Begin: Paracelsus XIV *~*~*~* Dear Dana, All my life I have had everything I should have wanted, and yet, deep inside myself, I have always yearned for more. My father raised me to be the next Julius Caesar, and until he died, he believed I'd come to my senses eventually and follow the destiny he'd envisioned. He'd roll his eyes and call me a romantic and an idealist, but he never turned his back on me. He was always there when I needed him, but I never knew how much I needed him until he was gone. My mother never understood my world of books and philosophy, but I was always welcome in her world of society and pretty appearances. My parents loved each other passionately and I was their precious son. Each loved the reflection of the other they saw in me, and they loved me, but I wonder if they ever saw me for who I truly am. I married too young, but many men do. I married for the wrong reasons, but many men do. I had a child before I was finished being one myself, but many men do. If I was unhappy, it was no one's fault but my own. Melissa would have picked up my footprints and bronzed them, if she could have. Sarah was dead, so I loved my Sam, and I tried to adore his mother as much as she adored me. Life slipped by. One day blended politely into another. I played my role, supplied my lines, and drifted farther and farther from the person I'd always intended to be. They say on the Great Plains, there were once buffalo herds that stretched as far as a man can see. Once, Sam and I saw a buffalo at a circus, and we talked about it: what it would be like to see a hundred thousand of them at once. He was seven, I was twenty- four, and he asked if we could go west and see the buffalo before they were gone. I said "perhaps" and bought him too much candy because I was too much of a coward to say we never would. My family would never say to Hell with civilization, pack our saddlebags, and ride off into the sunset, whipping our horses wildly and waving our hats in the dusty wind. We would never go to the Paris opera house, spit over the edge of our box, and then try to look innocent as the people below cursed us in French. We would never be anything but the beautiful, too-tight role society expected of us. I had begun to content myself with that, and you can't know how much that frightened me. No - yes, you can know. I know you, Dana, whether you want me to or not, just as you know me. Then suddenly, it was all gone. My world, along with every other American's, had come to an end, yet my life continued. I was a remnant, and for the first time since I was sixteen, I wasn't Melly's husband or Sam's father or Bill and Teena Mulder's only son. As much as I ached for them, for the first time, I could be anyone I wanted, but I'd almost forgotten who I'd wanted to be. I wrote to Melissa that I was like Diogenes: roaming the Earth, holding my lantern up in the darkness, and searching for someone who would tell him the truth. A man should be careful what he looks for. One day, Dana, a familiar soul stepped into my path, and I can tell you in all honesty: I will never be the same. Each time I swore I was returning to Washington and yet found my horse pointed toward Dr. Waterston's plantation, I had a dozen practical explanations - some even believable. You are much better with practicality, Dana. You asked why I kept coming back, and I lied and said, "To fix the hole in your barn roof and split more kindling, Ma'am." I asked why you kept letting me come back, and you said, "You bring me coffee beans, Mr. Mulder." For a man who convinced himself he wasn't in love with you that fall, I will say this: in Georgia, immediately after the war, coffee beans were fifty dollars an ounce, love. Gold was forty, flour was thirty, and pretty young women - without husbands and babies and holes in their roofs - were roughly ten cents. I bought coffee beans. Despite what I tried to tell myself, loving you wasn't a product of reasoning and practical statistics, or of loneliness and lust. It just came, and refused to explain itself. It was a truth inside my self; I only had to discover it. I love you. I did then; I do to this day. And, laugh if you like, but I am sure I have loved you in a dozen lifetimes before this one. Long ago, a scientist named Paracelsus wrote that man is not body; the heart, the spirit is man, and each spirit is part of a larger whole. When one soul connects with another - however briefly - like two metals fused by fire, both are forever transformed. 'Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I have looked upon you. You must be she I was seeking. You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my beard, breast, and hands in return. I will see to it I do not lose you.' I wrote that to you once, Dana, but you never received it. I wonder how our time together would have been different if you had. You bring courage and color and balance to my life. My world with you is vivid; my world without you is gray. You made me feel whole, and I made you feel second best. I went chasing fireflies when I wanted fireworks, and now I can only say I am sorry. You were never second best. No one ever has or ever will touch the place you do in my soul. If I mistook what I felt for a lesser love, it was only because I had little previous acquaintance with the emotion. I loved Sarah, but I was a boy playing at love. As a man I clung to secret dreams of a life that I had long outgrown. I have put away my childish things, Dana. If I could open my heart and show you what is inside it, perhaps you would believe me, but I cannot. There are a finite number of second-chances in each life, and I used mine up long ago. Forms change, times change, but we are all parts of an evolving whole, and souls do not forget each other. We have met before, Dana, and I, like Paracelsus, believe we will meet again. In some future world, when we pass on the street, I pray that I have the sense to stop, grin sarcastically, and ask, "Where have you been all my lives?" You will look up at me with those big blue eyes and answer in your logical manner, "Right underneath your nose, Mulder." I have been fortunate to share my path through life with several remarkable people, and truly blessed that you have been one of them. Our time was short, but know that I love you eternally. If you look, you will find that spark of my love inside you. There are many sparks and many paths - some well-trodden and some only followed once. Feel my love and carry it with you through the darkness, because I will find you, even in infinity. As you told me once, death does not stop love. I will never forget you; you are burned into my soul and I am forever transformed. I will always scan the crowds, searching for the one who holds the other half of who I am, because until I find you again, half of me is missing. The rest is silence. I cannot hold you, but the hardest thing I have ever done - that I will ever do - is let you go. Mulder *~*~*~* Follow your heart, wise men said. When he was fifteen, his heart said Sarah, much to everyone's approval. She was the girl next door, his best friend, and his confidant. Their marriage would unite two old, powerful families. His father was fond of her, seeing her as a pretty, well-bred asset to his son's political future. His mother doted on Sarah as the daughter she'd longed for, and Sarah had returned the affection. At fifteen, as a boy struggling to find his place in his father's shadow, he'd been grateful he happened to love a girl who met both his parents' and society's expectations in every way. When he was sixteen, still numb from Sarah's death, his heart said Melissa. She was breathtakingly beautiful, sweet, and heartbreakingly alone. And pregnant. And Sarah's little sister. And in love with him. He'd shrugged off the voice of reason, thinking the things about Melly that bothered him would change after they were married. In fourteen years, she'd demanded so little except care and superficial affection, and she'd known so little of who he really was. When he was thirty-one and the world seemed to be ending, his heart whispered Dana. He'd found her the way a compass finds north - a primitive, mysterious pull from a force he couldn't understand or control. Inexperienced at true love, he'd mistaken it for lust and friendship, both of which were safer emotions. Regardless, for the first time in his life, he'd given in and let the tide take him where it would. To his surprise, the sky hadn't fallen. They'd been happy - or at least, he'd been happy and Dana had given a convincing performance. Then Sam. His heart told him to keep searching - that Samuel was out there in the darkness, alone, hurting. A lost soul. Sam was lost, but that didn't mean he wanted to be found. Mulder had brought home a confused, traumatized boy-soldier to a pregnant stepmother, then been perplexed that everyone hadn't lived happily ever after. Then Poppy. She was his last link to Sarah, and he'd tolerated her increasingly erratic behavior, believing Sam needed her. His heart told him she loved Sam more than she resented Dana's place in his life. And in his bed. Then Sadie. An unwanted bastard child in a sea of unwanted bastard children. His heart ached when he looked at her, not sure what to do except hurt. Each choice had seemed like the right choice. The only choice, sometimes. Each time, he'd followed his heart, only to realize too late that his heart couldn't read a map. *~*~*~* When the minister tried to console him after Sarah's funeral, Mulder asked what kind of God let fifteen- year old girls die. The minister hadn't been able to answer to his satisfaction, and that had been the end of Mulder's regular patronage of any church. He'd gone for Melissa's sake, or when Sam or his mother asked him to, but seldom of his own accord. He found God in sunrises and newborn babies and one more morning with his wife, not in a pew. He'd almost gone that morning, though, looking for comfort in the rituals from childhood. He'd sent Dana to Mass and Sam to Easter services instead, then moped around the house until the silence became deafening. "Where is the groom?" Dana asked, looking displeased to find Mulder outside the church, waiting to pick her up after Mass. Mulder secured the reins on the dash, set the brake, wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, and climbed down. The horses sensed the tension in the air, and shifted nervously. He patted one's haunches, then left his hand on the harness as he said hesitantly, "I sent him home. Let me help you up." Her posture indicated she'd rather fall to her death than have him lay a hand on her, so he let her climb into the buggy by herself. She kept her hands in her lap and her eyes straight ahead as he climbed up, ignoring the stares from the other parishioners as they emerged from church. It was a nice, juicy scandal - not that he'd been with the Negro help, though that was in bad taste - but that he'd brought the resulting child home to his wife. He was Bill Mulder's boy, so society chalked it up to yet another example of his lechery and bad judgment, gossiped, and eventually forgave. But instead of being sympathetic to Dana as the wronged wife, Washington smirked and snidely muttered, 'I told you so.' Fox Mulder, who'd been the epitome of the devoted, adoring husband during Lent, obviously wasn't. Obviously, Dana was a fool to believe her husband would be faithful to any woman, let alone her. Society thought it was a good joke, and didn't hesitate to laugh. Ladies who'd barely been polite to Dana in public suddenly came out of the woodwork: dropping in for tea, to invite her to go shopping, or to admire Cally. The gossips sharpened their knives, expecting a tearful scene, but got tea and little else. Dana had held her head high, said Cally was sleeping, declined the shopping invitations, and answered that "yes, Miss Poppy's daughter is staying with us." Even the most brazen among the women didn't dare ask, and the ladies eventually left, bewildered. Dana hadn't flinched, but in two days, to his knowledge, she hadn't eaten or slept either, and the strain was beginning to show. "How was Mass?" he asked, searching for something to talk about. He saw her chest rise and fall, but she declined to answer. The agreement was that he wouldn't bother her, wouldn't even speak to her. He was breaking the agreement, but they couldn't keep living under the same roof and ignoring each other. He couldn't just stand by and wait to see if the stork was going to buy him another nine months with her. If he could just get her to do anything - cry, yell, scream - he at least had a toehold. "This is not the way home, Mr. Mulder." "No, it's not," he answered. "Where are we going?" "Just a little side trip." "I would like to go home." "I will take you home. I'm just taking a different path." She started to say that he wasn't even headed in the right direction, but he cut her off. "My Uncle Ronald's widow will take Sadie. I sent her a telegram Saturday morning. Auntie has a big house on Rhode Island, and someone's already on their way to get Sadie and take her back. After Tuesday, you won't see her again." She continued staring at her hands. "Will you?" Each word seemed electrically charged, and he considered his response carefully. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I want her to be taken care of, but I don't know that I want to see her again. No, I probably won't see her unless I must." He watched Dana out of the corner of his eye, trying to see if there was any reaction. She looked up, swallowing and turning her head away from him. "Even if she is yours?" "Cally is mine. Emmy is mine. Sam is mine. Sadie... She's not mine. Not in the same sense. Even if she's my blood, it frightens me how little I feel for her." "That does not seem fair." "Find one thing in this mess that is fair, Dana," he responded, and she didn't answer. A block past The Evening Star, he stopped the buggy in front of a boarding house. Dana looked at him as he walked around to help her down, not budging. "This is the address on the landlord's bill. I want you to see it." "This is Poppy's flat?" "This is the address on the bill. She doesn't live here, if that's what you're asking. Will you go in?" He wasn't sure she would, but Dana nodded and let him help her down. The front door was unlocked, and opened to a small foyer. A family occupied the first floor, and wooden and metal toys were scattered around their door. A narrow staircase led to the upstairs and attic flats. The first door opened when Mulder tried it. The rooms were bright, clean, airy, and nicely furnished. There was a sitting room, a bedroom, and a small kitchen with a stove. It was clean, but there was no sign anyone lived there: no clothes in the drawers or food in the pantry. The flat was much nicer than Poppy could have afforded, but he'd been paying and he'd bet that was part of the reason she'd rented it. He also suspected part of the appeal had been the view: the kitchen window overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, kitty-corner from the front door of The Evening Star. "She must have rented it Christmas Day, right after she told me about Sadie, then changed her mind and gone north with Alex. I'd say they were trying to make the deadline for Spender to be eligible for the Massachusetts Senate. When Spender wasn't nominated, they returned, but by then - or soon after - Poppy and Alex parted and she forgot about the flat. Or she assumed I changed my mind about paying for it once she quit her job." Dana stood in the center of the sitting room, turning slowly. "Does that sound logical?" he asked tentatively, trying to sound scientific instead of desperate. "Many things can sound logical, Mr. Mulder," she answered, but her voice didn't sound so razor-sharp. He put his hands in his pockets, wiggling his fingers nervously. "Dana, I've been thinking about something. Wondering. The morning you came to my office and told me you were expecting Cally, were roses delivered to the house?" She wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember. "Perhaps. I think so. Why do you ask?" "Who were they for?" "For Poppy. I do remember; they were white roses. There was a card, I think, but I didn't see it. I don't know who sent them. She didn't say." "I sent them. I sent them to you, Dana. She just intercepted them, assuming they were hers, I think. She assumed the note I wrote was meant for her." "Why would she assume that?" Before he could answer, a man stuck his head through the open doorway, squinting at them and asking what their business was. Mulder explained that it was his name on the bill, and, playing a hunch, asked the landlord to tell Dana who'd physically rented the flat, knowing it couldn't possibly be him. The landlord hedged, and Mulder asked again. The landlord glanced around, then timidly answered, "You, sir." "Me?" "You and the tall, pretty woman. Colored, Indian - I dunno, but she was a looker. Had a little one with her I took to be yours." Dana had been watching the landlord intently, but turned her back and instead looked out the window at the busy street. "Me? No, it had to be Alex. I wasn't with her. Dana - Alex was with her. Not me. I spent Christmas at the house with you." He turned back to the landlord. "Couldn't it have been another man? Tall, dark hair, dark eyes? One arm? Alex?" "Could be," the landlord responded, unfortunately a little too quickly. "Probably was, in fact. Almost certainly was, sir. Don't see so well, myself." "Show me the lease," he demanded. "If I rented it, show me my signature on the lease." "It ain't got no signature on it - just an X. I wrote the rest." "Exactly. I can read and write. Poppy can't, and Alex just barely can. Dana, why would I sign an X if I can write?" "Keep folks from knowing you's payin' the rent, I suppose," the landlord postulated. "No one asked you," Mulder snapped. "Was she ever here again? Poppy? After the day it was rented, was anyone ever here again?" "Not to my knowing, sir," the landlord supplied, sounding wholly unconvincing. "I don't go sticking my nose where it don't belong." "You live downstairs! Of course you'd know." "I will wait in the-" Dana started, turning to leave, but Mulder grabbed her arm. "No, wait. Don't. I can- I can prove..." He looked around the cheery yellow room, trying to think of a way to verify his story. "Come with me." The alley was half a block away. Down the cobblestones, then left and through a labyrinth of narrow passages between the buildings. Up the steps, under the stone archway, then through the back door of the old factory he'd followed Poppy into Friday afternoon. He heard Dana panting as he led her down the filthy hall, still gripping her wrist like a drowning man. Through the first flat, then the second, with the same woman and baby beside the coal stove, then into Poppy and Frankie's dingy room. "Here," he announced triumphantly. "This is where Poppy lives. This is where I found Sadie. She was behind this curtain. Her mother brings men back here with her daughter on the other side of this curtain. Sadie was dirty and hungry and her diaper hadn't been changed in hours. Look around: there's no food, there's no fire. If, if Poppy was my mistress, even a discarded mistress, do you think I would let her and her daughter live here? Do you?" "No," Dana said softly. He could tell the idea anyone lived in this place, or in the manner he'd described, horrified her. Neither of them would let a dog live in that room. "Poppy has syphilis. She must have had it for years without telling anyone, and it's finally killing her. It might be why Sadie barely talks. But I don't have it. You don't. Cally doesn't. If I'd been with Poppy - three years or three nights ago - I'd have it." "Not always," she said. "In The Lancet-" "Do you honestly think my luck's that good? Dana, it's spread to her brain. Poppy's always been high strung, and she's had a hard life. I'm not saying she's a saint, but she wouldn't have hurt Sam. Me maybe, but not Sam. To tell him Melissa's in Hell, and that she and I were lovers - Poppy's changed. When I talked to her Friday, she barely knew me. Some daydream she's had about me secretly loving her all these years: it's gotten twisted inside her head until she believes it." She looked around the dingy room. "Dana, do you believe me?" "I-I do not know," she said tiredly, her voice wavering. "All right. Fair enough. I just wanted you to see the flat, to hear me out. I'll take you home now." Although the narrow hall made it awkward and there was little for her to stumble over, he kept his hand on her arm as he guided her out of the old factory. As they reached the back of the run-down building, Mulder squinted as the door opened and a teenage girl entered, humming to herself. Frankie grinned and started to speak when she recognized Mulder, but then quickly closed her mouth and dropped her head when she saw Dana. She slid past them, and Dana turned to watch Frankie enter the same room they'd exited. "You know her," Dana observed as they reached the stone archway. "The girl in the hallway. She knew you. That was her flat. She was happy to see you." "I'll explain later. This isn't the place for us to stop and chat." "That was her flat. Not Poppy's. You knew how exactly to find it in that maze." "Yes, that's her flat. Her name is Frankie. Poppy's staying with her," he answered, keeping an eye on all the other eyes watching them from the shadows. "How did you know that?" "Dana, come on," he urged, but she refused. "I know Frankie because she used to be one of my newsboys. Before she did what she does now. I see her, sometimes. I saw her Friday as I was leaving work and we talked. That's how I learned Poppy was staying with her," he explained impatiently. "That does not make sense. This," she gestured to the rotting urban Hell around them. "Is not in the line of sight from The Evening Star. This is not between the newspaper's front door and ours." "I was in the alley with Frankie." "Oh." "It's not like it sounds," he added quickly. "I give her my lunch, sometimes. Most times. I was getting the tin back so you and Rebekah wouldn't scold me, and Sam and I were talking to her. I saw Poppy. Frankie said Poppy was staying with her." "You had Samuel with you?" "Well, Sam knows her," he defended himself. "I sent him away." "Samuel came slouching home and said you had forgotten something at the office. I knew he was lying, but I thought you'd put him up to it so you could stop at the jeweler's again." "I did put him up to it, but I told him to say that because I was with Frankie," he argued. "Not 'with' Frankie, but talking with her. I saw Poppy and I didn't want Sam seeing her. Dana, I'm telling you the truth." "Then where is Poppy?" "Probably drunk somewhere. I gave her some money-" "You gave her money?" Dana said in disbelief. "You told me she took advantage of you, could have given you syphilis, lied when she said she was your mistress, lied about having your child, lied to your son, and you gave her money? How much money?" "One hundred, eighty-six dollars," he mumbled, slouching guiltily. That was a great deal of money, especially to a two-dollar whore. "One hundred, eighty-six dollars..." she prompted. "And ninety-two cents," he added. His 'tell the truth' plan wasn't working out the way he'd envisioned. Dana's cheekbones stood out, and the purple shadows under her eyes seemed even darker. "I want to go home now," she requested. "All right," he said, taking her arm again. She jerked away, telling him not to touch her. *~*~*~* He had a new plan: he was just going to stay at her heels and protest his innocence and bad judgment until she believed him. Since tact, judgment, and honesty didn't seem to be his strengths, he'd try tenacity. Dana had stopped listening about 13th Street, but he'd kept talking - all the way home, up the stairs, and into their bedroom, which he hadn't set foot in since Good Friday. As he pleaded his case to deaf ears, Dana stood in front of the dresser mirror, angrily unpinning her hat and then the brooch she'd worn to Easter Mass. "Dana, I'm telling you the truth," he insisted yet again, sounding petulant. "I am. Why won't you believe me?" She looked at the brooch, then closed her fingers around it. "Dana, I love you. Only you. With all my heart. And body. There's no one else, and certainly not Poppy or Frankie. Yes, lying to you was wrong, but now I'm telling the truth. I don't know what else I can say or do to convince you." Her eyes closed and her forehead crinkled like she was about to cry, and he stepped toward her. "Dana," he said softly, comfortingly. "You haven't slept. You haven't-" Then, in one fluid move, she turned and hurled the expensive ivory brooch at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. "How dare you," she shouted, sending her earbobs through the air after the brooch. "How can you possibly be such an ass!" "Dana-" he said in surprise, raising his hands to shield himself as she flung her stupid little hat and the hatpin at him as well. She opened her jewelry box and grabbed randomly, hurling a sapphire necklace, then a ring, then another necklace, and finally, in frustration, the whole mahogany box. "Do you know," she continued loudly, jerking open the wardrobe and throwing a high-heeled slipper at him. "How much I want to believe you? How much I want to believe you are the innocent, flawed, knight-in shining-armor and this is all just a big-" The other dainty slipper. "Mis-" A walking boot. "Under-" The other boot. "Standing!" A black silk evening dress, which didn't make it very far. In exasperation, she picked it up and threw it again, then kicked it when it fell to the floor. "You are my husband. Do you know how much I do not want it to be true?" she yelled, grabbing a heavy feather pillow off the bed and hurling it at him. "Even now? Do you know how much I want to believe you, regardless of every bit of evidence to the contrary? Do you?" "It isn't true," he insisted. "It's not. I told you the truth!" "When? Which time?" she demanded, and he saw the first angry tears spill from the corners of her eyes. "Do you even know what the truth is? Why not just say she is Melissa's niece? That is the truth, and who fathered her makes no difference to anyone but you and me. If you truly do not believe Poppy's story, why tell me Sadie might be your daughter?" "I don't know." "Because either she is yours, or you want her to be," she supplied. "I do not," he answered immediately. "Why did you do that, Mulder? Bring Sadie here in front of everyone? Rub my nose in it, as you say. You could have said business called you out of town, taken her to a hotel, and I would never have known. You do not want her and you do not want her to live here, so why did you bring her home in the first place? Why do that now, just as we are beginning to heal? Why hurt me for no reason?" "Because I wanted you to know. Because I wanted to tell you the truth, however awful it was. I don't like lying to you." "Then tell me the truth! Bed half the city, if you want, but tell me the truth!" "I am! I did." She moved to throw another pillow and he grabbed her wrist. She fought him, pounding on his chest with her other hand until he caught it as well. "Dana, stop. You'll make yourself sick." "I married you," she said tearfully, struggling to get free. "Not just on paper or in name; we took vows before God. I promised: until I died, there would be only you. You promised the same thing." "There is only you," he responded loudly. "There was never only me," she shouted back. "And you will never let there be only me. There are ghosts and skeletons and quests and contrived stories, but there will always some reason you cannot love me. You are my husband, but I was never really your wife." Surprised, he loosened his grip on her wrists. "What are you talking about?" "I am not your mistress or your whore. You do not steal away for an hour with me, then return to where you are supposed to be. I am your wife. I love you. We have a home, we have children. How can you think we are all just a mistake?" "My mistake?" he asked, still having no idea what she meant, but encouraged to hear that she still loved him. "God's mistake. Fate's mistake," she said. "People die, Mulder. People we love die, we grieve, and, after a time, our lives go on. That is not betraying the people we have lost; it is living. You cannot be married to a ghost." "A ghost? You think I'm still in love with Melly? No, you're wrong. I love you. I never loved Melly the way I love..." He studied her face, and then realized, "Sarah? You think I'm in love with Sarah? She's been dead for years." "You think you should have died, too," she accused him, jerking away and leaning against the bedpost as she struggled for breath. "That you deserved to die, because she did. You think everything and everyone else - Melissa, Samuel, me, our children - we are just some error of Fate. You sabotage yourself and push us away because going on with your life would be betraying her." "That's not true." "What is it about me that reminded you of Sarah? Do I smile like her, move like her, act like her? Make love like her? What is it, Mulder?" "Have you been in my desk?" he accused her, almost positive she hadn't. "Have you been reading my letters to Melly?" "Oh, go to hell," she said tiredly, turning away. *~*~*~* He lay on the kitchen floor, fishing blindly underneath the stove for a tail or paw. As he strained to reach another half-inch, Emily stood beside him, sobbing miserably for "Cat. Cat. Cat." "Almost," he promised breathlessly, expecting his shoulder to come out of joint or his bones to start snapping. "I almost have him. Al... mo-" He felt kitten fluff and grabbed, only to get a handful of air, sharp claws, and angry hissing. Mulder cursed and jerked his hand out to examine the scratch. "Me cat. Cat, Dah-dah! Dah-dah: cat," Emily pleaded. "Cat-cat-cat-cat." It was her new favorite word, and she pronounced it like she was a swaying, clattering train, slowly gaining speed. "I'm trying," he insisted irritably, sucking his knuckle. She didn't look convinced, so he squirmed sideways and tried with his left arm, avoiding the bottom of the hot stove. "Emmy, he doesn't want to come out. Can't you sleep without him? Just this once?" "Me cat," she wailed, tears streaming down her face dramatically. "Peas. Cat. Cat-cat-cat. Cat!" He sighed in exasperation and continued fishing for feline. In retrospect, a tiny kitten hadn't been the best Christmas gift for a toddler. For months, Emily had been terrified of the loudmouthed ball of fluff and cried whenever she saw it. Then, suddenly, she insisted on carrying it around the house, usually upside down, which the half-grown kitten resisted. "Me cat!" "I'm trying," he snapped, which made her cry harder. Behind the stove, the kitten eyed Mulder and hissed warningly. "Do you want me to get him out?" Sam's voice asked from above the black boots Mulder was eye-to-eye with. "I'll get him," Mulder muttered, grabbing again and this time getting fangs through the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. "Damn it! Goddamn stupid cat!" "Tam it!" Emily repeated disapprovingly, then resumed her tearful pleading for, "Cat. Cat-cat-cat. Dah- dah: peas. Me cat. " The boots disappeared into the pantry, and reappeared as Mulder sat up, clutching his newest wound. Sam squatted down, waving a small slice of ham. The kitten rolled to his feet and strolled out, meowing longingly. Sam sent Emily off holding the ham and giggling as the fat gray puffball pranced after her. Mulder sighed in exasperation, got up, dusted off his backside, and reached for his tepid cup of coffee. He'd re-warmed the coffee Dana had made before Easter Mass, and six hours hadn't improved the flavor. It kept him awake and removed paint. "Dana calls him Ocras," Sam said, sitting at the kitchen table and weaving his legs through the chair rungs. "That's 'hungry' in Gaelic. She said not to call him Damnation." "Tam cat," Mulder responded tiredly, pouring more sugar into his mug in a futile attempt to mask the taste. Despite the heat from the stove, he felt cold inside, and his belly chilled despite the coffee. "I think-" Sam started uncertainly. "I think Dana's asleep." In his blend-into-the-shadows way, Sam had been silently observing the drama following Sadie's arrival. He appeared in a doorway or in the nursery, watched impassively, then faded away like the morning fog. Mulder seldom noticed Sam arriving or going until he was there or gone. "She is asleep. She needs to rest. Sadie and Cally are asleep, but Emmy won't lie down. I, uh..." A yawn interrupted him, and Mulder rubbed his eyes. Dana wasn't the only one who hadn't slept since Friday. "I, uh..." He couldn't remember what he'd been talking about. "I could watch her," Sam offered. "You don't have to. Cally's nurse will be back soon, and Rebekah..." He trailed off, his ears popping as he yawned again. "No, I could. You could sleep." "That would be nice." Mulder rolled his neck and let his eyelids close halfway in anticipation. "You'll wake me if anything happens?" he checked. "Or if you get tired of watching the girls? Wake me, not Dana. Let Dana sleep." "I will." Sam nodded, and then hesitated before he asked, "Father?" "Hum?" "What's..." He trailed off and grew a little smaller. "Everyone's talking about Sadie. Even at church this morning. I heard Dana crying. Yelling. Is she..." "She'll stay another month - long enough to make sure she's not having another baby. Then she's leaving." "But Sadie's leaving. I heard you say so." "That doesn't change- change the circumstances," Mulder hedged. "She's leaving forever? Like a divorce?" The concept of divorce was almost as mythical. Through adultery, drunkenness, beatings, insanity - married people stayed married, if only to escape the social scandal and stigma on the children. Money and family smoothed over many things when a girl wanted to marry, but not being Negro, illegitimate, or the child of divorced parents. Mulder stroked his aching forehead with his thumb, realizing he was running three for three with the girls. "Maybe. I don't know." "Where would she go?" "I don't know." "What about Emily and Cally?" Sam asked softly. "Sam, I don't know." "What if she's having a baby?" "I don't know, Sammy," Mulder muttered through his teeth. "I thought you and Dana weren't having more bay-" "Enough," Mulder said more sharply than he intended. "Sammy, enough. Just stop. Please. I don't know what's going to happen. I don't. But it doesn't matter. You don't want Dana here, and Dana doesn't want to be here. I know you and I need to talk, but not now. Later. Right now, I'm too tired to think, let alone explain." Sam nodded uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he apologized. "There are just so many things... I'm sorry this is happening, and I'm sorry you have to watch it happen." His son nodded again, then paused uncertainly before he asked, "When she leaves - you won't go after her, will you?" He shook his head slowly, his neck muscles aching. "No, if she wants to go, I won't try to stop her." Sam nodded one last time, seeming comforted somehow, and then excused himself to go after Emily. Mulder exhaled, knowing he hadn't handled that well. Once he found the energy to move, he stretched out on the library sofa and closed his eyes. Kitten claws skittered across the foyer, and Emily squealed as she and Sam pursued Damnation up the stairs. *~*~*~* He heard the voice calling his name, as gently insistent as water dripping onto sandstone, slowly eroding away sleep. "All right. I'm awake," he mumbled. The cushion he'd shoved behind his head on the sofa was making his neck ache, and he massaged it with his hand. "Fox," she repeated slowly, her accent wrapping his name in southern mist. "I'm up," he answered sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Rebekah had changed his diapers and retained the right to call him 'Fox,' but few others did. Poppy had, but to every other adult in the house, including, at the moment, Dana, he was 'Mr. Mulder.' "Get up. Come on, silly," she persisted. "It's almost dark. You'll miss everything." He looked up and saw Melissa's brown eyes watching him, except there was life in them, mischief, sparkle. The facial structure was similar, but rounder and not so exotic. Her hair was the same straight, black silk, but she was fairer, looking less Cherokee and more French. She wore a simple white dress, and she was slimmer than Melissa, with the small, high breasts and new curves of a teenage girl. He squinted, trying to figure out who this girl could be and why she'd address him so casually. "Sarah?" he finally realized, sitting up. "No, Napoleon. Get up, silly." "Sarah?" he repeated in disbelief. She'd died before photographs, and Jack Kavanaugh hadn't approved of paintings of his girls, claiming they were just vanity. The only images Mulder had of her were the ones in his mind. When he dreamt of her, she was always older, and it was strange to see her at fifteen. She seemed more child than woman. "Sarah?" She stepped back, looking around the library as the sunset glowed orange through the windows. "This is your house?" "Yes, this is my house," he answered automatically, assuring himself he was only dreaming, not crazy. "Sarah..." It felt like a dream, but not. It was like seeing his mother's soul leaving or Dana's when Cally was born: there, but not. She was a spectator in his world, but no longer part of it. His mind filled in what his senses didn't, though: the warmth from her body, the scent of her skin, and the sound of her footsteps across the rug. Sarah trailed her fingers casually across the polished piano, over the easel, then stopped to examine the accordion. "What's this?" "It's Sam's accordion. It makes music, or something akin to it." "Sam? Samantha?" "Samuel. Melissa's son. Melissa and I have a son named Samuel. He's almost sixteen." "You and Melissa? My sister Melissa? You called her an empty-headed pest and a bore and a crybaby. Are you teasing me?" "I'm not teasing," he insisted, trying to get his bearings. "Melly and I were married. We- Would- would you like to see him?" Sarah nodded that she would and followed him, tripping lightly up the curving staircase. He expected her to vanish at any second, but when she didn't, he cautioned her to be quiet and pushed open the first door. "Sam," he whispered, gesturing to the young man asleep on top of the covers, one hand under his cheek and one resting protectively on Emily. The kitten was curled at the foot of the bed, its muzzle on Sam's ankle. "That's my Sammy." "He's beautiful." "Yes." "He looks like Melissa. He's like her in so many ways. You don't want him to be, but he is, and that frightens you." "Yes, it does," he admitted quietly. She studied Sam's face thoughtfully. "There is so much beauty inside him. He has a quiet center, an artist's soul. An old soul. You've lost him so many times, and you've searched for so long, but there is no place for him here. You want to protect him, but you can't: you can't protect him from all the evil in the world or from the storm inside himself." "I can try," he said even more quietly. "You won't succeed." "But I can try," he repeated. "And the baby? Is she yours?" "That's Emily. She'll be two this summer." He moistened his lips. "Yes, she's mine. And my Cally's asleep in the nursery. She's almost four months old." Emily shifted, and Sam patted her back instinctively. He rubbed his neck, then rolled to his side, curling up to her. At the foot of the bed, the kitten flicked its tail, but didn't open its eyes. Mulder gestured for Sarah to step back as he closed Sam's door. He stood facing her in the dim hallway, knowing he was dreaming but unwilling to wake. "It seems so odd," she murmured. "You being married, having a house, having a family. You're a man, Fox." "I guess I am," he said, standing close to her. He wanted to put his arms around her and feel like the world wasn't coming to an end, but he didn't. He'd always envisioned her as a woman, and, in his dreams, treated her like a woman. Now, seeing her as the child she'd been, those dreams seemed perverse. She was right; he was a grown man, and this was a little girl. "Stay," he offered. "There's so much to talk about. I could show you Cally. My daughter. I could-" She shook her head slightly from side to side. "I saw you once," he said quickly, afraid she would fade away at any moment. "In Tennessee. Near your father's plantation. There was a war, and I was wounded. I was dying, and there was a bright light, and then you were there: walking toward me through the tall grass. I felt my soul leaving my body. I saw the battle as if I was looking down on it. I started to come to you, but you shook your head and told me to go back. So I did," he finished in a frantic jumble, justifying why his life had continued when hers hadn't. "And so I'm here." "You think it was a mistake? Coming back?" "I-I don't know. Maybe. I'm not dying now, am I?" "No, you look pretty healthy," she assured him. "How can living be a mistake?" "Not living," he corrected her. "Having nothing to live for," Mulder said, and then wanted to snatch those words back. She nodded toward the door at the end of the hall. "She is nothing? Your children are nothing?" "No, that's not what I meant. Of course I love my family," he explained quickly. "Of course I do, but this is - this is not how it was supposed to be. I-I came back for you, but you were already gone. There was no right answer." "Perhaps there is no right answer. Perhaps, if I had lived, we would have become lovers and you would have died in Tennessee, leaving me behind to grieve. Is that what you want? Or perhaps we would have married to please our parents but ended up hating each other until the day we died, bitter and miserable. Or perhaps we would have been happy. Who can say? There are infinite possibilities in each lifetime, so how can you presume to know what Fate intended? When did you get to be such a coward?" "I'm not a coward," he defended himself. "You- you're just a dream." "Yes, I am. That's all I am. I'm a fifteen-year-old child and your dream of how you think life should have been. That life wasn't real. It wasn't something you had and lost, Fox; it never happened for us in this lifetime." Sarah pointed past him, at the door of his bedroom. "But she happened to you. Perhaps you were not supposed to meet in this lifetime, but against all odds, you did. You found her. She is real, and she loves you. Why can't you let go of me and let yourself love her? Really love her? Why can't you let her into your heart? Are you so afraid of what she'd find?" "That's not Melissa. Melly's dead, too. That's Dana." She nodded that she knew that. He shook his head, brushing off her argument. "It's too late. Even if it wasn't... She doesn't love me anymore." "She's still here," Sarah responded. "I didn't give her a choice." "A choice?" Sarah gave him the same eyebrow Dana did. "She isn't my sister. She doesn't need your permission. She could take those girls and vanish into the Irish section of New York or Boston and you'd never find them again, but she hasn't. She's still here, still letting you trample all over her heart with your half-truths and pathetic explanations." "You seem to know a lot about Dana." "Only what you know." She smiled and slipped her hand into his, touching him for the first time. He could feel it: the warmth and texture of her palm. "Let the fairytale go, Fox. Let one life go, and live another one, while you still have a chance." "How am I supposed to do that?" "Trust your heart. There's truth there. It's that thick, brilliant head of yours that gets you in trouble, not your heart." "You're saying goodbye, aren't you?" "You are," she answered. "You don't need me anymore." "I do." She shook her head slowly from side to side. "Listen to your heart." "All right," he said shakily. She stepped back, turning away. He let go, and her fingers slipped away from his. He stood outside the master bedroom, watching her walk down the hall and disappear around the curve of the stairs. *~*~*~*