Begin: Paracelsus XII
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Melissa,
  
Every now and then, late at night, in a quiet corner 
of the house, Dana discovers me writing to you. 
She'll pad down the stairs in her nightgown and bare 
feet, push her hair back from her face, and ask, 
"What are you doing, Mr. Mulder?" as if she didn't 
already know.  
  
When we first married, I would fib and say I was 
editing an article for the paper or composing a note 
to some ambiguous 'friend,' but now I just answer, 
"Writin' to Melly." 
  
Sometimes she curls up on the sofa, waiting for me to 
return to bed; sometimes I even read a few sentences 
to her, though that still feels strange - as though I 
am being unfaithful to one of you, though I'm not 
sure which.  You were one life; Dana is another.  
Regardless, Dana knows I still write to you.  She 
said I do it because I still have something I need to 
say.
  
Melly, I'm not sure I still do.
   
For fourteen years, I was as good a husband as I knew 
how to be.  We were two children playing at marriage, 
taking vows without any real understanding of the 
weight behind the words.  I was not perfect, but I 
did not promise to be.  I promised to love, honor, 
and cherish you, keeping only unto you until death 
parted us.  I did my best to keep that promise.
  
I did my best. You left, Melly; I didn't. I just got 
left behind.  
  
As the anger and sadness fades, when I pick up my 
pen, I am not sure what to say to you anymore.  I 
fill pages about Dana and Sam, but it has begun to 
feel like the awkward moment when a conversation is 
over, but no one wants to say goodbye.  So I am 
saying goodbye.  Not that I will never write to you 
again, or won't think of you every time I look at Sam 
or hear Bach's piano concertos, or that I won't cry 
for you, but for now, I think the conversation has 
ended.
  
I would not say it to Dana, but her Irish Catholicism 
and Poppy's Voodoo Catholicism share a common belief: 
death is not a cessation of life, but a gradual 
change from one condition to another. In Catholicism, 
there is Purgatory, but in Voodoo, the soul splits 
into two parts.  One half returns to the earth and is 
the energy of life and rebirth.  The other remains 
with the living for a time, staying close to its 
loved ones. Eventually, as the living let go, the two 
halves can reunite, be at peace, and move on - moving 
not into death, but deeper into the cycle of life.
  
I'm letting you go, letting you be at peace.  Letting 
myself be at peace. I hope with all my heart that I 
will meet you again in some future universe, and that 
we will stop and talk and perhaps become friends.  
Perhaps become more.
  
Something went wrong in this lifetime, Melly.  I 
cannot explain how I know that, but I do.  Sarah 
shouldn't have died - not like she did.  And perhaps 
I should have died on that field: let the other half 
of my soul rise from my body and follow hers.  All 
that has happened after that moment is uncharted 
territory: a chance at a life I was never intended to 
have.  
   
But my God, what a gift.
  
One of the first things that struck me about Dana was 
how precious she found life when all I saw around me 
was ruin.  Her pain was no less than mine, and in 
many ways it was more.  Still, she got up at night to 
watch thunderstorms and hold her baby against her 
skin in the darkness.  She savored life the way I was 
afraid to.  She was alive while I only existed.  She 
let me love her - body, mind, and soul - when I 
thought I'd never find the energy to do more than 
play a role.
  
It's not enough to survive, Melly.  Any fool can hide 
from life and survive.  It's thriving that really 
unsettles people, and God knows I love to do that.  
  
My universe moved on, and I was left behind, a 
stranger alone in a strange world.  By chance, one 
hot Georgia afternoon, I met another stranger.  One 
minute earlier or later and I would not have, and she
might have died alone, having her baby.  It would 
have been only 'her baby,' then, not 'our Emmy.' I 
have to think meeting her was Fate - God looking down 
and muttering, "Well, you're still there anyway, you
stubborn fool.  Let's teach you a lesson."
  
He did. She did. Dana taught me that while a ship is 
safe in the harbor, that's not what a ship is 
intended for. 
  
Until we meet again,
  
Fox William Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He sat sideways on the top step, legs sprawled and 
eyes fixed on the opposite end of the long hallway as 
if his tired gaze could penetrate the bedroom door.  
Sam was one step down, wrapped in a blanket from his
bed and staring blankly.  His son's head bobbed a few 
times as his eyelids lowered, but he startled, 
shaking awake like a toddler fighting a nap.
  
"You can sleep, Sammy," Mulder said gently. "Go to 
the library or the parlor, lie down on the sofa, and 
get some rest. I'll wake you when the baby comes."
  
"We're not going to Boston tonight, are we?"
  
"No. The last train left hours ago."
  
A floorboard creaked, sounding suspiciously like a 
woman moaning, and Mulder had to stop breathing 
momentarily.  He stared at the door, willing it to 
open.  All he could hear was silence, which was dry 
kindling to an overactive imagination.
  
There was a schedule: once an hour, Rebekah or the 
doctor would come out and update him, and it was an 
agonizing forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds until 
the two a.m. update.
  
"Tomorrow?"
  
"No, probably not tomorrow, either."
  
Mulder shifted, trying to find a way to lean against 
the banister so the spindles didn't jab his backbone 
or kidneys.  He gave up and turned, sitting with his 
back to the top of the staircase and his feet on the 
step below Sam's. 
  
"What about the senate?"
   
Another moan, this time definitely Dana and 
definitely real, because Sam heard it too.  Mulder 
bit his lower lip, which burned as the chapped skin 
stretched between his teeth.  
  
Sam pulled the blanket tighter around him and studied 
his sock feet, then craned to see if the bedroom door 
looked any different.  He swallowed several times, 
then asked, "What's wrong?  Why isn't the baby 
coming?"
  
"The doctor's with her," Mulder answered evasively. 
"He's a good doctor. He delivers lots of babies.  He 
delivered you. He took care of your mother.  He..."
  
He started to say 'He took care of your Aunt Sarah,' 
but shivered as a chill trickled down his spine like 
a single bead of sweat.
  
"The night you were born, I was so nervous that your 
grandfather took pity and got me drunk.  Very drunk.  
Howling at the moon, embarrassing Grandmother, drunk.  
Except you took so long getting here that by the time 
you arrived, I'd sobered up again."
  
He planned an encouraging grin, but ended up with a 
facial twitch that didn't inspire confidence. 
  
"I don't want anything to happen to Dana," Sam said 
quietly, fear stealing into his voice like a cold 
fog. "I don't, but... I'm scared.  I don't want to be 
here if something happens to her."
  
"She's going to be fine, Sam. The doctor's doing 
everything he can. He-" 
  
Even he could hear the lack of conviction in his 
voice, so he just stopped speaking.  Mulder exhaled, 
not sure how much of the empty space inside him was 
cold and exhaustion and how much was fear.  He leaned 
forward, elbows on his knees, forehead on his palms.
  
"Everything will be fine, Sammy.  You did a good job 
- going for the doctor.  Everything will be fine.  It 
won't be much longer."
  
Which was what Dana had said six hours ago.
  
"Then we'll go to Boston?"
  
Mulder leaned harder on his elbows, kneading his 
forehead with his fingertips.  Outside, the wind 
howled, rattling the windowpanes and forcing 
snowflakes against the glass.
  
"Father?"
  
"Sammy..." he muttered tiredly. 
  
He heard Sam adjust his blanket and hunker lower, 
trying to disappear into the shadows. 
  
"Yes, we'll go," Mulder amended. "But not until I'm 
sure Dana and the baby are all right.  And that's not 
going to be for a few days. Maybe a few weeks, even."
  
"What about Grandfather's senate seat?"
  
"This is his grandson being born; I think Grandfather 
would want me sitting right here."
  
Mulder glanced up, expecting to see Sam on his feet 
and walking away. Instead, his son just sat, looking 
young and lost and afraid that he'd forgotten the way 
home.
  
"Come here, Sammy," Mulder offered, guiding his son's 
head against his leg.  He felt Sam resist, then relax 
and lean against him, closing his eyes.  He put his 
arm around Sam, stroking his hair and holding him 
close as he slept.
  
Below them, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed 
one-fifteen.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
Night thinned into a fine silky blackness, then 
ripped, letting the first scarlet traces of dawn 
spill through the delicate fabric.  Sam made coffee, 
but fell asleep at the kitchen table, his dark head
resting beside his mug.  Aside from his soft snores 
downstairs and the sounds from the other side of the 
bedroom door, the world was silent, insulated by the 
white drifts that glistened silver in the last of the 
moonlight.
  
Mulder's chapped lower lip had split in three places, 
and he alternated the tip of his tongue between the 
raw fissures. He'd changed into the clean underwear 
and shirt that had been in his satchel, but, banned 
from the bedroom, had retrieved a pair of trousers 
from the laundry basket downstairs.  There was an ink 
stain on one leg, and he licked his thumb and rubbed 
it nervously, only making it larger.   
  
About five a.m., his imagination had gotten the best 
of him and he'd demanded to see Dana, which was 
"interfering" and "getting in the way," according to 
the incensed doctor.  When he'd protested that he'd 
been there when Emily was born, the doctor had 
threatened to leave, saying he wouldn't stand for 
such impropriety.  Under any other circumstances, 
Mulder would have told him to go to Hell.  Proper or 
not, no one told him where he could be or not be in 
his own house.  Given the circumstances, though - 
which were almost three feet of snow on the ground, 
the middle of the night, and a glimpse of Dana lying 
barely conscious on their bed - he'd retreated to the 
hallway.
  
"Fox, are you still there?" Rebekah's voice asked.
  
"I'm here," he answered immediately, scrambling up 
and standing as close as he could to the closed 
bedroom door without merging into it. "What is it 
'Bekah?  What's wrong?"
  
"The baby kicked," she responded. "I'm sure of it."
  
Mulder nodded and slid back to the floor, tilting his 
face upward and saying a silent 'thank you.'  
According to the doctor, the baby had finally turned, 
but then stopped moving.  Babies usually came within 
twelve hours of the water breaking, he'd explained, 
and it had been longer than that.  The baby was too 
big, Dana was too tired and uncooperative, and it had 
been too long.  Saving Dana was the priority now, 
he'd said.  He'd said it slowly, as though giving 
Mulder time to adjust to the idea.
  
"How is Dana?" he asked shakily. "Is she awake?"
  
That was the main problem, as well as Mulder 
understood it: the doctor had given Dana morphine so 
she'd relax and he could turn the baby.  But either 
the doctor had given her too much or she was too 
exhausted, because she'd relaxed to the point of 
unconsciousness and the contractions had stopped.
  
"I think so," Rebekah answered. "The pains have 
started again."
  
"Just a little longer, Mr. Mulder," the doctor said. 
"Why don't you wait downstairs?"
   
He shook his head defiantly as if there was anyone to 
see him.  When he opened his hands, his fingernails 
had dug eight little crescents into his palms.  
Mulder interlaced his fingers and closed his eyes, 
continuing his dialogue with God.
 
"Push, Miss," he heard Rebekah urging. "Push."
  
"Push," Mulder echoed silently, keeping his eyes 
clenched shut and his front teeth pressed together so 
hard his forehead throbbed.  
  
Dana mumbled in Gaelic, saying "no," and then 
something he couldn't understand.
  
"Mrs. Mulder, I need you to wake up and push," the 
doctor requested sternly. 
  
"Push, Miss Dana," Rebekah said again. "Don't go back 
to sleep.  Listen to the doctor.  Wake up and push. 
Your baby's ready to come."
  
"Push, love," Mulder prayed.
  
"Bab?" Dana said weakly, sounding disoriented.
  
"Yes, the baby," Mulder answered through the door. 
"Tell her 'Bhi, bab Tomas: ta se go brea.'"
  
"Yes, baby Thomas: he is fine," he heard Rebekah 
repeat in Gaelic.
  
"Mathair?" Dana asked in a small voice.
  
"Tell her yes, Rebekah.  Say 'bhi' again.  Tell her 
that you're her mother."
  
"Bhi," Rebekah echoed, then ordered Dana to push.
  
Dana responded in Gaelic, and he heard her whimper as 
she tried to obey, then collapse back onto the 
pillows, panting.
  
"Again," the doctor ordered. 
  
The pained noises on the other side of the door built 
to a crescendo with Rebekah's and the doctor's voices 
urging Dana to try one last time. He heard a long 
moan, and then, as the seconds passed, nothing.  Dana 
panted tiredly, quick footsteps crossed the floor, 
but there was no sound from the baby.
  
There was a slap, some frantic whispering, and still 
nothing.
  
"Clean out its mouth," Rebekah's voice suggested.
  
"It's clean," the doctor responded tersely. "Get me 
another towel."
  
Mulder stared at his hands, focusing on the white 
knuckles and mottled red tips. "Breathe, breathe, 
breathe," he chanted silently, feeling his cracked 
lips moving, but no air coming out.
  
He finally heard a weak cry, and exhaled, unclenching 
his aching fingers.  He put one palm on the cool door 
as if he could feel the baby's heartbeat through it. 
"Is he okay?"
  
"It's a girl," the doctor said as the baby's cries 
grew louder.   
  
"A little girl," Mulder echoed in surprise. "Oh my 
God, we have a baby girl.  Is Dana okay?  Dana?" 
   
"She should be fine. Both of them should be fine," 
the doctor answered, and a heavy weight lifted from 
Mulder's shoulders.
  
He nodded again and hurried to the top of the stairs, 
calling for Sam. When there was no response, he went 
to wake him, barely feeling his feet skipping down 
the steps or his hand gliding along the banister.
  
"A girl," he informed the cook and Emily's nursemaid, 
who'd fallen asleep in the parlor as they waited.  He 
jostled their shoulders excitedly. "The baby's here.  
It's a little girl.  We have a little girl."
  
He was half a step from throwing open the front door 
and giddily announcing the news to the frozen world.  
He had a baby girl.
  
"Sammy, the baby's here," he told his son as the boy 
raised his head, trying to get his eyes to open.  
Samuel looked curiously at his father's hand on his 
arm, then started to go back to sleep. "A little 
girl.  Come on - wake up!"
  
Sam blinked and stumbled after him obediently, 
following Mulder up the stairs.  They met Rebekah 
halfway as she carried a tiny bundle of white flannel 
down the upstairs hall. 
  
"Cailin," Rebekah told them, smiling proudly. "Miss 
Dana just said her name is Cailin."
  
"Kee-lin?  Kay-lin?" he asked as she gave the baby to 
him.  He'd been euphoric before, but as the weight 
settled safely into his arms, he momentarily lost the 
power of speech. "She's- She's- Oh, my God."
  
"Congratulations," Rebekah responded, glowing.
  
"She's beautiful.  Does, does Dana mean Colleen?" 
  
If he had to decide just then, her name would 
probably have been 'ubba-I-uh-duh.'
  
"Cailin," Rebekah said again, imitating Dana's Irish 
accent. "When the doctor told Miss Dana she had a 
little girl, she said 'Cailin.'"
  
"Cailin," he repeated, rolling the exotic word around 
his mouth. "Hello, Miss Cailin.  Hello there." Sam 
leaned closer, and Mulder added, "Meet your big 
brother. This is Sammy.  And Emily is your sister.  
I'm your father.  Are you going to open your eyes for 
us, little one?"
  
"She's red," Sam mumbled, still not really awake.
  
"She just came.  She was just born a few minutes ago.  
The doctor's still with Dana."
   
Cailin half-opened one blue eye, looked at the faces 
above hers, and closed it again, yawning.
  
"Dana's all right?" Sam asked.
  
"The doctor said she'd be fine.  She's just- She's, 
uh..." 
  
Something in his peripheral vision caught his 
attention.  He looked up and saw Dana standing at the 
other end of the hall, watching him impassively.  Her 
hair was loosely braided, and countless strands had 
slipped out of place and curled around her face.  She 
wore a loose white chemise, and as he watched, a spot 
of scarlet appeared over her thighs, then spread 
until the gown was stained with blood from her waist 
to her knees.  
  
"My God, Dana!" he said in horror, quickly giving the 
baby back to Rebekah. "Get back to bed!  What are you 
doing?  Where's the doctor?"
  
The figure continued to stare at him, pale and 
unblinking, and as patient as death.
  
"Fox?  What's wrong?" Rebekah asked as he sprinted 
for the master bedroom, his boots slippery on the 
waxed floor. "Where are you going?"
  
"Father?" Sam called.
  
He opened his arms to catch her when she collapsed, 
but realized, in the half-second before the figure 
vanished, that he couldn't feel the warmth from her 
skin or sense the energy from her body.  Like his 
mother's ghost, she was visible in his world, but no 
longer a part of it.
  
"No," he screamed, grabbing the bedroom doorknob 
frantically.  It was locked, and he pounded twice on 
the door with his fist before he used his shoulder to 
force it open.  It took three tries for the thick 
wood to give, but it finally did, and he stood in the 
doorway, holding his throbbing shoulder and staring 
at their bedroom in disbelief.
  
There was too much red.  It was everywhere: on the 
towels on the floor, on the doctor's hands, and on 
the bed sheets.
  
"What are you doing to her?" he demanded as his 
stomach clenched and his throat tightened.
  
"She's hemorrhaging," the doctor responded, kneading 
Dana's abdomen. "Raise the foot of the bed.  Now!"
  
Sam and Rebekah had followed him, and Mulder turned, 
ordering Sam to help him.  Rebekah laid the baby in 
the cradle beside the bed and rushed downstairs, but 
Sam just stood in the doorway, staring at Dana.  The 
color drained from his face, and his lips moved 
wordlessly.
  
"Sammy," Mulder said sharply. "Listen to me.  When I 
lift the foot of the bed, slide a stack of books 
underneath it." Mulder squatted, getting a good grip. 
"Sammy, come here and help me now. Hurry."
  
Sam shook his head frantically, the way he used to 
when he was small and Poppy would try to give him 
medicine.
  
"She's bleeding, Sam.  Get over here and help me!"
  
His son turned and bolted, pounding down the stairs, 
then through the house, and eventually out the back 
door.
  
"Damn it!  Sammy - stop," Mulder yelled, then shifted 
his attention and held the bed up as the doctor slid 
the books into place.
   
Rebekah returned with a bucket of snow and more 
towels.  She dumped the snow onto one of the towels, 
folded it into a cold compress and placed it on 
Dana's abdomen.
  
"It will shrink the womb," she explained as Mulder 
stood beside the bed, watching helplessly.  He saw 
Dana's chest fall as she exhaled, but it didn't rise 
again.  He waited, holding his own breath, but she 
didn't move.
  
His world slowed.
  
The doctor pressed another towel between her legs in 
an attempt to slow the bleeding, but Mulder could see 
the blood seeping from the center to the edges as it 
saturated.  When he looked up, he saw it again - 
Dana's pale, ethereal reflection in the doorway, 
watching him as he stood beside her body.  The figure 
regarded him impassively for several seconds, and 
then took a step backward.
  
"Don't go," he pleaded, his nose beginning to drip 
and tears forming in the corners of his eyes. 
"Please.  I'm so sorry."
  
The spirit studied him, as though trying to determine 
if they were acquaintances.
  
"Please," he repeated. "It isn't over.  Don't you 
know me?" he pleaded. "Please - don't go."
  
Two men stood behind the figure, waiting for her.  
One wore a naval uniform, and Mulder recognized him 
from the photograph as her father, Captain Scully.  
The other was taller, slimmer - a blond man with 
sleepy, thoughtful eyes.  His shirt and trousers were 
neat but plain, and there was a gunshot wound where 
his abdomen should have been.  Her Oisin - the man 
she had loved in this life.
  
A hand met flesh as the doctor slapped Dana's cheek 
hard, trying to get the body to breathe.

The ghosts of the two men faded, and the image of the 
woman changed slightly, the trappings of their time 
falling away. He could not have put what he saw into 
words; it was Dana, but not quite the woman who was 
his wife. It was the soul that his soul had 
recognized: the reason for the mysterious tug at the 
base of his brain, the prickle down his spine, the 
hazy images and impulses at the edge of his memory. 

The blood on the sheet was his. There was danger in 
the open water. They should leave the city before 
plague came. The doctor would hurt her. The priest 
would accuse her of witchcraft. They could meet in 
secret, even after she married. This time, he would 
not return from battle. This time, she would not 
survive the birth.

She was young and laughing, old and weary. His wife, 
his lover, his friend. Sometimes she was embracing 
him passionately, sometimes she was only a quick 
glimpse in a crowd of people. He felt himself dancing 
with her, making love to her, putting his arms around 
her to protect her. He felt her hand in his, and, 
each time, after a moment or after decades, felt it 
slip away into a sea of other souls.

He saw, in the blink of an eye, the women she had 
been throughout time, and, in a few lifetimes, the 
man he had been who she had loved.

He had promised he would never leave her. 

The ghostly woman seemed patiently worried, like a 
wife beginning to fret that her husband was late 
coming home.

He had promised he would always come for her.

"Dana," he managed to say.

Her soul looked at him, then smiled softly, relieved. 
And the image began to fade.

"No, stay," Mulder begged desperately. "Please. 
Maybe, maybe this never happens again - us finding 
each other.  Maybe this is all. Maybe this is our 
last chance. Dana, I'm so sorry. I thought- Don't 
leave me yet."   

"Stop jabbering and hold this, Fox" Rebekah ordered, 
and he looked down, putting his hand on the cold 
compress on Dana's abdomen. "I'm getting the baby.  
Nursing the baby may help."
  
The doctor snapped that a lady nursing a baby was a 
disgusting idea, and Rebekah argued that it wasn't 
disgusting if it kept her from bleeding to death.  
Mulder opened his mouth, trying to string his 
thoughts together to register an opinion, but felt 
his hand on Dana's abdomen move as she took a breath, 
then moaned softly.  
  
"Breathe, Dana," Mulder ordered. "Stay with me."
   
Dana's ghost was gone, dissolving into nothing as if 
she'd never been there.
  
"Breathe, love," Mulder commanded again, and her 
chest rose a second time.  A third, and, as the world 
returned to normal speed, a fourth time.  Her lips 
were blue, her face gray, and she shivered violently, 
but she kept breathing.

*~*~*~*
  
According to the almanac, it was the most 
precipitation the east coast had seen since 1831, 
causing floods in the southern states and snowdrifts 
over a man's head in the north.  In DC, streetcars 
and trains stopped running, telegraph lines went down 
as ice-covered tree branches fell on them, and on 
Sunday, December 30th, the city awoke to thirty 
inches of snow on the White House lawn.
  
Even if Sam had tried to run away, he couldn't have 
gone very far.
  
As he stepped inside the stable, Mulder could hear 
muffled sobs from the last stall.  Samuel was huddled 
in the corner, shivering and desperately trying to 
catch his breath.  Porthos looked worried, and was 
nudging him with his velvety nose.
  
"I brought you a coat," Mulder said, shrugging his 
own off and wrapping it around his son's shoulders.  
He started to rub his back, but as Mulder moved 
forward, Sam shrank away.
  
"Is.  She.  Dead?" Sam asked between gasps.
  
"No.  She's sleeping.  As long as there isn't a 
fever, the doctor thinks she'll recover.  It'll be a 
long time before she's well, though.  That was, that 
was a close call.  Too close."
  
Instead of helping, that seemed to make it worse. Sam 
covered his head with his hands, trying to shield 
himself from the world. "I'm sorry," he mumbled 
miserably. "You must hate me."
  
"Sammy," Mulder said tiredly, "Look up."
  
His son raised his head, wiping his nose on his shirt 
sleeve.
  
"Look at my hands," Mulder requested, holding them up 
like he was showing off a set of rings.  They shook 
uncontrollably, and there was still dried blood under 
his fingernails. "Do you see that?"  
      
Sam nodded. 
  
"I'm scared to death. Hide in the cellar, piss my 
pants, shaking in my boots, scared to death.  I've 
watched two women I loved die - one in the same room, 
in the same bed - and their babies die with them.  
I'm terrified it's going to happen a third time. I'm 
terrified the doctor's going to say Dana has a fever 
or she's bleeding again.  Or the baby's sick.  If 
there's anything past terrified, that's what I feel 
right now. So, no, I don't hate you."
  
Sam nodded again.
  
"The cook's fixing breakfast for you; when you calm 
down, come inside and eat. Then I'd like you to run 
an errand.  The baby will be hungry soon, and we need 
the wet nurse.  It's not very far.  You'd just need 
to take an extra horse and go get her.  Do you think 
you can do that?"
  
Nod. 
  
"Are you ready to come inside?"
  
Sam's head shook 'no'. "I'll get the nurse."
  
"All right.  Be careful." Mulder stood, turning away.  
He had space in his brain to make sure Sam wasn't in 
mortal danger.  Any coddling would have to wait.
  
"Aunt Sarah died because she was going to have a 
baby?" his son asked from behind him. "Not cholera?"
  
Mulder paused and took a deep breath.  Samuel always 
managed to comprehend exactly the wrong part of a 
conversation. 
  
"Yes, she was going to have a baby," he answered.
  
Sam opened his mouth to ask the next obvious 
question, glanced at his father, and closed it again.
  
  *~*~*~*   
   
He was aware the mere mention of the name 'Mulder' 
caused the doctor to develop indigestion.  First, 
there had been Mulder's own youthful scrapes and 
falls, each of which his parents had thought was a 
national crisis.  Then Sarah's death.  Then, after 
Samuel's birth, Melly's stubborn refusal to comply 
with the doctor's promises that she would get better.  
There was the first time she'd tried to kill Sam - 
and almost succeeded - and then the second six years 
later.  Sam's scrapes and falls - which both his 
father and grandfather thought were national crises.  
A few other 'accidents' Melissa had with her medicine 
or Mulder's razor before her final suicide.
  
Then there was Dana, who tolerated rather than 
revered the doctor's superior knowledge.  She didn't 
spend her pregnancy in bed, she didn't wear a corset 
past her fifth month, and, though she avoided going 
out in public, she didn't hide herself away in the 
bedroom, either.  She took baths, ran the house, 
raised her arms over her head, and they just didn't 
mention they'd had relations when she was pregnant.  
No sense in making the poor old doctor faint. 
  
As far as Mulder was concerned, though, the man was a 
candidate for sainthood.  Dana was asleep in the 
bedroom, and his baby girl was asleep in the nursery, 
both taking slow, rhythmic breaths.  If the doctor 
had requested Mulder pay him in teeth instead of 
dollars, Mulder would have found a pair of pliers and 
opened his mouth.       
  
"Keep her flat," the doctor said tiredly as Rebekah 
helped him with his coat.  He'd been there for three 
days straight, and the strain showed in his thin face 
and shoulders. "I mean flat.  Not on her side, not 
sitting up, flat on her back.  When she's awake 
enough to swallow, give her sips of cool water and 
broth.  Maybe some tea."
  
"Can she see the baby?" Mulder asked. "If she's 
awake?"
  
"For a little bit; just don't upset her."  

"What if she wants to feed-"
  
"Absolutely not," the doctor said sternly. "She needs 
all her strength. Just keep her comfortable and let 
her rest.  I'll be back first thing in the morning."
  
"Thank you," Mulder said, awkwardly offering his left 
hand. "You have no idea how grateful I am."
  
After they shook hands, there was a pause, and the 
doctor cleared his throat.  Rebekah took her cue and 
left, leaving the two men alone in the foyer.
  
"I've known you a long time, Fox," the doctor said 
quietly. "Your father was a good man, God rest his 
soul, but he isn't here, so I'll say it. You and I've 
seen enough young women die, and by all rights, your 
new wife should have been one of them.  Son, I don't 
know how, but you just got a miracle."
  
"I know that."
  
"I know you love your wife, but don't tempt 
providence again, if you take my meaning.  You 
already have a healthy son, and the world's full of 
willing flesh."  
  
Mulder nodded, red-faced and staring at the floor.
  
"I'll be back in the morning.  Just let her rest," 
the doctor repeated, and then opened the door, 
letting the cold wind in.  
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Life went in circles, repeating with slight 
variations on a theme.  This time it was his bed and 
his wife that he sat beside, shifting restlessly in 
his straight-back wooden chair.  His book of poems 
was half-hidden under the bed - the Whitman 
collection that had started the hoopla with Alex - 
and he reached down for it, wanting something to fill 
his mind as the surreal hours passed. As he opened 
the worn cover to read the inscription from Dana, he 
saw three dried, bloody fingerprints on it. The book 
had been one he and the doctor had grabbed to prop up 
the foot of the bed.
  
Mulder closed the small book, stood, and carried it 
to its place on the shelf across the room.  
  
As he watched from the bedroom window, Sam trudged up 
the slushy sidewalk, returning home for breakfast.  
He'd asked to spend the last few nights with his 
young curator friend from the Smithsonian Museum, 
claiming they were sketching, but likely just looking 
for any excuse to avoid being at home.  Mulder had 
tried to talk to him several times to assure Sam that 
he wasn't angry and Dana would be fine.  He'd had 
those conversations with the top of Sam's head as his 
son stared at the rug or floorboards, desperate to be 
anywhere except in his father's presence.
  
Sam paused on the front walk, glancing up at the 
bedroom window.  When he saw Mulder looking back, he 
lowered his gaze, adjusted the collar on his coat, 
and continued into the house.  Mulder heard Emily 
chattering happily downstairs, eager to tell her big 
brother about her morning.
   
As he returned to his chair, Dana turned her head, 
slowly opening her eyes, then blinking as he came 
into focus.  

"Hello," he said softly, moving to sit on the edge of 
the bed. "There you are."
  
"Your arm?" she asked sleepily, after a few seconds, 
raising her fingers to touch the sling immobilizing 
his right shoulder.
  
Mulder laughed in nervous disbelief, then answered, 
"I lost a fight with a door.  It took me about six 
hours to even notice.  Are you all right? How are you 
feeling?"
  
"Shaky." She wet her lips, and he reached for the 
glass, raising it to her mouth. "Thank you.  What- 
What happened?"
  
"What's the last thing you remember?"
  
She blinked, seeming uncertain. "The doctor saying he 
was going to..." She paused, moving her hand over the 
blankets to her flat abdomen. "To turn..."
  
"She's fine.  She's in the nursery.  I can bring her, 
if you want.  Do you feel well enough to see her?"
  
"A girl?" Her eyes darted over his face, wanting to 
know if he was disappointed.  She raised her hand 
again, stroking the beard that he'd forgotten to 
shave in the last week. "We have another girl?"
  
"A beautiful little girl.  Cailin.  She has blue 
eyes, brown hair... She's perfect, Dana."
  
"Her name?"
  
"Cailin," he repeated gently.
  
She nodded slightly. "A girl.  What is her name?"
  
"Dana, it's Cailin.  That is her name."
  
"Cailin is 'girl.' You named our girl Girl?  Oh, for 
God's sake-"
  
"Easy," he cautioned. "Calm down." He took her hand, 
kissing the palm, then laced his fingers through 
hers. Her skin was so pale it was almost transparent, 
but it was cool to the touch.  Like glass.  He was 
certain she'd shatter at any minute. "I'll bring her, 
but you have to stay calm."
  
Dana nodded again, too weak to object.
  
There were now two nursemaids - one for Emily and one 
for Cailin - a wet nurse, and Rebekah acting as 
nanny-in-chief, but Samuel was in the nursery, 
putting the final pin in Emily's new diaper.
  
"Dana's awake, and she'd like to see Cailin. Will you 
carry her for me?"
  
In response, Samuel set Emily down, retrieved Cailin 
from the cradle, and settled her into the crook of 
Mulder's good arm.
  
"Why don't you carry her?" Mulder asked. "Dana's 
going to fine.  She's getting better.  Please, Sam."   
  
Samuel shook his head.
  
"She isn't angry with you, Sam. In fact, she had no 
idea what happened. I just asked, and she doesn't 
remember any of it, thank God."
  
Sam shook his head again, and Mulder didn't pursue 
it.
   
"All right. How is your friend from the Smithsonian 
Museum?"
  
"He's fine, sir," his son said politely.

"Did you get your sketches finished?" 

"Yes sir," Sam answered.

Sam's sketch pad had been in the library for the last 
two days, forgotten, and, for someone who claimed 
he'd been drawing with charcoal, Sam's cuffs and 
hands were surprisingly spotless.
  
"It's nice that he lets you spend the night so often, 
and that he likes to draw.  I think you'll miss him, 
after we move to Boston."
  
Sam glanced at his father, watching him from beneath 
his dark eyelashes, and then went back to studying 
the floor as he mumbled, "Yes, sir."

"Have I met him? Was he at Grandmother's funeral?"

"Yes sir; he was there."

"I don't remember. Invite him for tea and refresh my 
memory. Would you do that?"
  
Another nod and a soft but unconvincing "Yes, sir," 
which confirmed Mulder's suspicions. That was five 
'sirs' in one minute; even Samuel wasn't that polite 
unless he'd been doing something he shouldn't.

"I don't want you wearing out your welcome, spending 
so much time at his flat," Mulder said, trying to 
sound kind but firm. "If you want to see your museum 
friend, invite him over or visit during the day, but 
I want you to come home at night."

Yet another "Yes, sir," as his son shoved both hands 
deep in his trouser pockets and slouched miserably.

"I'm not angry, Sammy - or even surprised. I remember 
being fifteen, and with all that's happened, it must 
be nice to - just to be with someone. I understand 
that, but you're fifteen, and I'm your father."

He couldn't envision Sam visiting a brothel, even 
with his friend; Mulder couldn't smell perfume or 
alcohol on him, and the boisterous chaos would have 
bothered his son. Mulder's money would be on a shop 
girl or a house servant, and someone Sam genuinely 
cared for. Those affairs were common, even expected, 
for young men of Sam's age and status, but that 
didn't mean Mulder was going to condone it.

"This, this girl - is it someone you could call on 
during the day?"

Sam shook his head 'no', looking guilty and 
embarrassed.  

"What about that pretty little maid?" Mulder asked. 
"I thought you liked her? Or is it her you're 
visiting?"

Sam wouldn't look at him.

"You don't have to see Dana if you don't want to, 
yet, but I want you home at night. As soon as she's 
well, we'll leave for Boston.  All right?"
  
"Yes, sir," Sam said, barely audible.

"Good," Mulder said, starting to turn away.
  
"I'll stop," he heard Sam say hoarsely, and then 
clear his throat.  As Mulder looked back, holding the 
baby in the crook of his good arm, Sam was nodding 
affirmatively, as if committing himself. "I will 
stop."
  
Mulder paused in the nursery doorway. "I think that 
would be best," he responded, then carried the baby 
down the long hallway to the master bedroom.
  
"Are you still awake?" he asked as he returned to the 
bedroom, and Dana opened her eyes, nodding and trying 
to sit up. "No, stay flat," he insisted, doing some 
awkward one-handed maneuvering to lay the baby beside 
her. "This is Cailin."
  
"Cailin alainn," she murmured, "Beautiful girl.  Is 
she all right?"
  
"She's fine.  She took her time getting here, but 
she's fine.  You had us worried, though."
  
"Is she hungry?"
  
"No, I don't think so," he answered, knowing Dana was 
too groggy to realize she didn't have any milk. "Not 
right now." 
  
"What day is it?" Dana asked, examining the baby.  
Cailin was small, but not red and wrinkled like a 
newborn. 
  
"It's Saturday," he hedged.
  
She blinked at him. "You were supposed to leave 
Friday - The senate. Mulder, you have to go."
  
The train had finally run, bringing the mail from 
Boston. Among the letters on his desk downstairs was 
the formal notification from the Massachusetts 
legislature that he would be considered as a senate 
candidate when the January term began.  Given his 
last name, a majority vote was a forgone conclusion, 
provided he met the requirements - thirty years of 
age, nine years as a US citizen, and Massachusetts 
residency. In the polarized aftermath of the war, 
Bill Mulder's senate seat had been empty for two and 
a half years.  Massachusetts needed representation, 
and Spender was the only other candidate under 
consideration.
  
"It's Saturday, January 5th," he told her, brushing 
his lips against her cool cheek, then the baby's 
forehead. "Welcome to 1867, love."
  
Such as it was.
    
  *~*~*~*
  
It was the violet no-time before dawn, and all but 
one of the candles on the dresser had melted into a 
pool of wax around a flickering yellow flame.  It was 
soothing, hypnotizing.  The baby's heartbeat was 
steady against his, and he let his mind drift through 
space as he held her: moving forward, backward, then 
turning sideways and slipping into the cluttered 
recesses of his memory.
  
He still had trouble comprehending the magnitude of 
the miracle asleep against his shoulder.  There were 
no words to explain what it was like to see echoes of 
his mother in his daughter's sleepy blue eyes. Cailin
had her eyes, his mouth, his father's dimple, and a 
warm little nose that he couldn't place, but that 
matched his lips perfectly when he kissed it.  She 
was flesh of his flesh.  She was his: hoped for, 
planned for, wanted, celebrated, cherished, and 
protected with his last breath. If he could have cut 
open his chest and stored her safely inside, he would 
have.  There was too much evil in the world for him 
to risk ever letting her go.
  
"Another hour and you'll be nine days old," he 
murmured to her, as minuscule fingers wrapped around 
his finger. "Nine whole days, Cally-girl." 
  
Cailin's lips continued to move as she nursed in her 
dreams. He nuzzled the top of her head.  Like a wild 
animal, he could identify her by smell alone: like 
new rain and sweet cream and clean pillowcases.  Her 
wet nurse used lavender soap, so there was a hint of 
that as well, like Emily had always smelt faintly of 
Dana's skin.
    
Across the room, the covers shifted as Dana rolled 
over, then tried to sit up. "I'm here," he said 
immediately.  He steadied Cailin against him and 
stood, going to the bed. "What is it?  Do you need 
something?"  
  
"I heard the baby crying," she answered, sounding 
disoriented.
  
"No, she's fine.  Go back to sleep."
  
"But I heard her crying."
  
"You were dreaming, Dana.  Go back to sleep."
  
She pushed her legs over the side, her bare feet 
dangling far above the floor. "No, I heard a baby.  
Maybe it was Emily."
  
"It wasn't," he insisted.  He stood in front of her, 
making sure she didn't try to get up. "I was just in 
the nursery, and she's fine.  You had a bad dream.  
You're still dreaming.  Lie down.  It's not morning 
yet."
   
She looked at him uncertainly, still more asleep than 
awake. "Are you sure?"
  
"I'm sure it's not morning yet.  Look: she's fine." 
He sat on the mattress, showing her the baby. "And 
Emmy's fine.  Lie down.  Do you want your medicine?"
  
He knew she didn't. She'd taken it before bed, so it 
was just starting to wear off.  While it eased the 
pain, it made her groggy and gave her nightmares.  It 
required Mulder and the doctor both standing over her 
to get her to take it in the first place.
  
Predictably, she shook her head, but sank back on the 
pillows.  She closed her eyes, and he thought for a 
moment she'd fallen asleep.  He started toward the 
sofa, taking the baby with him.  Mulder slept on the 
sofa, Cailin slept either on his chest or in the 
cradle beside him, and Dana slept in the bed.  The 
last time they'd shared a bed, even to sleep, was 
Christmas night, and it had been Thanksgiving before 
that.  He'd fallen back on his old excuse: it was so 
Dana could rest.  When she was better, he'd think up 
a new one.
  
"Why are you awake?" she asked drowsily, and he 
turned back.
  
"Cailin was up earlier. That's probably what you 
heard. I was just getting her back to sleep."
  
"Was she wet?"
  
"Yes, she was wet."
  
"And hungry?"
  
"She's fine," he said lightly, preferring to avoid 
the issue.
  
Dana nodded.  In the yellow candlelight, her face 
still looked too pale, too tired, and she pulled the 
edge of her lip between her teeth. "I must have heard 
her, but I did not wake up until now," she said 
shakily. "She would have cried all this time."
  
"She didn't.  You shouldn't be waking up anyway. Just 
rest and get better. Cally-girl is fine.  Go back to 
sleep."

As Mulder watched, a crease appeared between her 
eyebrows, and her jaw clenched as she tried to fight 
back frustrated tears.  Mulder had argued that many 
children were raised by servants, and he'd rather 
Cailin had a wet nurse now and a live mother later, 
but his arguments seemed to fall on deaf ears.
  
"Dana, don't get upset.  Please don't," he pleaded. 
"She's fine.  Do you want to hold her?"
  
"She cries when I hold her," Dana said in a ragged 
voice.
  
"No, she doesn't.  Not always." He laid the sleeping 
baby on the mattress between them, then, cursing 
under his breath and still favoring his right 
shoulder, stretched out so he faced Dana. "See - 
she's not crying.  I don't want you to cry, either.  
Please don't.  You're not supposed to get upset."
  
"I feel so helpless," she confessed. "So useless."
  
"You're alive and you're getting better.  Cailin's 
alive and healthy." He reached over the baby, putting 
his hand carefully on the soft dip of her waist. "I 
love you.  How is that useless?"
  
Dana exhaled, studying the baby's face. "You wanted a 
son.  You wanted to go to Boston, to be a senator. I 
did not want you to have to choose because of me."
  
"First of all, I do have a son," he informed her, as 
if she might have forgotten. "Who, if I don't keep a 
closer eye on, is going to give me a grandson.  And-"
  
She glanced at him, then back to the baby.
  
"He's fifteen. I was fifteen; don't look so 
surprised.  Anyway, yes, I'm so disappointed with my 
Cailin that her nursemaid can't pry her out of my 
arms.  Second, I wasn't going to tell you yet, but 
the Massachusetts legislature met and there weren't 
enough votes to nominate Spender.  They agreed to 
vote again in February.  They want me, but it does 
them no good to nominate me unless I'm a 
Massachusetts resident, so they're giving me another 
few weeks."
  
"When are you leaving?"
  
"That's the thing; I'm not sure I am."
  
"Have you changed your mind?"
   
"I'm not sure I ever made up my mind.  I've been 
thinking about many things in the last few days, but 
it's really a simple question: do I want to be a 
senator?  The simple answer is no.  No, I don't.  I 
wish you could have met my father, Dana.  He was a 
great man.  He was a great senator.  He made history, 
and I- I just make newspapers."
  
"You are underestimating yourself."
  
"No, I'm not. I could do it, and I'd do a good job, 
but being a senator or a soldier was my father's 
dream for me.  It isn't my dream.  I agreed to do it 
because someone needed to, and because I knew I 
could.  I've made other decisions for that same 
reason: not because I wanted to, but because there 
was a problem and someone needed to take care of it.  
While I'm not saying I regret those decisions... 
Nobility is a very romantic idea, and I think I was 
in love with the idea.  Not the reality."
  
"Are you talking about me?" she asked in her softest 
voice, putting one hand on the baby and stroking his 
beard with her other. "And Emily? This decision you 
made?"
  
"No. Not in the slightest. I was- I was talking 
about... No, I wasn't talking about you."
  
She didn't respond except to focus on the baby, and 
he couldn't tell if she believed him or not.
  
"I married you because I wanted you.  Because you 
were my friend, and because I was afraid to be alone.  
I know I made it sound very practical when I 
proposed, but nobility was the farthest thing from my 
mind.  For the first time in my life, I was being 
completely selfish.  If I'd been acting in your best 
interest, I'd have gotten off the ship in DC and let 
you go on to New York."
  
He was going to have the blacksmith check his armor.  
It not only had chinks, it was developing gaping 
holes.
  
"Tell me you love me," he requested quietly. "Just 
say it again.  Now. I-I want to hear it.  I need to.  
There are so many things I need to tell you... When 
you're better.  About Sam.  Melissa.  Poppy. Us.  I'm 
so afraid you'll hate me."
  
He waited, but she didn't answer.  He studied Cailin, 
and shifted his hand nervously on Dana's waist, 
toying with her nightgown.  When he finally worked up 
the nerve to look at her, her eyes were closed and 
her chest was rising and falling slowly as she slept.
  
  *~*~*~*