Is where you 
want to live. And, of course, when you want to go."
  
"Yes," she said softly.
  
"Had you given that any thought?"
  
"No.  No, not really.  Everything has happened so 
quickly.  You seem to be holding up well, though."
  
"I am aching," he said simply, then shuffled some 
papers that didn't need shuffling.
  
"So am I."
  
He stopped shuffling, set the papers aside, took a 
deep breath, and continued, "I have an address for 
your mother in New York, if you're interested. That's 
a long trip, though, and I'd prefer you stay closer 
to Washington.  You don't have to, but that makes it 
easier on everyone; I don't have to go far to see 
Emmy and you don't have to travel to see Cally.  
Baltimore, maybe.  Alexandria?  I've even thought of 
my parents' house in Georgetown."
  
"I do not know," she whispered.
  
"Another thing," he continued rapid-fire, before the 
whiskey drained out of his brain and he had to think 
again. "I'd rather not divorce. I'd rather not do 
that to the children.  A legal separation, if you 
want, but not a divorce.  There's no reason for even 
that. I put some money in trust for Emmy, but 
otherwise there's no property or income on your side 
to separate from mine.  If it's all right with you, 
I'd rather we live apart and leave things the way 
they are.  I'm not interested in remarrying, and I'm 
sure you've had your fill of husbands for a while."
  
That was her cue to smirk, but she seemed far away.
  
"Dana, you're cold.  You're shivering," he realized.
  
She had her arms wrapped around her and her shoulders 
hunched forward, looking too small for the large 
armchair.  She seemed surreally pale: all blue eyes 
and auburn mane against her white nightgown and the 
dark leather upholstery.
  
"Are you all right?" he asked, walking around the 
desk to her.  He squatted in front of her chair. 
"Dana? Are you all right?"
  
"Fine," she said unconvincingly, and then added, "I 
am cold."
  
Without thinking, he put his hand on her forehead, 
touching her for the first time since they'd argued 
on Easter Sunday. "Do you have a fever? You don't 
feel warm. In fact-" He put his hands over hers. 
"Your hands are like ice.
  
"I am all right.  Just cold.  Tired."
  
He let go of her hands and turned away, putting two 
more logs on the dying fire. "And hungry.  You didn't 
eat dinner, did you?" 
  
She didn't answer, which probably meant 'no.' He'd 
eaten in the kitchen with Emily, making mashed potato 
bowls for their gravy.  He remembered Sam bringing 
his plate from the dining room to the kitchen as 
well, but he couldn't recall seeing Dana go near the 
dinner table.  She'd told him her news when he came 
home from work, then spent most of the evening in the 
nursery with Cally.
  
The last few nights had been cool and wet as April 
drizzled away at May, and the logs were damp.  They 
smoked and sizzled and popped, but refused to give 
off heat.  He heard Dana's teeth chattering.  There 
was a baby blanket on the sofa, and he wrapped it 
around her shoulders, tucking it tight. "Better?" he 
asked, and she nodded, shivering less violently.  He
felt her face again, still worried. "Dana, are you 
sure you aren't miscarrying?"
  
"I am sure." She looked at him, her eyes darting over 
his face, then slowly sank back in her chair, away 
from him.  She had to be able to smell the whisky on 
his breath, but she didn't comment.
  
"All right." He moved back, sitting on the rug in 
front of her.  He poked the fire a few times, 
stirring the coals.  He poked it again for good 
measure, and leaned back, watching it smolder. "I 
just want you to be all right.  Whenever you're 
leaving, wherever you're going.  You're still getting 
over Cally's birth.  No matter how much you despise 
me, I don't want you making yourself sick. I..." He 
trailed off, slouched forward and wrapped his arms 
around his legs.  He put his aching forehead on his 
knees, closing his eyes.
  
Like a good soldier, he'd plotted his strategy: meet 
at dawn, negotiate the terms of surrender as quickly 
and with as much dignity as possible. He couldn't 
stop her from leaving. He'd worn out his thesaurus 
searching for ways to make her understand how sorry 
he was.  If he had a few more weeks - or months - or 
years - maybe he could, but he didn't. Dana's 
euphemistic 'curse' had arrived a full three weeks 
before Mulder's 'stay another month' deadline.  He 
couldn't stop Dana from leaving, but he could at 
least maintain some dignity about it.
  
"I love you," he said hoarsely. "I do.  Only you.  
You have given me so much and all I've given you is 
heartache.  I am sorry: for hurting you, for lying to 
you, for pushing you away.  I know you don't believe 
me.  I don't expect you to, but I thought somewhere 
in the world there would be one bit of truth I could 
put in your hands and say 'believe this.' But there 
doesn't seem to be.  I keep trying to follow my 
heart, but all my heart does right now is break.  
Which isn't helpful.  So here we are."
  
He looked up, wiping his nose.  She was huddled in 
the big chair with the baby blanket around her 
shoulders, and her bare feet dangling a few inches 
above the rug. 
  
"You're still cold," he said tiredly, pushing himself 
to his feet. "And you're upset.  I'm sorry about 
Cally.  I'm not trying to keep you away from her.  We 
can talk about it another time.  Come on; I'll walk 
you to bed.  I won't touch you - just walk with you 
and make sure you don't fall on the stairs."
  
"I am not going to faint."
  
"Humor me."
  
She sighed and got up, walking toward the staircase 
with him at her heels, like a sheepdog with one 
sheep. "Is this your new plan?"
  
"What?" His only remaining plan was 'don't cry in 
front of Dana.'
  
"Staying right in my shadow.  All the time.  I have 
to come here to see the baby.  You will come to my 
house to see Emily.  Whenever you like, which means 
all the time.  Then you will start showing up for 
coffee, then lunch because it was 'on your way.' Then 
bringing me your shirts to get the ink stains out and 
sew the buttons back on.  Soon, you will be under my 
feet every moment of the day.  I might as well stay 
here and save you the trolley fare."
  
She started up the stairs, but he stopped her on the 
bottom step, putting his hand on her wrist. "Are you 
saying you want to stay?"
  
She turned slowly.  They were eye-to-eye, but she 
focused on his cheekbone. "I-I do not know.  When I 
said I wanted to leave, I was angry.  I was not 
thinking.  Not matter what I want - having two 
houses, separating the girls... That does not seem 
reasonable." 
  
"It does not?" 
  
"No, it does not.  Leaving seems impractical, now."
  
"It seems impractical?" he echoed.
  
"Yes.  It does."
   
He tilted his head to the left and leaned close like 
he was going to kiss her. As she inhaled uncertainly, 
unsure whether she was going to try to stop him or 
not, he whispered, "Bullshit."
  
Dana pulled back in surprise.
  
"If you've changed your mind and want to stay, then 
say so, but don't start mouthing about practicality 
and reason.  Neither of us loves reasonably."
  
"I am only trying to be adult-"
  
"Bullshit," he repeated softly. "Being adults doesn't 
mean living in the same house and acting like polite 
strangers.  Living a lie.  Wrong, Dana.  That's 
called being cowards."
  
She bristled, tossed her hair back from her 
shoulders, and opened her mouth to argue with him, 
but he cut her off. "I love you. Only you.  I'm sorry 
I lied to you. I was an arrogant ass and I will make 
every effort to see that it doesn't happen again.  
I've never been unfaithful to you.  If I've been with 
Poppy, it was years ago and it wasn't something I 
wanted to happen.  I'm not convinced I'm Sadie's 
father, but she's still my responsibility. And I am 
fallible. I make mistakes, but I'm trying my 
damnedest to learn from them.  That's it, Dana.  You 
can live with it or you can't, but don't make excuses 
about being reasonable."
  
Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. "But-"
  
"Bullshit.  Jesus, Dana - I'm not asking you to lay 
your heart bare for me.  Play your cards as close to 
your chest as you like, but at least be honest.  If 
you don't want to be my wife, leave.  Just leave. I 
won't stop you, I won't keep you from seeing Cally, 
and I won't try to convince you to come back.  But if 
you want to stay, stay, and I'll do everything I can 
to put things right."
  
A pained wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows, and 
she looked just over his right shoulder, blinking 
quickly.
  
"You're right: you aren't going to faint.  God forbid 
you even flinch. Go to bed, Dana," he said tiredly. 
"Just go."
  
She turned away, gathering up her long nightgown.  
She climbed as far as the fifth step before she 
stopped, turned back, paused, and then said with 
difficulty, "I want to stay."
  
"All right," he responded from the bottom of the 
steps, glad he had one hand on the banister to steady 
himself.
  
"I will see you at breakfast," she added, just in 
case he might assume her staying meant he was welcome 
in her bed. "Tomorrow morning."
  
"Tomorrow morning. I'll make coffee. We'll start 
over."
  
  *~*~*~*  

He found himself staring at the kitchen ceiling, 
willing her to hurry. Rebekah would arrive in another 
half hour, and he wanted privacy.  When he heard Dana 
stirring, he'd made coffee, but she'd dawdled so long 
that he'd drank it and had to make another pot. He 
drummed his fingers on the kitchen table and his feet 
against the rungs of his chair.  It was sweet in a 
too-sugary kind of way: after two babies, almost two 
years of marriage, and numerous acts and positions 
that weren't mentioned in his old marriage manuals, 
Dana could still give him the jitters. He heard her 
ambling down the stairs, taking her own sweet time 
and oblivious to his plight.
  
"Good morning," he said when she finally made it to 
the kitchen.  He stood quickly, sending his chair 
squeaking back a few inches. 
  
"Good morning," she mumbled blearily.
  
"Fox William Mulder," he introduced himself, 
extending his hand. "When I was fifteen, my 
sweetheart miscarried and died.  I was not-" 
  
He faltered; the sentence had been easier when he'd 
rehearsed it in his head.  He took a breath and tried 
again, wanting to tell her the truth. 
  
"I was not the father of her child," he managed, and 
then continued, "I never stopped loving her, but I 
married her sister Melissa.  Who was also expecting a 
baby.  Melly was a great beauty: sweet, talented, 
very devoted to me.  And a little touched.  A few 
years ago, while I was asleep, she committed suicide, 
taking our unborn daughter with her. Our Samuel found 
her.  He's almost sixteen now.  When he feels like 
emerging from his bedroom, he's some sort of musical 
prodigy and artistic genius. I thought I'd lost him 
in the war, found him, brought him back, and don't 
know what to do with the boy I've found except try 
desperately not to lose him again."
  
Dana continued looking at his proffered hand as she 
asked, "Who was the father of Sarah's child, then?  
How much coffee have you had, Mulder?"
  
"My parents are dead," he continued. "My father 
during the siege of Richmond; my mother last fall.  
No brothers or sisters.  My father was a senator, 
and he cast a long shadow.  I try not to live in it.  
I have two little girls: one mine by blood, one by 
providence.  And my first wife's half-sister says I'm 
her daughter's father. That's a long story, but drugs 
and very bad judgment were involved."
  
Dana yawned and scratched the back of her head in 
confusion.
  
"I went to Harvard, and served in the cavalry during 
the war.  I own a newspaper, one of the few in DC 
that didn't just burn down.  The KKK hates me, as 
does half of Congress.  I'm wealthy.  Idealistic. 
Stubborn.  Proud.  Odd.  I keep secrets.  I have 
ghosts.  I snore.  I drink more than I say I do.  I 
talk too much when I shouldn't and not enough when I 
should.  And," he recalled, pointing airily, "I shot 
my bastard uncle last month.  He tried to shoot me 
and I put a bullet between his eyes."
  
"Good for you, Mr. Mulder," she mumbled, sitting 
down.
  
He took his seat across from her at the table, 
waiting expectantly.
  
"What?" she asked sleepily.
  
He gestured that it was her turn.
  
"Dana Katherine Scully Waterston Mulder," she said a 
sip of coffee. "It is nice to meet you, Mr. Mulder."
  
"Nice to meet you, Dana Katherine Scully Waterston 
Mulder.  I bet there's a story behind that name."
  
She pointed to her cup. "Coffee first."
  
He nodded that he could wait.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
A drop of coffee had dried on the outer rim of his 
mug, and he scratched it away with his fingernail. 
"I'd wondered," he finally said. "From what you'd 
said, your family was tied to the sea, not the land.  
It wouldn't matter if the village was destroyed."
  
Dana stared into her cup, then pretended to take a 
sip, though she really didn't. "I did not think," she 
said softly.  Steam rose from her coffee, swirling 
toward her face and vanishing into the cool morning
air. "When Oisin died, I picked up his gun, got the 
soldier alone in the woods, and shot him.  I did not 
care what happened to me, but I never thought of the 
repercussions to my family.  Is that the word?  Re-
per-cussions?"
  
"Repercussions." He nodded, then asked, "How did you 
get the soldier alone in the woods?"
  
She looked up at him with cool, steady blue eyes.
  
"Oh," he mumbled, and rubbed another caramel colored 
spot from his cup. "But you pulled the trigger, not 
your family."
  
"The English landlords do not see it that way.  If 
you think I am troublesome, you should have met my 
brothers." She paused, then smiled mistily at some 
childhood memory before she asked, "Were their bodies
recovered?  Could there have been a mistake? 
Could..."
  
"You told me not to check," he said, surprised at the 
question.
  
"But I knew you would."
  
"They were listed as being on duty," Mulder said 
softly. "On the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay, August 4, 
1864.  Your father warned Admiral Farragut the waters 
were mined, but it was an ironclad ship: supposedly 
unsinkable.  Farragut ordered 'damn the torpedoes, 
full speed ahead!' As it led the squadron into the 
bay, the Tecumseh struck a mine - a torpedo.  There 
was an explosion, and the ship rolled and sank. There 
were no survivors, and no identifiable bodies.  That 
happens in war, sometimes."
  
She nodded slightly that she understood.
  
"I wish I could do better for you, Dana.  I know it 
seems senseless. They died because Farragut was 
arrogant, and he wanted a fast victory. Not because 
you killed a man.  Not because your family fled to 
America. Not because your father and brothers joined 
the navy.  They were grown men and experienced 
sailors; it was their choice to fight in the war or 
not.  They understood the risks."

"I do not think my mother sees it that way," Dana 
told her coffee cup, needlessly stirring the murky 
liquid with her spoon.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Owning a newspaper wasn't a profitable or prestigious 
business.  For every headline, there was a multitude 
of headaches: jammed presses, frantic editors, 
cutthroat reporters, deadlines, and on and on.  The 
hours were long and the decisions difficult: deciding 
what was news and what was scandal. More than once, 
he'd dipped into his own pocket to meet the payroll.  
At four o'clock, sometimes all he had to show for his
efforts were ink stains, a pounding headache, a few 
more enemies, and a couple pages of newsprint.  Some 
days, he considered letting Byers take over once and 
for all, and finding a less troublesome occupation.  
Like bullfighting. Fire eating. Alligator wrestling.
  
"Come," he said without looking up, and his office 
door opened. "Just put it on my desk: crises on the 
left, complaints on the right. If you hate Melvin 
Frohike, there's a line upstairs: go stand in it."
  
A stack of cursive covered pages appeared on the 
corner of his desk: the translations of The Lancet 
and Scientific American one of his typesetters did 
for Dana each month.  Mulder glanced at them, but 
didn't give them another thought until he left work.
  
He and Samuel caught the streetcar on the corner and 
squeezed in with the evening masses.  Mulder found a 
place to stand at the back, and ignored the parasol 
jabbing him in the leg as he read a letter he'd 
forgotten he asked his typesetter to translate.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
October 13, 1864
  
Dear Mother, 
  
I have written to you many times, but my letters go 
unanswered.  Once again, I hope this letter finds you 
safe. My husband tells me Father and Bill and Charles 
are dead, but I do not know if this is true.  I pray 
it is not, but my heart tells me it is.  Mother, I am 
so sorry.  I would give my life if it would bring 
them back to you.
  
I wish I could invite you to live with me, but that 
is not possible.  I understand that I cannot leave, 
that I cannot shame my family, so I try to stay out 
of the way, especially when he is drinking.  I try to 
be a good wife, but I know he is disappointed with 
me.  Perhaps it is because we have no children, or 
perhaps because he does not love me.  I look like the 
memory of someone he loved, but that is not enough.
  
I remember a time when I wished I had died with 
Oisin.  Eventually, the ache in my heart faded and 
left behind only emptiness, as though I could see the 
sun at a distance but its rays never reached my face.  
So I married this American doctor I barely knew, and 
who I knew did not love me.  I thought it would not 
matter because I thought there was nothing left alive 
inside me to feel.  But there is, mother.  My heart 
was broken, but it continues to beat.  
  
Sometimes I want to leave with the first man who 
comes along - to say to the Devil with this unending 
civil war, to the Devil with these miserable swamps 
and mosquitoes, and to the Devil with Dr. Waterston. 
I want to climb into a stranger's buggy or scramble 
up on his horse and say, "I cannot go home, but take 
me anywhere but here."  Sometimes-
  
  *~*~*~*
  
"Are those Dana's?" Sam asked, and Mulder jumped, 
jostling the passengers around him.  The woman behind 
him responded by poking him with her parasol again.
  
"These are," Mulder answered, offering the two paper 
bundles he'd wedged under his arm. "Here - you can 
give them to her."
  
"What about that one?" he asked, nodding to the 
letter his father held. 
  
"No," Mulder responded, folding and tucking it in his 
inside coat pocket. "This one's nothing.  Come on: 
our stop's next."

  *~*~*~*
  
He would not be a jealous ass.  He would not be a 
jealous ass.
  
Mulder stopped pretending he was reading, laid the 
book on his chest, and watched Dana and Byers 
chatting in the parlor. In Gaelic. Without him.  
Engrossed in a conversation he could barely hear, but 
was certain was about him.  Mulder put one foot on 
the floor, deciding there was something in the parlor 
he needed to retrieve, and he'd remember what it was 
by the time he got there.
  
Byers started a sentence, then paused, gesturing and 
trying to remember the word in Gaelic.  
  
"Pluicean," Dana supplied for him. "Pustule."
  
Byers nodded and continued.  He kept glancing past 
Dana, through the French doors, and into the library 
at Mulder.  He'd stopped to drop off an article for 
Mulder to read, and Dana had invited him to stay for 
dinner. For a glass of wine after dinner. And for a 
second glass of wine.  And, apparently, a riveting 
discussion of Small Pox.
  
Mulder exhaled tensely, put his foot back on the 
sofa, and picked up his book again.  
  
He would not be a jealous ass.
  
When he looked up again, Byers was standing, and Dana 
was wishing him a safe trip home.  Byers leaned into 
the library, telling Mulder goodnight and that he'd 
see him in the morning.  Mulder raised his hand, 
pretending to be engrossed in his book.
  
"You are sulking," Dana said, returning to the 
library after showing Byers to the door.  She leaned 
over, pushing down the book he was hiding behind. 
"You have been since dinner. If I did not know 
better, I would say you were jealous."
  
"Of course I'm not."
  
"You are.  You are jealous of Mr. Byers."
  
He made his hurt-little-boy face, pushing out his 
lower lip. "I am.  You never discuss pus with me."
  
"Pus," she whispered seductively, leaning over him.  
She'd had a smidgeon too much to drink, and her eyes 
twinkled mischievously. "Pox. Bubon.  Canker. 
Surgical fever.  Putrefaction.  Gangrene."
  
He reached up, looping his finger through her 
necklace and pulling her lower. "Do you kiss your 
husband with that filthy mouth?"
  
"Infection.  Prophylaxis.  Pandemic.  Rigor mortis." 
She hesitated, her lips just over his. "Post-mortem 
liquescence."
  
"Oh my," he said softly, dropping the book and 
raising his mouth to hers.  One soft wine-flavored 
kiss, then another, then another as he sat up and 
then guided her down and back on the sofa so he was 
on top of her. "Thank God.  I was beginning to think 
you were adding extra days to torment me."
  
"I would never-"
  
He cut her off, pressing her lips apart with 
increasing urgency.  He unbuttoned the front of her 
bodice, then the delicate corset cover. Her corset 
pushed her breasts high, rounding them into twin 
half-moons. They rose and fell as her breathing 
quickened, threatening to escape the confines of the 
whalebones.
  
"I've missed you so much," he murmured, trailing his 
mouth down her cleavage, then up the underside of her 
throat. "You can't imagine how much I want this."
  
"We should go upstairs," she whispered as he gathered 
up her skirt and pushed the ruffled petticoats out of 
the way.  His hand slid up her leg, past stockings, 
garters, and lacy pantalets to the soft, warm nest of 
hair between her thighs.  Split-crotch drawers: a 
God-given boon to mankind.
  
"No, here," he answered hoarsely, urging her legs 
farther apart.
  
"Mulder-"
  
"Here.  Now."
  
She shifted lower, leaning back into the corner of 
the sofa so he was over her.  He unfastened his 
shirt, wanting his skin against hers, then trousers 
as he consumed her mouth.  Reality slipped away, 
leaving earlobes, smooth eyelids, and tart, kiss-
swollen lips. The soft whimpering sound she made in 
the back of her throat as she felt his erection 
pressing against her.  The silkiness of her hair 
under his fingers; the softness of her thumbs 
outlining his face.
  
"Slow down," she requested, and he nodded, knowing he 
was devouring her. Too much, too fast, too soon.  He 
just missed it so much: the world being only the two 
of them.  
  
It had been, once. Before they'd married, on 
Waterston's plantation. Mulder had chopped firewood 
in the summer sun as she sat in the shade with her 
new baby. The heat was sweltering, and sweat soaked 
his shirt and dripped into his eyes.  Sawdust coated 
his forearms and neck, and the sun singed his scalp.  
He'd glanced at her when he stopped to wipe his face, 
and found she was watching him.  He'd said something 
benign and gone back to chopping, puzzled as to why a 
woman would look at a dirty, sweaty man like he was 
the biggest piece of chocolate cake on a dessert 
tray.
  
And when they'd first married: laying in bed with 
Emily between them, watching in fascination as the 
baby's mouth moved against Dana's breast. Being 
newlyweds: exploring the mysteries and pleasures of 
the flesh like an addict with a new drug. Waking Dana 
in the stillness before dawn and making love slowly, 
without speaking.  Being at work and discovering the 
scent of her lingering on his shirt. Feeling her arms 
around him late at night. Awakening.
  
When Cally was coming, after morning sickness passed 
but before Sam returned: there had been long Sunday 
afternoons of reading in front of the fire, eating 
whatever and whenever they pleased, and making love 
whenever and wherever they pleased.  Spending hours 
with his hand on her flat belly, fascinated by the 
miracle inside it.  Watching Emily grow.  Watching 
Dana glow, knowing she wanted another baby as much as 
he did.  Waltzing without music in an empty ballroom.  
Making a life together.
  
"Tell me you really want this," he whispered.
  
He didn't understand all of her response, but he 
heard her call him "mo run," which meant everything 
was all right.
  
Cupid folded his arms, leaned back, and grinned 
smugly.
  
Mulder's brain shut down, sending only every third 
word to his lips. "...so hard," he murmured, starting 
to push inside her. "Wet.  Wanna feel you... Tight.  
Oh, God.  Hear you... Talk to me, love."
  
Her fingers in his hair tightened, back arched, and 
her hips rose to meet his.  Language and reason gave 
way to the low, desperate sounds and tide of passion.
  
"Love you.  So sweet," Mulder managed, and she 
answered with a moan, wrapping her top leg around his 
waist.  He paused, pushed up on his elbow, and put 
her palm against his pounding chest. "Do you feel 
that?" he asked, staring deep into her eyes. "You're 
here: inside me.  I'm inside you; you're inside me.  
We make a complete, a complete... Uh, a complete..." 
He couldn't remember the damn word.  Something 
poetic. Round.
  
"Circle," she whispered, then added breathlessly, 
"Samuel."
  
"Samuel?"
  
Cupid sat upright and glanced around in confusion.
  
"Samuel," she repeated urgently, pulling away from 
him.  He was covering her, and she couldn't go very 
far. "Mulder!"
  
He heard footsteps, and looked over his shoulder in 
time to see Sam enter the library, gasp, then quickly 
turn around and leave.
  
"Shit," Mulder spat, scrambling to his feet and 
pulling his trousers up. "Goddamn it.  I thought he 
was... Shit! ...Somewhere."
  
Dana jerked her skirt down and sat up, hurriedly 
buttoning the front of her dress.  Sam had walked in 
when they were asleep after having made love, but 
never during the making.
  
"I'm sorry," Samuel told the floor when Mulder caught 
up with him at the top of the stairs. "I needed my 
cello.  I didn't mean to, to, to interrupt.  I'm 
sorry."
  
"No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault," he answered, 
his hands trembling as he buttoned his shirt, then 
shoved his shirttail into his waistband. "I didn't 
think.  I forgot you were home."
  
"I don't really need my cello," Sam mumbled, looking 
around for someplace else to be. "Not right now."
  
"Sammy, I don't think your cello's the problem.  I 
should have told- We were- Oh God.  Let's go in your 
bedroom and sit down."
  
Sam helped him check the floor for that trapdoor. Not 
finding it, Mulder opened the door, and Sam 
hesitantly stepped inside.  
  
A baseball bat leaned against the dresser, unused 
since before the war.  A tin box held a collection of 
interesting rocks Sam and his grandfather had 
amassed.  A hunting rifle was on top of the bookcase; 
Sam cleaned it often, but declined all invitations to 
hunt. There were polished riding boots, also seldom 
used. A ball, a few wooden and tin toys, a slate, and 
a row of textbooks, their spines neatly aligned: 
artifacts of a forgotten childhood.
  
Sam sat on the bed, hunched forward with his elbows 
on his knees, and Mulder sat beside him, copying his 
posture.  He could smell Dana on his hands, and he 
rubbed them on his wrinkled trousers, then shifted 
his feet uncomfortably, searching for an opening 
sentence.  His son kept his head down, looking like 
he'd rather be stuck with hot pins. 
  
There was no need to have 'the talk.' Aside from 
wherever he'd been sneaking off to at night, Sam had 
spent months in Sherman's army, which left no room 
for innocence of any sort.  Aside from venereal 
disease, soldiers passed around pornographic 
photographs, stories, sketches, and novels.  
Prostitutes visited the camps, collected clients, and 
then adjourned to what privacy the tents provided.  
Even as a married man, Mulder had been appalled.  To 
be a boy in a place like that - it wasn't the way 
he'd wanted his son to learn about the fairer sex, 
but it was a thorough education.
  
On the dresser, between a sketch pad and sheet music 
for an upcoming symphony, were two photographs: one 
of Bill and Teena Mulder, and one of Melissa.  Mulder 
picked up the second frame, tilting it toward the 
lamp. "She used to make shirts for me, when I was at 
Harvard," he said thoughtfully. "Right after we 
married.  She was expecting you, so she couldn't go 
out, and that's what she did: sewed shirts and mailed 
them to me. They were awful."
  
Sam watched his father out of the corner of his eye.
  
"Really awful. She was fifteen: she couldn't sew 
worth beans.  I had a tailor make copies so she 
wouldn't know, but I'd no sooner get one copy made 
than she'd send another one.  Grandfather wrote, 
demanding to know why I had an exorbitant tailor's 
bill when my wife sewed all the time." He chuckled at 
the memory. "I probably still have a few of those 
shirts in a trunk somewhere. Luckily, her skills as a 
seamstress improved over the years."
  
"You never told her?"
  
"No, I never did," Mulder answered. "She was fragile, 
she wanted to make me happy, and it would have hurt 
her.  There were many things like that." He paused. 
"But an affair with Poppy wasn't one of them, Sam, 
and that's what we need to talk about.  Poppy's sick.  
Confused.  She's said things that aren't true.  I 
think she's said them to you.  In fact, I know she 
has.  Dana told me-"
  
In the blink of an eye, Sam switched from examining 
the rug to scrutinizing his father. Something 
flickered behind his dark gaze for an instant, then 
died silently.  

"What, Sam?"
  
"What did Dana tell you?"
  
"She said you asked if I was Sadie's father.  Dana 
told you I wasn't. That's probably the truth.  I hope 
it is. I think Poppy's making it up.  If I am the 
father- I don't love Poppy. I never have.  It doesn't 
take love to create a child. It should, but it 
doesn't, and you're old enough to understand that. I 
made a mistake, and now I have to live with the 
consequences.  Everyone does."
  
Mulder watched for a reaction before he continued, 
but Sam seemed to have stopped listening about eight 
sentences ago.  
  
"When is Dana leaving?"
  
"She's not, Sam.  We need to talk about that, too."
  
"Oh."
  
"Dana cares about you.  She takes care of you.  Hell, 
Sam, she even lies for you.  She lies to me, like I 
was never fifteen and don't know exactly what you're 
doing.  When Dana was planning to leave, one of the 
things we fought about was her seeing you.  When I 
said you wanted me to divorce her... She had no idea 
you felt that way, Sam.  I could have hit her and it 
wouldn't have hurt any worse."
  
The clock ticked loudly. Mulder scuffed his boot 
against the floor and continued, although he might as 
well have talked to the wall.
  
"I heard you tell Dana you think I'm disappointed in 
you as a son.  I'm not, Sam.  I can't begin to 
comprehend the gifts you have. Your mother did, but I 
don't. I try, but I just don't. You've been through 
so much..."
  
No response.
  
"I know you miss your mother. Grandmother and 
Grandfather.  I know you're hurting.  Alone.  Afraid.  
I know you're doing some things you shouldn't be 
doing.  I understand what it's like to feel hollow, 
and need someone or something to fill that 
hollowness.  I lost the same people you did and I was 
in the same war. I want to help, and I'll do just 
about anything, but please don't ask me to leave 
Dana.  Because I'm not going to."
  
"What if she left you?" Sam asked finally, after a 
long silence. "Would you go after her?"
  
"As long as there was breath left in my body," he 
promised.
  
"Please don't, Father," his son requested, his voice 
eerily soft and plaintive. "Just let her go."
  
An ominous chill passed through Mulder, but he said, 
"I can't, Sam.  Not even for you.  Regardless of what 
happens."
  
Sam slouched miserably, and Mulder scuffed the toe of 
his boot against the rug again, drawing an imaginary 
line in the sand.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
Sam had been a child prodigy in the truest sense, 
particularly in music. It was piano first, then 
violin, then cello, guitar, and any other stringed 
instrument that crossed his path.  Effortlessly.  
With perfect pitch, which had mystified his tutors.  
He'd sung in the choir and played at church, but 
Mulder had discouraged solo public exhibitions, 
refusing to have his son become a sideshow.
  
After the war, Sam began playing with the symphony, 
at first filling in for a sick cellist at the last 
minute.  Mulder had been concerned about the noise 
and the crowd, but Sam barely seemed to notice.  He'd 
been invited back as a regular member, the youngest 
in the history of the Washington Symphony.  If he had 
strings underneath his fingers, he was at home, and 
until the performance ended, the world made sense.
  
Just as he'd started playing piano because Melissa 
played, Sam started drawing because she painted.  And 
because Sam was intrigued by the sketch artists and 
cartoonists at the newspaper.  He'd had lessons, but
in general, Sam just drew what he saw, and what he 
saw were his subject's souls.
  
Alone in the bedroom, Mulder leafed through the 
pages of Sam's  sketchbook, stopping at a study of 
hands.  He held it up to the lamp, recognizing 
Emily's chubby fist, and Cally's palm, with a pencil 
drawing of her tiny, wrinkled foot beside it.  An old 
man's gnarled paw: leathery skin, ragged fingernails, 
and painful joints.  His and Dana's hands, their 
fingers loosely intertwined and resting against the 
fabric of the sofa in the library.
  
On the next page was a charcoal sketch of a 
sleeping young man, his nude upper torso captured in 
a quick series of black strokes.  There was Mulder at 
his desk at work, chewing a pencil, his forehead 
furrowed in concentration.  The pretty teenage maid 
with her arms around a basket of laundry and a shy, 
inviting smile on her face. Dana with Emily in the 
rocking chair beside the nursery window.  A New York 
street vendor pushing a cart.  A group of three men 
bathing in the river, their broad backs to the 
viewer.  On the last pages were unfinished sketches 
of Melissa: all pregnant, and all unfinished because, 
as Sam said, he couldn't remember what had been her 
and what had been just how he wanted to remember her.
  
A tear dripped onto the page, and Mulder blotted it 
away so it wouldn't smear the drawing.
  
Dana stopped in the doorway, noticing the faint 
glow from the lamp. "Are you all right, Samuel?" she 
asked softly.  When there was no answer, she wrapped 
her robe around her tighter and took a tentative step 
into the bedroom. "Samuel?  Are you awake?"
  
He continued staring at the sketchbook, refusing to 
look at her.
  
"Mulder?" she said in surprise, realizing it was 
he, not Sam, sitting on the narrow bed. "Where is 
Samuel?"
  
"Gone," he said in a strangled voice.
  
Dana pushed her hair back from her face. "Gone?  
Where?"
  
"Away."
  
"Are you sure he did not just sneak out again?"
  
Muder looked up, focusing on the darkness.  There 
was no moon or stars outside the window, just vast 
night. "Please... Please go back to bed, Dana," he 
requested hoarsely.
  
"What happened? Did he run away? Where did he go?"
  
"How the hell should I know?" he snapped, anger 
surging through his veins in search of a target.  He 
threw the sketchbook down and stood, towering over 
her. "You didn't want me looking for him in the first 
place! You never wanted me to find him."
  
Dana stood gaping at him.
  
He braced his hands on the doorframe, as though 
guarding his son's bedroom from invaders.  He inhaled 
a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. "You should 
probably get away from me," he suggested through his 
teeth, and wisely, Dana stepped back.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
"May I come up?" Dana asked as her head appeared 
through the opening of the loft.  She hooked her 
umbrella over the edge of a stall, then climbed to 
the top of the ladder and made her way between the 
bales of hay.  She smoothed her skirt under her hips 
as she sat beside him, looking shaken.
  
Below, a pitchfork scratched against the floor as a 
stable boy mucked out the stalls, and rain drummed 
steadily on the roof above.  Mulder heard the elderly 
groom talking soothingly to one of the mares, who 
whinnied and snorted impatiently, wanting breakfast.  
The stable smelled of sweet, damp hay and grain, and 
the mellow scent of oiled leather from the tack room.
  
"That was awful, I know: what I said," he mumbled. 
"I know it's not true. I'm sorry. Obviously, I was 
upset. I am upset."
  
"Where has Samuel gone? To his friend's flat?"
  
"How should I know?"
  
"Are you going after him?"
  
"I don't know." He closed his hot, scratchy eyes, 
surprised his eyelids covered them.  The black rain 
clouds overshadowed the sun, but it still seemed too 
bright.

"Go after him, Mulder."

"Even if I knew where he is- Go after him and say 
what, Dana? 'You will never have to watch another 
woman die?'" Mulder leaned his head back against the 
cool wall of the stable. "Maybe that's all insanity 
is: being able to see into other worlds, other fates. 
To see how you will lose the people you love, yet not 
be able to prevent their deaths... I would be insane, 
too. Melly... I fought as hard as I could, but I lost 
her to that other world, and I couldn't get her back.  
Not really, not fully.  Sam's her son.  He's so like 
her... So kind, so talented, so gentle. Maybe, like 
her, he's one of those souls who can lift the veil 
and catch glimpses of the future, and what he sees 
for us, if we're together, is your death."
  
"Mulder, that is nonsense. He is a very confused, 
very lonely boy who has lost more than he can bear," 
Dana responded, choosing her words carefully. "He is 
not what you envisioned your son would be, and he 
knows it. That is what frightens him.  You do not 
need to look to the spirit world for explanations. Go 
after him, tell him you love him, and tell him to 
come home." 
   
Mulder swallowed, shaking his head and dismissing 
what she'd said without really hearing it. "He knows 
something, Dana.  Something he's afraid of.  As hard 
as it is, I think we should listen to him."
  
"He was wrong before: his dreams.  I did not die."
  
"But you did, Dana. I saw you. Or maybe it wasn't you 
having Cally that he dreamt of, but the next baby, or 
the next.  I can say we won't have any more children, 
but we both know it's an imperfect science. Sooner or 
later, I'm going to forget, you're going to conceive, 
and then... Then he'll be right."
  
Dana started to argue, then didn't seem to have the 
energy. "I am sorry, but I need you to come inside 
now, Mulder," she said, measuring each syllable as 
though it was heavy. "There is a man to see you."
  
"You deal with him, Dana - whatever he wants.  I 
can't right now.  Say I'm unavailable."
  
"He told the maid he wanted to speak with you.  About 
me."
  
He looked at her questioningly. "About you?  What's 
his name?"
  
"Dr. Daniel Waterston."
  
  *~*~*~*