By Jaime Lyn

** Yep, we're getting close here.  There are a few things in this part that are a little different than the parts before it.  (For instance, there is no "Mulder" or "Scully" label on this part.   You'll soon see why.)  Originally, I was going to post the ending as one long part, but I realized that it was just way too long. --And that everything would make more sense if I broke the ending up.  I'm still not sure if I want to break it up further, so the ending may have one or two more parts, depending on what my mood is.  (And whether Mulder and Scully get annoyed and tell me to just post the whole thing and get it over with.) So keep coming back to check.  I promise to keep everyone informed.



Life in a Sling

What the Heck Happened to the Editor?




"Damn it," I mutter.  The sun isn't so high in the sky anymore.  Outside the glass doors of the ER, I can see rays of orange and yellow slowly descending towards the ground.   I'm running out of time here.  "Where are my discharge papers?"

Man, I hate fucking hospitals.  All these sick people and old people and doctors who say, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” although what they really mean is, “you go rot in a chair while I make five long distance phone calls to China under the guise of being busy.”


But what happened, you say?

Well... I was in the car, five seconds away from pulling off the nintety five for the long stretch to St. Thomas Medical Plaza, (one of many medical plazas I had planned to hit during 'The Great FBI Agent Search,') when something hard and fast slammed full force into the back of my once beautiful Toyota Echo.  Apparently, some asshole from The Galapagos Islands or Guam---or else some other country that probably doesn’t have roads or cars—had forgotten what lane he was in.  Or else he knew, but he just didn't care.  Could have been all that alcohol he swears he never consumed.


At any rate, he crashed into my rear bumper going like, oh, I don't know--sixty, seventy, a hundred million miles an hour...  And my car bucked and bounced as if the ground was moving it, and one of those state-of-the-art airbag thingies shot up towards me in a splay of sparks and vinyl and white powder.  BOOM!  --just like that.

I now have a burned cheek, a swollen mouth and a black eye--thanks to the wonders of modern technology.

But that's not even the worst of it.

The very worst was when the windshield shattered like crumbling sugar cubes, and my arm went flying through the driver's side window.  BOOM! again.  Just like that.

This whole thing only took about a minute and a half.  Can you believe that?  Jesus.  A minute and a half.  I thought I was going to die--I mean, literally.  Die.  Cease to exist.  Bite the big one.   As if the day hadn't been bad enough, now I was going to be splattered all over the road like a bug on the bumper of my car.  I swear I saw a light.  I saw God.  It was like an epiphany.  Heaven was stretched out in front of me and suddenly--

DAMN, my fucking arm hurt.  And no, I was not dead.


The EMS guys said the accident was worse than it looked... that my car was probably repairable even though it looked like a silver accordion, and my face didn't look THAT terrible, and besides, who really needs their left arm anyway, right?  Yeah.  Easy to say when you're not the one with the cast and the approaching work deadline.   At the very least, car-crash man--who didn't even speak English except to say, "no. No me drink. No,"--was taken off in a squad car for DUI.

And thus, here I am.  The goddamned hospital.  Have I mentioned that I hate these places? Stretchers, heart monitors, yellow walls and white tile that reeks of bleach and antiseptic.  I can smell death just hovering around the corner.   In a minute the walls are going to close in on me and I am going to decompose while waiting around for that damn doctor to finish up with my presciption and my discharge papers.  If I could just find someone to pay attention to me---
“Hey?  Nurse?  Excuse me?”  I wave my good arm back and forth like I’m trying to disconnect it from the socket.  My voice sounds kind of muffled, what with half of my mouth swollen open and all.  Doesn't matter though.  Nobody looks at me.  Great.  This is just great.  Perhaps compared to the old man retching into the corner, I'm small potatoes.

A very tan, very tall, very wide, very scary woman wearing a white uniform—what I assume—is a nurse’s uniform, rushes past me.  She has a stack of blue folders bunched up under her right elbow, and her mouth is screwed up in a tight-lipped frown.  She kind of reminds me of Mrs. Payne—my old third grade-reading teacher.  All she needs now is a ruler and a Jersey accent and she’s good to go.

“Hey!” I try again, but to no avail.  The nurse doesn't even turn around or stop. This is crazy.  It’s like that movie ‘A Christmas Carol.’  You know, when Scrooge walks around like a spectre and nobody can see him but the dead guys?  Well, at least Scrooge had the ghosts to talk to.

“Hey!”  Nothing.


Another one slips past me.

 I take a deep breath.  Okay, this is it--time for the big guns.

A few nurse-like people wander down the hall, all checking their watches at five and seven second intervals, as if they have to advertise to the world that they’re missing their coffee breaks for some pregnant women, a homeless guy, a couple of sick kids, and a man with a fork stuck in his ear.

Oh yeah—and me.  The woman with the mangled t-shirt and the cast on her arm.  Damn it.  This is all that foriegn guy's fault.  Sober as a stone, my ass.

Leaning against the chair, I turn to the center of the room and raise my hand, palm up, to my forehead.  “Oh help, I’m having chest pains  Having a heart attack.  My pulse is going.  Oh, the horror!    Does anyone care?  Yoo hoo—anyone?  Hello?  Oh look, my leg is numb—“  A very cute doctor-looking man with a stethoscope around his neck and a chart in his hands, stops in his tracks to turn and look at me.  He eyes me from beneath his sliver-rimmed glasses.  Not knowing what else to do, I smile and cock my head to the side, wink, and send my very best, “come-hither-I’ve-always-wanted-to-marry-a-doctor-and-have-his-children” look.  Cute Doctor fixes his gaze on my cast, shakes his head and walks away.  He doesn't even say hello.


I sigh, making my way over to the nurses’ station with my right fist clenched.  “Oh    , now it's on—“

But five steps into my trek to declare war on the ER, I am stopped by a bizarre noise.  My purse is playing the “William Tell Overture.”

“Oh shit,” I mutter.

My cell phone--ringing for the second time today.  Let's see...the last call cost me my lunch.  This call probably isn't going to be any better.  I don’t even know why I even have a cell phone.  That's it--I'm getting rid of it.  First thing tomorrow.  I’d be better off with a tin can and some rope.

With my good hand I yank out the phone, put it to my ear, scrunch my brows and manage, “Yes?”

“Alright Morris,” says the gruff, slightly smoky voice on the other end.  "You had better have something good."

Damn.  It’s the “Duke."  Speaking of bastards—

I try on a smile, not as if The Duke can see it, and I say, “Oh.  Hey.  I was just about to give you a call.  I’m actually… actually en route to the um, the um—“ I turn my head to gaze around.  Yellow nurses’ station.  Guy with a fork in his head.  Another guy puking. Where was I going again?  The looney bin?

“I don’t want to hear it,” comes the voice on the other end.  “So you can cut the crap.  Unless it has ‘I’m bringing the summary over to you right now’ on the end of it, you can keep your excuses.  As far as I’m concerned, you’re running out of time, Morris.  I asked you to get the tapes and the summary to me ASAP--before you send it to Chung.  I at least expected a phone call informing me of your progress.  In my Universe, ASAP means fast.  Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Well—“ I look down at my left hand and realize that no, indeed, I do not know what time it is.   At least, not anymore.

Two hours ago I had a one of a kind, collector’s item, Wizard of Oz watch.  I was very proud of this watch.

Four hours ago I had some semblance of a career.

Just yesterday I was grateful that I had stopped smoking.

Now I’m watchless, half crippled, clawing for my job, and willing to stick my head in a trashcan if it means I can at least inhale some second hand smoke.  Amazing what two FBI Agents, a deadline or two, and flying glass can do to a perfectly sane, slightly obsessive person

“Well, what, Morris?”

Go for honesty.  Go for honesty…

 “I honestly don’t know what time it is, sir.”  I sink down into a maroon cushioned, slightly uncomfortable waiting room chair.  My back hurts and I can’t feel my arm.  I wonder how long it would take me to sign my own cast.  I open my eyes and stare at the wall. I can feel my irises glassing over.  Jesus Christ.  This is it. This is the part where I go catatonic and some doctor finds me and, assuming I’m dead, covers me with a white sheet and takes me down to the morgue.   God, what happened to her?  asks the attendant.  Gee, I don't know, says the doctor.  Death by frustration?

 I let out a long breath.  “They took my watch, sir.”

A snort from his end.  “They?”

“The doctors.”

“What doctors?”

God, I sound like a fucking fruitcake.  “The um, the ER doctors,” I continue, “I'm in the hospital.  There was a... well... an accident, sort of.  And the um, the links of my watch had broken and were cutting into my skin.  And since my arm was already bent in half and the watch was beyond repair, the doctors chopped it off my wrist.  One of the attendees signed my cast and wrote John 3:16 on it, but I don’t think that he was refferring to the time—“

I can hear The Duke breathing on the other end, but I can’t tell if he’s at that “red-faced” stage yet.  Usually I can tell by now.

The Duke finally manages, “Are you on drugs, Morris?”

I shake my head.  “No,” I say, “but if you see Juan Valdez anywhere, tell him I could go for some coffee laced with morphine right about now.”


Mulder and Scully:

On Reaching a Conclusion...Or a beginning.




Say What?



Okay, I can do this.  I can.  Really.

Nurse Marina stares at me with widened blue eyes, her fingers poised on the door handle.  She looks like a neurotic cat about to pounce.  If I don’t say something that sounds like, ‘no it’s fine, let him in,’ in the next thirty seconds, I am surely going to end up bailing Mulder out of jail.  Not that this is anything new.

I take a breath.  “Tell him…”

What am I supposed to say?  Mulder, I think William needs to be fed and I might have left the stove on when we left the apartment and oh yeah, I’m pregnant.  Can you stop by the store and get me some Pop-Tarts before we get home?

Oh, I can’t do this to him.  Jesus, I can’t trap him like this.

"Miss Scully?"

"Just--"  I put my hand to my head.  "Hold on.  I'm thinking."

Nurse Marina sighs.  "You want me to call the cops then?"

I close my eyes.  "Yeah, that would be nice," I mutter through my fingers.

"Then yes?"

"No!" I drop my hands.  "No, of course not.  Jesus."

Oh, what have I done?

Mulder’s not… he’s not that guy.  He’s a searcher, a hunter, a journeyer.  I know that he wonders ‘what if;’ what if Scully and I were still free to pursue the truth?  What if I had never disappeared?  What if Scully had never gotten pregnant?

Does he think I don’t know?

I see Mulder so clearly.  I always have.  When he bounces his leg on the carpet at dinner, or taps his pencil unendingly upon the table, I know that he’s restless.  He’s bored.  He needs to be out there.  He needs to be active.  He doesn’t need to be locked inside this limited existence with William and I.  He doesn’t need another baby to cement the deal.  Maybe he loves me, but he loves the truth more. He always has.

And that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?

“Tell him to wait…”  I feel like crawling inside of myself.  I feel like retreating to a place where none of this matters, where Mulder and I can lie in bed, stare at the makeshift star on our ten inch tall Christmas tree, and wish the world away in a shared, dreamless sleep.

Nurse Marina frowns.  “Wait for what?” she asks.

I touch one hand to my stomach, feel the soft , flat skin above my belly button.  Nearly two years ago I was right here, pregnant and lonely, except at that point, emptiness wasn't a choice.   Mulder wasn’t there to share in my joy.  He’d gone away…drifted into the sky, left on a star, shot through the Universe like a comet.  I would have given anything for him to be there with me.  I would have given up my job, my world--I would have let it all go for him.  He was gone from my life, yet he was the most real, most tangible thing I had to go on.  He always has been.

“Tell him to wait…” Christ.  Time’s flitting away from me.  I can’t keep this from him forever.  “Just a minute.  I need to think.  I need… I need a moment.”

I close my eyes to try and picture two tiny hands, two tiny feet, eyes that haven’t opened yet, a body even smaller than Will’s.  Or no, not even that much--not enough time has elapsed yet.  My God, how far along am I?  One month?  Two?

There’s another person sleeping in my belly: a little boy, or maybe a little girl—God, a little girl would be nice—and this baby doesn’t care about X Files or wedding rings or aliens.  This baby is it’s own truth, and Mulder is here with me to share in the miracle.  Two years ago I would have killed for the opportunity.  I would have grabbed myself by the neck and said, “Fuck, Dana!  What are you doing, pushing him away?  Pull him close.  Grab him and for Gods sakes, don’t let him go this time!”

Why can’t I listen to my own advice?

“Fine.  I’ll tell Mr. Mulder to wait,” says Marina, her chin dipping to her chest.  She looks positively stricken, like she’d rather walk through a wall of fire than tell Mulder that he can’t come in here to see me.

“Tell him I only need a minute… or two,” I clarify, hoping that will make things easier.  I know that Mulder isn’t exactly the easiest person to placate.

But… this is for the best.  Really.

Because I love him.  Because I love Mulder too goddamned much to see him chained to me forever, when I know he belongs out there.  He belongs to the truth.  He’s never belonged to me.

Nurse Marina nods.  “Alright,” she says, pointing her clipboard at me, “but if he flips out and starts shooting people, I bring you up on charges.”

I can’t help but smile.  “And what, exactly, would you charge me with?”

“Ah…” Marina narrows her eyes, scrunches her brows, and leans heavily against the door.  She taps one index finger to her cheek and then runs it through her hair.  “Failure to…” She purses her lips, nods to herself and smiles.  “Failure to divulge to your husband that you’re expecting a child.”

“That’s not a crime.”

Marina shrugs.  “So?  Neither is getting knocked up, but we obviously can’t win em all, can we?”

Neither of us says anything.  Marina turns to open the door.

“By the way—“ I can hear my own heart beating, tick by tick.  It sounds like the tide thundering into the shore.  I have to say this.  I can’t let her think--

“He’s not my husband.”

Marina raises her left eyebrow.  “The crazy guy?  You kidding me?”

I shake my head.

Marina rolls her eyes.  “Yeah, well…that’s not a crime, either,” she says, and closes the door behind her.



On Going in



I was told to sit—to sit goddamn it, and not move.  Not even an inch.  The head nurse, a beefy, dark skinned, narrow-eyed woman (I think her name is Carmen) said that if I moved even an inch out of my chair she would not hesitate to call the police, the swat team and the fire department.  Personally, I think she was exaggerating.  I mean...come on--the fire department?  I didn't set anything on fire.

"Hey, Nurse Carmen?"  I wave one arm at her.  "You know where the soda machine is?"

Nurse Carmen stands behind the counter, her face buried in some kind of paper work.  All I can see of her head is her dark brown bun.   "Vat Did I say Meestar Muldar?"


"You vant I should call zee polize to beat you with zee night sticks or you vant I should beat you myself?"

Nurse Carmen is probably about six foot two, two hundred and fifty pounds.  I'm thinking she could break me with one finger.  She looks like she eats live chickens for breakfast.  This is probably why the second floor nurses' station called her up from the ER station downstairs.

"No... thanks, really," I mutter, staring at my hands.

I think Carmen knows that when I said, “let me in to see Scully before I have to seriously start busting some ass,” I didn’t really mean that I would bust anyone's ass  Neither did I mean, “you’re all going to prison.  Every one of you, for obstructing justice and kidnapping and....and anything else I can think of.”

I was just excited.  Provoked.  Maybe a tad nervous.  Okay, so Scully's going to saw me in half when she sees me, but I swear I had her best intentions at heart.  I don't know who will destroy me faster--angry Scully or angry Nurse Carmen.  Maybe they'll just take turns.

“Hey, Mister?”

I shake my head to clear it.


Someone is tapping me on the knee.

I look down into the eyes of a very pudgy, very short, very curious-looking young person  He’s got a tiny head—big blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and dark brown hair set in a miniature bowl-shaped cut that brushes across his forehead and sweeps back.  A few hairs separate from the rest and stick almost straight up.  –Someone apparently was playing under the chairs while I held up the nurse’s station .  His eyes are level with the mid-section of my chair, so I’m guessing he’s about four or five.  Although he could be six or three or he could even be a man-bat trapped in a boy’s body.

Hey, in my line of work you gotta be prepared for anything.

“Yeah?” I say.

The munchkin stares at me, then at William in his carrier, then at me, then at William again.  He stretches his pudgy arms out to his side, throws them back behind his head, stretches them, clasps them in front of his stomach, and starts rocking back and forth.

"You have a big head," he says.

I raise an eyebrow.  "Thanks for noticing."

"You have a big nose, too.  Much bigger than my Daddy's nose."

I raise the other eyebrow.  "Oh yeah?  Well, you have really small feet."

Munchkin-boy looks down at his feet.  "Duh," he says.  "I'm only five."

"No excuse," I shoot back, folding my arms over my chest.

A slight pause.

“You got a baby,” munchkin points out.   “My Momma’s got a baby and her name is Angelina.  She looks like a egg with feet. I like your baby better.”  Tiny-head boy squats down until he’s nearly touching the floor and then he springs upwards, as if he’s a grasshopper who’s been stuck in a can for way too long.  My back hurts just watching him.  Ah, the wonders of youth.

“What’s he doin?” munchkin asks, and he points to the baby.  William, for his part, is diligently trying to stuff all of his toes into his mouth.

“Well,” I say, frowning for a second.  “He was talking to his secretary a little while ago, and she says he's busy all through next friday.  Lots of meetings with the Fisher Price people.  But right now he’s just sunbathing.”

I shrug and force a smile.

The kid is still standing there, but now he’s quiet and looking at me as if I’m a leper with six heads—or worse—a dork.

Okay.  That’s it.  I suck at this.

Granted, I’m a father now.  Sure.  Whatever. But to be honest, I haven’t been a father for that long, and the idea of being someone’s parent is still pretty much foreign to me.   Don’t cross your eyes that way.  Don’t play with your food.  Sit still.  Because I said so—

Nope.  Can’t do it.

Kids are just—they’re like little, erratic, distracted insects, aren’t they? I mean, sure you can try and talk to a beetle, try to keep its attention, but eventually you’re going to realize how crazy you are because the beetle doesn’t speak English and you don’t speak ‘Beetle.’  And then the beetle will fly off for more interesting places and you’ll be left puzzled as to why you even tried talking to a beetle in the first place.  Talking to children is same way.  They’re all like buzzy little beetles.  I’m telling you.

Scully’s voice sounds in my brain:  “I have no idea what you just said, Mulder.  Do YOU even understand what you said?  Do me a favor, re-iterate that analogy and use actual logic this time.”

Jesus.  Scully.

Scully in some sterile room with the nurse.  Scully by herself, in some sterile room with the nurse.  Scully nodding—yes, I understand.  Yes, I’ll wait.  No, it’s no problem.  A few heart rate/respiratory monitors, a couple of IV tubes, some blood tests, some pats here and there to the stomach, maybe a catscan or an MRI later and the truth is revealed.  I’m sorry, the doctor says.  There isn’t anything we can do this time. But if we had just caught it in time


Fuck.  Why do I always have to fucking wait outside?

I look down and realize I am still being watched.  Munchkin is staring at me with his head cocked to one side.

“No sunbathing” he says, scratching his head.  “Got no beach.  Need a beach.”

I nod thoughtfully.  “Guess I do,” I say.

“Uh huh,” says the kid.  He takes a deep breath.

“I went to the beach once with my Momma and my Daddy and it was hot because the sun has UVB and Momma says that all the UVB’s is bad because it burns but I didn’t see any fire so I guess the fireman put it out before we got there and I had a hat anyway but I don like it because it’s not blue and blue is the bestest color because my dog Raph has a blue collar but Raph isn’t allowed in the beach because he’s a Rotwiller…” A single breath.  Then—“did you know that dogs can’t go to the beach at hotels?”

I open my mouth to speak but don't get the opportunity.

“I had a soda with a cherry in it and we were almost at the beach even though we mostly stayed in the pool because Daddy says that there are sharks in the ocean and sharks can eat you --did you know that?  But I don’t never get eaten because I have this special lotion that Daddy puts on me and it smells like coconuts and Daddy says that it’s shark apeller so I’m indivisibal to the sharks and none can get me.  But that was a long time ago and now Momma says that I can go in the ocean but only because of my shark apeller and because I can swims better now that I'm this many--" He holds up five fingers, then continues, "and really because Daddy has to take me so he can get off his fat ass and Momma can put Grandpa into the retardment home.  My grandpa used to watch me when I was a baby, but he is retarded now so he can't do nothing but play golf.  I like your baby.  He has a big head, too.  What’s his name?”

I blink, wondering how in the hell it’s possible to speak for two minutes straight and not take a single breath.  Is that like, a childhood thing, or do you actually have to get a special degree?  I think I met a few guys back in the academy who could talk like that.  Maybe the kid’s an X File. Do his parents know about this?  Where are his parents anyway?

“His name is Will,” I say, forcing a smile at the little blue-eyed urchin. “What’s yours?”

“Michael,” the little boy says.

“It’s nice to meet you, Michael-- even though you think I have a big head.  Where’s your Mommy?” I ask, glancing around the second floor waiting area.

Nurse Carmen looks up from her paperwork to check on me.  After a moment or two, she looks back down and scribbles something on a clipboard.  A few nurses glide past—all taking careful note to stay as far away from me as humanly possible--- charts clutched to their chests.  A man wearing a pair of black glasses stands against the far wall, an old issue of GQ propped in his hands.  Another man paces back and forth with a newspaper.  I don’t see any Mommy-looking people though.  Not even one.  I wonder where this kid came from.

“There,” says Michael, pointing towards the hallway.

I can't see that far down, but I suppose his mother must be at the end of the hall or something.  Or else she's in one of the X-ray rooms.  I hope she knows where her kid is.  Maybe I should tell Nurse Carmen--

I glance breifly at Nurse Carmen's big, fat head.  Her hands are quite thick and manly looking, and she's almost as wide as the shift board in back of her.  I can hear her voice-- 'You vant I should beat you myself?'

And I decide against asking.

Micheal continues, “Momma has to call lots of people because she’s a liar.”

I raise my eyebrows.  “A liar?” I ask.

“Yeah, a liar.”

Micheal grabs the front of his overalls and pulls them together into one fist.  He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.  “Mommy likes being a liar because she stands in a big court room and everyone pays attention to her.  She’s impotent.”

I lean back in the chair and nod, somehow managing not to laugh.  Little Michael's energy makes me think of Samantha, oh way back in the day.  Samantha could talk for hours about nothing, never once taking in a single breath.  She would have been great friends with this kid.

“You mean important,” I say, glancing for a second to Will in his carrier.

“Uh huh."  Micheal nods, his eyes serious.  "She is.”

"And she’s a lawyer?”

“Uh huh.  A liar.”

I force a smile off my lips.  Probably not appropriate to laugh, right?

Micheal looks at the baby again and then at me.  His eyes turn dark blue, shift hue like mood stones.  His expression is similar to something I’ve seen on Scully’s face, a mock version of seriousness.  For a second I can’t help but wonder whether this is what Will is going to look like in four or five years:  Scully’s blue eyes.  My dark hair.  A smile like Samantha had—one that stretches all the way to the sides of his face.

Will Scully even live to see him?

I’m sorry, Mr. Mulder, but you’ll have to wait outside.

Sit down, Mr. Mulder, or I’m going to have YOU arrested.

Damn it.  No.

Of course she'll live.  What the hell is wrong with me today?  Scully’s fine.  Of course she is. All this talk about Cancer is just in my head.  If Scully is just recently feeling sick and light-headed, I'm sure it's only a culmination of all the years of stress and hurt.  Scully's not feeling well because of me, because I upset her.  I asked her to marry me and I drove her to collapse.  She doesn't have Cancer; she just has ME.  If I were her, I probably would have collapsed a long time ago.

Jesus. What have I done to her?

“Is Will’s Mommy okay?” Micheal asks.  His tiny brown eyebrows scrunch; his feet bounce faster.  “Because my Daddy is here today.  He says the doctors found a lump on his brain but it’s gonna be okay because the doctors fix lumps all the time and it will be just like the time I chased Raph around the corner and I hit my head and the doctors fixed the lump and gave me a flinstones bandaid because all the Pokemons was gone.  But you know, I don't think Daddy’s lump is like that lump because Daddy's real sick and he couldn't take me to the beach today even though I knows that he and Momma likes to go with me.  Is Will’s Momma sick like that too and the doctors have to give her a bandaid?  Tell her to ask for the Pokemon ones because those are the bestest ones.”

Michael’s big blue eyes are filled with something I used to recognize as sincerity, as honesty, as truth.  He means every word of what he says, even if he is only five years old and doesn’t quite understand the situation yet.  Jesus.  Has it really been that long since I’ve been around people (other than Dana Scully) who carried traits like goodness?  Like truth?  Has it really been that long since I recognized the existence of innocence?  Since I remembered that there was still a good and delicate fiber tethering this world, and that life didn’t stop for me, or for Scully?

I want to tell Michael that I feel his pain.  That even though our age separates us from one another like a range of mountains separates two cities, the anger is still the same.  The unfairness of waiting is still the same.  I want to tell him that I know what it’s like to watch the person you love lean over the toilet and retch until there’s nothing left but acid.  I know what it's like to hold her as if the world is ending and then listen to her speak through a thick wall of tears---

I have things to finish--to prove... to myself, but for my own reasons... 


Everything would be alright if I just had that magic bandaid.  I need just one giant Pokemon bandaid to stretch over the eight years of pain and loss.  One bandaid for Scully's cancer, for her sister, for her innocence, for her lost fertility.   We could use the cushion-y cotton pad to blanket over us like a cocoon, to protect us.  And then Scully would never again feel sick and she would be able to have all the babies she wanted.  She wouldn't resent me for what I represent to her, and when I'd ask her to marry me, she'd say yes.  She'd want to marry me.  I would want to marry her.  I would never have to worry about conspiracies or lies, and Scully and I could be together.

Oh, my kingdom for a bandaid like that.   My whole kingdom and my last breath.  I would give it to her.

“I promise to tell her,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows.

Micheal puts his hands on his hips and rocks back and forth.  "And you'll tell them to give her the Pokemon ones?"

I nod.  “It's a deal. But I have to be honest with you, I like the Elmer Fudd bandaids myself.  You wascawwy wabbit, you.”

Michael cocks his head to the side.  “You are a strange man,” he says, and crosses his hands over his chest.

I smile.  "Yeah, that's what they tell--"

"Excuse me, Mr. Mulder?"

I look up to see the doctor from the first floor exam room standing a few feet away from me.  Her face is nearly expressionless, save for a weak smile.  Her arms are crossed, her head leaning to one side.  Her body language screams exhaustion, although she doesn't look any worse than Scully after a long case.  I think the doctor's name is Vicki--Dr. Vicki Klausman, Scully's friend.  Dr. Klausman was the one who told me that Scully had fainted in the examning office--and that I would have to wait.  She didn't really say anything more than that, just that Scully had fainted but she would very likely be just fine, so long as they could get some fluids into her.  Then Dr. Klausman said something about an extra test Scully had requested--but that Scully would tell me the rest herself.

I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, but you'll have to wait outside.

Again with the waiting outside. I can't stand waiting outside.

Dr. Klausman steps forward and extends her hand.  "I apologize for having kept you waiting," she says. "I know you were worried about Dana, but I assure you she's alright.  I had to go back downstairs and write a few prescriptions for her because her blood sugar and blood pressure levels were both dangerously low.  I also noticed an iron deficiency in her blood stream, but like I said, it isn't anything serious.   I hear she's been awake now for a little while. I'm not sure if you've been allowed back in to see her yet, but I can check.  And as far as her test results are concerned, I apologize, but I couldn't give those out without Dana's consent."

I nod, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. "I understand," I say, slightly distracted.

Scully's alright.  She's okay she's okay she's okay she's okay---

Dr. Klausman smiles a mysterious smile. "I heard you broke into Dana's room a little while ago," she says.  "And that you antagonized half the staff up here."

I take a deep breath.  Okay, well, that's not entirely true.  I did antagonize the staff, yes, but I was unable to get into Scully's room.  Dr. Klausman must've heard an exaggerated version of the story.  My, how good news travels fast around here--

Hold on a second.

"Uh, yeah," I say, flexing my arms back and forth at my sides.  "I acually, um, I saw Scully right after she woke up.  Then one of the nurses kicked me out and I had a um... an altercation with a few of your staff people."  I motion my head towards Nurse Carmen at the far desk.  She's still buried in paper work.

Dr. Klausman nods.  "Ah, yes.  I see.  They brought Carmen in, huh?" she laughs lightly.  "Wow.  You must have really scared everyone.  Carmen is Georgetown's official bouncer.  She works out of the ER downstairs.  We only bring her up here for the real lunatics."

I sigh, rubbing my forehead.   "Yeah, thanks."

"So," Dr. Klausman says. "You saw Dana.  Were you able to speak with her before... well, before you were--"

I clear my throat.  "Yeah," I say, as if everything else is perfectly fine.   "She was um, she was a little groggy, but we talked for a little while before I got ah... bounced... is really... what you said..."  Oh, my head hurts. Lies, all lies.  I think I'm losing oxygen to the brain.  If my mother was here, she'd tell me I was going straight to Hell.

"Then Dana told you," Dr. Klausman says, a smile on her lips.

For a second I say nothing.  I can't go in to see Scully unprepared.  I have to know now. I have to arm myself.  I need to know what I'm up against.  God, I'm a coward.  And I'm afraid.  I'm so fucking afraid.

I clear the expression on my face.  "Oh yeah.  Told me everything."  I fashion a smile identical to Dr. Klausman's.  Good to know that all my years of psychological training are good for lying.

"Well, then."  The doctor rocks back and forth on her feet.  "I suppose congratulations are in order."

I blink, not really knowing what to do with that comment.  "Congratulations," I repeat, keeping careful not to let the questionmark at the end of that word creep into my voice.

"Yes."  Dr. Klausman takes a short breath, her eyes drifting to my feet.  When she says nothing more, I nod my head, trying desperately to puzzle this together.  Congratulations?  About what?  About the fact that Scully's not in a coma?  Congratulations, you're now conscious?

Klausman's gaze rests on William and she grins widely, giving the baby a small wave.  She bends to a crouch and directs her voice towards Will.   "Ohhh my, look at you.  Well hello there, little one."  She looks up at me.  "Goodness, is this Dana's baby?  He's beautiful."

I can't help the proud smile from tilting up the corners of my lips.  "Yeah," I say, amiably.  "That's William.  As far as looks go--well, that's all Scully.  Good thing he doesn't have a giant freak head-- like his old man."

I grin and glance around to see if little Micheal is still listening, but I don't see him.  Not by the chair.
Not by Carmen's desk, either.  Guess I really bored him.  Ah well.  I sure hope he found his mother.

Dr. Klausman laughs.  "Giant freak head?" she asks, waving again to the baby.  "Oh, I don't think so.  But two men in the house can be tough.  I bet Dana hoping for a girl this time, huh?"



"What?" I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Oh," says Dr. Klausman, totally oblivious to the fact that my stomach just dropped into my feet.  "Of course. You want another boy, don't you? Yeah, well, I don't blame you. William's just adorable.  But I guess you'll have to wait a few months for the sonogram, won't you?"

"The... sonogram," I say, barely hearing myself speak.  "We'll have to wait...  A few months..."

"Mm hmm," the doctor continues, her tone even.  "You've got a good amount of time to discuss baby names.  I'd say Dana's only about two months along."

Two months along?

What the hell--


And the rest of the world has just been washed away.  

"Holy shit," I say out loud. "She's not sick.  She's pregnant."  


To Be Continued in "The End," Part Two