Title: Clean Author: Aranea Mayfly Rating: PG, no big whoop. Category: Mulderangst, some reassurance from Scully. Spoilers: Three Words I guess. Mulder comes home but it goes off in a different direction that the episode. I had a different idea and am going to stick to it. Didn't like the coming home scene in Three Words, so I wrote my own. Some of the situations will look familiar and others not, but I took the liberty to pick and choose what I liked from the scene. Time of day is different, some dialogue is the same, some is rearranged, and other is entirely new. Ah, the joy of fanfic. Doggett Free Zone. Disclaimer. Look both ways before you cross the street. Hold hands and stick together. Don't run with scissors. Don't eat yellow snow. Don't believe for a minute that I own any of the characters, situations, and themes that are the X-files. Alas, they belong to Chris Carter, Fox Television, and Ten Thirteen Productions. If they belonged to me, there would be no waffling on Will's paternity, Mulder would be back for season 9 as the focus of the show, and Doggett would still be a cop in New York never to step foot in the basement office. So please don't sue me, because you'd be fightin' for pennies. Archive: Yes Gossamer, Xemplary, Spooky's and Ephemeral. Other sites - sure, go for it. Just please let me know where. Feedback: mayfly1013@aol.com. Come on, we all love feedback, present company included. A big ol' SCHANKS to Pebbles, Lelila, and Euphrosyne for the timely beta help that put me through the paces. Summary: Sometimes the past makes it hard to feel whole, feel clean. ~~~~~ Clean ~~~~~ ...craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath. - Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth The sun had long since dipped below the suburban horizon, and a gnawing chill kicked a discarded newspaper down the street as a dark sedan pulled up to the curb and came to a rest in front of the brick apartment building in Alexandria. Its occupants opened their doors in silence as the darkening sky spat stinging droplets of rain on the concrete. Dana Scully popped open her umbrella as she retrieved the duffel from the back seat and made her way to the passenger side of the automobile. Her partner Mulder sat for a long moment, staring up at the brown concrete building before wearily hauling himself to a stand and taking the bag from her. He snugged the collar of his coat tight before joining her under the protective canopy she held above him. Despite everything he'd been through, he was finally coming home. It didn't seem real. Part of him still expected to wake up on board an alien ship, a victim of yet another one of their countless mind games. His steps were slow and tentative as he followed her up the familiar concrete steps and into the building. He glanced over to the row of mailboxes, amazed that after his absence, his name was still affixed with a ragged piece of masking tape to the tiny door. "Hey, Mulder," his partner offered, "why don't we take the elevator?" Inwardly, he let out a sigh of relief. He didn't have the strength to climb four flights of stairs, and he knew it. Acknowledging her suggestion, he smacked the button to the elevator and watched silently as the scratched and weathered doors squeaked open, a stark contrast to the advanced technology that had once been his prison. As soon as they stepped into the tiny lift, his nostrils flared at the hanging scent of stale pizza mingled with cigarette smoke. The stench was too much for him. His stomach roiled in protest, and he bit back the urge to gag. Fighting off the rising bile, he shrunk into the corner as the antiquated elevator lurched upward. "Are you okay?" Scully asked as she relieved him of his duffel bag. He backed further into the corner before she could lay her hand on his forearm. Mulder finally looked up and answered, "I think so." But he didn't know how to tell her that every sensation was assailing his body as if they'd been amplified. The whirl of the elevator painfully crashed through his ears and jarred his blossoming headache into high gear. How could he explain to her that his clothes chafed and burned his skin? For months there had been nothing - no sounds, smells, tastes, only the pain that they had inflicted. And on some level, he'd become accustomed to the maddening void. But now as he headed up to apartment forty-two, he didn't think he could handle the barrage of new sensations. When they finally reached his apartment, Mulder patted down his coat pockets, frustrated that he couldn't find his keys, only to let out an exasperated sigh when he realized he no longer had them. They had taken them along with what little personal belongs he had at the time of his capture - his wallet and phone, his service revolver, her golden cross that she had placed around his neck. Absently, his hand went to his bare neck as the loss of her treasured gift suddenly hit him. They had taken everything from him - his health, his life, and even her. "Here, let me do that," said Scully as she retrieved a set of keys from her pocket. "Thanks," he quietly answered as he followed her into the apartment. She flipped on the entryway light, and he wandered into the familiar surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place, and it was as though he had never left. The scratchy Indian blanket was still draped over his well-worn leather couch, the spidery coat rack still kept silent watch by the door. A rough coating of spackle still did a poor job hiding a repaired bullet hole in the wall. Mulder wandered through the living room, examining each object as if for the first time. He ran his fingertips over the top of his desk, amazed that it wasn't coated in a thick layer of dust and paused briefly by the empty basket where he used to keep his mail. He turned to survey the room once more. "Something's different," he mumbled under his breath as he leaned his weight onto the desk. "Yeah," Scully answered with a smile, "it's clean." Only then did he allow himself the very slightest of smiles in return before he continued his silent inspection of his surroundings. "I'm scared to see what's in the fridge," he quipped. "Oh, don't worry," she bantered back. "That little petri dish was the first to go. You know, Mulder, orange juice does have an expiration date. There was some in there older than most kindergarteners." "Hey, it was vintage." "Mulder, it was rotten," she shot back, her attempt to lighten the mood obviously falling on deaf ears. He turned his attention to the gurgling aquarium nestled in his bookcase. Taking a mental inventory of its contents, he counted its tiny occupants as if the fish were suddenly more interesting than joking with his partner. "I'm missing a molly." "She wasn't as lucky as you," Scully quietly answered, her voice threatening to waver. "Depends on your definition of lucky," he replied over his shoulder. He certainly didn't feel lucky. Clearly he had a new lease on life, but it had nothing to do with luck. Cursed was more like it. Nothing felt right. His home, though it looked no different, felt foreign. The woman standing before him looked nothing like the Scully from his memories. She had changed so much, and not just physically. Her voice was softer, perhaps a bit more vulnerable. And her emotions were no longer hid behind a litany of "I'm fine's" and stoic iciness. In some ways, he felt like he was talking to a complete stranger. Maybe the fish was the lucky one. At least it didn't have to return to a world it didn't know. Flushed - no doubt down the toilet - its purpose in life was over. Why was it so important he returned from the grave while the fish remained undisturbed and still very much dead? Did his life still have a purpose? "What do you mean by that?" she asked. "I don't know," he sighed. Maybe dead was better. The dead molly certainly didn't have to feel like a zombie walking among strangers. It got off easy. "What's going on, Mulder?" she asked. "Do you want to talk about it?" "Not really," he stammered, staring intently at the worn floor. The scuff on the baseboard was definitely much easier to focus on than her intent, blue eyes. "I know you aren't going to take this the right way. I don't mean to sound cold or ungrateful." He paused trying to explain his growing confusion, but nothing sounded right. "But I don't know how I fit in anymore. I'm just having a hard time processing all this." "It's okay," Scully replied. She gave him the space he craved. He wasn't ready for much physical contact yet. Intimacy was something too new and frankly terrifying. He already felt vulnerable enough. He didn't know how he could handle anything new. Learning to live again was enough of a challenge. He turned his head away before he had to look her in the eyes. "It's going to take some time. We'll get through this," she added as she drew closer and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "Don't," he snarled, immediately regretting his action as he twisted away from the contact. He couldn't miss the sorrow that spread across her face or the unshed tears that glistened in her eyes. Mulder took a deep breath. "Look Scully, I'm sorry...I don't know how to put this. But I just don't feel like being touched. I need some space. It's...it's just a little hard to handle right now." "Would it be better if I left?" she asked. He drew in a sharp breath. He was going to sound like a jerk no matter how he tried to phrase it. "Yeah," he answered with a sigh knowing his decision was the last thing she needed to hear. "I think so. I don't want you to take it the wrong way, but I know I'm not going to be great company tonight. I think I just want to go to bed. I'll give you a call in the morning." "Okay," she conceded. There was no way he could miss her voice deflate with disappointment, but was thankful that she didn't push him further. "Just humor me first and let me make sure you're all settled in before I head out." "Fine," he answered. It was the least he could do. No sense arguing with her. It would only make this matter worse. Why couldn't he accept her simple gestures of kindness? Why did everything around him make him feel trapped? Too tired to go searching for the answers, he added, "Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll head to the shower. Haven't had one of those in almost a year." Slipping off his leather jacket, he draped it unceremoniously across one of the chairs of his dinette as he strode back to the bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp. He'd spent too much time in the dark over the past months, but he resisted the nagging temptation to turn on every light in his tiny apartment. One light would have to do for now. He stripped off his shoes and socks, throwing them in a jumbled heap before retreating to the tiny cubicle of a bathroom. He leaned in and turned the tap on, noting as he drew the curtain the total lack of mildew where it had once flourished. His surroundings were immaculately clean. Scully had seen to that. Too bad she couldn't do the same job to his soul. No matter of scrubbing could erase the unseen layers of death and decay clinging to his skin. As warm steam filled the room, he crouched on the balls of his feet and reached into the underbelly of his sink to find the comforting contours of his hidden spare revolver. Apparently she hadn't found it - or chose to ignore it - during her sanitizing mission. Secure in its clip, it provided a futile reassurance. Though it would serve no use if they were to come for him again, he felt a little safer knowing he wouldn't be entirely unarmed. Shaking off the growing anxiety, Mulder pulled himself back to a stand and peeled off his jersey. And as he started to unzip his jeans, something in the fogged mirror caught his eye. Taking his shirt, he wiped away the condensation and stood before it with abject horror. "Mulder," Scully's voice interrupted from the doorway. "Here's a clean towel..." He didn't even hear her as his jersey slid from his hand and formed a faded blue puddle on the floor. His other hand went to the angry, healing scar on his chest. Starting in the hollow between his collarbones, it traversed the length of his chest, diverting around his navel in a southward course that dipped below the waistband of his jeans. Terrified by what he saw reflected back at him, he closed his eyes and let his fingertips memorize its puckered and taut texture. "Mulder," he finally heard as she repeated his name. Startled from his thoughts, he opened his eyes slowly and asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "What did they do to me?" "They hurt you," she simply answered, averting her eyes from the hideous mark on his chest. Part of him resented the simplification, but another part was thankful that she spared him the gory details. He wasn't sure if he was ready for the rest of the truth just yet. "You still don't remember much, do you?" "Not much," he lied as he tried to cover the hideous mark on his chest with his arm. He didn't need her to know that he had already been flooded with a barrage of confusing imagery from the moment he awoke in the hospital - harsh lights, blinding pain, and isolation. "Ironic, huh? You'd think I'd remember getting something this big." "You'll remember when you're ready," Scully softly replied, echoing the advice he had once given her after her own disappearance. "Great," he sneered, the sarcasm unavoidable. "Don't know if I want to." He stooped to retrieve his shirt then reached behind the shower curtain to turn the water off. Having second thoughts about taking a shower, he couldn't stomach the thought of seeing the other scars that disfigured his body. He didn't want to look at the grisly reminders; he didn't want to remember. The truth was out there, and it scared the shit out of him. He did his best to slide past her, avoiding her ever- expanding abdomen - yet another change he didn't want to deal with. It would have to wait like everything else. Heading toward his bed, he tossed his jersey on the growing heap on the floor. He did his best to ignore her silent but concerned glance as he pulled a gray long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms out of the dresser. Peeling off his jeans, he quickly changed in silence. Usually one to sleep in just a pair of boxers, tonight he wanted every inch of his skin covered. "Mulder," Scully pleaded from the doorway. It wasn't like him to retreat like this. "What's going on?" Finally he turned toward her, and tried his best not to snap at her. "I'm fine," he declared through clenched teeth, throwing her own well-used words back at her, hoping that she would understand their meaning: back off. "I don't need a babysitter." "Talk to me, Mulder," she pleaded as she took one step into the bedroom. But talking was the last thing he wanted to do. Drawing back the comforter, he slid beneath the covers and turned out the bedside lamp. "Tomorrow," he answered. *Never* was more like it if he could have his way. Rolling over, he turned his back on his partner, hating himself more by the minute for pushing her away. He wanted nothing more than to feel safe in her embrace, inhale the comforting scent of her perfume, and pretend that the past year had never happened. But no, it was easier to be a callous asshole and isolate himself from anyone and everyone. A vacuum was good. He didn't have to feel anything in a vacuum. He lay perfectly still, his forearms scissored on either side of a pillow. He drew in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that his actions had stung his partner, wincing as he felt regret slither its way back to his conscience. Why did every one of his actions always wind up hurting her? But he quickly suppressed the need to chase after her and tried his best to vanish into the folds of the comforter as he heard her footsteps retreat. Alone with his thoughts, he prayed for a dreamless slumber to overtake him as he waited for daylight to come. *** // His screams still echoed in his head. For that matter, they were the only sound that resonated in the damp and darkened chamber. Shivering in the cold, he wrapped his arms around his naked form in a futile attempt to ward off the chill. He tried his best to hide in the shadows, but he knew they would find him. They always had a way of finding him. He swore he wouldn't break down, he promised himself he wouldn't beg. But how could he have been so wrong? Alien hands grasped his wrists and ankles, and he thrashed wildly against their grip. At first he was driven by anger, but that had long since given way to pure, unadulterated fear. He could do nothing as they shoved him atop a massive chair that rose out of the barren floor to meet his trembling body. They forced his arms into grooves on either side of the chair, and he let out an unintelligible, anguished scream as a bolt pierced each wrist one by one. White-hot agony burned up one arm and down the other. His voice was already raw and hoarse by the time they did the same to his ankles. Pinned like an insect on display, he could feel his own blood congealing around the fresh wounds and coursing down his limbs in sticky rivulets. And that was only the beginning... If only he could have been lucky enough to have survived without any memories. The ones he had were all too vivid. A prisoner aboard the alien craft, he had been drugged into a maddening paralysis. He could do nothing as his captors repeatedly assailed his body. He'd screamed as they'd tethered him down with metallic wires that tore at his face, prayed to a god he didn't believe in as steely probes dug into his skull to sample his neural tissue. He'd pleaded to his unseen captors as vials of his blood, marrow, semen, and bile were methodically extracted. He'd begged for mercy as the rotating blades had ripped gaping incisions in his abdomen and forceps had torn out bleeding samples of his viscera. But no one had heard his cries. He'd been alone, completely and utterly alone. Worst of all, he'd been awake though all of it. They had seen to it. They wanted him to feel, remember everything - the tests, the vivisection, the senseless violation. // *** Mulder shot bolt upright, a strangled cry dying wordlessly on his lips as he woke from his dream. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his t-shirt clung damply to his heaving chest. Drawing in ragged breaths, he tried to calm himself as he desperately searched out his surroundings. His heart pounded madly against his chest and he could feel the blood roar in his ears. His eyes darted around the room. His alarm clock illuminated the nightstand with its eerie red glow, and the rain gently splattered against the closed window. He was home, he tried to reassure himself. He was safe, not an unwilling prisoner pinned in place, trapped in the dank recesses of an alien craft. Only when he realized that he was in his own bed and not secured to a restraining chair did he finally convince himself that he was home. He wasn't sure how he had extricated himself from the tangle of blankets, let alone make it to the bathroom and flip the lights on. But somehow Mulder managed to find his way in the dark to vomit the last oily vestiges of his nightmare into the porcelain bowl. He clutched the sides of the toilet firmly with a white- knuckled grip as he heaved one last time, his entire body shaking in an attempt to rid himself of the terrifying memories. "Mulder?" Scully's sleepy voice called from the doorway, her pregnant form silhouetted against the darkened hallway. Quickly pulling the lever, he flushed the toilet before looking up at her. Before she could take another step closer, he held her at bay with an outstretched arm. "Don't," he groaned. "Mulder," she repeated, concern filling her voice, "you're sick. Are you okay?" "I thought you went home," he spat into the toilet before closing the lid. She didn't need to see him like this - sweaty and shaking. He didn't want her pity and didn't deserve her comfort after the way he'd been treating her. It was easier to lash out than to turn to her for help. "I guess I dozed off on the couch," she answered, apparently oblivious to his hostility. Turning his head from her, he begged, "Go home, Scully. I'm fine. Please, just leave me alone." Ignoring his plea, she entered the narrow bathroom and pulled a washcloth from the shelf. Running it under the tap then wringing it out, she awkwardly tried to kneel beside him and gently wiped the spittle from his lips. Immediately he stiffened from the contact and pulled away. "Let me help you," she offered. He didn't answer at first. Instead, he slid back until he was resting against the wall, the back of his head against the windowsill. She kept her distance as he pulled himself into a protective ball. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he stared into the nothingness on the floor for several long moments before he whispered, "I figured there'd be flashbacks. But I didn't think they'd come so soon." Since his return, he'd felt very little emotion. The numbness he could handle, and he welcomed it with open arms. It afforded him the security to hide, to not feel the confusion, anger and pain. It helped him to forget. But now his emotions were palpable, and he desperately struggled to bring them under control. It had only been a matter of time before they came crashing back. There had been a time in his life when he'd half- dreamed about becoming an alien abductee. But now, he would do anything to have the past year back. He'd never dreamed that the experience would be as horrific as it was. His eyes flooded with long unshed tears, and he squeezed his lids tightly together as if to force the moisture back from where it came. Still avoiding her gaze, he drew in a shaky breath and finally opened his eyes. "I don't think I can do this." "Yes, you can," she insisted. "Every time..." he stammered with a ragged whisper, his composure unraveling by the second. "Every time I close my eyes, they're there...I can..." he paused, fighting for the right words and swallowing hard before continuing. "I can still feel them touch me... I was awake when they cut into me." "I know," she soothed. "I was awake too." Her words crashed through him. Those alien bastards had not only ripped his flesh apart, they had done the same to her. She'd never told him the gory details of her own abduction, claiming she didn't remember. It never dawned on him that she could recall the events. "No," he whispered, unable to stomach the thought of his Scully strapped down and tortured like a lab rat. It was humiliating enough to recall his own abduction, but absolutely horrifying to think that she had suffered the same fate. She struggled her way closer to kneel beside him, and for once he didn't fight the close proximity. He didn't recoil as she put a hand on his knee. "Let me in, Mulder," she urged, "You don't have to face this alone. I know what you're going through." "Make it stop, Scully," he begged, the first cry for help that he had made since the day had they'd found him. "Make my hands stop shaking." "They will," she soothed quietly "It might not be tonight, but they will." He blinked once and a traitorous tear coursed down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away. Wrapping his arms tighter around himself in a futile attempt to stop the trembling, Mulder finally found the strength to look her in the eyes. "Tell me," he pleaded, his voice faltering by the moment. "Tell me they didn't do this to you, Scully. Tell me they didn't do it." Leaning forward, she cupped the side of his face with the palm of her hand, wiping the tear away with her thumb. "Our experiences were different, Mulder," she offered. "But they hurt me just the same. I know what it feels like to be used by them. I know what it is like to close your eyes and still feel Them all around, wondering if They're coming back to finish the job." "No," he repeated. It was too much too handle. Everything in his life seemed tainted by them. Drawing in an uneasy breath, he squeezed his eyes shut and released it in a grinding sob. "No!" Blindly he collapsed into her waiting arms, just as he'd done when his mother died. Her warm embrace helped to erase a bit of the agony if only for a moment. His body shook as grief consumed him, and for the first time since his capture, he was finally able to mourn the atrocities inflicted upon his soul. Scully held him for several long moments, absorbing his suffering in silence. Never once did she offer trite words of encouragement or attempt to stifle his release. But rather she afforded him the space to work through his pain. He felt her hand gently stroke his back as every emotion that had died with him finally joined him in resurrection. Her sweater felt scratchy against his cheek, but it reassured him that she wasn't a dream, that she was real. She was his touchstone, his constant, a safe haven in this growing storm of uncertainty. And when the tears could no longer flow, Mulder heard himself whisper into her hair, "I want my life back." Scully smoothed his disheveled hair and placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head before answering, "Then fight, Mulder. We've come this far together. If you give up now, then they win." Pulling back, Mulder wiped his eyes with the cuff of his shirt. "I didn't think it would be this hard," he uttered into his hands. "No one said it would be easy," she replied as she released him and grabbed at the sink to hoist her gravid body to a stand. Before she could even struggle with such a difficult task, he quickly stood and helped his very pregnant partner to her feet. "What time is it?" he finally asked swiping at his nose with the back of one hand. "Late," she answered, wrapping her arm around his waist. He didn't put up any resistance as she guided him toward the living room. Pointing him toward the couch, she suggested. "I don't think either of us are going to get any more sleep. Go you sit down, partner, while I make us some tea." Sinking into the weathered cushions, Mulder scrubbed his palms over his weary face before wrapping himself in the rumpled blanket. He'd spent months shivering in the dark. No matter what he did, he still couldn't get warm. And to add to it, he was so tired that he ached. But that was still vastly better than the soul- crushing nothingness he'd felt earlier. Looking up at her as she rummaged through his cupboards, he called out, "I don't have any tea." Setting a box of herbal tea and two mismatched mugs on the counter, she grabbed the teakettle off the stove and waddled to the sink. Filling it with water from the tap, she smiled back at him and answered, "You do now, G-man." It didn't take long for the water to come to a boil and for a plume of steam to whistle from the kettle, rousing Mulder with a start from a slight doze. His head jerked up as Scully made her way back to the couch with steaming mugs in hand. "I must've been away for a while," he tried to joke staring at her rounded midsection. "When did you sprout a basketball?" Placing both mugs on the coffee table, she joined him on the couch. A slight smile spread across her face. "Actually, I was hoping for a volleyball," she quipped in return. Mulder's eyes darkened. The world had continued to spin without him. Scully's body had undergone such a dramatic transformation in his absence. "God, have I missed a lot," he conceded, unable to take his eyes off her rounded belly. Leaning forward, Scully reached for her mug and took a sip before answering, "Mulder, I don't know if you will understand what it was like learning of your abduction, and then searching for you and finding you dead. And now to have you back..." "It can't be any worse than wondering if I would live long enough to see you again," he sighed, relieving her of her mug and briefly seeking its warmth between his palms before placing it next to his on the table. An unsettling chill raced down his spine, and he swallowed hard before continuing. "I don't know which was worse, the experiments or being separated from you. There were some days I prayed to die just so I didn't have to think about either." Scully sniffled back a tear. "I prayed, too," she said as she bit her lip. "I prayed a lot. And my prayers have been answered." An uneasy queasiness settled into the pit of his stomach as he watched her possessively stroke that gentle swell of hers. She had clearly moved on with her life in his absence. The child that they had unsuccessfully tried to conceive before he was taken had never come to be. And while he was gone, a new life had blossomed within her - one that did not involve him. Looking into her tear-filled eyes, he whispered, "In more ways than one." This was something she had wanted more than anything in the world, maybe more than she had wanted him. As much as it hurt to be on the outside looking in, he knew there was no way around it. She was going to be a mother, and he was going to support her and her decision to move forward the best he could. Shoving the ugly head of jealousy back into the darkened corners of his mind, Mulder tried his best to offer his approval, "I'm happy for you," he commented, inwardly furious that his words sounded flat and meaningless. "I know how much this means to you. I'm..." he tripped over his thoughts. "I'm glad you were able to find another donor and get on with your life while I was gone." "Mulder..." she started, her quiet voice trailing off in mid-thought. Her hand drifted to the collar of his t- shirt, briefly stroking the part of his scar that peeked over the top of the fabric. Immediately he flinched backward as though her touch scalded his sensitive skin. But she didn't relent; rather, she took his hand in hers and continued. "I didn't get on with my life. Part of me died when I found out They'd taken you. In fact, it was one of the most difficult days of my life. I don't know what was harder - finding out that I may never see you again or realizing that I was having a child that may never get the opportunity to meet his father." Silenced in a mixture of confusion and mute wonderment, Mulder could do little but stare back at his partner. Slowly, a light went on in that dusty cavern of a brain of his and he stammered, "But...I thought it didn't take." Tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, she nervously replied, "It didn't. They never play by the rules, so why should we? It doesn't matter how, but I was already pregnant by the time you vanished. I just didn't know it yet." Hiking her sweater over the swell of her abdomen and pushing the waistband of her leggings down a bit, Scully took his hand and drew it to her, placing his fingertips over her belly button. "I want you to feel this," she said as she ran his fingers along a small scar that followed the crescent of her navel. Ignoring his protest before it could even come to fruition, she added, "I bet you didn't even know I had this scar. I didn't know I had it until recently either. It was pretty well hidden until the baby made it more obvious." Her gaze locked with his as his fingertips traced the curve of her navel. "It's a laproscopic surgical scar, but I swear I've never had any surgery. It's where they harvested my ova." And at that very moment, Mulder's eyes widened with surprise as he felt something tiny yet powerful kick beneath his fingers. Spreading his palm out, he broadened his hand to caress her entire abdomen, a smile brightening his darkened features as a foot - or fist - brushed against his fingertips a second time. Capturing his outstretched hand beneath hers, Scully fingers laced with his. "You see, Mulder, They can scar us as much as they want. They can try to maim us. God knows they've tried to kill us." "But we've beaten them, Mulder. He's proof of it. He was never supposed to be conceived; they've tried everything to prevent it. But he's here despite everything. And if this little guy can beat the odds, then we both owe it to our son not to give up, not after everything we've been through. We've come too far to go back now. So no more ditching us, partner. Do you hear me? The three of us are in it for the long haul whether you want us to or not. And we'll be here for you no matter how awful things may seem right now." Retrieving his hand from her midsection, Mulder brought her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her fingertips, closing his eyes as he reacquainted himself with her touch, her scent. "A son," he breathed in wonder. The concept of parenthood was both frightening and exciting, but it was the best news he could've heard. "Ours, Mulder," she affirmed, pulling him closer to her until his head rested on her lap. "Made the old- fashioned way, not in a lab, not by some grand conspiracy. Just you and me." "And he's okay?" he asked, his imagination already painting ugly pictures of genetically altered hybrids and top-secret meddling. "He's not alien, if that's what you mean," she answered as her she tucked the blanket around him like a protective cocoon. "He's one-hundred percent human. He's our little miracle." "But you're sure..." he started, his gnawing skepticism getting the best of him. "He's fine, Mulder," she interrupted. Fine. For once he liked the sound of that word coming from her. For once he believed her when she said it. Slowly, he could feel that first layer of anxiety lift from his shoulders. Its oppressive weight no longer present, he could finally begin to breathe easier. Scully was right. Though they had stripped him of so much he had fought for, they weren't able to suppress the hope that had flourished within his partner. And in that hope, Fox Mulder found the strength he'd been searching for. Maybe the truth wasn't out there waiting on some alien craft, or buried in a pile of bureaucratic paperwork. Perhaps the truth was something fragile that Scully fostered within her womb. He couldn't turn his back on that truth. He needed to protect and nurture it. Comforted by that thought, he glanced toward the window. It had finally stopped raining, and the sky was a calming black - still several hours before the sun would rise over the tree-lined roadways. But now the blackness did not seem nearly as daunting, and dawn not nearly the insurmountable hurdle to overcome. Unable to stifle a deep yawn, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. The nightmares would return, but not tonight. Sleep beckoned, enveloping him in the rich folds of its velvet tapestry. For the first time since his abduction, Mulder willingly surrendered himself to its comforting darkness.