By MaybeAmanda and Spookey247
Rating: PG-ish
Category: S, A, C, MSR
Spoilers: Assumes thorough and complete knowledge of
every single episode. EVERY SINGLE ONE!
Timeline: Post *Existence.*
Archive: Sure. Thanks!
Thanks to: Plausible Deniability, Euphrosyne, and
Ebonbird, for beta, Connie, Meg, Peggy, Weyo, and Susan, for test
driving, Dee, for appearing pro bono, and in shorts, this time; Uncle
Chris, cuz it was his idea in the first place.
Special thanks: to the many, many, many people who
wrote and asked for more. None of this would have been possible without
your love, encouragement or really pointy sticks.
Summary: More of the same, and then some. With
seagulls.
Our Lawyer says: Chris Carter owns M&S; Fox owns
The XFiles; we own this story. No infringement intended.
NOTE: This won't make a lot of sense unless you've
read Book One.
It might not make sense then, either, but at least you
were warned.
October 3rd
++++++++++++++++++
LEFT BOOKEND
"Really?"
"Really." Langly quickly punched a sequence
of numbers into the keypad set into the wall.
Monica noted that he turned his body just enough to
block her view. She looked away. "No way."
"Way." The green light on the keypad
blinked, the door swung open, and Langly waved her inside.
"I can't believe you actually *saw* the Butthole
Surfers, Rich." Monica waited for Langly to take the lead again,
then followed him down the narrow hallway, glancing up briefly at the
small surveillance cameras tracking their movements.
"Not just saw; partied with," he said.
"And sometime around four a.m on the third morning, Jeff Pinkus
lost his lunch, and probably a couple of other meals, right about-"
he made a vague circle around his left shoulder "-here."
"Oooh!" she responded. "Celebrity
vomit! Can I touch you?"
They'd been working at the Gunmen's office all day,
placing phone calls, tracking down leads in Toronto, making travel
arrangements. She was still marveling at Langly's ability to find,
gather, and steal information without leaving a trace. Covert operations
were not her forte; even though she occasionally strayed into the
margins, Monica pretty much played by the book. The Gunmen, on the other
hand, not only scribbled in the margins, but they colored outside the
lines, doodled on the fly-leaf, dog-eared the pages, cracked the spine,
then casually tossed the entire book into the nearest shredder.
So, when Langly had asked, quite casually, if she
wanted to grab something to eat while the computer did its number-
crunching thing, she was surprised to see Frohike and Byers do textbook
double-takes. John, bless him, had just rolled his eyes, shaken his
head, and gone home to pack.
Monica had barely been able to contain her amusement.
Apparently none of them had any real idea how much time she and Rich had
been spending together. But they *had* been spending time together -
lots of it. Granted, it was mostly virtual time -- phone, email, instant
messenger -- but in the midst of it all, their relationship had shifted
from strictly professional to - well, to something else. Something more,
she was starting to think. Starting to hope, even.
"Heck yeah, you can touch me," Langly
enthused, flicking his loose ponytail away from his face. Suddenly, he
swallowed hard. "I mean, your hands *are* clean, right?"
"Uh huh. See?" she answered, holding her
hands up, palms out, and wiggling her fingers. She felt about 15 years
old again, but she was enjoying it more than when she'd had the braces,
acne, and baby fat that went with it the first time around. "I
licked all the garlic butter off."
"Oh?" Their eyes locked for a moment. Langly
swallowed again and smiled. For just a second she thought he was going
to blush, which would have been simultaneously too strange and too
wonderful for words. "That's, um, that's good to know." He
looked down at the keys in his hands. "Good to know," he
repeated.
There was no other word for it -- she was charmed.
Langly was charming. Who could have guessed? "So, was that the best
show you ever saw?"
"Nah. The best show ever was a bunch of shows,
actually. Spring break my freshman year, we followed the Pixies down
south - started at the 9:30 Club, stopped in at the Cat's Cradle, and we
had tickets for a show in Orlando but we stopped in Atlanta 'cause
Fugazi and Yo La Tengo were playing the Masquerade. Awesome show, just
awesome. Next night we scammed tickets for the Pixies in the same club -
they played for almost three hours, did a twenty minute jam on 'Vamos'..."
"That's one of my favorites."
His smile grew wider. "Yeah? Me, too. Mine, too.
Um, anyhow, after the show I actually got to shake Black Francis' hand,
or Frank Black, or whatever it is he calls himself now."
"Quite a feat." She waited while he worked
the locks.
"That was the best week of my life, hands
down." He straightened and cleared his throat. "Um, to date,
anyway..."
They gazed at each other for a long moment. He
grinned. She grinned in response.
Oh God. He was so not her type. In high school, she
would have been more likely to take up motorcycle repair than go out
with a guy like him. Rich was strictly Audio-Visual. Band, maybe.
GeekCity, USA.
In the past, she'd put a high priority on appearances,
on ambition. She'd wanted someone driven, motivated, yet still socially
aware. She'd always pictured herself with an incredibly handsome lawyer
from the Sierra Club or the stunning CEO of an
environmentally-responsible multinational.
Lately, however, she'd realized she just wanted
someone who never felt the need to make apologies for himself. Someone
who would never ask her to pretend she was something she wasn't. Someone
who wasn't insane. Who wasn't married.
Enter Langly.
She was still grinning. Jesus, she thought, is it just
me, or does everybody grin like a moron when they finally meet the one
person they can actually talk to?
"What about you?" Langly asked.
"Huh?"
"The best show you ever saw?"
"Me? Well...when I was fifteen my older brother
got me an ID and snuck me into a Black Flag show. I'll never forget
that."
He whistled. "Nice one." The final door to
the underground rear-entrance of the Gunmen's offices stood unlocked but
unopened before them.
"Then there was L7 opening for Babes in
Toyland..."
"Wow. Wow wow." Langly leaned back against
the cinderblock wall and folded his arms across his chest. He gave her
an appraising look. "I'm surprised, you know?"
"Hmm?" She drifted a little closer.
"You seem so, uh. . ."
"I seem so?" she prompted. He smelled good.
It was just your basic guy smell - laundry soap and cheap shampoo mixed
with a hint of sweat - but she liked it. It was honest. It was real.
He shook his head, derailing that train of thought.
"I, uh, . . .I don't like this, you know."
"This?"
"This expedition of yours."
She shrugged a little. "So you've said."
Langly shifted uneasily from foot to foot for a
moment. "It's just, if Mulder's one of THEM now, one of the pod
people, shit, it could be seriously dangerous."
She nodded. "I know. But I have. . .I have a very
strong feeling that that isn't what's going on."
Langly chewed the inside of his cheek. "You think
like Doggett? You think Mulder had something going on with Yves and just
took off?"
"No way." Monica shook her head. "I
didn't get a chance to get to know Fox Mulder all that well, but he was
devoted to Dana. Absolutely devoted. He wasn't voluntarily going to
leave for anything. For anyone."
Langly cocked one eyebrow. "You have a very
strong feeling about that, too, huh?"
"Yeah. I do." She grinned shyly. "And
even if, by some weird chance, that were the case, I can't see why
they'd be with Billy Miles. John doesn't seem to have a problem with it,
but that part makes no sense to me."
"Me neither," Langly agreed. "Mulder
survived so much shit, so many times, you know, and he always made his
way back. That's why I'm sticking with the 'Invasion of the Body
Snatchers' theory, much as it sucks." His voice dropped. "And
that's why I don't like this whole road trip you and Doggett have
planned, either."
"I expect it'll be nothing but reconnaissance, in
the long run - fly in, ask a few questions, fly out. The trail's pretty
cold, and we both have to be in the office first thing Monday
morning." She shrugged. "Besides, John's got my back."
Langly snorted and rolled his eyes. "Oh, THAT
makes me feel so much better."
Monica found herself reaching impulsively for his
hand. "Hey. John's a good guy." When she latched on, his long
fingers twined with hers almost automatically.
Rich nodded. "Maybe. I don't know. I mean, yeah,
he is. Probably." He squeezed her hand.
"We need some closure on this. It's our best
lead, Rich. It's our only lead."
"Yeah." He nodded again. "Um, what time
do you have to leave in the morning?"
"Early. As you know. You 'arranged' my flight,
remember?" She'd found it odd that they had to book her and Doggett
on separate flights. At the time she had assumed it had something to do
with their innate love of stealth, but now she wasn't so sure. She
lifted one brow. "Why?"
"I was just wondering if, um, after we print up
that information about the Korean grocery, you got time to sit down and
have a beer? It's still early and I'd love to play those Sonic Youth
tapes for you. And we could..." his voice trailed off.
"We could what, Rich?"
"Um, you know." He squeezed her fingers
again. "Whatever."
She almost had to laugh. He was blushing, now; it
wasn't hard to tell what he had in mind. Her smile grew until she felt
like her face was going to crack. "Here? Are you kidding?"
His face fell. He straightened, tried to disentangle
his hand from hers. "Oh, I, um. . ."
"No!" She gripped tighter. "No, Rich. I
just meant, I mean, there are cameras everywhere..."
"Oh. That." He chuckled, visibly relaxing.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled her a little closer. "That's half
the fun."
She laughed. God, he was just what she needed.
"I'm not. . .no pressure, okay?" He leaned
toward her. "Stay awhile," he murmured. "Jimmy's gone to
visit his mom in New York and Byers and Frohike are heading out for the
evening. We've got the whole place to ourselves. I'll turn off the
cameras, if you want, and. . ."
A speaker above them crackled to life. "The hell
you will." Frohike's voice echoed off the cement walls.
Monica jumped back a step, self-consciously dropping
Langly's hand, scanning the hall instinctively for the source of the
sound.
Langly emitted a low growl. "Frohike, you are so
fucking dead."
The bomb door swung open. "Sorry to, ah, to
interrupt," Byers began, addressing Monica. His eyes swung to
Langly. "We've got a . . .a situation, Langly."
Langly looked both furious and unimpressed.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Scully came by."
That got Langly's attention. "Scully? Shit. I
thought we agreed not to tell her anyth -"
Byers shook his head. "No. It's not about the
tape. And we didn't say anything. This is. . ." His eyes flicked
nervously to Monica. "This is something else."
"Like?"
"Like. . . " Byers glanced apprehensively at
Monica again. "Like something else."
"Maybe I should go, Rich," she began.
"I've got an early flight and. . "
Langly shook his head. "Look, Byers, what is
it?"
Byers exhaled slowly. "She's got some questions
about, um..." Byers scratched the back of his neck.
Langly picked up Byers' obvious hint. "Ah, shit.
The chip."
"Um, yeah." Byers swallowed hard.
Langly's whole expression and demeanor shifted.
"Oh."
"She was pretty upset."
"No shit."
"And she wants to keep it, um," Byers jerked
his head ever so slightly toward Monica, "strictly extra
curricular. Sorry, Agent Reyes, it's nothing persona-"
"It's okay. Really. Look, it's getting late. I
still have to pack, anyway," she lied. "I'll go. Just let me
grab my. . ."
Langly reached out and clasped her upper arm gently,
pulling her almost undetectably closer. "Give us a minute?" he
said to Byers.
Byers looked away, cleared his throat. "Um, sure.
Sure." He went back inside and drew the door quietly shut behind
him.
"Sorry about this."
"Oh, don't be." Monica turned and gave him
the best smile she could muster. She was surprised how disappointed she
felt. "I know all about 'duty calls.' Believe me."
"Still," Langly shrugged. "I am sorry.
It's just, it's Scully, you know? Since Mulder disappeared. . ."
"I understand." And she did, almost. She
found herself tugging at the front of his t-shirt. "So, ah, Rich.
Can I get a rain check?"
Langly's brows rose. "For?"
"You know. Beer, Sonic Youth." She
half-shrugged "Whatever."
Langly smiled. "Absolutely."
"You better get two rain checks." Frohike's
voice poured out of the speakers again. "Langly's whatevers are
pretty small."
++++++++++
ONE
Something woke him, but as Mulder lay in the
half-light of early morning, he couldn't say what that something might
have been. He held his breath, listening with his whole body for some
clue, some familiar horror.
He heard nothing; no tinkling of shattered glass, no
wood splintering, nothing even as mundane as a smoke detector whining or
one of the ridiculously redundant burglar alarms buzzing. The house was
still; only silence bounced off the plaster and polished hardwood.
Maybe, he reflected, exhaling through pursed lips,
that was horror enough.
He reached for the clock on his bedside table and held
it where he could see the display. Quarter to five. Beyond the gauze
curtains and custom wooden shutters, the sky was taking on a deep purple
cast as the sun lifted over the horizon.
Another day in paradise, he thought, swinging his legs
over the side of the bed. Fang sat bright-eyed and alert atop a wad of
bedding, tracking Mulder's every movement with a feral intensity that
was all wrong on so small a creature.
Mulder put his finger to his lips while he felt around
for his t-shirt. "Shhh," he told the dog, wondering why the
Yankees jersey wasn't on the floor where he distinctly remembered
dropping it just before he'd. . .
A sleepy sigh rose from the far side of the bed. Leah,
clinging to the edge of the mattress like a rock climber on a
treacherous slope, rolled over.
Ah, yes. That's where his shirt went.
He rose as quietly as he could and stood still for a
moment, watching Leah as she slept. She looked so small, so vulnerable.
So easily hurt or broken or taken advantage of.
Mulder sighed and rubbed his eyes. Leah's scent still
clung to his fingertips.
Jesus.
He liked Leah, probably more than he should have let
himself. She was good to Will, good to him, and she was his only real
source of human contact, something he was surprised to have discovered
he not only wanted, but craved. And there was no way around it -- Leah
was beautiful. Someone had chosen her specifically for him, and chosen
very carefully. If he'd ever had a type, Leah was it.
But she didn't belong in his bed, and she never would.
I don't need a mate, Billy, Mulder thought, absently
twisting the gold band on his finger with his thumb. I don't *want* a
mate.
Will, spread-eagled in the exact center of the bed,
stirred in his sleep. Grumbling gently, he rolled toward Leah, pudgy
fingers latching on to her sleeve. Gripping the cotton tightly, he
sighed and settled again.
No, Mulder thought, he didn't need a mate.
What he needed was an idea. A plan.
Problem was, he'd spent the last year deliberately
chasing away any real thoughts, filling his head with bullshit,
feel-good mantras, doing what he had to to ensure Will's safety. At this
point in the game, even when he did relax and allow his brain to
function normally, the self- inflicted banalities came seeping in as if
they'd always been there.
Mulder stepped back, dropping heavily into an armchair
in the corner of the room. He winced when its legs squealed against the
hardwood, then relaxed when neither Leah nor William stirred. Leaning
forward, he ran his fingers through his unruly hair, cradling his head
in his hands. Let me wake up on an operating table again, he thought.
Let me find out it's all been a dream.
What he wouldn't do for a teleph. . .
Oh, no.
He raised his head. The hair on his forearms was
slowly lifting.
Will whined and rolled away from Leah, flopping onto
his stomach with a small cry.
Mulder closed his eyes and willed his thoughts back
into place. No, he didn't want a phone. No telephone was okay. His
former associates could not be trusted. He and Will were safe. They were
protected. They were loved.
"Safe," he whispered under his breath.
"Safe," he mouthed again, and watched as the gooseflesh
receded. Will's breathing became even and peaceful again.
Behold the power of positive thinking, Mulder
reflected, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Have a nice
fucking day.
Growling softly, Fang hopped off the bed and galloped
resolutely toward the dining room. He got as far as the vestibule before
he started running in tail-chasing circles, barking in earnest.
Doing the Billy Dance.
Mulder pulled a t-shirt off the laundry pile, closed
the bedroom door behind him, and followed the dog. "Shut the hell
up, Fang," he whispered.
The little dog stuck his tail between his legs and
disappeared under Mulder's desk.
Taking a deep breath, Mulder grasped the doorknob.
'Safe' he reminded himself as he plastered on an annoyed expression and
swung the front door open. "Jesus, Billy, how many times have I
told you to. . . "
Mulder stopped.
Billy was not alone. In fact, the tiny front stoop was
full.
Craning his neck, Mulder peered over Billy's shoulder.
Ray was standing to Billy's right, and Dee, Mulder's running partner,
stood to Billy's left. Behind them, other members of the pack milled
about the courtyard. They all looked. . .odd, somehow.
"I did not wish to wake William," Billy
began. The timbre of his voice was the same as always, but his usual
vacuous smile was missing. "William did not sleep well,
Mulder."
"Wonder why that was?" Mulder asked icily.
Billy blinked. "Did you sleep well?"
"You know damn well I didn't." The floor was
cool under his bare feet. Mulder scanned the entrance hall, looking for
his shoes, trying not to imagine why 30-odd non-people were swarming at
his front door.
Reasoning that his best defense was probably a good
offense, Mulder decided to conduct a verbal first strike. "I'm glad
you stopped by, actually. You and I have got to have a little talk about
last- "
"Here," Billy said abruptly, thrusting a
white paper bag in Mulder's direction. "This will make you happy,
Mulder."
Mulder paused, nonplussed. "What?"
Billy held the bag higher. "This will make you
happy."
Mulder snorted softly. "Bill, there's only one
thing that would make me happy, and believe me, it's not in that
bag."
"Please, Mulder."
Mulder looked over Billy's shoulder. Dee was swaying
back and forth almost imperceptibly, shifting from one foot to the
other, her eyes slightly unfocused. Beads of sweat dotted Ray's bald
head, and his jaw worked furiously from side to side. Out in the
courtyard, members of the pack were edging nervously toward his front
stoop, their normally expressionless faces strangely clouded.
Mulder fought back a surge of apprehension.
"What's going on, Bill?"
Billy thrust the bag toward him again, his brow
furrowing. "Take this, please, Mulder."
"Please," Ray echoed. He looked desperate.
Mulder scanned the crowd again. Christ, they all did.
He couldn't begin to imagine why.
He folded his arm across his chest, the novelty of the
situation making him feel unexpectedly reckless. "Okay, I'll take
the bag, Billy, but I want to make one thing clear - Leah stays."
"Please, Mulder." The paper bag rattled in
Billy's grip.
"I mean it, Billy. She stays. You don't replace
her or threaten her and you don't. . ." he stopped, took a deep
breath, "you don't dictate where she sleeps. William wants her to
stay. I want her to stay. Am I making myself clear?"
Billy's face was blank, but his eyes were fierce. He
thrust the bag toward Mulder again. "Now, Mulder."
Mulder took the small bag from him, peered cautiously
inside. "Four bottles of Children's Tylenol? This is supposed to
make me-?"
"Dadadadadadada..."
In the bedroom, Will suddenly began to wail. Leah
cooed his name, trying to soothe him. Mulder wondered how long she'd
been awake. "I'm out here, Leah," he called. He looked inside
the bag again, pulled out the receipt and studied it briefly, perplexed.
"Billy, why did you go all the way to to New York to buy. .
.?"
"Mulder?" Leah appeared in the dining room
door, still wearing Mulder's t-shirt, Will cradled against her chest.
She raised her voice and spoke over Will's wailing. "We were asleep
and Fang woke him. He feels really warm."
Mulder met Leah halfway across the dining room.
Handing her the bag, he laid one hand on Will's forehead while the other
stroked his back. "Yeah, he's got a fever," he remarked.
"I wonder what's- "
"Now, Mulder," Billy repeated, urgently.
"Now. Please."
Mulder glanced over Billy's shoulder. Dee's rocking
had increased in tempo. Ray stared at Mulder imploringly, rubbing his
hand back and forth across the stubble on his left cheek, digging his
fingertips into the flesh.
What the hell was going on?
Mulder turned and took a few steps back toward the
entranceway. "Now *what*, Bill?"
The pitch of Will's screaming climbed higher. "Dadadadadadadadada...."
Billy's face creased with an uncharacteristic scowl.
He crossed the threshold abruptly, sweeping past Mulder and raising an
arm toward Leah, who pulled Will closer and began to back away, shooting
a desperate, terrified glance in Mulder's direction.
Holy fuck.
"Billy, no!" Mulder growled, traveling
across the hardwood on an intercept course.
Billy brushed him aside like a cobweb, sending him
stumbling, slamming against his desk. Mulder righted himself quickly and
turned, ready to defend his family. Kill me, you bastard, he thought
viciously. Kill me, Billy, I fucking dare you...
But Billy was busy fumbling with a child-proof cap.
The white paper bag lay like a shed feather at Billy's
feet, three unopened boxes of medicine piled in a jumbled heap beside
it. Billy struggled with the stubborn plastic cap, twisting it first one
way, then the other. Finally he stopped, his eyes nearly crossing as he
tried to focus on the red-letters that told him to push down and turn
counter-clockwise.
Mulder stepped cautiously toward him. "Billy,
what are you-?"
His host abandoned finesse and snapped the neck of the
bottle. "I have opened the medicine, Mulder." His hands were
shaking.
"I see that," Mulder said gently. "I
take it you want to give Will some Tylenol?"
"He is suffering, Mulder." Billy said
anxiously, his face drawn and ashen. "We cannot keep him safe. He
must be safe."
"Okay, okay," Mulder told his host, speaking
as soothingly as he would to any mad dog. He took the broken bottle and
placed it on the desk. "You're right, Billy. He's running a fever
and giving him some Tylenol might be a good idea. But it's not safe to
give that to him now. Some of the plastic from the bottle may have
fallen in when you broke it. Give me one of the other bottles and I'll
show you how to open it."
Billy immediately did as Mulder asked. Mulder opened
the box and peeled off the protective wrap surrounding the cap.
"You have to press and turn at the same time." He gave Billy
the dispensing cup to hold while he worked the lid. "See?"
"I see," Billy answered.
"Why is it you can remember the rules of
football, but you can't remember how to do this?" Mulder motioned
with his free hand. "Give me the cup."
"The package says a child William's age requires
15 millimeters for relief of pain due to fever and/or teething,"
Billy commented as he handed it over.
"Okay," Mulder said soothingly. "It's
just we've never done this before. He's run a fever with every tooth but
it's never been bad enough to give him medication. I don't like to give
him this stuff. It's hard on the liver. You understand?"
"He must be safe, Mulder."
"Yeah," Mulder agreed, although he wasn't
completely sure what he was agreeing to. He poured the thick purple
liquid into the cup. "Hey, Bud," he said, turning back to Will
and Leah. Adrenalin was still pumping through his system at top speed
and it was an effort to keep his hand steady and his voice calm. We're
safe, he silently reminded himself. We're protected. We're loved. We're
safe and protected and loved. Safe, protected, lov- "Look. Billy
brought you some medicine."
Will shook his head and tried to hide his face against
Leah's shoulder. "Nonononononononononono."
Billy edged toward them, his breathing rough and
raspy.
"Look what your daddy's got, sweetie."
Leah's voice was calm, but her eyes flicked nervously from Will's sweaty
head to Billy's grimly determined face as she spoke. "And it's
grape. Our very favorite flavor, after all the other ones."
"Here." Mulder exchanged the medicine cup
for Will, pulling him into a tight hug and pressing his lips against his
son's hot forehead. "Come on, big guy. Let's take some
medicine."
"I've never seen him like this, Mulder,"
Leah said, a thread of panic running through her voice. "Maybe it's
not his teeth. Maybe he's really sick. We need to call a doctor."
Will's hot little head dug into Mulder's sternum.
"Nonononononononononono."
"Nononononono..." Billy whispered, mimicking
Will in a voice so low it was almost impossible to hear.
Mulder stared. "What is it, Billy?"
Billy straightened and tried to compose himself.
"Symptoms associated with teething include biting, drooling, gum-
rubbing, low-grade fever, ear-rubbing, mild irritability, increased
sucking, and increased wakefulness."
Mulder watched Billy intently. "So, he's just
teething. Right, Billy?"
"William is not sick. There is no need for a
doctor." Billy answered. "But William is suffering. Please,
Mulder. Now."
Mulder looked from Leah to Will to Billy. Billy was
watching his son with a worshipful expression, a look of tenderness, of
genuine, unguarded love and care. Mulder knew Billy was right. Billy was
always right, it seemed, when it came to Will. He took the cup from
Leah. "Hey Will, this'll make you feel better. Do daddy a b-i-i-i-ig
favor and drink this, okay?"
Will gave a quivering sigh and looked up. "Dadadadada,"
he complained, smearing snot and tears over his face as he rubbed his
mouth and nose with his open palm.
"I know, buddy." Mulder swayed slightly from
side to side. "I know. Drink this, okay? It'll make you feel
better. Drink this for daddy, okay?"
Will looked at Mulder, concentration plain on his
face. After a moment the boy nodded, his expression serious. "T- t-tay,"
he stuttered.
Mulder's brows rose. "You say 'okay,' Will?"
He looked at Leah. "That's a new one."
Will shuddered again. "Tay," he repeated. He
reached awkwardly toward the tiny cup and drained its contents.
"Yum."
"Good boy, Will," Leah said. "You'll
feel better soon."
Mulder swayed, rocking Will back and forth. His son
settled against his chest, his sticky-sweet fake-grape breath swirling
up with each miserable moan.
Billy's face, still strained, brightened somewhat as
he gazed at Will adoringly, mesmerized, it seemed, by the soothing
motion. "William will be safe. You will be happy, Mulder."
"Will's safety is all that matters." Mulder
nodded, trying to grasp the meaning behind Billy's words. Billy had told
him the contents of the bag would make him happy. The Tylenol was meant
to take away Will's pain. So if Will was no longer in pain, then -
Then -
Then, what?
He could see that the pieces were there, spread out
before him like the rough-edged tiles in a giant mosaic. But no matter
how hard he tried, he couldn't make the individual pieces resolve into a
coherent whole. He needed to step back to achieve the proper
perspective, but his cage was too confining.
Mulder watched Billy watching his son. There was
something gnawing at the edge of his exhausted brain, something --
"Leah, could you pick up that mess on the floor,
please?"
Leah blinked. "What?"
"And bring me the bag from the Tylenol?" He
kept his tone overly-casual.
Leah's eyes cut to Billy, then back to Mulder.
"S-s-sure." She hurried across the room, picking up the
discarded bag, receipt, and bottles, and returning quickly to Mulder's
side. "What should I. . .?"
He took the bag from her. "Just put those bottles
away in the kitchen. Up high, somewhere, please."
Mulder rocked. Will whimpered. Billy gazed, swaying
gently, shadowing their motion.
"Bill, if you thought I needed to give Will some
Tylenol, why didn't you just say something?"
Billy swayed. "I did."
Mulder glanced at the window. Beyond the drapes,
sheepdog silhouettes were still wandering aimlessly around the central
fountain. He pulled Will closer. "Yeah, but you might have done it
a little sooner, and just a little less dramatically. I'm a reasonable
guy."
"Yes, Mulder." Billy paused. "Sometimes
I am not certain what you have remembered, and what you have chosen to
forget."
Mulder scowled. "What the hell is that supposed
to mean?"
"It is supposed to mean that sometimes I am not
certain what you have remembered, Mulder, and what you have
forgotten."
Mulder shook his head. "Geez, Bill, thanks for
clearing that . . ." He glanced down at the drugstore bag in his
hand and paused, frowning at the navy blue lettering on its side.
"'Williams' Family Pharmacy,'" he read in a low mumble,
"372 Danah Ave., Skellie, New York."
The tiles in the mosaic shifted, twisting and
blurring. Mulder struggled to bring them into focus.
He looked up at Billy, swallowing the urge to scream.
"'William wants a family. . .'"
"Yes, Mulder. William will be happy now. You will
be happy."
Mulder's voice lowered. "Billy, please, why did.
. ."
Billy turned to the door. "You should sleep, now,
Mulder. Have a nice day."
+++++++++++
Mulder had been staring at the ceiling for so long -
at the same small stuccoed patch right over his head - that he was
beginning to have the uncomfortable feeling that the ceiling was staring
back.
He knew, from many sleepless nights and restless days
spent sprawled and gazing upward, that if he looked at it long enough,
hard enough, the miniature peaks and valleys would dissolve and reform,
becoming a dog's head, a lion, a tree, a hand. If the shadows cast by
the street light fell in a certain way, he'd see landscapes, vistas,
visual shorthand, all reminders of other places and other times.
Sometimes, if he was just the right combination of exhausted and aching
and lonely, he'd see a face -- the face -- and he'd have to force
himself to blink it away before his heart broke again.
This was one of those times.
He remembered how exhausted Scully had been, that last
day, how open, how vulnerable. He'd run her a warm bath, bathed and
diapered Will while she soaked, brought her freshly- washed pajamas from
the dryer and laid them out on the bed for her. He'd unplugged the
phone. Made her a glass of lemonade. Kissed her cheek.
He'd just thought she needed some time to herself.
Some time without them.
It hadn't occurred to him to say good bye.
He closed his eyes.
The Tylenol had worked its swift and questionable
magic, and Will had been asleep, sticky-lipped and smiling, before Leah
made it half-way back down the hall. Mulder had sent them back to his
bed after Billy left, telling Leah he wanted to make sure all the dogs
were safely back in their kennels and that he'd join them shortly. But
even after the tall sandy-haired guy -- Eric? Aaron? -- had slunk back
to his lair across the courtyard, even after he'd watched through the
curtains as the dark haired guard resumed his usual post by the front
gate, Mulder couldn't bring himself to make the trip to his room. He'd
opted for the couch, instead.
They'd all had a hard night. If Leah and Will were
asleep, he told himself, he didn't want to wake them. And, honestly, if
only Will was sleeping, he didn't know what he would, could, or should
say to Leah. 'Um, sorry I tried to rape you,' he could picture himself
beginning as he very casually shed his medicine-stained shirt and tossed
it back into the hamper, 'but for what it's worth, it wasn't me; it was
alien mind control. No hard feelings, okay?'
He hardly believed it; he couldn't expect her to.
Mulder shifted his weight, trying to find that elusive
sweet spot. The leather was cool and smooth against the backs of his
legs, the cushions just the right combination of firm and yielding for
his liking. When Will had been a colicky infant, Mulder had spent hour
after hour in this very same position, his son tucked under his chin,
humming tunelessly and rubbing circles into the baby's tiny back. But he
hadn't had the ten to fifteen years necessary to break in a couch like
this, and he still found it hard to get really comfortable.
Jesus. Ten years. Would he still be here in a decade,
staring at the stucco, watching the watchdogs watch Will?
He hoped to hell not. A small part of him that still
gave a damn wanted to believe he deserved better than this freak-
in-a-fishbowl life.
And even if he didn't deserve better, Will did. Will
was just a baby --
He shifted again. Just a baby. He remembered standing
in Scully's bedroom, heart in his throat, telling her that. Telling her
that Dr. Lev and Dr. Parenti had been mistaken, that Billy Miles and all
his kind had been wrong. Telling her that Will was just a baby, just
their son.
Just a miracle.
Mulder snorted. Well, at least he'd been right about
something.
But if Will wasn't just a baby -- and he clearly
wasn't -- what was he?
The ceiling, if it knew, wasn't saying.
Mulder sighed. All he wanted was to hear the truth
from someone he could trust. That was all he'd wanted from the
beginning.
There had been no phone in his apartment, of course,
no internet. His early days in Toronto had been spent devising ways to
escape his hosts, trying to ditch them long enough to get a collect call
through to the Gunmen, to Skinner, even Doggett or Reyes, anyone who
could tell him what had happened to her. Anyone who could help.
Because he didn't know a soul in the city, a public
phone had seemed his only option. He had approached them on several
occasions, but every time he tried, his inevitable escort would take him
by the arm, very firmly and politely, and invite him to return to his
home. He had tried sneaking out late at night and early in the morning,
but no matter how odd the hour, one of his hosts had always appeared to
accompany him. And as his desire to communicate with the outside world
had grown, the number of escorts had increased. Billy, Ray, Dee, the
sheepdogs who came and went, idiotic smiles on their faces, banalities
on their lips -- they were always one step ahead of him. It hadn't taken
Mulder long to realize that his thoughts were no longer completely his
own.
Two weeks after his arrival, Mulder had left Will with
Leah and gone out to buy himself a new pair of running shoes. He had
taken the subway downtown, carefully focusing on the color and style he
intended to purchase. He had pasted a bland smile on his face and
climbed the stairs from the subway tunnel, wondering with all his might
if a new pair of shoes would make his knees quit aching after every run.
He had mingled with the pedestrians on Bloor Street, walking briskly and
weaving through the crowd.
As he walked, he had looked furtively to the left and
right, but no one in his immediate vicinity seemed to be paying him any
special attention. Stopping with the crowd at an intersection, he had
looked around, pretending to get his bearings, and stolen a glance over
his shoulder. As far as he could tell, he was not being watched.
Buoyed up by his having successfully eluded them,
Mulder had crossed the busy street and increased his pace.
An unoccupied phone kiosk had appeared in his field of
vision, hugging the wall between a bookstore and a small restaurant.
Mulder had glanced around and then veered toward it. A teenage boy who
had been walking in front of him for several blocks had veered
simultaneously, arriving at the phone steps ahead of him, raising the
receiver to his ear as if to make a call and staring at Mulder with a
blank, ambivalent expression.
Mulder had stared back.
Several pedestrians had passed between them,
continuing down the street, oblivious to the wordless confrontation.
Mulder had shaken his head slowly.
He had tried hard to keep thinking about running
shoes.
He scanned the crowd again and found he was being
watched by at least three individuals.
Mulder had started walking again. An elderly woman
rose from a bench at a bus stop and lumbered down the sidewalk just
ahead of him. She was fat and awkward, only about five feet tall,
clinging to an oversized handbag and lurching from side to side as she
walked. Mulder had stepped to the right, intending to hurry around her,
but she had drifted in the same direction, blocking his forward
progress. He had dodged to the left. She had mirrored his movement.
He dodged. She blocked. He dodged. She blocked.
A pay phone had loomed ahead. Mulder had veered toward
it. The old woman countered, increasing her pace to match his own and
passing the phone just seconds before he did. Before he knew what was
happening, she had reached out with a shriveled hand and ripped the
handset loose, snapping the metal cord like a thread and depositing the
now-useless receiver in a nearby waste can.
She hadn't even broken her stride.
No one around them had seemed to notice.
Heart racing, Mulder had stopped walking. He turned
and looked back. Three forms watched him, motionless, standing like
islands in the bustling throng.
The truth of the situation was clear, but he had
refused to accept it.
He had started down the sidewalk at a near-run. The
old woman had at once increased her pace, orthopedic shoes flying down
the sidewalk in a most unnatural fashion. The crowd around them
thickened. Taking advantage of a momentary jam in the flow of foot
traffic, Mulder had dashed across the street, eliciting honks and angry
stares, narrowly avoiding being hit by a speeding taxi.
There had been a phone booth waiting on the other
side. He had run toward it with every ounce of his energy, thinking
Frohike, call Frohike...
His foot caught on a grate set in the pavement. He
went down on the sidewalk, hard, tasting concrete and blood.
"Sir, are you hurt?"
A hand had been offered. He had opened his eyes,
winced with pain, looked up as he wiped blood from his smashed lower
lip...
Billy Miles.
"Time to go, Sir," Billy had said.
"William wants his father. Now."
Billy and his pack had herded Mulder homeward. On the
trip, he had noticed for the first time that his escorts kept a strange,
almost respectful distance. He had felt like a lunatic elephant being
returned to its cage.
He'd tried again, twice, with identical results. After
his third failed attempt, despair had set in, leaving him enervated and
empty. Leaving him thinking the unthinkable.
Billy had appeared at his door one morning, smiling
stupidly, Ray and Mark smiling stupidly beside him.
"You are not happy, Sir," Billy had said
benevolently, sounding a lot like a talk-show therapist.
Mulder had regarded them with open hostility.
"Glad to see that your powers of observation didn't get washed down
the drain with your personality, Bill."
"We know you miss William's mother. We are sorry
she cannot..."
"No." Mulder had held up his hand, stopping
him. "We're not going to talk about her. At all. Got it?"
"As you wish." Billy nodded, stupid smile
still in place. "We understand that you are anxious to return to
your friends."
"'Anxious,'" Mulder had murmured,
tight-lipped, shaking his head. "Christ." He spun on his heel
and left them standing on the stoop.
They had followed Mulder to the kitchen, pausing in
the archway, filling it completely. "There are many things you do
not understand, Sir. Perhaps when you understand them you will be
happy."
Mulder had jerked the refrigerator door open, staring
at the neat assortment of groceries that were hand-delivered by a
different sheepdog each and every Tuesday. "You're damn right there
are things I need to understand," he rasped. "What Will and I
are doing here, for a start." He had slammed the refrigerator door
and paced toward the pantry, opening it and scanning its tidy contents
with a scowl.
"William is safe, protected, and loved here, as
are you." Billy stepped forward, opening his arms magnanimously.
"William is a miracle, a joyful blessing foretold, a prophecy
fulfilled."
Mulder had stared into the pantry. His fingers curled
into two fists at his sides. Both Alex Krycek and Lizzy Gill had tried
to feed him the same brand of bullshit; he still wasn't biting.
"Well, Halle-fuckin'-lujah. I feel better now."
"You misunderstand our intentions, Mulder. We
live to serve William. Our purpose is to keep him safe and happy. There
is nothing more important."
"You think I don't know that? He's my son, Billy.
Mine."
"William belongs to all of us, Sir."
Mulder had fought down the urge to hurl himself at
Billy, forcing himself to remember the sickening feeling of the plate
glass window at Parenti's office shattering against his back. "He's
my son," he repeated. "I'm all he's got, now."
"There will come a time when you will understand
why these things have come to pass. There will come a time when you will
understand how truly blessed you are."
"Blessed?" Mulder had choked, staring at the
floor.
Billy's voice had had a strange lilt to it, as if he
were reciting a story he'd known since childhood. "There is a
battle being waged, Sir, a struggle for heaven and earth. You know this.
But your son has the ability to change what has been written. His coming
was foretold. He is a miracle, Sir; he is THE miracle."
"He's a baby, Billy," Mulder whispered, sure
Billy was wrong, but just as sure he could never convince him of that
fact. Fanatics were fanatics, whatever their cause. "Just a
baby."
There was a long pause. Finally, Billy spoke.
"You are still unhappy, Mulder, in spite of what I have told
you?"
Mulder had quietly closed the pantry door, leaning
against it and putting a hand over his eyes. The moment was so surreal.
He really was standing here, in a Better-Homes- and-Gardens kitchen in a
randomly chosen neighborhood somewhere in Toronto, being lectured about
his infant son's duty to save humanity by a being who'd started out as a
bloated, water-logged corpse.
Mulder had wondered, then, in a vague, almost surreal
way, if he was still dead. Maybe they'd never dug him up, drugged him
up, gotten him back on his feet. Maybe he still six feet under the North
Carolina sod, quietly rotting away. Maybe Toronto was really Hell. That
might explain the Raptors. . .
Mulder had laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah. Despite
all you've told me, I'm still unhappy, Bill. Go figure."
"William wants you to be happy, Sir." Paper
rustled as Billy spoke again. "We have brought something."
Jesus, what would it be this time? More expensive
cotton baby clothes with the tags meticulously trimmed away? Another
magic-fingers baby bouncer or programmable swing or set of ergonomically
designed formula bottles? Opening his eyes would have been a waste of
his rapidly fading energy, so Mulder didn't bother. "I think I've
had enough for today, Bill. Whatever you brought, just leave it."
There was a pause. Billy sounded oddly sad. "We
hope this will make you happy."
Curiosity forced Mulder's eyelids open. A pale, blue
rectangle lay on the marble countertop, no more than three feet from
where he was standing. He snatched the paper up, glancing quickly at
Billy and his companions as they started away across the dining room.
"Billy."
Billy stopped, turned. He smiled pleasantly.
"Sir?"
"This is a bus ticket."
"Yes. You are free to go whenever you want. Have
a nice day."
Mulder's head felt light. It was a game, a trick...
"I'm not sure I...um, what does that mean, Billy, 'free to
go'?"
"If you do not wish to be here, you may leave.
You are not a prisoner."
It was a lie. It had to be a lie. "So. . .what? I
can just grab Will and. . ."
"William will stay safe with us, Sir. You can be
sure he will be safe, protected, and loved, always." Billy had
turned to leave again.
Rage had welled up inside Mulder, so strong and potent
and overwhelming that it almost froze him. "You expect me to leave
him behind?" he whispered through clenched teeth.
"No, Sir, we do not. But the choice is yours.
Have a nice day."
Mulder closed his eyes against the memory. A nice day?
As if he remembered how that was done.
He shifted again. It had been obvious to Mulder from
the beginning that Billy had some sort of imperfect access his own
thoughts, and it had become clear in short order that Billy knew what
was going on in William's mind, too. Mulder had always assumed it was a
one way relationship -- he and Will threw the psychic passes, Billy and
the gang caught them. But lately, he had to wonder.
Skellie, New York? Danah Ave? Someone was trying to
send a message, but what message, exactly? Billy had always been top
dog, seemingly omniscient, yet the blatant clues on the drugstore bag
seemed to go right over his abnormally muddled head.
So if Billy wasn't the one trying to tell him
something, who was? Ray? Dee? Someone on the outside?
And whoever it was, why were they screwing it up so
badly?
The sofa sighed as he rolled over. A sharp, unexpected
pain shot through his thigh. He winced and sat up, examining the sore
spot. A lump was forming, purple and swollen, where he and the desk had
met during Billy's bottle opening demonstration.
That was also troublesome. Billy hadn't so much as
threatened Mulder over the course of the past year; he had certainly
never raised a hand against him since their arrival in Toronto, and
Mulder had no doubts that if Billy had wanted him dead the day of their
confrontation at Parenti Medical, he would have been. Even when Mulder
had been at his most rebellious, Billy had treated him with nothing
short of deference. He was sure Billy hadn't intended to hurt him this
morning -- there had been no malice in that shove. His host had simply
been on a mission; Mulder had simply been in the way.
So why, he wondered, had Billy been so desperate this
morning? And why so adamant about getting Mulder's permission to
administer that medicine to Will? Clearly, it didn't matter, in the end,
if Mulder gave his permission or not. Billy had certainly never sought
it in other matters. Something had changed, but what?
Mulder wondered how much longer Billy and the rest of
the hounds would continue the pretense of seeking Mulder's cooperation
in all these matters. Up to this point, Will's wants had been simple and
fairly harmless - If he wanted a toy, a dog, or a sandbox, Billy saw to
it that he got them, no questions asked. But Will was growing, becoming
more determined and more self-aware. What would happen when William
wanted a Ferrari, an airplane, a gun? What would happen when Mulder said
'no'?
What WOULD happen?
Ominous thoughts circled his sleep-deprived mind like
ravenous vultures. He shook his head, hoping to clear it, dry-scrubbed
his face, and yawned. He needed to get up, to ice his thigh, to get some
strong coffee into him, to get his thoughts organized, to. . .
"Dada!" Will's voice, coming from the far
side of Mulder's bedroom door, echoed down the hallway, "Dadadadada!
Out!"
Out, Mulder thought. Maybe that's what he needed.
Maybe that's what they both needed. "Coming, buddy." Mulder
rose and went down the hallway.
Will's small hand thumped against the door.
"Out!" he insisted.
Mulder opened the door slowly, so that Will would have
time to get out of the way. "Move back, Will. I'll let you
out."
"Dada." Will stared at him imploringly.
"Dadadadada."
"How you doing, guy?" He reached around the
door and scooped Will up.
"Out!" His son's cheeks were bright pink,
his lips wet with drool. He was still a little warm, but not as warm as
he had been, Mulder noted with relief. He didn't think he could take a
repeat visit from Doctor Billy's Traveling Medicine Show.
"You want some breakfast? A bottle?" Mulder
whispered soothingly, casting a quick glance at Leah, who was curled
into a tight ball, sound asleep in the middle of the bed.
"Out," Will repeated, seizing his dad's face
with both hands.
Mulder shook his head. "Shhh. Leah's sleeping.
How about a bath?"
"Out!"
"'Kay, buddy. Just a minute." Mulder carried
Will back to his own room. "You need a clean butt before we can go
anywhere." He placed him on the changing table.
Will drummed his heels against the foam pad. "Outoutoutoutoutoutoutout..."
he chanted.
"Yeah, yeah." Mulder handed Will a
board-book, hoping to distract him, and swiftly replaced the soiled
diaper with a fresh one. "So we'll go out. Hang on."
Will tossed the book onto the floor. "Dada."
Mulder bent to retrieve it. "Yes?"
"Dada," Will repeated, his voice hushed.
"Ye-es?" Mulder asked again. He pulled a
bottle of sunscreen from beneath the table and began strategically
applying it.
"Dada." A whisper, this time.
Mulder slipped a clean pair of shorts on the boy,
tossed his pajamas in the general direction of the hamper. He gazed down
into his son's face. Will stared up at him. "Yes, William, what is
it you want to tell me, hmm?"
Will looked Mulder straight in the eye.
Mulder was suddenly seized with a very disturbing
idea.
Could it be...?
"Will?"
"Dada," Will whispered, and reached out to
touch Mulder's arm.
It happened again, the wave of dread: gut-clenching
fear ripping the air from his lungs, lifting he fine hairs on the back
of his neck, submerging every nerve-ending in ice cold terror.
He's coming.
Mulder stared down at his son, fighting the urge to
snatch him up and run. Will stared back, his blue eyes shining with
intelligence and purpose.
Oh God, Mulder thought, taking a deep breath, it
couldn't be.
"Dada." Will's lips moved, but this time,
the boy made no sound.
Mulder brought his face close to his son's. His mouth
was dry. He swallowed hard. "What is it, Will?" he croaked.
Will's eyes searched Mulder's face, moving intently
from feature to feature. Then, in one smooth, swift motion, he reached
up and grabbed Mulder by the nose.
"Beep beep!" Will squealed, then giggled
delightedly.
Mulder slumped forward, suddenly boneless.
"Jesus, Will," he mumbled, his forehead dropping to the
changing table pad. For some reason, that made Will laugh harder.
He was letting his imagination get the better of him,
Mulder told himself as he straightened, lifting his still giggling son.
He was over-tired, stressed, decaffeinated, and he probably had low
blood sugar on top of it all.
"Come on, Will," he said, settling Will's
Yankees cap on his head. "Let me get a cup of coffee and then we'll
hit the beach."
++++++++++
A quick cup of coffee and half a sippy cup of milk
later, Mulder set Will down in the front hall and knelt to tighten his
laces. Clutching his Tinky Winky doll with one arm, Will thumped
Mulder's shoulder with his free hand. "Bubby tar, dada. Tay? Tay?"
Mulder couldn't help but smile. "Listen to
you," he said affectionately, placing a hand on top of his son's
head. It seemed like Will was picking up new words at the rate of about
one a minute lately. "Talking like a big boy, huh? You'll be
telling me I'm wrong about everything in no time at all."
"Bubby tar out, tay?"
"Okay," Mulder agreed. "Hang on just a
minute and I'll find it."
He stood up and headed for a basket of toys that sat
near the TV in his office. Will followed, then veered suddenly down the
hallway, pointing toward the bedroom.
"Weea, dada."
Mulder retrieved Will and returned to the basket by
the TV. "No, bud, she's sleeping. We'll see her later."
He rummaged in the basket until he found the 'bubby
tar' in question. The black Matchbox SUV, a gift from Billy, had quickly
become one of Will's favorite toys. Mulder considered it completely
inappropriate for a toddler, especially one who was teething, but Billy
had only blinked at Mulder's objections and assured him that he
'understood.' Mulder had deliberately 'lost' the toy several times, only
to have an identical replacement appear with the next grocery delivery,
much to Will's delight and Mulder's frustration. When Mulder finally
noted that Will never put the car in his mouth, but instead carried it
with a kind of reverence, securely tucked in his tiny fist, he had
relented and allowed his son to keep it. How it got dubbed 'bubby tar,'
Mulder didn't know.
"Here you go, buddy." He handed Will the
toy. "Not for your mouth, remember?"
"Tay." Will nodded. He waved the car at his
father. "Bubby tar mama tar dada, tay? Weea? Mama? Tay?"
Mulder's stomach knotted. He tried to keep smiling.
Mama.
It was natural, he supposed, that Will would come to
think of Leah as his mother, though she'd never been presented as such.
After all, his picture books were full of happy, smiling mommies and
daddies and babies. It only made sense that Will would put one and one
and one together and come up with three, even if it was the wrong three.
With a pang of guilt, Mulder realized he'd been
unbelievably selfish all these months. Will should have the chance to
know his mother, even though she would never be a part of his daily
life. They needed to have a photograph of Scully, at least, something
Mulder could point to and say, 'That was your mom, Will. She loved you
very much. I loved her very much.' He'd ask Billy to get them one the
next time he saw him.
"Mama? Weea? Out? Fahn?"
"We'll see Leah later, Will. She's tired right
now." Mulder took the toy car and tucked it in Will's pocket.
"Fahn out?"
"Yeah, Fang can come with us."
"Fahn!" Will ran toward the kitchen and
called the dog, his thin little voice echoing through the apartment.
"Fahn!"
Mulder brought his fingers to his lips. "Shh,
Will," he whispered as Fang skittered enthusiastically into the
room. Mulder clipped the leash to the dog's collar, then swung Will up
onto his hip. They headed for the door, the little dog dragging his lead
behind.
In the courtyard, the day was heating up. The air was
already soggy and hateful, and would only get more unbearable as the day
progressed.
As always, Dee was waiting to escort them, decked out
in carefully coordinated indigo running gear. She had pulled the jogging
stroller out of storage, just as she normally did, but instead of
standing at attention next to it as he'd come to expect, she was sitting
on the bench by the fountain, staring blankly at the water, her usual
poker- face skewed by a look of vague discomfort.
Mulder buckled Will and Fang securely into the
stroller. "Morning, Dee."
Dee did not stir, continuing to gaze listlessly toward
the small concrete pool.
He propped his foot up on the bench, right next to
where she was sitting. "Dee?"
Dee flinched, her head snapping toward him, her eyes
growing wide.
"Didn't mean to startle you," he said,
lifting an eyebrow and grabbing the toe of his shoe. Clearly, Dee was
still a little dazed. He leaned over and began to stretch.
Dee shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her upper lip
twitching slightly. "I am not startled, Sir," she said. Her
gaze wandered back to the fountain.
"Dada!" Will complained, straining against
his seatbelt. "Doh! Out out." He buried his face in Tinky
Winky's stomach, rubbing his mouth vigorously back and forth against the
plastic.
When Mulder finished stretching, he wheeled the
stroller toward the gate. "Ready, Will? Let's go." The
gatekeeper stepped aside to let them through. Dee remained motionless on
the bench.
Mulder stared at her, perplexed. She wasn't going to
let them go alone, was she?
"Dee?"
Dee started again, then rose without answering and
followed them out into the street.
Will waved his toys above his head. "Out,
Dada," he called. "Bye bye!"
+++++++++++++++++
FOUR
Mulder started more slowly than he usually did.
Instead of running, he walked down Beech Avenue, past the florist's shop
on the corner, past the bank and The Goof, down Silver Birch, taking his
usual route, but at an altered pace. Reaching the green strip of park
bordering the beach, he turned onto the asphalt jogging path and prodded
himself to run. But his heart wasn't in it, and his mind was elsewhere,
still puzzling over the night before and this strange morning after.
Will, apparently oblivious to his father's concerns,
laughed, waving an arm and wiggling his fingers in the rushing air. He
pointed to some seagulls on the path. "Quack-quack!" he
laughed.
"Not ducks, Will," Mulder told him.
"Sky rats."
The birds scattered, clearing a path for them with a
chorus of irritated squawks. Will stretched out, reaching toward them
and calling "Quack-quack!"
"Seagulls," Mulder told him again. "Not
quack-quacks; seagulls. It's a different kind of water bird."
"Quack-quack!" Will insisted.
"Okay, you've convinced me." Mulder
surrendered. "Quack- quacks. Whatever."
He ran harder, pushing himself, sprinting toward
clarity or oblivion, whichever he could get with sweat and endorphins.
The stroller buzzed along the pavement, its rubber tires emitting a
hypnotic hum, while Dee's shoes smacked monotonously against the ground
behind him.
Dee ran almost on his heels, becoming, quite
literally, his shadow - if he veered left, he knew she would; if he
slowed to get around a group of pedestrians, or sped up to challenge
himself, she would alter her pace accordingly. Her positioning made it
impossible for him to see what she was doing without stopping and making
a deliberate 180- degree turn. It bugged the hell out of him - not only
was it embarrassingly conspicuous, it was just plain annoying to have
those inescapable footsteps crunching in his wake.
Today, stressed and hungry and sleep-deprived,
confused by the events of the past two days, disheartened in a general,
all-encompassing way, Mulder found he could focus on nothing but getting
Dee the hell off his ass. 'Dee go away,' he thought, silently chanting
in time with his footfalls, with hers, 'Dee go away Dee go away Dee go-'
All at once, the wheels of the stroller locked tight.
"Holy sh-!" Mulder jerked it upright to keep
Will from spilling out, skidding to a painful stop. He bent immediately
to check on his son. "You okay, Will?"
"A-din!" Will shrieked with delight,
bouncing in his seat. "A-din a-din!"
"No, not 'again,'" Mulder replied, relieved
to see that Will was unhurt and that Fang was no worse for the wear. He
bent to check the tires, the footbrake, the unblemished pavement beneath
them. Whatever had caused the wheels to quit turning wasn't immediately
evident, but then, he was no mechanic.
"What in the hell?" Mulder mumbled, getting
back up on his feet and brushing pavement crumbs from his knees.
"Dee, can you tell why this...?" He looked up, expecting to
see Dee standing vigilantly beside the stroller.
She wasn't there.
He turned and looked around. "Dee?"
"Dee bye-bye." Will pointed down the path,
giggling.
Mulder spotted her about 300 feet ahead, shifting
nervously from foot to foot, staring out at the lake. Even from that
distance, Mulder could see something was wrong.
"Dee?" He frowned. He started pushing the
stroller in Dee's direction.
"Dee bye-bye," Will repeated, clutching
Tinky Winky, his laughter now coming in hiccuppy gulps.
Dee continued to fidget, but made no move to join
them.
"Dee," Mulder called more forcefully, waving
her back as he jogged toward her. As much as he hated having her around,
her behavior was unnerving. "Come here."
Dee turned, staring at him in seeming confusion, then
lifted her foot as if to return.
"No!" Will pointed and waved a single pudgy
index finger at Dee, a gesture he'd acquired from Leah.
Dee froze, foot suspended in the air.
"What the..." Mulder stopped running. He let
the stroller roll to a stop.
Will pointed again. "Doh!!"
Suddenly Dee turned and began marching resolutely
toward the lake.
Mulder blinked, and blinked again. He stared at the
figure moving across the beach. "Holy shit," he muttered,
"She's not. . .Dee, stop! Wait..."
Dee picked up her pace. Mulder swallowed hard, turning
to stare at his son, who was waving bye-bye to Dee, grinning gleefully
under the brim of his baseball cap. Mulder mustered a stunned whisper.
"Will?"
"Dee doh 'way! Dee doh 'way!"
Dee go away.
Holy...
"Son..."
Will's pink lips stretched into a delighted smile.
"Quack- quack!" he yelped, pointing toward the gulls near the
waterline.
"Um, yeah." Mulder rubbed his forehead with
his fingertips, feeling a little like he might pass out.
"Will..."
"Dee quack-quack!" Will pointed again and
began to giggle helplessly.
Mulder's face jerked in the direction of the water.
Dee had dropped into a squat and was waddling among
the birds, hands tucked into her armpits, flapping as if she, too, were
a gull. The birds ran frantically back and forth, dodging out of her
way, taking flight, circling and returning, hovering above her as if she
smelled of rotting fish.
Mulder tried to breathe, but his lungs seemed to have
closed for business. "Will?" he gasped.
"Quack-quack!" Will shouted and clapped.
"Dee, quack-quack! Yay!"
The breeze carried most of the sound away, but in the
distance, Mulder heard Dee begin to quack.
Legs suddenly boneless, he crouched beside the
stroller, cradled his head in his hands, and fought off the urge to
hyperventilate. His running partner, 110 pounds of solid,
straight-faced, humorless muscle, was out in the surf, running in crazed
semi-circles, flapping her arms as if expecting at any second to take
flight.
Will howled with laughter, quacking and cheering.
Mulder shook his head in wordless disbelief.
Was Dee doing this just for Will's amusement?
Or. . .
Jesus.
Fang barked, tugging Mulder momentarily from the
morass of his thoughts.
"Woo-woo!" Will squealed, bouncing and
clapping his hands in appreciation of Fang's barking prowess. Quivering
with excitement, Fang let out a long string of yips and yowls.
"Fang. Shut the hel-" Mulder began, but
before he could finish, Fang slipped out from under the seatbelt and
took off after Dee, barking with all his strength.
"Fahn woo-woo!" Will squealed. "Dee
woo-woo!"
Mulder's head snapped up.
At the edge of the water, Dee dropped to all fours and
began barking madly at the waves breaking on the shore. Fang charged
toward her, yipping full-force. The seagulls scattered.
No one seemed to notice. No one but Mulder and Will.
Mulder rubbed his brow. "No," he rasped.
"Dee woo-woo!" The baby clapped. "Yay!"
"Oh my god," Mulder murmured. "Will,
no..."
Mulder turned, half-afraid yet half-expecting to see
some wild gleam in his son's eye, some hint of monstrosity or madness.
Something wrong. Something bad. Something evil.
All he saw was a delighted little boy. Scully's son.
His whole life.
"N-n-no, Will." He shook his head
unsteadily. He could hardly believe what he was saying. "Will, Dee
is not a bird or a dog...oh god, Will, she's not...." Mulder groped
for the right phrase, "Son...she's not a toy."
Will stopped clapping and regarded his father, a
puzzled little frown drawing his sandy brows together. "Dee woo-
woo?"
"No." He said it with more conviction than
he felt. "Dee isn't a dog."
"Dee quack-quack?"
"No. She's not a duck, either. She's just --
she's just Dee, Will, and she's not having fun."
Will maintained a hopeful air. "Weea
woo-woo?"
"Jesus, no!" Mulder spun off the pavement
and up onto his knees. Bracing himself by gripping the side of the
stroller, he brought his face close to his son's. "Will, people
aren't -- You can't -- It isn't --"
Will looked at his father sadly for a moment, then he
brightened. He reached up and placed his palm on the bridge of his own
tiny nose. "Beep beep!"
"Will, no." Mulder closed his eyes and blew
out a long frustrated breath. To the best of his recollection, Dr. Spock
hadn't covered this. "Just - just no, okay? No."
"No, tay, no!" Will echoed. He flattened his
nose again. "Beep beep!"
"I mean it, Will." Mulder glanced back at
the water's edge, where Dee and Fang were still barking wildly, chasing
any bird that dared to land on the beach. "What you're doing -- if,
Christ, if you're even doing it -- you've got to stop. It's wrong, Will.
You just can't. . ."
But even as he spoke, Mulder knew that Will just
could.
And was.
Will grabbed Tinky Winky suddenly, and rubbed the toy
across his mouth. "Nononononono!"
Mulder sighed as he removed Will's Yankees cap and
laid his palm against the boy's warm forehead. All this and teething,
too, he thought. Will swiped the doll across his mouth and chin again.
"William," Mulder pulled the now soggy
purple plush toy away from the baby's face. "Listen to me. I know
your mouth is hurting. We'll get you some medicine when we get home. But
right now, right now Will-" he glanced at the surf again,
"-Dee isn't a dog. I don't want Dee to -- to bark any more."
Will rubbed his mouth and nose with his open palm,
then studied Mulder's face. "Dee no woo-woo?"
"Right." Mulder closed and rubbed his eyes
again.
Will seemed to puzzle over this, then his expression
brightened. "Dada!"
Something in Will's tone made Mulder open his eyes.
Will was staring at him thoughtfully. Mulder felt
himself drawn into his son's eyes, which now seemed wider and rounder
than any baby's eyes could, or should, be. It was almost as if,
somewhere within his toddler's mind, he was weighing some hefty decision
or choosing between two equally daunting alternatives. Tiny mouth pulled
into a slight pucker, Will's brows turned down. "Dada," he
repeated, in a grave voice.
Mulder caught his breath. "What is it,
Will?"
Will reached out and grabbed Mulder's nose. "Beep
b-"
Everything went black.
All at once Mulder was drowning, freezing, burning,
flying, shaking, buzzing, trilling, thrilling - nerve endings
never-ending, his whole being perfectly still, completely in motion...
"Ohhhhhhh...my....g-" A distant gasp of
exhilaration, a groan of comprehension...
A voice -- his voice?
His heart stop beating, blood jelled in his veins,
body collapsed into a single perfect point while his spirit dropped
straight through the earth and emerged to leap into the sky and circle
the planet like fog.
Everything lightened, brightened, color softened,
turned purple - no, not purple - grape, yes, grape, sticky-sweet and
pungent, luminescent and spherical, but somehow coarse as sand,
unyielding as a chunk of steel clutched in a tiny fist. All grape, it
was *all* grape and in the grape-purple purple grape of his
consciousness, he glimpsed the multi- dimensional ALL, thick as honey,
lighter than air, glimmering and glittering like a carnival in space. It
was everywhere, nowhere, surrounding, subsuming, swelling, receding,
glowing with color and crawling with life, the incomparable life of
everything that shouldcouldwouldishasshall be--
And lighter still, brighter still, cobalt and indigo,
navy, lapis, liquid cerulean, sky-sea blue ringing the deeper hues of
the stratosphere, the richer shades inside, faceted as crystal, perfect,
blissful, redeeming, sacred--
An eye?
Her -?
Then the buzz, rushing and harmonious - voices? No, a
voice, *the* voice, the one, singular, solitary voice, singing, humming,
rippling through him, beating him like a drumhead, plucking him like a
harp string, playing him like an instrument in the symphony of the
spheres --
Oh, yes...
He saw it all, WAS it all, and it was all him, and so
simple, so natural, so right, and he wanted to stay in that One forever
and--
Oh yes, oh yes--
The One is made of the Two: thought and action, motion
and stillness, unity and separation...
Father nurtures Impulse; Mother nurtures Being; one
nothing without the other, both whole, neither complete, neither either,
nothing--
nothing--
oh no. . .
. . .it was suddenly all barking orange dump trucks
chasing seagulls in crazy circles and triangles carved from sand and big
blue rubber balls and friendly armloads of warm white fluff and the
taste of banana and sweet almond and he was riding the clouds, floating
over a small suburban house, a canopied sandbox in its backyard, a dusty
black SUV parked in a semi-circular drive, a black speck running in
manic circles, laughter and sunshine, a peaceful home, a happy home,
coming home, coming home, coming home, coming...
...and he wanted desperately to go inside, to crawl
inside, to be inside, because...
. . . because it needed him, was Siren-singing to him,
calling to him. Calling his name, calling his name because...
"Mulder?"
Something sharp and unyielding pressed into the back
of his skull.
"Mulder?!" Desperately, this time.
He lifted -- no, someone else lifted -- his head and
-- how could someone else lift his head? Did they borrow his neck, too?
Is that why it ached?
"Jesus Christ, Mulder, don't, don't- "
The voice caught its toe on something, tripped over
something, fell over something, slammed full force into something.
Into him. Slammed full force into him, into his chest,
squeezed his heart. He gasped, dragging oxygen into atrophied,
mummified, million-year-old lungs. His grateful blood re-liquefied and
went on its way.
"Mulder? Mulder, open your eyes," the voice,
Leah's voice, commanded. Her fingers pressed into the side of his neck.
His eyes opened. Leah's face, inverted, concerned,
framed by black braids and green leaves and blue sky, peered down at
him. She looked terrified.
"What happened?" his lips tried to say, but
his ears only heard a muffed 'Wha hup?' in a voice that was almost, but
not quite, his own.
"You passed out or - or something. Are you
okay?" She swung around so she was sitting next to him, her hip
next to his ear. She lifted his head again and swept away the pebble
he'd landed on, put Will's bunched-up stroller blanket beneath his head
like a pillow. Her hands were shaking.
"Something's going on, Mulder. Billy had them all
gathered together, saying something about rays and dogs a-a-and prophecy
and leaving. He sent me to find you - I ran, and I was half way down the
path when I saw you collapse next to the stroller, and--"
"Stroller? Will!-" Mulder's eyes went wide
and he tried to sit up, but he was weak as a kitten, and Leah's hand on
his breastbone pinned him.
"Shhh," she whispered, but her voice was
tense. "He's fine." Her eyes cut away. "He seems rather
amused by it all, actually." She looked back down at Mulder again.
"He's got your sense of humor, surely."
"Dry." Mulder lifted a leaden arm to his
face and rubbed his forearm across his mouth. "And don't," he
coughed, "don't call me Shirley."
"Right. Ha ha." She smirked a little and
lifted the squeeze bottle to his lips, dribbled some water on them.
"Glad you feel like joking. What happened? Did you get overheated,
or - or what?"
The water tasted better than almost anything he'd ever
put in his mouth. "No. I, um, I. . .let me sit up."
Leah acquiesced, but with a concerned frown. "Are
you all right? Should I call an ambulance?"
Mulder took the bottle from her. "No." He
paused. "But... no. Just give me a minute." He took a long
pull, choked some of the water down the front of his shirt, swallowed
the rest. His head ached, but the fog clouding his mind was. . .the fog
was. . .
Grape?
The mosaic tiles shifted again. He blinked, and in his
peripheral psychic vision, another piece seemed to slide into place. A
picture was forming; he could see it now, clearly.
It was a very big picture, indeed.
He turned to look at Will.
The boy was leaning forward, giving Mulder a concerned
frown. "Tay, Dada?"
Mulder reached out and grabbed Will by the foot, the
only part he could reach easily. He gave his son's leg a friendly shake.
"Yeah, I'm okay."
Will beamed and clapped. "Yay!"
"Yeah," Mulder agreed, but with slightly
less enthusiasm and a lot more awe. "Yay."
"Mulder." Leah's voice was tight and
strained. "What did Billy mean? What did he mean about leaving?
What - what's going on?"
Mulder took another long drink, and looked down at the
black, black asphalt beneath them. Black ringed with blue. . .
He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead, looking
for words. "It's um, I'm not sure, but I think. . .I think we- god,
I just wish. . ."
He didn't understand; he couldn't understand. Yet,
somehow, he knew, absolutely KNEW that it all made perfect sense, some
kind of huge, overwhelming sense. The weight of the world - of a couple
of worlds, actually - had just been unceremoniously dropped on his
shoulders by a child whose biggest accomplishment to date had been
drinking through a straw. It seemed, he thought, like something that
should have devastated him, something that should have at least weighed
him down.
Instead, the certainty of his burden set him free.
"Mulder."
He turned to the sound of a familiar voice. Billy
stood before him, Ray to his left, Dee, her knees red and her cheeks
wind burned, to his right. All three of them were smiling those strange,
beatific smiles, and for once, it didn't bother him. For once, the smile
made sense.
"Hey, Bill." It was the only thing Mulder
could muster.
Billy squatted near Mulder and spoke gently.
"Agents Doggett and Reyes have visited Mrs. Ko. They are looking
for you, and if we remain, they will succeed. As you now know, this is
something we cannot allow."
"Billy, for Christ's sake," Leah all but
hissed, "Mulder's hurt. Can't this w-"
Mulder raised his hand to stop her. "It's okay,
Leah. I'm okay." His voice was a dry rumble. He swallowed another
mouthful of water, then put the bottle down. "You know, you should
have told me, Bill."
Billy blinked, then blinked again. "I have told
you, Mulder."
"No." Mulder shook his head. "No. You
should have told me *everything*. All of it. I needed to know." His
gaze went to Will, who was currently driving his 'bubby tar' up and down
his thigh and making 'vroom 'vroom" sounds. "This was a hell
of a way to find out."
Billy's nodded. "I apologize, Mulder. It was not
deliberate. William's recent pain has led us into a state of confusion.
The knowledge was inside you, but I was not sure what you remembered,
and what you had chosen to forget."
"Dada?"
"Right here, Will." Mulder turned back to
Billy. "But I didn't *choose* to forget what I knew. I didn't
choose to remember everything wrong, either." He ground his molars,
frustrated by his inability to express himself clearly, even to himself.
"I didn't choose any of it, Billy. I didn't choose this. Why me?
Why now?"
Billy's hand clasped Mulder's shoulder. The gesture
was -- Mulder closed his eyes and rubbed them with the heels of his
hands -- it was brotherly.
They were brothers.
Of course they were.
"You chose to be chosen, Mulder. The rest was
foretold."
"Mulder," Leah's voice was soft and scared.
"What. . .?"
"Out!" Will suddenly bellowed and kicked his
heels against the stroller. "Out. Out now!"
"They're in danger, aren't they?" Mulder
asked Billy, pretty sure he already knew the answer.
"Yes, Mulder. The time has come. We protected
them as long as we..."
Mulder rubbed his forehead. "As long as you were
supposed to, right?"
"In fulfillment of prophecy." Bill nodded,
and his smile broadened a little. "Yes. But we knew neither the
hour nor the day."
"Yeah." Mulder chuckled. "I hear
prophecy's tricky that way."
He shook his head, overwhelmed by the boundless
grandeur and microscopic significance of it all. Billy had been right
all along, of course, and now...
Now he had a job to do. "Son of a bitch," he
muttered helplessly.
"Sunbish!" Will echoed enthusiastically.
"Sunbish! Out!"
Mulder got unsteadily to his feet. The beach and the
boardwalk revolved slowly. The spirit was willing, he noted wryly, but
the flesh still felt like it had had an encounter with a cosmic Mac
truck. Carefully unbuckling the baby's belt, Mulder lifted Will, then
planted a firm kiss on his soft cheek. "Geez, Will," he told
him softly, "Don't let your mom hear that, okay? She'll skin
me."
"Mama." Will brought his hands to the sides
of Mulder's face, then nuzzled Mulder's chin. "Bubby. Tay, Dada?
Mama. Bubby. Dada. Tay?"
"Yeah, Will." Mulder nodded and closed his
eyes. He pressed his forehead against his son's, third eye to third eye,
the two of them finally on the same wavelength. "Message
received."
"Yay!" Will leaned in and wetly kissed the
tip of Mulder's nose. "Yay!"
"What?" Leah's voice was an anxious whisper
lost in the breeze. "Mulder, please, what's going. . .?
With his free arm, Mulder reached out for her, pulled
her gently, easily to his side. She wrapped her arms around his waist,
clinging to him, shaking like a baby bird.
He owed her so much, and there'd be no way to repay
her. Ever. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I have to
tell you something, Leah. She's. . .she's alive," he whispered.
"She?" Leah murmured. She looked up at him
and the light dawned. "Oh! You mean. . .?"
He smiled. "Yeah. Will's mom."
"But I thought. . ."
Mulder shook his head. "I remembered it wrong. I
mean, I remembered it right, but that's not the way it actually
happened."
Leah's eyes were wide. "I don't understand."
"It doesn't matter." He rested his chin on
the crown of her head. "None of that matters now. He's coming. They
need me. We have to go."
++++++++++++++
RIGHT BOOKEND
John Byers stared down at his salad, gingerly lifting
a strip of Swiss cheese with his fork and regarding it with a puzzled
frown.
"And you've eliminated any other plausible
explanation?"
Looking somewhat resigned, Dana Scully gave a sigh and
nodded. "I've eliminated every other plausible explanation. So,
yes."
Byers looked up from his plate and gazed at her
helplessly. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fully grasp the
implications of what she was trying to tell him.
In truth, he suspected he didn't really want to.
Choking down a mouthful of something green and
peppery, he redoubled his efforts to make this make sense. "Okay.
We can't deny that there's a growth. And it's not the result of some
kind of natural process? A keloid, say, or some other kind of scar
tissue?
She shook her head. "First thing I checked."
"And you're positive this isn't just your body's
way of dealing with the presence a foreign object? The way an oyster
deals with a grain of sand, for example?"
"I'm sure."
"And it's not, um. . ." Byers searched his
memory, trying to recall the dozens of benign tumors he'd researched the
night before. "Not a sebaceous or epidermoid cyst? Not something
viral or bacterial?"
"No, no, no, and no." She shook her head.
He paused a moment to sort out his thoughts. "And
it doesn't hurt? You don't have any other symptoms?"
"No. If Mom hadn't noticed it, I probably
wouldn't have, either."
He paused, marshalling his nerve, trying to force
himself to say what it sickened him to think. "Is it, um. . ."
he swallowed hard. "That is, Dana, . . . could it be. . . .?"
"No." She spared him a slight but reassuring
smile. "It doesn't appear to be cancerous, either." She
shrugged and folded her arms across her Yankees sweatshirt. "At
least, not in any commonly used sense of the term. It's not growing out
of control. It's not invasive in any meaningful way. I had my six month
check-up five weeks ago and all my blood work was well within normal
levels, my immunological response isn't heightened or suppressed. The
growth itself is regular, spherical - well, you saw the sonogram and the
x-ray. There's no evidence of cellular migration or metastasis. It's
like, like a little ball of tissue has engulfed and effectively
dissolved the chip. It's regular human tissue." She gave him her
smallest, slightest frown, the one he knew meant she was most concerned.
"It's just that the tissue isn't biologically mine."
He laid his fork on his plate, admitting defeat. Lunch
was a pointless exercise. Under the circumstances, he just couldn't work
up any appetite at all.
It was all too incredible, too far-fetched, too
unimaginable. Human tissue didn't just float through the air and then
take up residence somewhere and start scavenging for silicon chips.
"Is this - hypothetically, I mean, is this even
possible?"
Scully sighed again, and brushed a strand of hair from
her forehead. "No."
"Oh." There wasn't much else to say.
"What about you guys? Have you found
anything?" she asked with forced ease, sliding off her barstool and
sweeping dishes and glasses into a neat stack.
Byers downed the last of his drink and set the empty
glass on the breakfast bar. "Well, we haven't heard back from
everyone," he replied, "but nothing so far. No one we
contacted at Mufon, the ASG, or any of their sister groups has reported
or recorded anything like you've described. None of the other men and
women like you, with, um, with implants have noted any changes to the
chips themselves or any fresh or pronounced scarring or irritation of
the implantation site. Of course, none of them may have thought to
look."
Scully chuffed softly and began picking stray peas and
carrots off the countertop. "I bet they'll all look now," she
told him with a wry twist of her lips.
"Bet they will."
"Well." She headed for the sink with the
dishes, then pulled down the dishwasher door. "I have the lab
running some stuff now. I'm hoping to hear something soon. There's no
point borrowing trouble, right?" She shook detergent into the
machine, then closed the door, and the conversation, with a decisive
bang.
Byers watched her fill the coffee carafe, all the
while sinking deeper and deeper into his own maudlin thoughts. Ever
since Langly decrypted that damned tape and found Fox Mulder's smiling
face waiting there like a rusty razor blade in a trick-or-treat candy
apple, Byers had been torn - no, shredded - by indecision and a sense of
divided loyalty.
And now, seemingly out of the blue, this. Talk about a
one- two punch.
He didn't consider himself an especially intuitive or
insightful man, but every fiber of his being told him that, even though
solid information was in short supply, it was wrong to keep the news of
Mulder's reappearance from Scully. If she knew what they were keeping
from her, he thought, rubbing at a spot on the countertop with his index
finger, sweet Jesus, she'd string them all up by their balls.
And yet, every time he looked at her, all he could see
were the faint lavender circles beneath her eyes, the hollow cheeks, the
ashen complexion -- tell-tale signs of exhaustion or illness.
Or, he thought morosely, watching her pause a moment
to lean against the counter, close her eyes, and massage her nape, the
tell-tale signs of both.
"Um, can I help with anything?" he asked
weakly.
"Thanks, but I've got it covered," she
assured him. She reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out
a can of Comet, a sponge, and a pair of out-of-place surgical gloves.
She shook out some cleanser and started wiping. After a moment she said,
"You know, it was a year ago."
Byers blinked. "Excuse me?"
"July 6th," she replied in an even, almost
analytical tone. "That's the day Mulder disappeared." She
scrubbed a little harder. "Again."
"Oh. Right." Byers sighed inwardly. No
wonder she looked so beat. She probably hadn't slept. She'd probably
been crying. "Of course."
Sometimes he felt that he would give anything, do
anything to take Scully's grief away. It was a constant exercise of will
to remember that her sadness and anger would lessen according to their
own timetables, and that all he could do was what he was already doing;
listen at all hours of the day and night, provide companionship and
personal space as required, act as human Kleenex/cheering section/
inspirational speaker/foot masseur. Whatever she needed, he would try,
had tried, to provide.
At any rate, he was just grateful she let him hang
around.
"Year ago yesterday," Scully continued,
directing her comments to the sponge.
"Really?" he began, not quite certain of
what he was going to say. "Do you think. . ."
She paused. "Do I think what?"
"...that there's a connection?" Byers
frowned. "Between the mass and the um, anniversary?"
"I don't see how." Scully stripped off her
gloves and threw them in the sink, frowning. "What makes you ask
that, John?"
"I don't know, exactly." He shrugged.
"I'm just wondering. . .just thinking out loud, I guess. It's noth-"
There was a sudden clatter from the family room.
Scully looked up, puzzled. "I thought Elisabeth took him out to the
backyard," she muttered, crossing to look out the back door.
"Gate's open. They must have gone to the park."
There was another loud thump, followed by several
smaller crashes. "Damn dog," Scully muttered.
"I'll go." Byers rose. "Fifi, come
here, girl," he called, expecting Scully's hyperactive black
cockapoo to come running.
Instead, there was a knock on the front door. In the
alcove, Fifi began barking and running in frantic circles, her toenails
clicking noisily on the hardwood.
"Want me to get that?" Byers asked, just as
the phone rang. "Or that?"
"I'll get the door." She walked past him
toward the front hall, and over her shoulder asked, "Can you grab
the phone?"
"Sure." He picked up the receiver.
"Scully residence."
"That you, Byers?"
"Hey, Langly." Byers perched on the edge of
the desk. "Any word?"
"Yeah, I just heard from Monica. They're coming
back this afternoon."
He dropped his voice and turned his face toward the
wall. "Did they find anything?"
The knocking at the front door became more urgent.
"What the hell?" Scully's voice echoed down
the hall. A little louder, she called out, "Okay, who's been
playing Bob the Builder in front of the door?"
"They went to that Korean grocery, Ko's."
Frohike had joined the conversation via speaker phone. "Woman who
owns the place identified Mulder by name right off the bat. Called him
'nice man with funny baby turkey.'"
"With what?" Byers asked over the din of the
door and the dog.
"Funny baby turkey, whatever that means,"
Langly broke in. "Recognized Yves, too, but didn't know her name.
Same for Billy Miles, Ray Hoese, and that lawyer chick, Denise Hill. The
store owner directed them to where she thought they all lived, but the
place was empty. Monica said it looked like someone, or rather, a whole
lot of someones, left in a hurry."
"Shit."
"You can say that again," Frohike agreed.
"I was hoping we were all having some kind of collective
hallucination, but looks like no such luck, my friend."
"Elisabeth?" Byers heard Scully call up the
stairs. "You guys up there? I thought you were going to play
outside. Why's all this stuff. . .?" the end of her sentence was
drowned out by the sound of shuffling objects and the door bell ringing.
Fifi continued barking as if she were on some kind of mission.
Byers stuffed his finger in his ear and tried to pay
attention to what his friends were telling him. "So what's next,
then?" he asked, dropping his voice lower still. "Should we
tell her, now, or what?"
"Yeah, I think we better. Langly and I can head
over if you want," Frohike answered. "Christ, Byers, is there
some kind of wild party going on over there?"
"Just Sunday lunch time in suburbia." Byers
crossed the living room, receiver still to his ear, and glanced toward
the front door. Scully had cleared a path through a huge pile of stuffed
animals, cars, trucks, and TeleTubbie paraphernalia that someone must
have dragged in from the family room. She was waving Walter Skinner in
through the mess.
"Sir?" he heard her say. She sounded as
surprised to see her former boss as Byers felt.
Skinner opened his mouth to speak, but before he could
get a word out, the little black dog rushed at his ankles, snarling and
latching on to his pant leg.
Byers frowned. Feef was usually such a nice dog.
"Hang on, Langly," he spoke into the phone, then covered the
mouthpiece with his hand "Fifi!" he called. "C'mere,
girl. C'mon, Feef."
Skinner turned at looked at him blankly, dog still on
his pant cuff.
". . .s that okay?" Frohike's voice drifted
up.
"Yeah, sorry, let me move." Byers put the
phone back to his ear and walked to the far side of the living room,
hoping to get away from the cacophony. "I couldn't hear. What did
you say?"
Frohike's response was drowned out by very loud thump
followed by a series of small ones, the sound of glass shattering, and a
small, familiar voice screaming, "Nonononononononononononono!"
"Shit, gotta go." Byers slammed the phone
down and ran to see what was going on.
The Cheval glass that stood by the door had been
knocked over, and long, spiked splinters of mirror lay scattered around
the broken frame and all over the floor. Skinner stood with Scully's
limp body slung over his shoulder.
"Oh my god. Dana! What happened to her?"
Byers started toward them. "I'll call an amb-..."
"That won't be necessary." Skinner brushed
his concern aside with a sniff, his face devoid of expression.
"Not necessary? What are you talking about?"
Byers' heart raced. "Did she fall into the mirror? Did she
faint?"
"NO!" A tiny voice bounced down the stairs
as a matchbox car flew out of nowhere and smacked Skinner squarely in
the middle of the forehead.
Skinner stopped, looking puzzled but otherwise
unfazed. After a quick moment, he started to move toward the door again.
Byers found himself running before he knew what he was
doing, blocking the exit, though he had no idea why. "A.D.
Skinner," he said through gritted teeth, "what the hell is
going on? Where are you taking her?"
"NO!" A purple super-ball pinged against
Skinner's ear, followed in rapid succession by another matchbox car and
a miniature backhoe. "Nonononononononnononononononnono!"
Looking up anxiously, Byers caught a glimpse of blue
shorts disappearing into one of the upstairs bedrooms. He heard the
sound of something being dragged across the floor overhead.
Skinner ignored the assault, drawing himself to his
full height, Scully stirring weakly on his shoulder. "Move
aside," he commanded, his voice a dull monotone.
Byers breath began coming in panicked gulps. This had
to be a nightmare, right?
Right?
Sick with fright, he planted his feet and folded his
arms. "Look, Skinner, I don't know what the hell you're thinking,
but until an ambulance arrives. . ."
Scully moaned. Byers stepped forward, reaching for
her. In an instant, he found himself thrown forcefully against the dull
wooden pegs of the coat rack, Skinner's free hand crushing his chest
with the easy strength of a polar bear.
"What the. . .?!" He began to struggle, to
thrash and kick, but it was useless. The hand pressed harder and all the
air left his lungs.
Byers heard clattering sounds, small crashes and thuds
as more toys whizzed one by one down the stairs, accompanied by cries of
'Mama! Mama!' and a long string of frightened 'no's. Fifi's barking grew
still more agitated and reached a higher pitch.
Byers stopped thrashing, his burst of adrenaline spent
pointlessly. He stared at the AD's impassive face and realized. . .
. . .that it wasn't Skinner at all. Instead, a
shorter, stockier man had somehow taken Skinner's place, his square
features as solid and unsubtle as a block of granite, his lifeless,
soulless eyes reminding Byers of the statues on Easter Island.
"Where are you taking her?" Byers gasped
weakly. "Please, she's sick . . . "
"She is not sick. She is the favored one, the
perfect vessel, honored above all other women," the being said
quietly, maintaining his unyielding grip. "And she is ready."
"Ready?" Byers lips moved, but he made very
little sound.
The hand pinning him pulled away and he fell like a
brick, and gasped for air. He could feel the keen bite of glass slicing
through his jeans and into the backs of his thighs. From his spot atop
shards of shattered mirror, he could see William's terror-filled blue
eyes reflected back at him from above a million times over.
Not wanting to draw his attacker's attention to the
child, Byers looked away.
"Rejoice John Byers," he intruder said,
re-adjusting Scully over his shoulder. "The time is at hand."
++++++++++++++++++
END
Book Two
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