Chapter XIII

She's weirdly withdrawn on our way home. Something's not right. She's been staring through the window without blinking for most of our trip and hasn't said a word since we left the precinct. My eyes shoot back and forth between her and the road in front of us. Her hands are clenched into fists on her lap. When I cover them with mine I almost flinch because they're cold as ice. I shortly direct my eyes back to the road ahead of us to make sure we're not drifting off before I look at her again. Her breathing has become rapid and shallow, she's almost hyperventilating I'd say, being the medical layman I am. I've never seen her like this.

"What's the matter, Scully?"

"I...I don't know," she answers feebly. "My heart's racing and my fingers are tingling."

One quick, hasty glance onto the road, then my eyes are fixed to her again. Her face is so pale. What is going on here?

"Five more minutes, Scully, then we're home," I tell her when I turn off the main road. I stop the car in front of the fence to our property. I observe her through the windshield while I operate the heavy metal gate. Within the few seconds it took me to exit the car and open it, her condition has become even worse. I realize that her hands are now pressed to her chest and I literally jump back into the car.

"Scully," I scream frantically, "what's wrong with you?"

"My chest. It aches."

"Are...are you having a heart attack?"

"No, I don't think so," she croaks, "this is something else, but I don't know what." She fusses with her blouse and more or less rips it open, I see at least one button flying through the air. "I'm so hot!"

Hot? Her hands were freezing cold just a few moments ago. I'm getting really scared now. What if this is a heart attack after all? We're miles away from the next doctor, and it takes an ambulance at least 30 minutes to get here. If she passes out, I'll be on my own.

I floor the gas pedal. Scully groans when the car lifts off a ground wave and hits the road hard again. I've never made it this fast from the gate to the house, I didn't even bother to close it behind us, which has never happened before.

I kill the engine, jump out of the car and open the passenger door.

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

She offers me her hand and I pull her out of the car.

"The fresh air will do you good, Scully. Take a deep breath."

She leans her whole body against the car and closes her eyes, making no move to head for the porch.

"Do you want me to carry you?"

"Don't be silly, Mulder," she retorts, albeit with less insistence than I'm used to, "I'm fully capable of walking these few steps."

I'm glad to notice that she's still herself, although I'm not really convinced she's not overestimating her strength. I walk right next to her, ready to intervene and catch her any second. She's unsteady but determined to make it to the front door on her own feet. I miss to get the key into the lock twice before I manage to snap it open, then I push the door so hard, it crashes against the wall inside.

I walk over to the couch and brush the pillows away to make room for her to lie down. "Get over here, Scully," I urge her. When she's not coming, I look up and realize she's still standing on the porch, holding on fiercely to the banister.

"I'm so dizzy all of a sudden. I think I'm gonna faint," she whispers hardly audible.

I fly over to her and sweep her off her feet. So, I'm carrying my wife over the threshold a second time in a few months, but, honestly, in my imagination, I'd pictured it much more romantic, both times.

I lower her gently down on the couch and put a cushion under her head.

"No," she pants, "under my legs. The blood needs to flow back."

I do as I'm told and kneel beside her head. A few strands of hair cling to her clammy face and I brush them away. Drops of cold sweat appear on her forehead and her breathing becomes shallow and quick again.

"Scully, try to breathe in as slowly and deeply as you can. Through your nose. Come on, with me. In..." she follows my instruction, "and out through your mouth."

The air leaves her lungs, still too fast, but a bit more controlled than before. I continue to coach her through the exercise, "in...one-two-three-four-five. And out...one-two-three-four-five. Focus on your breathing, Scully. You can do it."

It takes a few minutes and several rounds of breathing in and out, but eventually, she seems to get better. She opens her eyes, and the look in them is not as frantic and terrified anymore.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Slightly."

"Tell me what I can do to help you."

"Something cold would be nice."

"No problem, hold on a second."

I rush over to the kitchen and soak one of the towels in cold water. When I return, I dab her forehead and temples.

"Aah, that's good, Mulder."

She takes the cloth from me and puts it to her throat and cleavage. She exhales heavily and in phases through her open mouth, still working hard to get her breathing under control. The worst anxiety seems to be gone but her movements are still agitated. Her legs are shaking and her eyes flicker restlessly.

"Shhh, Scully, you're doing good. Just keep breathing. I'm here, you're not alone."

I try to be reassuring and firm. I resume my kneeling position and stroke her hair. I feel her lean into my hand when I caress her cheek, so I dare expand my ministrations. I put one hand on her lower arm and the other on her thigh which is still twitching. I feel the muscles spasm even through her pants.

Slowly, very slowly, the symptoms of whatever that has been are on the wane. Her limbs stop trembling, her breathing returns to a normal rhythm, her eyes aren't empty anymore but focus on me. She shakes her head in disbelief. "That was so unreal, Mulder, like I was watching myself from a distance. I felt completely disconnected from myself and there was nothing I could do against it."

"What was this? I've never seen you like this, Scully."

I've seen her dying of cancer, shot, almost frozen to death, in a coma, but never in a tailspin like this.

"It might have been a panic attack," she diagnoses herself.

"A panic attack?"

Scully in a state of panic? The concept sounds odd to me, Scully never panics. She's daring and bold, methodical and poised. How often has she stood her ground in a hairy situation? I've never seen her paralyzed by fear.

"Episodes of panic attacks can occur at any time, even during sleep. There is every indication that it was a panic attack, the dizziness, breathing difficulties, hot flashes, chest pains, the sense of terror and loss of control."

"The lineup triggered it, didn't it? I should've never allowed it," I berate myself. "You weren't stable enough to go through a mental strain like that."

"Mulder," she cups my cheek, "I had to do it. I was in law enforcement for too long to let the chance slip away to pin down a murderer."

I kiss her forehead. "You can be proud of yourself. Thanks to you, that son of a bitch will be put on trial and hopefully rot in hell afterward."

She smiles weakly. He hand falls back on her chest, powerless. "I feel so worn out."

I remove the cushions from under her legs and put one under her head before I spread a blanket over her body.

"Close your eyes, Scully, and have some sleep. I'll watch out for you."

"Thank you," she murmurs, and already succumbing to sleep, she adds, "love you."

She must be really exhausted because now that the panic has subsided she drifts off quickly and I'm glad for the soothing and healing effect sleep will have on her. Her last words make me feel warm all over, though. She loves me.

I lift her head and slip myself under it, pulling it into my lap. I look at her face. Her delicate features have finally relaxed, the sharp line between her eyebrows is gone and her forehead is smooth again. Her jaws have slackened off, her lips aren't pressed together anymore but are slightly parted. Her lower lip is a bit swollen. She must've bitten it hard, there's some dried blood. She rests peacefully now, her eyes absolutely still under the lids. No fluttering, no twitching, no shaking anywhere in her body. Sleeping beauty right here in my lap.

It's like the quiet after the storm. My own body has been flooded with adrenaline I'm only slowly getting rid of. I feel my pulse going back to normal and my breathing mirroring her calm rhythm.

After a while, my thoughts start wandering. I recap today's events which have led us to this very moment. What does it mean for us that her ordeal has come back to Scully? Is it another step forward or will it throw her back again? The traumatic memories coming with it have the potential to further solidify the amnesia, although we still don't know what exactly had caused it in the first place.

My mind wouldn't stop at Pete calling me this morning, it pulls me further back in time. Moments are popping up in my head I haven't thought of in years. Like when this creepy writer, my short-term neighbor at my Alexandria apartment, told me Scully couldn't fall in love because she already was in love. To this day I can't believe how dim I was, asking myself who that lucky guy might be. Or when she threw me that look across the dance floor at the high school reunion of that unfortunate weather announcer, the one who created thunderstorms whenever someone hit on his secret love. That look of hers, that smile! Boy, at that moment, all I wished was that this was our high school reunion and she was my prom date.

I close my eyes and another situation creeps back to me. I'm beamed back to when I was strapped to a hospital bed, considered to be a danger to everyone who came near me. I remember feeling so helpless, defenseless against the accelerated brain activity I was suffering from that would eventually kill me. When I heard her voice outside in the hallway, demanding to see me, letting nothing and nobody keep her from checking up on me, immense relief flooded my entire body because I knew she'd get me out of this. For the umpteenth time, I was immensely grateful to have her in my life. 'I'm his doctor,' she said but she was actually my guardian angel, my savior.

Why am I walking down memory lane like this? How come these long-forgotten incidents are pushing themselves to the forefront just now? To remind me how precious they are? To rub my nose into how big of a loss it is to lack them? You can't miss what you don't know, right? There are a lot of memories I could do without, though. Me holding Scully at gunpoint, for example. Me treating her like shit after I'd woken up from the dead also falls into this category as is saying goodbye to William and her.

Stop it, Mulder! Stop making this about you!

I glance at the grandfather clock on the mantlepiece and can hardly believe two hours have gone by. No wonder my legs have fallen asleep, making themselves felt with a tingling sensation. I can no longer sit still, I have to move.

I cautiously slip my legs out from under her head and replace them with a thick cushion. She stirs a little, a silent moan escapes her chest, but fortunately, sleep is holding her firmly in its grip. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I had woken her up. What're two tingling legs compared to the aftermaths of a severe panic attack? But her chest is rising and falling in a steady, slow rhythm and she looks relaxed and peaceful. I might as well leave her alone for a moment and run some errands. She deserves to be spoiled tonight with a home cooked meal and some Häagen Dasz.

In the following one-and-a-half hours, I break the second record today: I've never rushed through the grocery store at a lightspeed like this, pulling items randomly out of the shelves and throwing them into my cart passing by. I line-jump at the cashier, yelling at the customers in the queue and flashing my badge. I burn home on autopilot mode and curse the squeaking sound I elicit when I open the front door. My heart beat stops for a moment when I find her sitting upright on the couch.

Good grief, if she had another panic attack and I wasn't there. My insides convulse.

"Hey," I say gently not to startle her, putting the grocery bags on the floor.

She turns her head and...smiles. Thank God, she looks much better.

"Hey," she says back, sounding a bit groggy but collected.

I place myself next to her on the couch and examine her face for any remains of the terror that were there a few hours ago, and I'm relieved I'm not seeing any.

"Everything alright here?" I ask. "You were fast asleep when I left. I wasn't gone for much more than an hour."

"I'm fine."

When she realizes that this line is not particularly suited to calm me, she adds a reassuring, "really, Mulder, I'm okay."

"That was frightening, Scully. I thought you were having a heart attack."

"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to scare you. I've never had anything like it before." She looks at me and in her eyes I see some of the residues the experience left behind after all. "It felt like I was going crazy like I was losing my mind. I was scared too, Mulder, believe me."

"Yeah, I can imagine. I wonder what that asshole Herman did to you that seeing him upset you that much."

"Seeing him actually wasn't the problem. The attack would've struck me in the precinct if it was, but the pressure in my chest didn't start to establish itself until we were on the way home, when I was contemplating in the car."

"Contemplating? Contemplating what?"

"What he kept telling me."

What does she mean by that? Telling her what? And when? In what setting? If Jensen had left her alone with him...the thought alone lets my right hand clench into a fist.

"I don't understand, Scully. Do you mean what Officer Jensen told him to say in the lineup? He didn't let him talk to you one-to-one, did he?" I clench my fist so hard, my knuckles turn white.

She moves her body to sit opposite me, takes my fist in her hand and unfolds my fingers gently one after the other. "No, there was no direct contact with him." She talks to me without meeting my eyes, staring at our now entwined fingers. "And I didn't mean what he said in the lineup. That was just some meaningless sentence. I remembered what he said to me when he was holding me captive."

"You remember something from the time you were with him?" I'm just trying to make sure because her nod is hardly visible and she's still not looking at me. "But that's wonderful, Scully!" I shriek, struggling to keep my exhilaration at bay which threatens to go overboard despite her more than restrained reaction.

"Wonderful? Well," she pauses for a moment and licks her lips before the continues, "he said that you were next door, that you were his captive just like I was, and that he was doing terrible things to you. It was horrible, Mulder."

"You believed him?"

"Not at the beginning, no, but when you're told day after day after day that the most dreadful things are done to the person you love more than anyone, eventually, the day comes you start asking yourself 'What if he's telling the truth?' I couldn't fight the pictures of you next door, Mulder. Beaten up. With broken fingers, pulled toenails, cigarette burns. Not allowed to eat and drink properly, let alone sleep. Being told I was raped, which I wasn't. It was killing me. It was so demoralizing and grueling that from a certain point onward, I couldn't ignore his stories anymore. They became a reality, and every day, I died a little more fearing for you, believing you were in so much agony."

I'm in a state of agony now, listening to her.

"One day, he showed up with a syringe in his hand, telling me he was going to launch the ultimate strike. I didn't realize it was meant for me until I felt the needle penetrate my skin. I remember the burning sensation," she strokes up and down her left upper arm, "and then everything went black." She buries her face in her hands. "Oh my God, Mulder, he injected me with something, a chemical substance, to make me lose my memory. Not to protect himself, to keep me from testifying against him, but to hit you."

"He wanted to take you away from me. He knew it would hit me harder than my own death. He was sick enough to be incapable of killing a woman who didn't correspond to his usual pattern, so he left her out in the cold to freeze to death. And just to make sure in case that wouldn't happen, that pervert filled her up with a drug of some sort to make her forget who she was in love with. That is so unbelievably insidious and heinous, it makes me nauseous."

"He reached his goal," she reminds me in a tearful voice, "you were hit."

"This is not about what he did to me, Scully, this is only about what he did to you. I'm being honest when I say I obtain satisfaction from the fact that he must know it was you who identified him today. He couldn't see you through the one-way mirror but he knew exactly who was standing on the other side of it, pointing her finger at him. He knew he killed all his victims but one."

I can't sit still anymore. To channel my inner unrest I get up and get a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen. On my way back to the couch, something else comes to mind.

"You have to talk to your therapist and tell her about the lineup and the panic attack. Maybe, we should've asked her whether you were in a condition to face him before agreeing to do it."

I hand her the glass. She takes a sip, passes it back to me, then folds her hands on her lap.

"There's something else I have to tell her," she says somewhat withdrawn.

Oh?

I look at her expectantly, but no words are coming out of her mouth. Will this be a recurring pattern from now on that she implies something, but denies any further explanation?

"Which. Is. What?" I cringe at how impatient I sound.

"Seeing him today has initiated the recollection of the time he had me under his control, that's how I was able to identify him. The panic attack, however, seems to have loosened some kind of major block in my brain."

Okay, and that means...?

Talk to me, Scully!

If she doesn't start talking now, I'm going to strangle her. My pulse has skyrocketed and both my legs are bobbing in a nervous staccato. I take it she needs time to process all of this herself, to put it in perspective, to evaluate the circumstances, but I'd really and truly appreciate if she let me into her world of thought.

"What block, Scully?"

I've scraped together as much of emotional control as possible not to scream at her. My composure is about to shatter into pieces any second. And then, just when I'm on the brink of letting my frustration erupt from my body, she whispers, "the block that locked up my memory."

"The block...that locked up...your memory," I repeat stupidly.

"You understand what I'm trying to say, Mulder?"

Are you fucking kidding me?

"No, Scully, actually, what you've been throwing me here are nothing but stripped bones. Am I supposed to read your mind? I know I was once quite skilled in doing that, but lately, I have no idea what's going on in your head."

Tears are brimming in her eyes.

Shit, I made her cry! I'm such an asshole drowning in my own self-pity!

"No, don't cry please," I try to soothe her. I stroke her cheeks and the tears begin to fall, leaving wet streaks on her skin. She starts sobbing violently and doesn't even try to control her emotions, which seen individually is so unlike her. I haven't seen her cry this hard very often, if ever.

"Dana, I'm-"

"It's okay, Mulder," she hiccups breathlessly, "these are happy tears."

"Happy?"

"My memory...it's back. That's what I've been trying to tell you."

I don't know what to say. She wouldn't make a joke about it, would she? The matter's too serious for a joke. Did she have to go through the hell of a panic attack to get her memories back? Would that be like a positive side-effect of the ordeal, because it was an ordeal, for her as well as for me.

"Don't you believe me? I'm not joking."

Apparently, my having difficulties reading her mind doesn't mean she's not fully capable of reading mine.

"When I woke up, I felt so strange. My mind was in an uproar, I couldn't control my thoughts. They were wandering around and I couldn't tell them to stop. I was flooded with images and I just couldn't stop it. Like when you put too much corn into the popcorn maker and the popcorn keeps popping out although you've switched it off already."

"Salted, I hope." One look into her face tells me that she doesn't appreciate being interrupted, especially not by a joke that lame. "Sorry. That's...good, isn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, it is! I was trying to make sense of it while you were away and it took me a while until I realized that those weren't random images my brain produced as a result of the panic attack but...memories. Real memories."

Her eyes are watery but also beaming in a way. She takes them off of me and directs them past me to a point somewhere outside in the distance. Her vision seems to go slightly out of focus so that I doubt she's actually looking at something. I can literally see the flurry behind her forehead, the energy of synapses reconnecting and nerve pathways passing on information. The corners of her mouth rise into a small lovely smile and her eyes are filling with more tears. I can only speculate what kind of images are pushing themselves forward just now.

"William," she sobs eventually, confirming my hunch.

I close my eyes and heave a heavy sigh. Memories of William. Of course. What else?

"No, it's okay, Mulder." She looks at me with clear but watery eyes. "I'd forgotten my baby," she hiccups and takes my breath away with it, "and I have him back now. I no longer have only two-dimensional images of him, stories you told me or the eight photographs we have of him, but my own personal memories of how it felt to hold him. What it was like to nurse him. How he smelt. What his laugh sounded like."

Wow!

"I knew you were kissing me when we brought him home. Knowing is a cognizant act, Mulder, something you do with your brain. But now I remember how sweet that kiss tasted, how happy we were. As a family. How elated I was at that particular moment. That's feeling, Mulder, and it has nothing to with the brain but only with the soul and the heart. "

"We were very happy, Scully, but we weren't granted to be a family for long," I state flatly, unable to share her elation.

"I know. After that, there was mainly pain. But...wasn't it worth it, Mulder?"

I don't know what she means, and I guess my face is showing my bewilderment because she goes on explaining. "My memories were erased and gone. They were lost to me, the good ones as well as the bad ones. The bad ones only feel so bad because of the good ones. You can only lose something you once had. Would you have rather relinquished having him to spare you the pain losing him has forced on you? Because that's exactly what happened to me, Mulder. I'd forgotten I ever had a son and with it the pain associated with his adoption was also gone, and you probably thought this was a good thing,"

She knows me so well.

"but I'd also forgotten how happy I was as a mother. His mother."

Her facial expression changes all of a sudden. I take it another memory is fighting its way back into her consciousness, and I just hope it's not what I believe it is. But then she puts her hands to her mouth and a silent cry slips out of her throat, and I'm pretty sure it's exactly what I've feared.

"Emily," she whispers.

I groan inwardly. How many good emotions can be related to that little girl? If any at all?

"I had a daughter!"

She stares at me, her eyes full of cognizance, but also full of questions, one of which she poses right away. "Why have you never told me anything about her?"

"Because it's a sad story through and through, Scully. Actually in a way even sadder than William's. You didn't know she was your daughter until she was terminally ill, and there was nothing you could do to save her. They wouldn't even let you adopt her, although she was orphaned and you were her biological mother. All you were allowed to do was witness her suffering. She died in your arms only shortly after you found out who she was."

The usually fine lines between her brows are deep and prominent now. I can only imagine how hard it is to recollect your past piece by piece as if you were putting together a million-pieces puzzle.

"She was created with my ova, right? I think I'm getting it. That X-File you made me read about my abduction..." Her hands go to her temples, wedging her head between her palms as though to keep the memories inside which threaten to disappear again. "They not only gave me cancer, they also harvested my ova. That was how I ended up barren, that was no ordinary Premature Ovarian Failure. And that's why we tried IVF and why William's conception was so unexpected. We didn't use protection because we thought I couldn't get pregnant, right? Having been conceived naturally by a barren woman, that's what made him a miracle, isn't it?" She drops her hands and lays her eyes on mine again, pleading with me, "you weren't lying to me when you told me we made him the old-fashioned way, right?"

Her troubled expression lets my heart freeze.

"No, I didn't lie to you. William was a child of our love."

"And Emily?"

"You got it all right, Scully. She was your biological daughter, but you didn't give birth to her. She was part of that sick plan you and I had been drawn into with the X-Files. It was something I thought I could protect you from after your amnesia. When I wasn't telling you the full truth about things, it was only to spare you what had already hurt you once. I didn't see any need to let it hurt you again."

She cups my face, and I gladly notice that her hands are still and warm. "I know, Mulder, and I love you for it. But you know what? I can't have only the good memories back, it's either all or nothing. I remember you beside me at Emily's service, and that's a good memory. I recall having a beautiful daughter, and I remember having a miraculous son. My life was blessed with two children, and although they're both not with me anymore, I still am a mother. And that's a wonderful feeling."

"So wonderful it makes you cry," I say, brushing a tear off her cheek. "Don't tell me these are happy tears."

"No, they're not. I am sad...but now I know what to mourn. Before there was just a black void, a huge nothingness I couldn't relate to. I felt the pain, and the grief, and a lot of anger inside me, but I didn't know why I was feeling this way. I'm so grateful for having my life back, with all its highs and lows. Herman took my life away with inflicting the amnesia on me, but somehow, he also gave it back to me today."

"With making you go through a panic attack? That's a weird way of seeing it."

If I ever had the chance, I'd beat the living daylights out of that sick son of a bitch.

She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them tenderly. "He's not important anymore. It's only us I care about. Promise me to leave him alone, Mulder."

She knows me so well.

"Promise!" she insists. "I don't want to see you thrown into prison for violent assault of a detainee. He's not worth it."

"Scout's honor," I say with my right hand up, and although there might come a moment where keeping my promise will be difficult, I mean it from the bottom of my heart. The last thing I want for her is to fear for me. I don't want her to fear for anything or anyone ever again.

"Thank you," she says, before she settles herself in my embrace, her cheek on my chest and her arms around my waist.

I engage her into a fierce hug, pulling her so close I'm almost afraid to suffocate her, but she doesn't complain. Her body melts into mine and I hear her sigh into my chest.

"I remember everything, Mulder," she whispers, and with a bit more emphasis, she repeats, "everything."

Her voice is a whisper, trembling with excitement, but smooth as velvet. She pulls away and her gaze wanders to a point behind me again as if there was a screen where the images of her life were popping up on for her to watch. The hint of a smile appears on her face.

"Your proposal," she gasps, "you proposed to me in a rental car, riding an endless highway through the Midwest." She releases a short chuckle shaking her head in consternation. "How apt!"

Her eyes meet mine again and I see amusement in hers.

"Yeah, well, that wasn't very romantic, I know. Unforgivable. You'd deserved two dozens of red roses and champagne with it, all I had to offer was stale coffee in a styrofoam cup and a Snickers bar. No flowers, not even buttercups."

"Don't be silly, it was perfect! It was so...so us," she giggles. "How you stepped on the brake once I'd said yes and jumped out of the car to shout it out to the desert for nobody to hear...that was romantic."

"You found that romantic?"

I remember exactly how I feared my chest might burst because the bliss within me expanded so rapidly. She'd said somewhat en passant 'yes, Mulder, I marry you' with her eyes glued to the straight road in front of us, and I had somehow been overcome with such an urging need to shout it out to the world that Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. and former Special Agent with the FBI, wanted for aiding and abetting a convicted murderer, had really and truly agreed to marry me.

"Yes, you were kinda cute in your boyish joy. Did you really think I'd say no?"

"Well, the first time I asked, you said I wasn't being very helpful."

Her eyes widen. She really does remember everything obviously, even the fleeting moment I popped the question completely out of the blue while she was consulting with me about a case over the phone. "You were really being serious that time you asked while I was on vacation in Maine? I thought my endless recital of the black arts had made you so dizzy that you didn't know what you were saying."

"I knew exactly what I was saying. And yes, you'd definitely made me dizzy. In the best sense of the word," I say with a grin.

"Jesus, Mulder, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Would you have said yes? Then? If my plea had been expressed less ambiguously?"

"Who knows," she replies in a tone that adds an unspoken 'probably', and butterflies are fluttering in my stomach.

I've asked myself many times what would've happened if we hadn't waited so long, clinging to a professional platonic partnership instead of confiding in each other and marrying years earlier. If we had quit the Bureau, leaving the darkness behind, would we be a typical American family now? Loving husband and wife with an adorable son? Did we ever have a real chance for a life like this?

"William wouldn't have been born out of wedlock," I hear myself say.

Fuck, Mulder, don't you have anything better to do than rubbing salt into this particular wound again?

"I'm sorry, Scully, for coming back to him over and over."

"No, it's okay. Don't apologize for mentioning him. He's our son, our love child." She sighs. "God, Mulder, we haven't talked about him much, have we? I don't want to withhold his existence anymore, I want him to be a part of our lives. I want to feel free to think of him, speak of him. I want to imagine what he looks like, what his favorite sport is, how he'd react in a certain moment. What his life is like."

"You haven't been ready to contemplate any of these questions so far, Scully. We mainly avoided talking about him. We thought it was a way to rule the pain, to make it manageable."

"But it kept fighting back."

"It sure did. With a vengeance."

She acknowledges my last remark with a simple confirming hum, leaving us both staring silently at each other.

The feeling of loss has always been there, dragging the pain in its wake. It's like a tinnitus, an ongoing sound in my ear, keeping me from sleep at night, and it's feeding me mercilessly with the facts I'm fully aware of anyway: 'he's gone, he's someone else's son now, he will never get to know you.' I can only imagine what the voice inside Scully's ear is saying to her. I bet it's reproachful and unforgiving and assuring the cut in her heart never heals.

"How do you picture him, Mulder?"

I can't believe she's asking me this, and what dumbfounds me even more is that I don't see a Scully riven by grief and guilt in front of me but one with a dreamy gaze and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

What a heartwarming sight!

I let my mind travel to a possible image of my son. "He's a gangling 8-year-old who has lost all his baby fat due to extensive basketball practice. He's a Kicks fan, for sure." I hope he is. "He's got my height and your complexion, my obsession with things and your tenacity." A perfect combination of us both. "He drops his bike in the driveway, much to his father's chagrin, and always tries to weasel himself out of the household chores his mother tells him to get done. He loves pancakes soaked in maple syrup and pizza."

"With or without mushrooms," the mushroom lover in this house asks.

"I don't know. How much pizza with mushrooms did you have when you were pregnant? They say a mother transfers her cravings to the baby if she has a certain food a lot during a pregnancy."

"I ate healthily, Mulder."

"That means with mushrooms, I figure, to tip the scale more to the veggie side," I conclude and elicit a smile from her.

"That means no pizza," she answers, sending her right eyebrow up her forehead.

"No, of course not! What have I been thinking? Pizza, hmfff...Let's see. Salad with mushrooms? Stuffed mushrooms? Mushroom pie?"

"Some if it, yes. I had a wonderful recipe for spelt mushroom risotto."

"Yuck, no! Spelt? Seriously, Scully?"

"Contrary to bee pollen, there is scientific proof that spelt, if part of a balanced, healthy diet, has a very positive effect on both the mother and the baby."

"Ah, Scully, always the scientist, and a responsible expectant mother beyond all measure. I should've known," I say while I cup her face to place a soft kiss on her lips. "You never gave in to any cravings?"

"I might've had a chocolate donut once in a while," she admits, pursing her lips and chewing the inside of her cheek, swallowing the words rather than actually articulating them clearly for me to hear. "When my blood sugar level was too low," she then adds in a defensive afterthought and I have to bite my tongue now not to laugh right into her straight face.

"Sure. Only when your blood sugar was too low. Those were therapeutic donuts, so to say."

"So to say."

I smile and nod.

We never had such a lighthearted conversation involving William. Until now, we've tiptoed around him, avoiding the subject and anything remotely related to it, but just a minute ago, she started a conversation about him and didn't even backtrack when her pregnancy came up, a particularly sensitive topic as it covers one of the worst time spans of her life; as of mine, actually, I was lying in a coffin, six feet under.

Is this what they mean when they say that nothing happens without a reason? Is this new way of dealing with the loss of our child something we gain from what we had to go through since that psychopath has taken her?

I see a Scully standing in front of me who is relaxed and elated, who apparently enjoys talking about her son and her pregnancy, who's even engaged me in a little banter, and it's uplifting me more than I would've ever expected. It's like a harness has been taken off my chest, a straitjacket loosened allowing me to finally fill my lungs with enough oxygen to resuscitate my broken heart.

Was it really necessary for Scully to go through an abduction, mental abuse, drug-related amnesia, and a panic attack to make us understand that rejoicing over having been blessed with a miracle baby brings us closer to a content, happy life than hiding our grief from each other and silently crying over him by ourselves?

It apparently was. Damn.

"I'd like to do something special on his birthday next month," she surprises me yet again and puts an end to the pondering silence.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know. A day at the beach, maybe. Or a fancy dinner."

"Hmm."

Come on, Mulder, think! You can come up with something better than that!

"What if I took you to the Smithsonian Air and Space? They're having a traveling exhibit about the restoration of the Starship Enterprise. I hear it's well worth seeing. I bet he," no need to mention who I'm talking about, "would love to go. If you're good, in the end, you may even pick something from the gift shop."

A mocking snort slips out of her mouth. "Like what? A mug or a Tee with some kind of idiotic phrase on it, like 'live long and prosper'?"

Aaaah, how I love that sheepish smirk on her face when she's in a bantering mood.

"Nah, I'd go for a license plate frame. One that says 'second star to the right, then straight on 'til morning'."

I chuckle.

"I won't let you put something this silly on our car."

"Not even if I get us a new license plate saying SCTBMEUP?"

"No way! Uh-uh!" She stresses her words by banging her head so vehemently her hair flies through the air.

I decide to take this even further putting on my legendary pout. I've cultivated my skills at this to perfection, so I stick my bottom lip out, far, but not too far to overdo and make it look fake, letting my chin wrinkle slightly as I do this. Then I drop my head a tiny bit, not too much, as I want her to see my best puppy eyes peer up at her. I slouch my shoulders a little and loosely cross my arms in front of my chest. My voice is silent and flat when I finally mumble, "you're not nice."

Now she's the one who chuckles. Actually, she laughs wholeheartedly.

"Stop being eight yourself, Mulder." She shakes her head, obviously amused by my little performance. "It sounds like a wonderful idea, though, regardless, of your Star Trek fetish. If I'm allowed to stroll through the museum bookstore instead of the gift shop, you're on."

"You're allowed to stroll around wherever you want, Scully, as long as we're holding hands."

She tilts her head to one side and smiles at me. "You're adorable."

I can't but feel slightly proud of myself. I love it when applying my pouting bottom lip turns out to be this successful. I made her utter words of endearment, that's all I wanted.

I pull her towards me. "You're quite adorable yourself."

"Am I?"

"Yup!"

"Exactly how adorable?"

"Very."

"That's not exact, Mulder!"

"Is 'to the moon and back' better?"

"Hmm."

"You need more quantification?"

"I'm a scientist, I need proof."

"I see. Like a display of my adoration?"

"Would you be able to deliver a corresponding verification? One that might satisfy a scientist?"

"Like something tangible?"

"Uh huh. Something for me to see, hear or feel."

"Oookay, let me think."

I pull her yet a little closer.

"This is for you to see." My eyes find hers and I'm doing my best to let mine show her what I'm feeling at this very moment.

Then I put my mouth to her ear and breathe, "this is for you to hear: My adoration for you is indefinite, Scully, which to a scientist means without any upper or lower limits." I know that I'm at a very erogenous zone of hers and that I'm tickling her with my hot breath, but I don't care. Actually, I'm doing it on purpose.

"Now just one sense is missing," I say, laying my eyes on hers again. I have her right where I want her to be. She swallows, and her breath has become a bit shallow.

"Feel," she croons in an unstable voice.

"Yes," I growl, "this if for you to feel." I bring my face down and lightly brush my lips over hers, with a feather-light pressure at first, barely grazing over her mouth. I sweep the tip of my tongue over her lower lip, letting the words I'm going to say linger there. "Feel it, Scully?"

Instead of answering, she opens her mouth and invites me in. I slowly slide into her, moving my tongue around hers. She's reciprocating adequately, and when I retreat she follows me, chasing me into my domain. We're speeding it up for a moment, devouring each other.

God, she tastes so good!

I move my hands from her hips, around her back and up to her hair. Her arms are around my waist now and our bodies are pressed together. I need to touch her soft skin, so I cradle her face with my hands on her cheeks. When I feel her smile into my mouth, I pull back slightly but leave my forehead resting against hers.

"It that corresponding verification enough?" I ask in what I hope she perceives as a rhetorical question.

"It's always good to do a second test series. Scientists like to validate their first findings."

"I love scientists."

"I'm glad you do."

How can I not? I connect our lips again for another passionate kiss.

I've lost track of time when we finally break apart, both gasping for air. Scully releases a content sigh, nestling her head to my chest. With a breathy voice, she whispers, "we're gonna be fine, Mulder."

And I'm as certain as I've never been in my life when I answer, "yes, Scully, we're gonna be fine."

THE END