Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
by
MustangSally 
and 
RivkaT 


Summary: The saga that began in Iolokus ends not 
with a bang but with a whimper.  Mulder and Scully 
are involved in possibly the largest battle of their 
lives - fighting the unknown minions of the Project in 
family court for custody of their genetically 
engineered daughter Miranda.

Disclaimer: To steal a premise is an elegant offense.  
And the prosecution of said offense is equally 
elegant - or at least interesting.  

We're proud to point out that the final part of the 
Iolokus stories is the longest, in an attempt to wind 
everything up as neatly as possible.  Long yes, but 
still shorter than Oklahoma, and, really, a bit less 
vomiting proportionally.  Size does matter.


I was gambling in Havana
I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns and money
Dad, get me out of this

I'm the innocent bystander
Somehow I got stuck
Between the rock and the hard place
And I'm down on my luck
 
Now I'm hiding in Honduras
I'm a desperate man
Send lawyers, guns and money
The shit has hit the fan

Send lawyers, guns and money...
The shit has hit the fan.

Warren Zevon

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
1/

maybe i'm a little old-fashioned, maybe you're a little unkind
maybe i'm a little impatient, we'll concede that in mind
you won't give me your number, you won't give me your time
you said meet me on the corner, and there's still no sign
maybe i'm a little outdated, maybe a little out of time
to believe your heart is in the right place
despite what you're doing to mine
so i'm standing on the corner, looking like i don't care
d'you wanna crucify my feelings with your fingernails
and leave the loneliest boy in the western world
cruising the streets for an ice cream girl
	Lloyd Cole

"Scully, marry me."

"No!" 

I continued mixing the spackle with short, violent 
strokes.

"It *has* to improve our chances of keeping custody 
of Miranda," he protested.

"You're such a romantic, Mulder."

"If I got down on my knees there's a good possibility 
that I might not get up again," he said in a voice of 
unsweetened iced tea.

This much was true, barely three weeks after his 
twin brother George had gone to that great cellblock 
in the sky, Mulder was still spotted with bruises and 
a necklace of scabbing around his throat from 
George's attempt to switch identities.  He was still 
hampered somewhat by his hurts and it was going to 
be months before he stopped looking like Clint 
Eastwood in 'Hang 'em High'.  For me, with the splint 
gone from my nose and the black eyes fading, I 
looked almost normal. Regardless, I was starting to 
wonder if the duel with evil brother George hadn't 
caused brain damage to at least one of us.

I took the container of spackle and headed to the top 
of the ladder, which wobbled nervously underneath 
me.  I got a small putty knife and started filling in the 
uppermost grouping of bullet holes.  Sitting on the 
re-upholstered sofa by the window, Mulder fidgeted 
in blatant impatience.

"It has to be soon, the court date is next Monday."
 
I'd cleaned up most of the debris from the siege, re-
painted the kitchen and had the sofa re-upholstered 
in preparation for the next round of abuse.  Now I 
was working on the walls of the living room.  The 
house was, more or less, starting to look like George 
had never darkened the doorstep.  If I could figure 
out how to get the bloodstains out of the carpet I'd 
be a happy woman.  Maybe I should just pull up the 
carpet and sand the floor down.  Maybe I should just 
pull up the carpet, crawl underneath and pull the 
carpet over me with strict instructions not to wake 
me until the war was over.  Bad idea- either the kid 
or the cat was likely to pee on me.

"I think we ought to get a real lawyer before any of 
this goes any farther," I said. Mulder's general-
purpose lawyers had convinced the judge not to take 
Miranda away pending a full trial, but the trial was 
approaching and we still hadn't gotten a custody 
expert, which made me nervous as even Atticus 
Finch might have had some difficulty convincing a 
court that we were stable parents.

A pained squawk broke the conversation in two as 
Catzilla stalked into the living room wearing a tense 
expression and ruffled fur. A moment later, Miranda 
crawled in like a small pink Humvee, a telltale tuft of 
black fur sticking to her lower lip.  She was crawling 
now. Her single incentive to become mobile was the 
leggy teenaged cat that she delighted in chasing. 
Catzilla had a bad habit of letting the baby corner 
him and then practicing nonviolence.  Miranda let 
out a gleeful shriek and lunged for the cat again.  
Mulder caught her before pink hands made contact 
with black fur and scooped her up.

"No.  Don't bite the kitty," he warned her.

Looking up at her Daddy, Miranda went round-eyed 
and innocent for about two seconds, then she 
wriggled and reached for the cat again.  With injured 
dignity, Catzilla began to clean his back toes.

"Cat-cat-cat-cat-CAT!" she demanded and kicked 
her feet against Mulder's chest.

"I said 'NO,'" he repeated. 

She set up a fretful wailing until hot tears ran down 
her madly red face and she sobbed like Susan 
Lucci.  Which made me wonder exactly at what age 
the female brain realizes that the easiest way to 
manipulate a man is with tears.  But give Mulder 
credit, he just gave her a squeeze and wiped the 
tears off her face before handing her a black cat 
beanie baby as a substitute.  The toy wasn't a fair 
trade and she threw it to the floor with a snarl of 
frustration.  She was stoking herself up into a full-
fledged temper tantrum and I briefly wondered if 
maybe we should just let Bill and Tara have the full 
Miranda experience for a week or two and see if 
they didn't send her back in a FedEx box with air 
holes punched in it.

As the tsunami of infantile rage built force, Mulder 
plunked her in the playpen where she stood upright, 
grabbed the bars and began to shake them like a 
rebellious inmate at Sing Sing.

"Cat-cat-cat-cat-cat!" she howled.

"You know if you would just *bite* her a couple of 
times we wouldn't have this problem," he scolded 
Catzilla over the noise.

For his part, Catzilla blinked green-gold eyes at 
Mulder and went over to the playpen where be 
began to rub his lips over Miranda's knuckles.  As 
quickly as she had become furious, she went into an 
ecstasy of cooing and babbling in fluid Gaelic to her 
feline companion, who made soft throat-noises at 
her.

"Scully, this is Virginia, conservative, marriage-
friendly Virginia." Mulder said as if we'd never been 
interrupted.

"Isn't Virginia for lovers?" For some reason, the 
recitation of the official state slogan didn't make him 
happy.

"*Scully*. Virginia nearly elected Oliver North to the 
U.S. Senate because Chuck Robb got head from a 
beauty queen. Virginia does not look kindly on 
unconventional family units! You want to be in there 
as a  live-in couple with Bill and Tara holding hands, 
him in his Navy uniform and her cradling that kid of 
theirs? They're the Cleavers, we're the Addams 
Family!"

"We're not living together."

He howled frustration. Miranda thought that was 
wonderful and urged him to do it again, patting her 
hands on the playpen cushion and giggling.  Catzilla 
flattened his ears and ran for cover under the sofa.

"Will you stop avoiding the issue for *just one 
minute*? I'm not asking you for anything except the 
purely legal act. I've given up on the idea of a family, 
I'll settle for a Potemkin Village to fool the court."

I shook my head. Did he even consider the 
possibility that he'd just explained why I didn't want 
to say yes?

I cast an eye around the room, looking for work that 
remained to be done.  Nothing but the bloodstained 
carpet; no escape.

Getting married certainly couldn't hurt our chances 
of keeping Miranda. And that, despite all the other 
shit swirling around me as my life went down the 
toilet, was something I was finally certain about. If I 
said no and we lost, I'd be irrevocably alone. He only 
tolerated me now because Miranda seemed to like 
having me around. Well, that and the prospect of 
regular sex when he got slightly more healed.

"Fine."

"What?" Mulder practically levitated away from the 
playpen and over to me.

"I'm sorry, was I supposed to keep saying no?"

As Hamlet or Oedipus said, 'it seemed like a good 
idea at the time'.

****

Between her home improvement projects and 
wandering around the house looking like a camel 
with a sore hump, Scully somehow made the time to 
accompany the Mooselet and me to City Hall and 
start the paperwork necessary for the marriage.  I 
guess it would have been too much for her to feign 
enthusiasm.  So, between the applications for 
variances in zoning, building permits and dog 
licenses, we filled out the papers and took turns 
supporting the Mooselet as she sat on the counter.  
Miranda was holding the chained pen in one fat fist 
and pontificating in MooseSpeak to anyone foolish 
enough to talk to her.  The only positive event in the 
entire expedition was watching Scully try to take the 
pen away from her.  Her Highness was NOT 
AMUSED and snapped at Scully like a turtle and 
growled.  After a short gasp of surprise, Scully 
snatched the pen away from Miranda and ended up 
getting a ruby-faced wail in return. The clerks behind 
the counter looked up to see what abuse the woman 
was inflicting on the adorable baby and Scully went 
almost as red as her hair.

In the end, I rescued my intended from the baby of 
evil and plopped Miranda against my hip, handing 
her the black cat beanie baby that was now missing 
its eyes and whiskers for some reason.  While the 
Mooselet sang to the toy and batted her eyelashes 
at the clerks, Scully scrawled her name at the 
bottom of the application with the enthusiasm of a 
woman signing her own writ of execution.  I guess I 
should have been insulted, but truth to be told, I was 
so endlessly grateful for her willingness to go along 
with the charade that I couldn't even work up the 
mischief to tease her about it.    

The late spring sky was overcast when we finally left 
City Hall and wandered down the street a bit for 
coffee.  Scully had the Mooselet supported against 
her hip and was looking more comfortable with her 
human burden than she usually did.  Was it at all 
possible that the Mooselet had managed to 
insinuate herself into the heart of the Queen of 
Rational Thought in a way that I never had?  Then 
again, Her Highness was several points higher on 
the cute scale than I was.

Sitting at the outdoor table with the Mooselet 
perched on the table, I waited for Scully to come 
back with the coffees.

"Dak?  Cat-Cat? Da Lee? Nah?" Miranda asked.

"Well," I started and the Mooselet looked up at me 
with great seriousness,  "Scully and I are going to 
get married and that will make her officially your 
mom.  This means that you have to treat her nice. 
No biting."

The Mooselet smiled and flashed her white baby 
corn kernel teeth at me.

"I'm serious.  No biting."

"Na.  Dak. Da. Lee," she reassured me and stuffed 
the entire head of the cat into her mouth.

I knew it was just the teething, but with my family 
you really had to wonder.

With a coffee in each hand and a bottle of juice 
balanced precariously on top, Scully returned to the 
table and handed me my cup.

"What are we going to do about rings?  We have to 
have rings."

That's my Scully, as sentimental as a traffic cop.

"Somehow I don't see you with the traditional 
diamond solitaire."

I smiled to reassure her that I was joking.

"But diamonds are a girl's best friend," she said in 
something like her old manner.

The Mooselet was snapping her head to each of us 
in turn like she had great seats at Wimbledon.  I 
uncapped the apple juice and held the bottle to her 
mouth.  She gulped greedily at it and only a small 
portion of the juice went down my arm.  Across the 
table, Scully blinked in disgust.  This was probably 
her discomfort with the Mooselet from the beginning 
- babies are not clean.  Maybe somethinng in the 
essential human character had been missed from 
the very beginning - women may allegedly be more 
nurturing, but men understand a baby's inherent 
messiness.  After all, we're just big babies ourselves.  
We grok having food on our shirts, eating things that 
have fallen on the floor, and lounging around in our 
underwear.  It's our way.

Whining, the Mooselet grabbed at the juice bottle 
and managed to spill a half a cup down the front of 
her shirt.  Scully hadn't gotten enough napkins so I 
made do with the adult-oriented modest amount and 
sponged the juice off the baby.  Miranda giggled and 
pulled at my watchband.  To keep her happy, I 
unbuckled my watch and handed it to her.  Like most 
things, it went straight in her oral orifice.  I wasn't 
worried.  Swiss Army watches are supposed to 
withstand amazing amounts of abuse, even though 
baby drool had not been listed on the brochure.

"Well, look at it this way, not much will change once 
we're married, we've been spending close to 24/7 
with each other for the past six years.  You'll actually 
spend less time with me because we won't be 
working together."

"I won't be working very much right now anyway. 
Skinner won't let me come back until the official 
account of George's home invasion has been 
approved," she said and sipped delicately at her 
coffee as though she was trying to prove that she 
wasn't the sloppy one in this outfit.

"There's landscaping to be done," I teased and 
drank my now cold coffee,  "and if you decided that 
you don't want to work for the Bureau anymore, I 
think you have a bright future doing home repair."

"You realize, of course, that there's endless amounts 
of paperwork we're going to have to do at HR.  
Change of tax status, life insurance policies, and so 
forth.  This is a fairly bureaucratic enterprise we're 
entering into."

"I suppose, " I started, stung by her analytical 
approach, "it doesn't seem that much of a chore 
when you're in love."

"I --" The man who approached us cut her off, an 
interruption for which I was momentarily grateful. He 
was in his early thirties, dark hair, dark clothes 
tucked and belted with a neatness that screamed 
'cop.'

"Excuse me, sir, ma'am," he said, "but I'm going to 
have to ask you to come with me." He stood 
between us, his right hand not six inches from 
Miranda's head.

"What's this about?" Scully asked.

"Child protective services has received a report --" 
That was bullshit, if Bill had sicced CPS on us they 
never would have found us in the middle of the city, 
they would have come to the house.

"I'd like to see some identification, please." Scully 
stood and had her gun at his stomach in one unified 
move, smooth as chocolate mousse. His attention 
shifted mostly to her, which gave me the opportunity 
to pull my own Sig, hidden behind Miranda's body. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, ma'am," he smiled 
and how could the people around us not be noticing 
this? I was aware of the rest of the world trotting 
along briskly as if this deadly scene were playing on 
the TV in an electronics store window, unnoticed. In 
his right hand I could now discern an item that 
looked like a keychain but had the telltale holes of a 
miniature gun. Miranda twisted her head to see what 
had taken my attention from her and made a grab 
for the weapon; when her pincers closed around it 
the man smiled. "That's right, honey, you can play 
with that in a minute."

Adrenaline spiked through my veins as he stared at 
Scully. "Bend down and leave the gun on the 
ground." If I could push Miranda behind me and fire 
fast enough -- the bullet might still pass through me 
and hit her.

Flicking her eyes over me and the baby like a 
lawnmower massacring grass, Scully slowly 
complied.

There would be one moment when he'd have to 
watch her carefully to make sure she didn't surge 
back up with the gun. If I could push his hand up just 
then, I could take him -- it would have to be with my 
gun hand, I couldn't let Miranda crack her head open 
on the concrete to save her from kidnapping. 

Slow as a replay of the Zapruder tape, Scully 
compressed herself downwards. Even I could feel 
the magnetic pull of her eyes as she willed the man 
to watch her, only her, she was the only threat that 
he had to worry about and if he took a fraction of his 
attention from her she might do something 
dangerous.

The tip of the gun barrel touched hot concrete. She 
was bending as if in fealty. I distinctly saw her index 
finger uncurl, and then the other fingers beginning to 
loosen. The man with the gun turned one degree too 
far towards her, overestimating his triumph.

As I rose, spun to take Miranda away from the line of 
fire, and struck upwards with my free hand, Scully 
moved at my feet. I felt a shock to the bones of my 
hand as my knuckles connected with the gunman's 
wrist. 

His hand flew up like a bottle rocket, not releasing 
his grip on his weapon, but he was falling backwards 
and Scully had her gun again pointed his throat 
before he'd figured out that he had undergone a 
ninety degree shift of orientation. When I'd moved, 
she'd headbutted him. It was the simplest thing she 
could do from that position, and coupled with my 
attack he'd toppled like a stack of children's blocks.

Elapsed time? Probably less than two minutes from 
the time he first opened his mouth.

Scully already had him flipped on his stomach, 
hands wrenched behind his back. She was 
mumbling something about big guys who threaten 
babies and inflicting incidental damage to his balls 
as she patted him down. Miranda was now 
squealing because of her sudden trip on Roller 
Coaster Mulder, and  *that* was enough to draw the 
attention of bystanders. Who noticed the guns. 
Cursing and fumbling with my gun, I found my badge 
and showed it around. "Don't worry, folks, it's all over 
now." 

This only increased the crowds.

Even on regular duty, we don't carry handcuffs and 
we had to wait for a police officer to come and take 
our attacker, who had not yet said a word even as 
Scully hissed imprecations and highly specific 
threats in his now-bleeding and dirty ear. I would 
have joined her in her impromptu interrogation 
session only Miranda was bored and fussy and in 
any event I needed to maintain my sentry position to 
ensure that our assailant didn't have a friend waiting 
for a second chance.

We gave our version of the incident to an 
uninterested detective who, despite our strong 
suggestions to the contrary, wrote it up as an 
attempted kidnapping by a sex pervert. Our FBI 
credentials had been completely erased by our 
relationship to Miranda, who demanded to examine 
absolutely everything on the detective's desk, which 
included half-full cups of congealed coffee, empty 
bags of Cheetos, dull pencils, small butterfly clips, 
and the remains of an apricot danish. I tried to calm 
her with the cat toy, but her slobber had not yet dried 
on it and it was too wet and mushy for her tastes.

Scully was quiet on the drive back to the house and 
the Mooselet was complaining in fine voice about 
the fact that residential neighborhoods had a speed 
limit of only twenty-five.  Scully being quiet is not a 
good thing, it means that packets of information are 
speeding along the network in the icy reaches of her 
brain and she's working on some plan that is sure to 
leave me open-mouthed with shock and/or horror.  I 
didn't imagine for a minute that anything 
approaching domesticity was going to slow her 
thought processes down, nor did I think that 
cohabitation was suddenly going to turn her into 
Carol Brady (even though bell-bottoms had come 
back with a vengeance).  However, I did hope that 
she wasn't planning anything that would endanger 
anyone's life or sanity.
  
Even as I schlepped the Mooselet into the house 
and plunked her down in her high chair for lunch, 
Scully took the chicken salad out of the refrigerator 
with a pensive expression and continued to compile 
information while I performed the tricky task of 
feeding the Mooselet and myself.

"I have to go to Annapolis to get some more of my 
things." 

I looked up from where I was wiping Moose-spit 
chicken salad off the floor. It seemed a small thing, 
but knowing Scully there was large wildlife swimming 
under the surface of that statement.  Large wildlife 
with teeth willing to chew up foxes who stepped 
wrong.

The Mooselet grabbed a handful of chicken salad 
from her plate and began to rub it in her fringe of 
silky dark hair.  Scully looked as me as though I was 
about to do the same thing.  Catzilla began doing 
the slalom around the chair legs and sucking up 
chunks of chicken pink baby hands had flung to the 
floor.  I let him, it was easier than mopping.  If the 
Mooselet developed a better overhand pitch we 
were going to have get more cats to cover a wider 
area.
 
"Take the Outback to Annapolis, you can fit more 
stuff in it." I offered.

Scully seemed surprised that I was so amenable to 
the idea of letting her escape my supervision. 
Actually, getting Scully out of the house wasn't a bad 
idea. I needed to get in touch with the Gunmen, find 
out who wanted Miranda, who was pulling Bill's 
strings and why. The attempt on her today had to be 
related to Bill's custody suit; someone wasn't sure 
that he'd win.

I had a thought as she headed to the front door.

"Also, you have to take Miranda. I'm not going to be 
home, there are some *things* I have to do, and 
Warwick's still not fully functional. You're a better 
shot than he is anyway. Besides, you need the 
practice."

She seemed a little dazed. I guided her over to the 
front closet, where we stored Miranda's traveling 
gear. "Here's the diaper bag, traveling with her is not 
that bad, just a little noisy. Just be sure to drive 
carefully.  Remember, there's a baby on board." I 
gave her my best hunka-hunka-burnin'-love gaze. 
She blushed as she used to do when I first began 
teasing her all those years ago, and it managed to 
distract her enough to get her out the door, Miranda 
in tow. I was impressed that she was able to stagger 
down the path to the station wagon.

I watched her wrestle the car door open, shove all 
Miranda's appurtenances inside the car, then begin 
the long process of getting Her Highness into her 
throne, which was about as easy as nailing Jell-O to 
a tree, only you weren't allowed to use nails.

As soon as the baby was strapped in, she began to 
wail. I hoped Scully didn't make the speed = silence 
connection too quickly, the thought of combining 
their needs for acceleration made me very afraid.

Then I hopped in Scully's car, nearly kneecapped 
myself on the steering wheel, swore, pushed the 
seat back, and finally headed for the Gunmen's 
hideout.

*****

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
2/

Sweet confetti out looking for a saviour
Finding it hard to break the change
Nothing ventured nothing gained
Ice cream beauty acting on her best behaviour
Finding it hard to bite her tongue
Feeling so old as the night is young 
	Natalie Imbruglia

Theoretically, Arlington to Annapolis is a pretty easy 
drive, provided that it isn't rush hour or you don't 
have a screaming nine-month old strapped to a baby 
seat in the back.  Miranda commenced howling 
when I put her in the car seat, which rattled my 
nerves so badly that my hands were shaking and I 
could hardly get the seat pulled forward enough to 
reach the gas and brake pedals.  Delayed reaction 
to the near-disaster in the afternoon -- not to 
mention the full-fledged disaster of the marriage 
license -- might have been a contributing factor as 
well.   

Maybe it was the chicken salad.

Miranda continued to wail all the way to Annapolis, 
varying only slightly in pitch like an electric saw 
going through different thicknesses of wood.  It was 
horrible, and I deserved every mile of misery.  In the 
past I had been guilty of reacting somewhat less 
than tolerantly to women in minivans full of children.  
I passed them at every opportunity and had been 
pretty colorful with my language as to their behavior 
on the road.  Now I was getting my comeuppance in 
spades. I drove like a dowager, trying not to jiggle 
Miranda any more than necessary.

By the time I finally pulled up in the far parking lot of 
my apartment complex, I was ready to kiss the 
tarmac like the Pope arriving in an airport. When I 
released Miranda from the baby bondage of the car 
seat, her hot red face was soaked with tears that 
had wet the entire front of her T-shirt.  She reached 
her hands out to me and wailed, "Lee! Lee!" with a 
heartbreaking earnestness that showed me that she 
had forgiven me for her original incarceration.

With Miranda cradled against my left shoulder and 
the diaper bag slung over my right, hand wrapped 
firmly around the comforting hardness of my gun, I 
staggered up the front steps of the building.  Inside, I 
pushed past the mail that had clogged the doorway 
and sniffed musty, old air.  I locked the door, 
plunked Miranda down on the carpet, and saw that 
the cleaning woman I'd hired to clean up after the 
forensics teams had scraped the place for evidence 
when Dr. Shimada had died in my bed had done a 
good job.  Only I no longer had any plants.  I had 
empty pots where plants had been. 

While Miranda began crawling around the floor 
faster than a hungry cockroach, I looked around and 
groaned to myself.  I no longer wanted to live here, 
too many ugly things had happened here.  Melissa, 
Dr. Shimada, George.  Even if I didn't have my new 
and unusual domestic situation I still would have 
been packing.  Too much is too much.  Whoever 
took up occupancy after me was going to have to 
get her own exorcist. 

After five boxes, each one-handed with the Moose 
(she was not light enough to deserve the diminutive 
any more) on my other hip, I was tuckered out. To 
rest, I took a look at my answering machine, which 
was bravely blinking red. When was the last time I 
checked my messages? Oh, probably sometime in 
the month before George crashed my pity party - I 
had stopped listening to my messages in March 
after I figured out that Mulder was not going to call 
me back; it was too pathetic.

Despite the length of my delinquency, the tape was 
not full. Well, I never claimed to have a social life. 
There were a few random solicitations, two 
messages from Zippy about the case we'd been on 
just before George came, one message from my 
mother.  My mother - I was going to have to do 
something about her shortly.  Just hearing her voice 
made my stomach hurt as though I were trying to 
digest a stone.

The next-to-last message was from George. I had to 
go cradle Miranda, protecting her from the world, 
when I heard  the dead man's voice slice through the 
air.

"Where are you, Scully? I really need to talk to you. I 
promise, I'll be good...I know what you need. Scully, 
pick up if you're there. If you don't answer, I'm 
coming over..."

Finally there was a click and an outraged squeak 
from Miranda as I loosened my grip and she began 
to slide downwards like a slow avalanche of baby 
powder. I readjusted and she slapped spit-slick 
fingers against my cheek, gabbling reassurance.

I was in a bad way if I needed support from a 
preverbal child over the promises of a corpse.

Nonetheless it was the last message that forced me 
to sit down. The pharmacy, calling to ask whether I 
was planning to pick up the birth control prescription 
that Dr. Shimada had written for me just before she 
did her final rounds, so to speak. Honestly, I'd 
forgotten about it. In my arms, Miranda was hot as a 
solar panel.

At least I was still underweight and under stress, 
both natural contraceptives. I could pick up the 
prescription shortly; in the meantime there were still 
plenty of condoms in the house. Mulder, perhaps 
because he wasn't eighteen anymore, had felt 
compelled to buy a lifetime supply, which he had 
stuffed into bathroom drawers that previously had 
housed my skin care products. So using them up 
would not only be pleasurable, it would be a blow for 
neatness in the Mulder household.

Hold on, the Mulder/Scully household. Mulder-
Scully? Scully/Mulder?

Does anal retentive have a hyphen?

The Mooselet chose that moment to spit a milky glob 
of some bodily fluid onto my sweatshirt. I looked into 
her green-corn eyes. "Good job," I said.  "Now what 
can you do about my hair?"

She fixed me with an evaluative look and, creepily 
enough, grabbed a hunk of my hair to stuff in her 
mouth.

It kept her quiet as I picked up the next box.

While I was packing my address book, I accidentally 
joggled the answering machine and George's voice 
whined flatly out from beyond the veil.  

"Where are you, Scully? I really need to talk to you. I 
promise, I'll be good...I know what you need. Scully, 
pick up if you're there. If you don't answer, I'm 
coming over..."

It was my turn to spit up, but my aim was better and I 
got it all in the toilet.  Miranda sat on the floor next to 
me and applauded.

After a trip to Alexandria that resembled the trip to 
Annapolis, only with less rear view because of the 
boxes, I put Miranda down for a nap and dragged 
the baby monitor into the study.   There I made a 
telephone call that almost made me wail loud 
enough to challenge Miranda's concert in the car.

The Virginia police had no record of an arrest that 
afternoon for an attempted kidnapping. It could have 
been delayed record entry but I remembered the 
diligent tap-tapping of the desk sergeant when we 
came in, Virginia was trying to join the computer age 
and enter arrest data straight into the computer 
system.  However, this incident wasn't in the system 
and therefore it had not happened. I checked the 
name of the patrol officer who'd come to our 
assistance and it turned out that Virginia thought 
he'd transferred to a job in Maryland last week.

Great.  Fucking typical.  It was too much to ask that 
something be handled normally.

There was one more errand to be done before I 
could rest. I had to go and deal with my mother.  
Mulder was not in evidence yet and so I packed 
Miranda up. She was slobbery and sleepy, but in a 
relatively good mood which improved further when I 
saw that traffic was light and pushed the Outback up 
to speeds approaching escape velocity.

She pouted when we stopped, but the spit bubble 
spoiled the pathos. "None of that, young lady," I said 
as I extracted her from the safety seat.  "You've got 
to be charming for Grandma."

My mother answered the door on the second ring. 
Behind her I could hear the television and the telltale 
hysterical sobs of a young child. I winced in unwilling 
sympathy. For a moment I wondered whether we 
wouldn't all be better off if babies' howls could only 
be heard by animals, like dog whistles.

"Dana," Mom said, making it into an exclamation of 
surprise.

"Hello, Mom." We'd never really finished our 
discussion, that morning she'd showed up and we'd 
gotten served with notice of the lawsuit. "I want to 
talk to you about Miranda."

She held out her arms for her granddaughter and I 
hesitated long enough for her to take notice before 
shuffling the burden onto her. Miranda smiled and 
patted Mom's upper arm. She liked my mother more 
than she'd liked me at first and this hurt me in ways I 
didn't want to consider.

We walked down the hallway into the living room, 
where Tara was rocking Matthew, who was now a 
suety eighteen-month-old with the Scully blue eyes 
and Bill's own frown.  We acknowledged one 
another with the subtlest of nods, as housewife and 
career woman we were mortal enemies and now we 
no longer had any reason to hide it. 

"Where's Bill?" I asked with distant politeness, as if I 
was inquiring about a pet parakeet.

"He went to the store for some more diapers," my 
mother responded. "Dana, I wish you'd have listened 
to me earlier, it didn't need to come to this."

"It doesn't need to come to this, Mom. Bill and Tara 
have a lovely child,"  -- a lie in the service of justice, I 
thought nastily -- "and they have no reason to try to 
take Miranda."

If her hands had been free, my mother would have 
folded them primly in her lap to go along with the 
frown. Instead she just rocked Miranda, lulling her to 
sleep with her drool drizzling onto Mom's lavender 
sweater. "Dana, you know we've been concerned 
about you ever since you joined the FBI. But in the 
past few years -- with everything that's happened -- 
how can you expect to give a child what she 
needs?"

"I'm her mother," I said. At that moment I had never 
felt more unsure of the truth of that statement. 
Biologically, yes, but there are plenty of biological 
mothers who dump their babies in toilets and beat 
them senseless with electrical cords. I wasn't at that 
level, this I believed, but I wasn't exactly Mother of 
the Year material either.

"You were her mother when you abandoned her in 
Montana."

I stared at my mother resentfully. If I'd still had bangs 
I would have looked through them like the most 
rebellious of teenagers. "I did not  *abandon* her. 
Emerson and Aileen --"

"Don't give me that! Fox isn't capable of taking care 
of himself and I don't believe that any brother of his 
would be any better. Bill's told me about all those 
insane twins --"

"Who gave him this allegedly damning information?" 

Her voice flowed over the interruption like water over 
a rocky streambed.  "-- and I can only withhold 
judgment so long. How long before Fox follows the 
rest of them into madness and violence?"

It didn't help any that I'd had similar thoughts once or 
twice. Or three times, max. "Your crude genetic 
determinism doesn't change the fact that Mulder has 
always been --"

"A psycho?"

I turned and rose, my hand slipping back towards 
my gun, to greet my beloved brother.

"Bill." 

"Dana."

Now that we'd admitted personal knowledge of each 
other's identity, there didn't seem much to say. I had 
one question, though.

"Why are you doing this?"

His face twisted in disgust. "I've seen the tape, 
Dana."

"Tape?" Which one, a surveillance tape of me and 
Mulder doing the nasty?  Probably not, Bill might 
have learned something.

"The tape where you kill all the children. What kind 
of monster --?"

I don't know what I did to piss God off, and I guess 
I'd apologize if I thought He'd consider forgiving me. 
Even Mulder's mistakes didn't follow him around like 
this. But that tape of me in Roush's secret facility, 
destroying the deformed test subjects that had been 
created with my ova, had lured Mulder -- and then 
me -- into Jason's clutches, and it had apparently 
survived the destruction of Roush to continue to 
haunt me.  Someone, someone who wanted 
Miranda in the hands of less careful custodians, had 
taken that tape and showed it to Bill. I needed to 
know who, and why.

"I don't know what you think you saw," I lied, "but it's 
part of a terrible scheme involving human 
experimentation and tremendous suffering, you're 
furthering that agenda by --"

"Don't give me that Woodward and Bernstein crap! I 
know what you and that sicko do, you fight against 
the very government that pays your salary -- 
paranoid theories no better than the Freemen and 
that crazy comet cult --"

"I'm not against government, just against lying to 
citizens and killing them for fun and profit, I guess if 
you're an unthinking fascist that's acceptable but --"

Miranda's wail cut through the argument and, rattled, 
I scooped her out of Mom's arms to my mother's 
great distress. Miranda continued to wail for a 
moment and then settled down. I was so grateful 
that, had she understood it, I would cheerfully have 
paid her a fifty dollar reward; instead I kissed her hot 
silky head and she snapped at my hair with her 
newly budded teeth.  

"Who got you your lawyer, Bill? Are you aware that 
he's with the same firm that represented a company 
whose illegal genetic manipulation and murderous 
plots Mulder and I exposed? What does he get out 
of this lawsuit?"

Bill flinched and I knew that part of him wondered 
the same thing. But he would pack those doubts 
away in a locked closet, confident that he could 
control the extent of his debt to Them. Dealing with 
Them is like taking a hit of crack -- perhaps a few 
strong souls out there can stop any time they want. 
But I thought Bill was not one of those happy few, 
not with a wife and a baby who could be used 
against him.  My brother - the sucker.

"None of that matters because Miranda is going to 
live with us, not some lawyer. We'll raise her right, 
far away from this insanity you've descended into. 
Dana," he said, and his voice was full of real pain, 
"why don't you listen to us? We only want what's 
best for you." Beside him, my mother nodded.

No doubt attracted by the male voice, Miranda 
looked over at Bill and when she realized that the 
red-faced red-haired man was not Mulder and not 
Warwick, she whimpered and burrowed her face in 
my neck, patting my cheek for reassurance.  She 
didn't like this loud man yelling at her and she went 
to me as a source of comfort - even if I had put her 
in the car seat.   

"This isn't getting us anywhere," I announced, 
feeling my daughter's approval buoying me up in this 
strange sea of family trauma. "I'm sorry you've 
believed the lies of strangers rather than trusting me 
to know what's best for me and my family. You 
should know that the men who've convinced you to 
turn on me tend to discard their tools when the job is 
over. So you watch yourself, because I'm not going 
to protect you."

I turned to go, but I could still hear Bill's voice 
clearly. "Listen to yourself, Dana, you sound just as 
psychotic as your crazy partner."

That really demanded an exit line, so I swiveled on 
my heel and smiled like Medusa finding a new 
victim. "Actually, Bill, we're getting married this 
Friday, so I think the correct term is 'fianc‚.'"

Miranda and I drove home in a state of well-justified 
moral outrage and renewed determination to win the 
fight. Okay, so maybe she was just happy not to be 
in pain from teething, but I felt that she shared my 
outlook when she gabbled and pounded her fist on 
the safety seat with such authority and firmness.

She fell asleep instantly when I took her back to her 
room. 

The bloodlust from the argument began to wear off 
as I realized that the battle was going to be 
considerably more difficult than many of our other 
struggles. Skinner was used to hearing reports of 
the unexplainable and convoluted from us, but what 
would a family court judge think? Bill had a point, 
from the outside Mulder and I sounded like the kind 
of people who paranoid schizophrenics would avoid 
because we were too strange and dangerous.

I made the mistake of mentioning some of the day's 
events to Warwick when I went down to look at his 
shoulder. Mulder and I had agreed that having a 
nurse come every day was too dangerous; we didn't 
anyone whose credentials we'd have to take on faith 
in the house. So that left me checking his wound to 
make sure that the miracle of healing was 
proceeding on schedule. I bet Mulder would have 
been a lot more interested in trusting the help if *he* 
was the one checking which bodily fluids Warwick 
was leaking.

"I can't believe you're so calm about this!" he 
blustered as I handed him his latest dose of pain 
meds. "You act like it happens every day!"

I shrugged. "Well, every week, essentially. Except 
during the summers, for some reason. So I guess 
the timing is unusual."

He groaned. "Mulder never told me about this secret 
agent shit when we met."

I couldn't help but smile sympathetically. "Join the 
club."

"What did he tell you - at first."

"Go away, but not in so many words."

To calm my nerves, I boiled a box of pasta and ate 
two heaping bowls full, which calmed me enough 
that I could start on the ice cream.

****

The Gunmen's latest locale was a few blocks from 
Union Station, on the other side from all the 
government buildings. The office was an unmarked 
building in between the Peter Pan and Greyhound 
depots. The other cars parked outside were all too 
bad to steal, so I set Scully's Club and hoped that 
would be enough.

"Mulder," Frohike greeted me at the door. "I've got 
some info on that law firm you were interested in."

In my life, as in the movies, no one wastes any time 
with hello or goodbye.  You have to save time for 
plot or people get bored.

I followed him back into the computer room where 
Langly and Byers were waiting.

"Roush was about forty percent of their business. In 
the months since the raid in Texas, they've laid off a 
bunch of associates. But, last month, they acquired 
a major new client -- also a biotech firm, and all the 
partners who'd worked on Roush business have 
shifted to this new client. Patents, political donations, 
government contracts, there's a lot of legal work 
when you manipulate human DNA for fun and profit."

"Is this new firm made of the same people who were 
at Roush?"

Byers handed me a printout with a list of names on 
it. "That was our next thought. There were about 
twenty scientists who were supposed to be working 
at Roush who were never caught or discovered in 
the wreckage. They've all been missing since then. 
No credit card activity, no employment reported to 
the Social Security Administration, nothing."

"I need to know more about this company."

Frohike shook his head. "Not much out there, just a 
pretty prospectus, and a name: BioQuest."

Langly looked at me. "What do you think it is? More 
government experimentation disguised as a private 
sector venture to accommodate the popular passion 
for privatization?"

I shrugged. "I'll look into it. I also need you to check 
out a lawyer, one my firm recommended for my 
custody case, Laura Broder. I need to make sure 
that she's not connected to anyone who might have 
an interest in doing me harm."

"Custody case?" It wasn't surprising that Byers was 
the one to ask. He wore a ring, and he might have 
some interest in a personal life, unlike the others.

"Yeah, Scully's brother is suing us to get Miranda. 
He thinks we're weirdoes."

"That's crazy!" Frohike said with no sense of irony 
whatsoever. "Do you want character witnesses?"

The thought chilled me as though I had been jogging 
up and down the ice cream section at the 
supermarket.

"No, that's all right, really," I gabbled in a hasty voice 
which made Langly sniff at the implied insult.

I didn't tell them about the impending nuptials. I 
assumed that Scully would want to choose her own 
bridesmaids, and I didn't think Frohike would look 
good in pink taffeta.

The boys prevailed upon me to play with some of 
their new software. I'd only meant to stay for one 
game, but time flies when you're blowing 
xenomorphs away and trying to rescue buxom 
babes. As always, I didn't want to stop until I'd gotten 
the girl, as unlikely as that was to happen. Ultimately 
it was the realization that Scully had yet to call and 
ask where I was that made me nervous enough to 
leave.

When I got home Scully was pacing the kitchen like 
a leopard tired of its cage. In between circuits she 
was gobbling from a mostly-melted pint of Coffee 
Heath Bar Crunch. She ate with the same distracted 
fury that I often saw in bed and I suspected that 
similar dynamics were at work: pleasure but not 
enjoyment, stemming from a desperate need to shut 
her mind off and let bodily functions prevail. I was 
glad that she was gaining weight and I was no 
longer afraid that she'd suddenly crumble 
underneath my hard hands like an autumn leaf, but 
this didn't strike me as the right way to bulk up.

"You're late," she said when she deigned to 
acknowledge my presence, simultaneously giving 
the sodden iceberg in the carton a vicious stab as if 
it were my liver.

"I didn't realize we had an appointment." I didn't want 
to fight, but I wasn't going to be her punching bag 
either.

Scully sniffed, ready to claw back, and then her 
shoulders dropped as she reconsidered and put the 
lid back on the ice cream. "Our would-be kidnapper 
disappeared from police custody, there's no record 
he was ever even there.  Also, Bill isn't financing this 
lawsuit himself, the Navy doesn't pay that well and 
Tara is wearing this season's Jaclyn Smith 
Collection, which might be a matter of taste but I 
don't think so."

"You think someone else is pulling his strings?" 

She closed the freezer and I moved behind her, 
putting my hands on her shoulders where she was 
as tense as the cables on a suspension bridge. Her 
voice was low and I had to lean over her to hear her. 
"Miranda was a test subject before, there might be 
Roush survivors who want to see how well you've 
done with her." 

"We've done with her."

She sighed and tilted her head back into my chest 
as I continued to push against resistant flesh. 
Flyaway hairs brushed against the scabs on my 
neck, tickling like wandering ants, but I didn't flinch. I 
worked over her shoulders and neck until she 
relaxed further, leaning her weight against me as I 
contemplated the pictures of Miranda and her cousin 
Samuel that were stuck to the fridge.  Samuel was 
safe he was home brewed from Emerson and 
Aileen's unmodified chromosomes, just another 
reason to stoke the wry jealousy I had for my saintly 
brother.

"I think you're right," I admitted -- but let the record 
show that Scully was being paranoid, and thus I 
wasn't acceding to the voice of reason. I've got my 
pride. "I've got the Gunmen looking for where the 
mad scientists have gone to ground. For the 
moment we need to focus on the court case, we can 
take more aggressive action when we have better 
leads than a disappearing kidnapper and a 
suspiciously well-funded lawsuit."

Scully turned in my arms and pressed her cheek to 
my chest, which gave me a strange, fluttery feeling 
in my stomach. "What do you think they want with 
her?"

"I think it's fair to say that they aren't interested in 
her developing motor skills."

"I used to want the truth, I used to want Justice.   
Now all I want is to be left alone."

By way of non-verbal agreement, I kissed her, and 
her mouth tasted appealingly of Heath Bar Crunch.

****

I woke in a cold sweat from a nightmare in which I 
was choking in green gelatin. Mulder's arm was 
draped over my midriff and his entire torso was 
pressed up against my back, undoubtedly the 
source of the breathing troubles. I rolled away and 
fled into Miranda's room where I checked to see that 
she was breathing and then watched her sleep. 
Sitting by her crib as she burbled was not quite as 
restful as sleeping myself, but it had a certain quiet 
pleasure.

She deserved better than I did. I knew I had made a 
number of bad decisions in the past year, so that I 
was in danger of actually lapping Mulder in the 
lifetime score. It was as if I'd had an enormous blade 
driven into my chest, right by my heart, when I 
discovered Emily. With a puncture wound like that 
you don't want to remove the foreign object until 
you're in the OR; otherwise the patient will bleed out 
almost instantly. The only problem is that you'd 
better get your victim to the hospital, because slowly 
bleeding to death is still bleeding to death. Emily 
was that sword and I had neither removed her nor 
repaired the damage in the months that followed 
San Francisco. Instead I'd stumbled from place to 
place, trying to pretend that I wasn't drenched in 
blood. My own and others'.

I needed to prove to the court and to myself that I 
was sane once more.

Could I really play hausfrau to pull this off? Mulder 
had adapted to his new babyfied existence. And 
anything he could do, I could do better, it was a 
guiding tenet of mine. Also I owed him and Miranda 
some effort keeping her safe from Bill and whatever 
his connection with Roush was, if only because Bill 
was my flesh and blood.

The slow liquid tide of Miranda's breathing 
eventually lulled me back into sleep, upright in the 
rocking chair beside her. I did not dream again.

Being up a ladder seemed to be an invitation to 
trouble these days. The next morning, I was 
wobbling near the front picture window, the ladder 
straddling the anemic impatiens I had planted to 
replace the bushes that the Arlington PD and FBI 
SWAT team had destroyed. I had a caulk gun in my 
hands and was trying to fill yet another spray of 
bullet holes when a rental Buick Regal pulled into 
the driveway.  The Lariat sticker was clearly visible 
on the rear bumper and I wondered who from the 
Bureau had bothered to render a car so close to the 
office.

It wasn't an agent. The woman who emerged from 
the car was well dressed in an understated fashion 
that I saw in my nightmares.  Obviously, I had been 
watching too many Disney movies because the first 
thing that occurred to me as Christina Mulder walked 
to the door was that she had the same hairdo as the 
wicked stepmother from Cinderella.   

She stopped on the front step and gave me an 
assessing look.  I wasn't exactly at my best 
prospective daughter-in-law mode right then and it 
registered in her pale eyes.

"Is Fox home?"

"Just a moment," I tapped on the window and caught 
Mulder's attention from where he was separating 
baby and cat for the millionth time.

"It's your *mom*," I lipped to him through the glass.

"Shit," he lipped back.

After plopping Miranda back in her playpen, he 
emerged.

"Hi Mom," he said in a slightly flippant tone, "run out 
of people to torment in New England?"

He didn't invite her in.

"What is this about putting your father's house up for 
sale?" she demanded in a tone that could have 
taught Queen Elizabeth a thing or two, "And you 
could have told me that you were getting married," 
she added, looking over her nose at me. I gave in 
and backed slowly down the ladder.

"And where did you hear that?" I asked.

"Fox told Ann Kelly at the real estate office, I play 
bridge with her mother.  Funny that you should tell 
her, wasn't she the one that you were so close with 
that one summer?"

He actually had the decency to blush.

"I'm surprised that you noticed," he murmured.

Mother and son stared at one another for a moment, 
but thirty-eight years of behavior modification are 
hard to break and he backed down.

"Lemonade or iced tea?" he asked.

The back porch was shaded from the sullen Virginia 
sun so it was only as hot and muggy as an armpit as 
opposed to a bare back baked in the sun.  I dragged 
Miranda's playpen out on the porch and she played 
with her black cat toy under the cool eye of her 
grandmother.  Mulder sat next to me on the glider, 
unconsciously fiddling with the neck of his T-shirt 
where it rubbed on the painfully pink new flesh and 
matching black scabs where George had skinned 
his throat.

Through the entire interview, Tina never looked up 
from her appraisal of Miranda.  On her part, Miranda 
looked up from her play from time to time to her 
grandmother with an incurious expression.

"Have you made any plans?"

Mulder took a drink to fortify himself. "First thing 
Friday morning at the county courthouse." And in the 
afternoon, we were going on our honeymoon -- a 
meeting with our new lawyer. "It's a preemptive 
strike since Scully's brother Bill is trying to get 
custody of Miranda on the grounds that we're 
mentally unstable.  I thought that if we got married 
that would help the cause somewhat." 

I picked at the drying caulk on my jeans and looked 
out at the lawn steaming under the sun.  The grass 
needed to be cut. From his place behind the screen, 
Catzilla pawed at the edge of the window frame and 
complained because he was stuck inside and all the 
good stuff was happening on the porch. 

"We still don't have rings," I said grimly. 

When I'd agreed it hadn't seemed quite so, well, 
sordid. I was brought up to believe in the sanctity of 
marriage, and though my recent sexual history 
wouldn't exactly make Father McHugh happy, I still 
got the heebie-jeebies when I considered bringing 
my relationship with Mulder under the heading 
"sacred."

"I have my father's upstairs," Mulder said and rose to 
walk into the house. He was talking over his 
shoulder as he left. "We can't really afford anything 
spectacular for you, but I think there's a jewelry store 
at the mall. It's probably still open."

At least he didn't offer me a cigar ring or the prize 
from a Crackerjacks box.

Mulder's mother had been watching us impassively, 
neither frowning nor smiling, her face as impervious 
as the ceramic tiles on a space shuttle. Tina looked 
down at her hands, then pulled decisively at the 
rings on her left ring finger. They slid off easily; her 
knuckles were still patrician and her fingers slim, not 
swollen with age or care. "Here," she said. "I hope 
you have all the joy of them that I did."

The diamond solitaire and matching thin gold band 
flashed like the fireball from a nuclear explosion in 
her palm.

She held out her hand and I stared at it.

I made it almost all the way to the toilet before I 
threw up.

Clinging to the cold porcelain bowl, feeling colder 
sweat drip from my hairline to the rim of the powder 
room toilet, I shuddered and heaved until I was 
relieved of the burden of lunch.   It was a bad 
anxiety attack, vomiting, hyperventilating, racing 
pulse, feelings of dread and fear, paranoia, and 
claustrophobia. Almost like being back at work. The 
spasms continued until I thought that the toilet bowl 
was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, so cool 
and smooth and stable, the pivot around which my 
world was turning.

I guess that's why they call it worshipping at the 
porcelain altar.

I heard voices and footsteps in the hall and a 
moment later the door opened and Mulder poked his 
head in.

"Scully?"

"I'm fine Mulder," I moaned and another wave hit 
me.

After I was done and had flushed the toilet, I sat 
back on the tiles and leaned against the wall, afraid 
to go too far from the safety of the bathroom.  
Mulder came after me with a cold, wet washcloth 
and wiped my face off as though I was Miranda.

"Mom left," he said.

"Do you think that I'm mentally unstable?  Do you 
think that I would hurt Miranda?"

Crouched on the floor, he rubbed his eyes until they 
were pink as a rabbit's.

"No.  The only person you endanger is yourself.  
Come on upstairs, the Mooselet is down for a nap -- 
join her."

I stumbled upstairs while hanging onto his arm like 
an old woman.  I brushed my teeth and drank a 
gallon of water.  Mulder helped me out of my clothes 
and poured me onto the bed where he covered me 
with a blanket.  I lay there in the cool room, listening 
to the oceanic sound of Miranda breathing over the 
baby monitor, and I finally drifted off.


Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
3/

inside we can not feel what's fake & what is real
lover of mine I deny I lie
maybe it was in my drink maybe I'm the gypsy jinx
maybe I am his meat at noon with spoons
&spoons of ice cream creams creams
fill my mouth with other things
	Shara

Scully slept like Miranda -- so still that I occasionally 
had to check to ensure that she was still breathing.

After we got married, I'd be expected to watch her 
sleep every night for the rest of my life. I hoped 
she'd change her policy on TV or I'd be bored out of 
my skull in weeks.  I couldn't believe how much of 
the Discovery, History, and Learning Channels the 
woman watched.  I don't think she had ever watched 
a show with a laugh track in her life.  Not to mention 
the fact that she had no idea where ESPN was.

There was a point in my life that I thought I might 
turn out to be Ted Bundy. Now -- tragic irony or 
poetic justice? -- it seemed I was more of an Al. But 
Scully wasn't nearly as well endowed as Peg, more's 
the pity.

It's not that I'd never thought about marriage. Hell, 
I'd even exchanged rings once. (She wanted both of 
us to be marked off from the herd, because she 
thought it was unfair that she was the only one 
supposed to be private property during the 
engagement. I suspect Scully would have the same 
objection if we'd attempted an actual engagement.) 
Then I'd started up with Dr. Werber and the 
relationship went downhill faster and messier than 
the Jamaican bobsled team.

I'd never been any good at happy endings. The 
difficulty of my quest had always substituted for my 
ability to visualize a final goal. Samantha, aliens, 
truth, magic, it all swirled around in a mist of 
fantasies and pipe dreams -- a giant Hanukah list 
that I knew would never be fulfilled. I couldn't shake 
the feeling that I'd screw up or Scully would panic 
and bring our fragile union down like a UFO-buzzed 
plane.

I'd been mad at Scully for leaving, for treating her 
daughter like she was an impulse purchase that 
could be returned for store credit. Yet I didn't have a 
fantasy perfect life that I thought she'd destroyed 
with that decision. What I knew about being a 
husband could fit in the palm of Miranda's hand. 
Where it would probably get smeared on the floor 
like anything else she held did.

Shortly after dark, Scully's eyes melted open and 
she rolled over on her side to look at me.  The 
blankness behind the blue made my chest hurt.

"It's going to be all right," I said to both of us.

Outside, the earliest of the crickets started chirping 
the insect aria of love.  She put her hand on the side 
of my face and her skin was dry and warm as usual.  
Oddly enough, this was one of the Mooselet's 
affectionate gestures as well, only Scully's hands 
weren't wet with drool and the reaction that churned 
my stomach was nothing like the one that I had 
when Her Highness did the same thing.  I leaned 
over and kissed her. Kissing had never really been a 
big part of our foreplay, and seemed to be an 
afterthought rather than an activity unto itself. The 
combination of the fear that was chilling the sexual 
centers of my brain and the dull ache in my ribs 
made it seem like the most natural thing in the world.  
Her hands spread out over the back of my shirt, 
warming against me and she kissed me back with a 
strange hesitancy that was sweet in the extreme.  
We lay there like teenagers on a picnic blanket, 
kissing and listening to the crickets outside, trying to 
think about anything and everything except what 
was looming up ahead like a barely submerged 
iceberg.

****

When I was a little girl I imagined that I would have a 
big Barbie doll wedding with a creampuff dress, a 
horse and carriage ride to and from the church and 
my bridesmaids, who were my best friends would 
wear pink satin dresses.  When I was a teenager, I 
imagined that my father would escort me down the 
aisle of the chapel at Annapolis in his dress whites 
while I wore an ever-so sleek white cocktail dress 
and impossibly high heels. I had miraculously grown 
five inches just in time. The face of the groom 
waiting in either fantasy was directly related to the 
actor who was the top box office or the singer who 
was at the top of the charts that week.  When I was 
in medical school, I still thought wistfully about that 
arch of crossed swords a Navy bride gets to sail 
through, and my fantasy groom continued to look 
like Alec Baldwin, but he was a surgeon.

Yes, all right, I thought about Jack when I was first 
with the FBI. It's terribly embarrassing now. 

Even when we started having sex, I never imagined 
marrying Mulder. God -- I could hardly stand living 
with him.

And none of my fantasy weddings ever took place at 
the county courthouse, sandwiched in between the 
wedding of two lovesick, jailbait youngsters, one of 
whom (the female I assume) was visibly pregnant -- I 
didn't know that people still got married when that 
happened -- and an obvious Green Card couple. "Do 
NOT Take Pictures in the Waiting Room," the sign 
warned, as if anyone would want to. 

The county clerk recited the words of the civil 
ceremony without much interest. Mulder mumbled at 
the appropriate moments, and I grunted agreement. 
Warwick and Ingveld witnessed; Zippy had refused 
to go along with our pathetic scheme, as he termed 
it.   Meanwhile, standing there in her pale blue suit 
from Talbot's, was Christina Mulder.  I like to think 
that she was trying to atone for the hell that she'd 
put us through over the past year, but I suspect that 
she needed to witness the event for herself - kind of 
like making that last trip to the funeral home to view 
the body. She had to make sure that it was dead.  

Mulder, bless his pointed head, was decked out in 
the suit he'd forgotten at the dry cleaners, the only 
one that had survived George's image makeover.  
He looked slightly more festive than usual due to the 
wilting salmon-colored rose from the garden pinned 
to his lapel.  The high collar disguised the scabs, 
though he'd had to insulate the shirt with a layer of 
tissue to guard against seepage. 

I had my own wilting rose pinned to my suit as well.  
Yes, the bride wore a suit. What else would I wear?  
It was a pencil-gray suit, double-breasted with a 
slightly shorter skirt than I usually wore, which meant 
that the skirt would have been obscenely short on a 
normally proportioned woman. The thing that 
cheesed me off was that I had bought a *beautiful* 
cream silk and linen suit when I was dying from 
cancer.   I mean this was a to-die-for suit, as a 
matter of fact I had told no one that I had put a 
provision in my will that it was what I wanted to be 
buried in rather than whatever nightmare my mother 
picked out - anyway, the suit no longer fit.  I huffed 
and I puffed and I squeezed my stomach in, but the 
skirt zipper refused to go the last few inches for me.  
It also made me look like a sausage around the hips 
now that I had gained weight back.

Damnit, that was a great suit. Depression hadn't 
soured my carefully attained fashion sense.

Since I had no intentions of going back to that 
emaciated size again, I gave the suit to Ingveld, and 
it amused her if nothing else.  I was appalled that it 
actually fit Ingveld, even if the skirt was a little short.  
No one was allowed to be that long and narrow..  It 
made me wonder if the end product of all the genetic 
tampering I had witnessed in the past two years was 
to create a race of greyhound people, long and lean 
and lovely.  There was not going to be a place for 
pygmies like me in the New World Order.  But even I 
can't hate anyone as sweet as Ingveld. She made 
me go shopping with her and seemed genuinely 
upset that I was not looking for some tissue paper 
and lace fantasy.  The gray suit was a viable 
replacement for the cream one, and it had trousers 
as well which made it more valuable as a wardrobe 
staple.

Ingveld herself was turned out in a retro sixties 
sundress that showed the tattoos on her arms and 
back, and Miranda was encased in a frothy pink 
monstrosity courtesy of Grandma Mulder.  Actually, 
Miranda was the only one who seemed to be 
enjoying herself..  She babbled and squawked 
throughout the breakneck speed ceremony and 
broke into inappropriate laughter when Mulder 
jammed the ring on my finger.

 ". . . you may now kiss the bride."

Which he did with lips as sensual as a Kleenex.

Miranda squealed and let out a stream of baby 
giggles.  The clerk even smiled.

My stomach heaved and bile burned the back of my 
throat.  It was too horrible.  It was not supposed to 
be like this, he was not the man that I was supposed 
to marry, and it was not supposed to be for this 
reason.  My wedding was supposed to be traditional 
and romantic, not invested with the same level of 
intimacy as getting lunch at the McDonald's drive-
through.

Ingveld took pictures and I hoped that the film 
jammed in the camera.

We had a celebratory lunch for our non-celebration. I 
don't remember anything about it. I tuned back in 
when, in the day's crowning glory, I got volunteered 
to drive my new mother-in-law back to her hotel 
while Miranda alternately complained and cooed in 
the back seat.  At least someone was having a good 
time.

Mulder's mother was just as hard to deal with one on 
one as when Mulder was around. I'd been hoping 
that he'd provoked her like he provoked me and that 
she was a sweet little old lady in her spare time, but 
no such luck. 

Part of my dislike had to be the class difference. My 
father spent his life defending his country; for this we 
lived on base housing and frequently ate Spaghetti-
Os for five straight nights at the end of the month 
when one of the four kids had some special 
expense.  Mulder, by contrast, sweats money, it's 
more common than oxygen to him, and his family 
got the big house in Martha's Vineyard because his 
parents helped deceive a trusting public and 
participated in human experimentation. Okay, 
maybe that just funded the *summer* house.   The 
rest of the money probably came from bribes from 
sub-contractors.

For whatever reason, the woman made my skin 
crawl. As I was pulling into the driveway of the 
Marriott, she put her hand on my arm. "I'm going to 
go to Philadelphia to see an old friend tomorrow," 
she said. "I may want to show you something in a 
few days."

"What would you possibly have to show me that I'd 
want to see?"

She smiled without teeth, but there was still a threat 
present. "I'm interested in why outsiders want control 
of my granddaughter, I think you ought to be as 
well."

"Who are you going to see?"

"Come to Philadelphia when I call you," she let the 
doorman help her out of the car with the stiff 
formality of the old and well-bred and disappeared 
into the air-conditioned shelter of the hotel.

"What do you think about that?  Should we trust your 
grandma?" I asked Miranda. I could see her in the 
additional mirror Mulder had attached to the rear-
view for just such purpose.

Miranda stuffed her fist in her mouth and declined 
comment.

**** 

Mom took all parties involved out to brunch at a 
white-tablecloth restaurant in Old Town Alexandria 
just as if we'd had an orthodox (or Reform, for that 
matter) wedding.  The place wasn't particularly baby-
friendly but the maitre'd caved under Mom's icy 
control. I filled her bottle with apple juice and sat her 
on my lap to keep her involved in the festivities.  
Sitting next to me, Scully was as pale as the linen 
napkins and sipped at her orange juice with a hand 
that shook under the new burden of the rings.

Actually, I was proud of the compromise that we had 
reached regarding the rings.  Not far from the old 
apartment at Hegal Place there was an antique store 
where I had spent hours looking for the more 
obscure occult books, and I had remembered that 
they had estate jewelry.  Scully wasn't opposed to 
having someone else's wedding band and 
engagement ring provided that it wasn't Mom's.  In 
the end, Scully was the proud owner of a large blue 
topaz ring that was almost the same shade as her 
eyes and a plain gold band with someone else's 
wedding date engraved in it. April 15, 1912 to be 
exact. It seemed oddly appropriate, we didn't have 
enough lifeboats either. 

Someday, if any of this fucking mess turned out to 
be anything other than an obscene farce, I'd replace 
the ring with a new one with the correct date so she 
would be sure she was throwing an accurate symbol 
down the toilet.

While Scully drove my mother back to her hotel, I 
stewed. I needed physical activity, I was sick to 
death of being cooped up in the house and my face 
was no longer plastered in every grocery store in 
town so it was probably safe to leave. I laced up my 
sneakers and went out.

Careful of my various hurts, I jogged a couple 
blocks, working with the pain in my ribs, the pain in 
my neck and the pain in my chest that had nothing 
to do with nerve endings. The well-manicured lawns 
and gardens of the other houses seemed artificial as 
a movie set.  Were there really people living in those 
houses or soulless clones as artificial and mindless 
as the TeleTubbies?  I liked to think that my 
intelligence made me feel more than other people, 
you have to be self-aware to feel pain, right?  Not 
that I was negating the suffering of non-Mensa 
members, but wasn't intelligence necessary to 
heighten the suffering?

I reached the playground where Ralph Williams had 
been stabbed.  I stopped and stretched.  Where 
Ralph had fallen there was no plaque, no flowers, 
and no candles.  No sign that a man had taken a 
knife in the chest for my daughter and me.  And 
should Bill take Miranda away from me, Ralph would 
be dead for no reason.  I didn't think Bill would kill 
Miranda the way George would have, but I 
suspected that he'd break her spirit.

I knew that taking my gun over to the base housing 
at Bethesda and making Bill disappear was not the 
answer, but it was a nice fantasy nevertheless.

I jogged home.

Scully met me at the door with the Mooselet on her 
hip and a look of nuclear annoyance in her clear 
blue eyes.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asked.

Wait a minute. Were those rings we had put on in 
the ceremony or tiny handcuffs?

"Went for a run," I took the Mooselet who patted the 
side of my face with her fat little hands and asked 
me long and important questions in MooseSpeak.

"You could have told *someone*, left a note, sent an 
e-mail, or even hired a carrier pigeon," she snarled.

"Passenger pigeon."

"They're extinct."

"I guess that's why you didn't get a message."

The Mooselet knew I was teasing by the tone of my 
voice, but Scully wasn't as sure.  The Mooselet 
wiggled and jiggled and giggled in my arms but 
Scully glared at me and put her hands on her hips 
which made the sweat ice up on my body as the 
ambient temperature in the room took on Antarctic 
proportions.  I looked around but failed to see any 
penguins.

"In the future, if you should decide that you need to 
be elsewhere, please inform *someone*.  Someone 
with thumbs and a command of the English 
language. This means someone other than Catzilla 
or Miranda until she is older."

The Mooselet gave out an apprehensive spit bubble 
and stared at Scully as though she had grown an 
extra head.

"Sure, fine, whatever."
 
"You better shower. The lawyer will be here any 
minute," her nose wrinkled, "you smell."

****

Laura Broder appeared at five of four armed with a 
tape recorder and a briefcase.  From her voice on 
the phone I wasn't surprised that she looked young.  
Frighteningly young, even though her years in 
practice indicated that she was only a year younger 
than I was.  In her light cotton sweater and jeans, 
she looked like a college student, with long red-
brown hair falling loosely past her shoulders in a 
careless swirl that made me think about growing my 
hair again.

"Hi there," she said. "Is that Miranda?"

Sure enough, I had the Mooselet clinging to my hip 
again, I suppose as my badge of good parenting. I 
suppressed the snide "No, it's her twin Susan, but 
they're only suing for custody of Miranda," that 
bubbled in my throat and nodded.

When had I started to hate other people so much? It 
had something to do with the fact that everyone I 
met seemed to have some new way to hurt me. Or if 
they were nice like Ralph Williams I made them 
dead. But we were paying Laura Broder to be nice to 
us. Hopefully the fact that it wasn't voluntary would 
protect her from a bad end.

"Come in," I offered and reset the alarm behind her. 
We went to the dining room, which had suffered very 
little in the assault on the house. Mulder was waiting, 
idly chewing his way through a bowl of sunflower 
seeds, which were probably ruining his new caps.

"So, your folks at Arnstein Porter called me in 
because you have a custody problem. I do have a 
copy of your brother's motion, but it's not terribly 
informative, though it reads like science fiction at 
points. I read about the Roush hearings, and I 
reviewed the public record last night."

"This part did not make it into the public record. 
Roush's human experiments produced one living 
subject, Miranda.  Genetic tests revealed that she 
was created using my ova and sperm that -- that are 
genetically indistinguishable from Mulder's. Might 
have been his." Laura raised her eyebrows, but I 
continued, "The records were destroyed and were 
probably falsified in the first place. I also legally 
adopted her."

I didn't want to say anything that would upset 
Mulder, so I let him take over.

"Part of what the public didn't know about was that 
Roush's earlier experiments involved the splitting of 
preembryos to create multiple copies of the same 
genome. I had ... a number of brothers. Roush had 
access to some of their sperm and might have had 
access to mine."
 
"That helps to explain the recent newspaper stories 
about your twin."

"You wanted them to call him my dectuplet?"

That earned a sharp look. "Okay, I'll need to see the 
adoption papers, but I'll just assume for now that 
everything's in order. Even if it isn't, we're probably 
okay. They're not challenging *your* relationship to 
Miranda, Dr. Scully, because they need the blood tie 
to have any interest in her themselves. I'll have to do 
more research but I think we can do okay on Mr. 
Mulder's fatherhood if she's been living with you as 
your daughter. So, when you found out about 
Miranda you got married?"

I reddened and Mulder looked down. "Actually we 
got married this morning. Scully and I thought it 
would be a good idea, considering."

"That's not good."

Perfect, a lawyer with a talent for understatement. 

"But we need to discuss your objectives for the case. 
They are arguing that you abandoned Miranda, 
Dana, which means you aren't entitled to the normal 
presumption of fitness that parents get. Combined 
with the claim that Fox isn't really Miranda's father 
and the other attacks on your stability and fitness, 
that could be devastating. What we do now is you 
tell me everything you think they might use against 
you. Please try to be as honest as possible, the only 
way I'm any use is if I can prepare against their best 
case."

She paused and drew breath while we absorbed the 
caution. "One more thing. I notice that you use each 
other's last names. It's a charming idiosyncrasy. 
Charm is good; idiosyncrasy is not, particularly for 
two people who just married to stave off a lawsuit.. 
From now on it's Fox and Dana, even when you're 
alone. Get into the habit.  You'll need to talk to a 
number of experts and testify before the judge, and 
if you slip it will look very bad."

Mulder's face had taken on a look of horror that 
rivaled the one he'd worn when I made him 
rummage for Leonard Betts's head in the biohazard 
container.

"You let Bambi call you 'Fox,'" I reminded him. 
Broder's face whipped back and forth between us, 
trying to gauge the emotional temperature in the 
room.

"Doesn't count, she was an animal too," he said. 
"Besides, I wanted to get lai --"

He stopped and rubbed at the scars.

"Whatever," he muttered.

Laura Broder was with us all evening as we tried to 
explain all the events that had led up to this point -- 
Samantha's abduction, the multiple generations of 
experimental subjects, the Mulders that had been 
cc'd around the country, and so on. We also had to 
explain the X Files and all the tricks we'd pulled over 
the years.  Anyone with two neurons to rub together 
would bring Mulder's employment file (not to mention 
his hospitalization records) into court when trying to 
prove that we weren't fit to take care of a child.  
Mulder's employment file was enough to make 
someone hesitate before letting him take care of a 
houseplant.  We didn't bother to mention the many 
fish that had hit the sewers over the years.

Laura took it pretty well, considering.

We talked through dinner, through coffee and 
dessert, and through Miranda's bedtime. The lawyer 
didn't ask many questions, but they were always 
embarrassing when she did. She was particularly 
interested in our mistakes, the times we went 
against orders and protocol. She really didn't like the 
Roche incident (yeah, take a number).  

When the baby monitor screamed bloody murder, 
Mulder left to check on Miranda. I followed Laura's 
gaze. "While Mu -- while Fox is gone, there's 
something I want to ask you.  Are you a lawyer or a 
personal trainer?"

"I'm a lawyer?" Her uncertainty didn't make me 
particularly confident.

"Then stop watching his ass, all right? That's not part 
of your job."

She turned scarlet and hid her eyes with her hand. 
"Okay, I admit it, you got me. But cut me some slack 
-- I work with lawyers all day, it's noot often I'm 
actually in the presence of a man like that.  One that 
hasn't spent the past ten years glued to a desk.  I've 
just got my nose pressed up against the glass -- I'm 
not trying to get any closer."

"Yeah, well, do your window shopping on your own 
time."

"I could not charge you for the time I spend looking," 
she joked and I smiled at her thinly. 

I really hated this whole situation -- nothing was 
under my control, I was out of my area of expertise 
in every imaginable way, and I had to make nice to 
anyone who could potentially screw me over if I 
didn't behave. This is why I became a FBI agent in 
the first place -- so I could be the one asking the 
questions and determining the answers. We needed 
Laura Broder or someone like her. But she seemed 
to want to be my friend, too, and I just wasn't 
interested or even capable of reciprocating. 
Certainly not as long as she looked at Mulder with 
that little gleam in her eye.

Wait a minute, we were married.  Should that have 
made a difference?  Should I have been more 
annoyed or less?  This was like driving in New 
Jersey without a map.

Mulder returned and we continued explaining our 
twisted history to her. We got all the way to George 
when she declared that she was completely 
overwhelmed and we'd have to finish tomorrow. I 
wanted to tell her to try living it, if she wanted to 
know what 'overwhelmed' was really like.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata

4/

You don't want to talk
So baby shut up
And let me drink the wine from your fur tea cup
Velcro candy, sticky sweet
Make my tattoos melt in the heat
Well, I ain't no veggie
Like my flesh on the bone
Alive and lickin' on your ice cream cone
	Alice Cooper

I was lying on the bed, reading a field report from a 
barely-literate rookie who had made a royal mess 
out of working a child molester profile up in Vermont, 
when Scully came out of the bathroom wearing my 
favorite Yankees shirt and a pensive expression.

"What do you think of her?" she asked me around 
the dental floss she was rhythmically drawing 
through her teeth.

I found public dental hygiene borderline disgusting, 
and habitually shut the bathroom door to brush my 
teeth. What was the deal with that, anyway?  No 
matter how hot and heavy things had gotten in hotel 
rooms over the continental US, we'd never been big 
on sharing our grooming rituals.  I wasn't sure if I 
liked this new level of intimacy.  The next thing that 
would happen was she'd think nothing of busting into 
the bathroom to pee while I was shaving.  

"She seems to know her law."

"I mean what do you think of *her*," she prodded.

There were briars around the last word, and I wasn't 
sure what I was supposed to do to get around them. 
Sometimes the direct approach is the best.

"Your point is what?"

"She's an attractive woman."

Oh great.  Fan-fucking-tastic.   We'd been married 
less than a day, still hadn't had sex and she was 
asking me if I was interested in another woman.  If 
Scully kept up with this shit, I could be tempted to 
become interested in another woman. And Laura 
Broder was definitely do-able.

"You're tired, it's late, come to bed," I took off my 
glasses, put away the report and shut out the light. 
Feeling petulant, I flopped back into the pillows and 
took my time getting comfortable.  She snorted and 
padded back into the bathroom.

Scully takes a long time getting ready for bed. There 
are obscure rituals and incantations to the skin care 
gods. There are unguents and powders, sponges 
and brushes and things I can't begin to understand. 
She has more mud than Pigpen, though admittedly it 
looks better on her. If I had known how much work it 
took to get that perfect skin of hers, I probably 
wouldn't have fixated on it so much. 

This night, though, she lasted beyond the full spa 
treatment. I had the feeling she was waiting in the 
bathroom so that she wouldn't have to come to her 
marital bed. That annoyed me. It's not as if she was 
a real newlywed; what would she be nervous about?

I thought that I might do well to cut her a little slack. 
She'd been very calm about the whole wedding, and 
given her issues surrounding independence and 
commitment I should really be pleased with that. 
Also, we still hadn't resolved any of the outstanding 
issues surrounding my dead brothers Jason and 
George. Our next-to-last sexual encounter involved 
me playing George and her playing quiescent 
corpse, which was extreme even for us.

By the time she came creeping back into the 
bedroom I was feeling less superior and more 
sympathetic, which might have been part of her 
plan.

I could see her outlined in the faint light from the 
security perimeter that seeped through the shades. 
She was still wearing the goddamn shirt as she 
tossed back the comforter and slid into bed. I got a 
kick out of her using it as loungewear, but it left a lot 
to be desired, so to speak, when we were actually in 
bed together.

"Hey," I said softly, turning onto my stomach and 
reaching out to put a hand on her breast, "What's 
going on?"

She gave a choked chuckle, sounding like Miranda 
when she was about to spit something up. "This is 
very strange."

"I would have carried you over the threshold but I 
wasn't sure my back would hold out." 

"It doesn't matter." Her voice was back to its 
strangled huskiness, as if -- could it be? Perhaps I 
had skipped a few steps by going straight to her 
chest like a local cop's gaze. Her face was a furnace 
against my fingers but the wetness around her eyes 
hadn't yet evaporated when I touched it.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she whispered.

Liar. Suddenly the darkness was composed of 
broken glass, sharp edges everywhere and I was 
afraid I might get her sliced up if I moved wrong.

I hauled myself over until I was half on top of her, 
braced precariously on my forearms with my face 
hooked over her shoulder to whisper in her ear.

"Dana?"

"Dana?" she repeated with the exact wry 
incredulousness with which she'd greeted my first-
ever use of her Christian name. Still, her knees bent 
and her legs spread wider around me, letting me 
settle my weight more comfortably on her.

"What do you want me to do?" I was drifting on the 
open ocean that is Scully, the water choppy around 
me and no land in sight. 

Asking Scully a direct question usually only works 
when it relates to someone else's dead body, but 
she surprised me: "I want to pretend that this is my 
wedding night." Through the shirt, I could feel her 
breasts flattening against me as she struggled to 
keep her breathing even and my cock hardened in 
response.

Only Scully could ask me to pretend the truth. Surely 
she didn't want some godawful speech from me. My 
brain revolved in blood-deprived circles, the wheel 
spinning but the hamster MIA.

Reverence rather than familiarity, that had to be 
what she was after.  I guess she didn't understand 
that even in the darkest moments of our sex life, the 
ones crossing the lines between normal and deviant, 
reverence was my MO.  How could I not be reverent 
with a strange and wonderful creature like her?

I moved away and she made a non-sound, an 
indrawn breath that was the only sign she was hurt. 
Scully could probably take a bullet and not make 
more noise than that. She exhaled again when I ran 
my hand from her throat to her thighs, skimming with 
the lightest of touches over the tropical-warm 
seascape of her body.

Her forehead tasted like face cream or something.  
Her lips tasted of toothpaste. I relearned the 
contours of her face, feeling the fine invisible down 
on her cheeks against my lips.

"It's going to be all right," I said. Her breast was 
heavy and warm underneath my hand and I swirled 
my thumb around until I caught her stiffening nipple.

The mattress shifted as her body twitched. "Your 
ribs..." she slurred, but it was part of the game; she 
didn't want me to stop or she'd be pulling doctor rank 
on me.

"Don't worry about it." I let my fingers walk down the 
cotton front of the shirt until I hit the bare skin of her 
thighs. Shirt up, underwear down, and things were 
looking a lot better. She felt cooler than usual as I 
licked the undersides of her breasts and stroked my 
hands down her sides. I snagged a pillow and used 
it to lift her hips, giving me a better angle that didn't 
jog my nose. I would have liked to bury my snout in 
her, but that wasn't the kind of pain that interested 
me so I was careful, tasting the sea-salt of her flesh 
but controlling her so that she didn't surge into my 
broken cartilage.

The short grunts she made let me know that this was 
going to take a while. I moved my mouth up to the 
soft skin between her navel and the beginning of her 
pubic hair and nibbled a little.

"F--fox?" she stammered and then laughed 
nervously. I could feel the tight muscles of her 
abdomen jump underneath my lips.

"We could stick to moans and groans in bed, honey," 
I suggested and she jerked like an electrocuted frog. 
The press of her knee against my abused chest 
muscles was enough to make me regret the 
endearment even without her outraged face in the 
bad light.

"Okay--" she said in a half-voice and I felt her force 
herself to relax.

I separated her knees with my hands and bent to the 
task. It's a good thing I enjoy oral sex because my 
ever-wagging tongue was tired by the time she had 
her climax; I was about ready to ask her to fake it 
when she finally jerked, gasped and went boneless 
above me.
 
She took deep relieved breaths as I pulled myself up 
the bed to reach the headboard, lay on my back 
beside her, and let my hand stroke the hot skin of 
her belly.  After a minute, she shot me a that-was-it? 
look.

"The doctor okayed the female superior position," I 
whispered, trying to sound sly and sexy.

"That's not a position, it's a way of life," she 
whispered back. 

I wondered if we were subconsciously trying not to 
wake the baby, two doors down the hall. In any 
event she took the hint and rummaged impatiently in 
the nightstand for a condom, smoothing on the latex 
with gratifying yet finely controlled haste. She 
straddled me, lowering herself onto my cock with a 
series of grunts. Hot as a lava flow around me, she 
settled her weight on my thighs and reached forward 
to brace herself against the bed, but I caught her 
falling breasts in my hands and pushed back. Her 
arms were too short to reach all the way down so I 
was supporting her upper body, her nipples pushing 
aggressively into my palms. Supposedly the woman 
is in control in this position but I liked to watch her 
flailing for balance, liked how she was caught in my 
hands. She gave up and tossed her head back, her 
nearly unmarred throat gray in the dimness of the 
light as she surged up and down, relying on my 
hands to keep her from falling.

The beauty of having her on top of me is that I get to 
see almost everything at once -- her face lax as she 
concentrates on riding me into the ground, her hair 
brushing her shoulders like phantom kisses, her 
breasts above and around my grasping fingers. The 
dimple of her navel, the fierce wildness of hair that 
my cock disappears into, the columns of her thighs 
as they bracket my chest. It's complete visual 
overload.

With her closed down around me, and her incredible 
blue eyes dipping down to meet mine, I thought I 
could die right then and there from sheer animal 
pleasure.  Maybe that piece of paper, that pair of 
rings was going to take the acid out of our 
relationship, maybe she would stop hating me for 
making love to her.  With a jolt, she flung herself 
forward, until her face was a millimeter from mine, 
and the look in her eyes in the darkness of the room 
wasn't entirely sane.  Her elbows were locked on 
either side of my head; her breasts smashed up 
against my chest like hot water balloons.  She 
gasped as she slammed down and around me, the 
hair clinging wet and stringy to her face with effort's 
sweat.  I swirled my hands over the glazed surface 
of her back, skimming over the place I knew her 
tattoo was, although I couldn't feel a difference in the 
fine calfskin of her back.  Her lips were barely 
grazing mine, her fingers clutching my skull through 
my hair, as though she could force something out of 
me by manually liquefying my brain.

"You are - " I started to say but she cut me off, her 
mouth hard on mine as resuscitation.

Locked inside her, never intending to leave, I let her 
squeeze around me, providing the last necessary bit 
of unbelievable white-hot sensation that sent my 
hips towards the ceiling and my cock jetting out a 
couple weeks' worth of hot semen frustration into 
her.  My hands grabbed her hips and pulled her 
down tighter onto me. She moaned into my mouth 
and started to shimmy around me as her climax 
flared along her hot little body.  I clutched at her 
trying to keep her from flinging herself off me like a 
rider on a mechanical bull.  Finally, she ground to a 
halt and flowed onto my chest, any worries about my 
cracked ribs forgotten.

Rubbing the skin on her back, pushing her hair away 
from her face, I looked down at her beautiful little 
face crushed against my chest, her delicate Roman 
nose bent against my breastbone.  Unexpectedly, 
one eye opened and gave me a little flash of 
mischief that hadn't been there for weeks.

"Whoa," she muttered and kissed my left nipple.

"You know what they say - absence makes the 
heart grow fonder."

"I thought it was absence makes the dick grow 
harder."

"Talking dirty to me? You're turning me on."

"Mulder, Diet Coke turns you on."

There wasn't much of an answer for that so I just put 
my fingers over her lips.

"It's late.  Go to sleep." I warned in the same voice I 
used on the Mooselet for the same reason.

She snorted into my chest and did, on top of me, 
and although it made my bones ache, I didn't move, 
just listened to the barely audible pattern of her 
breathing until I was lulled asleep myself.

***
 
The birds were unnaturally loud that morning, and 
for a change, I awoke first. The light seeping past 
the shades was blue-gray, indicating that it was not 
much past six and we had hours until we had to go 
face Bill and the judge. Still sleepy and languorous, I 
huddled down in the sheets, up against Mulder's 
warm body and didn't want to get up.  

I hate courtrooms, I hate trials, and I especially 
hated that I was going to be the one on trial.  Mulder 
must have been more used to the concept, having 
been on trial in one form or another most of his adult 
life, and he slumbered on, his breath faintly whistling 
through his damaged nose.  I wondered if he'd 
deviated his septum, as this noise was a recent 
development.  I picked up my head and looked down 
at him, examining the line of his nose to see if it 
lacked more symmetry than usual.  He was sprawled 
on his back, one hand curled limply against his 
chest, and the other one flailing off into the vastness 
of the sheets like a postmodern St. Sebastian with 
bruises replacing arrows.  For once all the points 
and angles had rounded out on his face and he 
looked almost peaceful.  That was the one time that 
I could look down at Mulder and admit that part of 
me could love him - but only when he was asleep 
and not getting either or both of us into trouble. 
There was a time that I thought that Mulder would 
have been perfect if he didn't talk.  Then I met his 
mute twin Emerson and I realized that he'd only type 
or sign his patented flippant insanity. 

Feeling chilled in my head and in my body, I curled 
tighter around him, soaking up the warmth from his 
skin.  There had been times in the not-so-distant 
past that I thought the only way I kept any measure 
of empathy with the human race was by absorbing it 
from his body.  I nuzzled closer, smelling the rich 
yeasty smell of the sex we'd had overlaying his 
usual book and body smell.  I had kept one of his 
shirts during the dismal six months that we'd been 
apart and slept with my face in it more nights than 
not, until my own smell permeated the fabric and I'd 
slept in it instead. He grunted and twitched in his 
sleep, moving closer to the shore of wakefulness.  
Strange that before we'd become lovers I'd heard 
him at night, calling out at whatever midnight horror 
movie ran through his brain while he slept, but the 
nights that he slept with me he only murmured non-
sentences in what sounded like a tone of 
aggravation.  I imagined that he argued with me as 
strenuously asleep as he did awake.

Sliding my hand over the dry smoothness of his 
chest, tangling my new rings in the soft hair that 
grew like an afterthought of a secondary sex 
characteristic, I felt his heart beat against my palm, 
slow as a sleeping bee's buzz.  Under my hand, the 
flat and useless nipple tightened from the 
stimulation.  Intrigued, I flicked my fingernail against 
it and watched the darker skin wrinkle in dismay at 
being disturbed.  He whuffed deep in his throat and 
stirred a bit.  Moving downwards, I stroked the flat 
length of his stomach, counting the ribs and feeling 
the hard muscles of his abdomen move as he 
breathed.  It was sheer vanity that made him do all 
those sit-ups in the morning, run those miles, the 
only thing he'd ever tended with care before Miranda 
had been his own body - and I had to admit that he 
did a good job.  The skin under his navel was soft as 
the baby's and cool, warming as I moved my hand 
along the faint line of fur that ran from his navel to 
genitals.  Under my hand, the skin twitched, and the 
sleep-dazed length of his cock dragged itself 
drunkenly upright.

I'd been awakened by his mouth between my legs 
more often than I could have imagined, and it 
seemed that this was an opportunity to reciprocate.

Slinking underneath the sheets, I let my shoulders 
make a tent as I knelt next to his hips.  I dragged my 
fingers across the slightly moist skin of his cock and 
felt the pulsing blood rise up to meet me. Leisurely, I 
licked at him, feeling the jump and sway against my 
lips and tongue.  There was something about going 
down on him while he was mostly asleep that 
appealed to me.  Besides, we were married now and 
if one were to believe the popular press our sex life 
was rapidly approaching the end of its shelf life.  
Finally, I peeled my lips over my teeth and engulfed 
him with my mouth.  Funny how his cock that always 
felt like an endless ivory pole capable of elongating 
to unbelievable lengths inside of me during 
intercourse took on more manageable and fleshy 
characteristics in my mouth.

Outside the hot, fermenting tent of sheets, came a 
small, surprised sound followed by a low chuckle.

"Oh Laura, what if Scully finds out?"

I choked and started to laugh.

I had to pull my mouth off before I castrated him.  

With the sheets still over my head I sat up and 
laughed, laughed until my diaphragm was sore and 
my eyes were watering.  At the head of the bed I 
could hear that Mulder was equally helpless at the 
effects of his own wit.  When I had managed to get 
myself back under control and could breathe again, I 
seized his cock at the base and slid my mouth over 
it again.  The laughing stopped when I started 
sucking at him in earnest, sliding my mouth and 
tongue up and down over his shaft in the rhythm that 
I knew he liked.  He groaned, and his hand caught 
my shoulder, fingers tightening in synch with my 
movements.  While I tightened my fingers at the 
base of his cock, he pulled back the sheets from our 
bodies and the weak morning light made me squint.  
His hands were shaking when he pushed my hair 
away from my face.  I know he likes to watch, it must 
come out of his video obsession. I looked up at him 
and saw that he had gone soft-mouthed with bliss 
over the scabbed battlefield of his throat, and his 
eyes glimmered amber in the fresh light. Our eyes 
caught and latched and the connection was 
shockingly lewd, staring at him unblinking as I 
moved up and down, my saliva dripping onto his 
balls as he watched.  I was getting wet myself just 
from looking back at him.

"Oh God," he husked and flopped back into the 
pillows while his hips urged me into a faster and 
more frantic tempo.

He groaned and surged up, shuddering and filling 
my mouth with the saltwater/sweet taste of his jism.

He subsided weakly, breathing hard out of his 
beaten throat.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"Not unless I'm going to be a wealthy widow."

"I guess I'll be alive for a good long time yet."

I sat up and scooted up to the head of the bed, 
trying to wipe off my lips as discreetly as possible. 
But Mulder caught my chin and swept his thumb 
across my mouth which would have been sexy, if I 
hadn't seen him do it to Miranda a thousand times.  I 
settled back against the headboard and Mulder laid 
his head back onto my chest, his body nestled 
between my knees, my hands draped over his 
shoulders and onto his chest.  He was holding my 
hands and examining them as if for powder burns.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Afraid," I admitted, "if this doesn't work, they'll take 
Miranda away from you.  It will be all my fault."

"They won't."

"I wish I had your optimism."

"Tenacity, it's all in the tenacity."

His chest hitched as though he was about to speak, 
but he thought better of it and relaxed again.  I 
rubbed my foot up and down his hipbone and tried 
not to think.  This was the kind of quiet moment that 
we never had much opportunity for. Stolen humping 
in hotel rooms, angry sex over long weekends, 
stealth fucking in bathrooms.    What was lawful 
sexual congress going to be like?  Part of the charm 
had been the fact that the affair had been forbidden.  
He was nominally my superior and *thou shall not 
fuck thy superior agent* was pretty well carved in 
stone.  When I think about it, that Bureau policy was 
the one that we had adhered the longest.

While I sulked, Mulder's dangerous hands swept up 
and down my thighs, my calves and my feet like 
feather fans while the weight of his head pressed 
into my chest like a curse from a Grimm's fairy tale.  
With my pelvis pressed firmly into his spine, I could 
probably bring myself off with a few well-timed 
undulations.  There was so much aroused blood 
pooled around my pudenda that I was getting 
lightheaded.  He was digging his thumb into the arch 
of my foot, making me grumble under my breath.  He 
started wiggling my toes one after another while 
chanting deep in a chuckle-thickened throat.

"This little alien went to market, this little alien stayed 
home . . . "

I giggled and kicked my foot free of his tickling grip.  
Mulder snickered and rolled over, pushing me down 
against the mattress.  His morning beard scored the 
skin on my shoulder and neck, making me laugh 
harder as that tickled as well.  I rolled underneath 
him, hooking my feet behind his knees.

"Ticklish much Gopher-girl?"

"Make my day Gopher-boy," I snorted into the 
crinkled cartilage of his ear.

Hands gripped my waist, pinning me down with 
tolerant amusement that was about as threatening 
as one of Miranda's toys.  He breathed into my ear 
with a low growl that I assumed was the mating call 
of the giant mutant gopher.  If it could only always be 
like this, I wouldn't have had such reservations about 
the entire matrimonial state.  I pulled the speaker 
plug in my head and the critical voice went silent and 
all I could hear was my own heartbeat while Mulder's 
pulse thrummed in counterpoint.  

I sighed and pulled myself up against the ropy 
hardness of his torso, gathering him into my arms 
and pulling him gently down against me, rubbing, 
sticky with sweat and other body secretions.  I ran 
my hands up and down the hard bridge of his back, 
the beads of his spine vibrating against my fingers, 
the unfamiliar metal of the rings jarring my 
phalanges.   He sighed and purred under my touch, 
arching his back like Catzilla, but grinding the 
stiffening length of his cock up against my thigh.  
The scratchy skin on his face scraped my breasts 
when he began to savage at my wide-awake nipples 
that felt hard enough to scratch glass. He leaned 
away to grab a condom, swift as a snake taking a 
mouse.  I moaned and his hands impatiently parted 
my thighs, my head fell back into the hot pillow and 
my moan tightened into a growl when he finally 
pushed inside me.

God.
 
No one would understand, the worse the situation 
got, the better the sex got.  It was like Hansel and 
Gretel clinging together in the witch's oven in a 
pornographic movie. 

My quad muscles started to shake.

"Your ribs-" I hissed.

"It's a good hurt," he said in a swirl of amusement 
and lust.

I arched up against him, trying to draw him in 
deeper, to fill me to oblivion, pulling as gently as 
possible on his still-bruised torso.  He covered my 
face and eyes with hard lipped kisses almost 
stinging my skin.  While he kissed me he slid into me 
with a slow carefulness that made me whine with 
need.  His hands pressed my hair into the pillow, so 
I couldn't move my head away from him.  His mouth 
flowed against mine while his cock moved with 
teasing slowness inside me.  I whined like Miranda 
grasping after a toy or a sweet and he looked down 
at me with a dazed indulgence which was nothing 
like the indulgent look he wore when she made the 
same noise.  

The restless motes in his eyes pulled me in like 
quickmud in a swamp.  I fell into the hot forest inside 
his head, seeing shapes and things moving through 
the green and brown darkness and I saw my own 
eyes looking back at me. Don't hurt me, love me, 
make it turn out all right, make it all go away.  At 
least for the next ten minutes.  I think there were 
tears building up in our eyes and I couldn't tell 
whose.  I tried to turn my head but his hands 
prevented me, and the deep stroking inside was 
making it harder to think than usual.  I was gasping 
and squeezing hard handfuls of the bedclothes so I 
wouldn't hurt him any more, he glided in and out, 
somehow managing to graze my clit on each and 
every stroke.  Building pressure, building pleasure 
radiating out from my pelvis until my toes curled and 
my breathing fluttered like a trapped moth.  In me 
and around me and through me running like mercury 
through my nerves.  

And I looked back into the things creeping through 
the space behind his eyes, I saw his lips form the 
words that I didn't want to see, right before those lips 
closed with sharpening teeth on the spot on my 
shoulder that never failed to send me into oblivion.  
But I didn't go alone, Mulder came with me, shaking 
and crashing into my body.  I held his head against 
my shoulder and listened to our raw breathing in the 
quiet morning room.  We lay that way until the 
trembling stopped, and fell asleep again while he 
was still inside me.

Years later, I staggered to the bathroom and had a 
quick shower. I still didn't know what I was supposed 
to wear to a pretrial conference, and I settled on a 
pantsuit that, I noted with some pleasure, fit much 
better than it had a few weeks ago. Say what you 
will about Mulder, he keeps me fed.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
5/

There's a reason for your silence tonight
There's a reason for my fear
There's a reason for the violence tonight
There's a great decision here
I am waiting in the calm before the storm.
When it comes down to this
You never seemed so lonely
Just like the one with an ice cream smile.
	Big Country

Laura rode with us to court. She kept up a running 
stream of commentary, explaining how a platoon of 
strangers was going to march through our lives to 
evaluate them for suitability. She wanted me to get a 
Thirtysomething makeover, blue jeans and sneakers 
and ponytails; mommies seemingly do not wear 
tattoo-baring tank tops, at least not when they're 
being scrutinized by psychologists and social 
workers.  Apparently mommies don't sweat in 
Virginia.

We arrived at the new courthouse downtown with 
only minutes to spare, and had to surrender our 
sidearms before we were allowed in. We weren't 
acting in our federal capacity, and so Virginia was 
unwilling to let us participate in any shootouts that 
developed. If Ingveld hadn't found the right corridor, 
we would have been late for our own high-tech 
lynching.

That first morning in court was anticlimactic in the 
extreme. We listened without comprehension as our 
lawyer and Bill's traded multisyllabic near-insults and 
spouted names of court cases with the ease of 
Mulder listing recorded UFO sightings. I'm not sure 
why we were even present except as live exhibits.

Laura had wanted me to testify about the 
circumstances of Miranda's short stay in Montana 
with Mulder's twin Emerson and Emerson's wife -- I'd 
left her there when I could no longer deal with the 
two of us. God knows I would have left myself there 
too if I could have gotten away with it, but that was 
beside the point now. So there I was in my gray 
wedding suit, stiff and anxious and terrified that I 
was going to vomit all over the court reporter. But 
the judge refused to hear me. I didn't understand 
what had happened until Laura came back to us, her 
skin pulled tightly across her face like a victim of 
excessive plastic surgery, and informed us that he'd 
ruled that I'd abandoned Miranda as a matter of law, 
without needing testimony about my reasons. 
Miranda couldn't comprehend those reasons at the 
time; why should the law?

We sat like stumps in a clear-cut forest and waited 
for her to finish up. The second time she returned 
she was much happier.   Mulder had won his 
separate battle to be declared Miranda's lawful 
father, apparently because Bill didn't really have a 
good alternate candidate; the most likely sperm 
donors were all dead, and so the court wanted to 
assign her a living natural parent. Especially since 
I'd ditched her.

Then we had to agree to a schedule of home visits, 
interviews together and separately, appointments for 
experts to watch us take care of Miranda and grade 
us on our performance, appointments for Bill and 
Tara to meet Miranda and see how she reacted to 
them. I hoped she bit their smug faces off. 

As with any court case, this took an incredibly long 
time. Or maybe it was just the renewed depression 
that stretched time out like Eugene Tooms. When 
we got out, the pounding summer sun was sliding 
down towards the horizon, to match my mood. I let 
Mulder drive back. He was better used to Miranda's 
howls and *he'd* been vindicated by the judge.

I would have headed straight for the liquor cabinet, 
but I was queasy enough without alcohol.  Instead, 
shaking and sweating, I rushed into the downstairs 
bathroom and disposed of the undigested parts of a 
lunch I never should have eaten.

After I dried my hands and fixed my make-up, I 
found Mulder lurking near the door with a 
speculative look on his face.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine," I reassured him.

Mulder grunted and took Miranda upstairs to get her 
changed.  I kicked my shoes off and shuffled out 
onto the porch in my stockings.  The least thing I 
had to worry about at that moment was runners.  I 
sat on the glider and looked out over the bee-buzzed 
and dreamy early evening backyard.  The scars from 
the Giant Mutant Gophers had been filled in with 
topsoil and planted with impatiens (the official flower 
of Casa Mulder), giving undulating lines of color 
spreading out from the house to the edges of the 
yard.  The roses that climbed up the side of the 
porch had come with the house and the main 
branches of the bushes were as big around as my 
forearm. There was no use crying to the roses that 
the judge said that I no longer was due the rights of 
a parent.  At the same time Mulder (freer of 
murdering pedophiles and willing to have holes 
drilled in his own skull) was.  Some things are 
beyond ironic.

Between Leonard Betts and George Naxos I 
changed into someone that I didn't recognize - and 
someone that I wouldn't have wanted to spend any 
time with.

"I have to go to the city.  To see what the Gunmen 
have found out about Laura." Mulder said from the 
shadow of the house.

The back yard was steaming like a jungle and I 
wondered what was stealthily slipping through the 
overgrown bushes.  I needed to call a landscaping 
outfit. The back yard wasn't fit for Miranda to play in.  
She needed a sandbox and a swingset, and a little 
house to hide from the grown-ups in.  She needed a 
thick lawn to cushion her tumbles, where she could 
run, chase butterflies, blow bubbles and build a 
snowman in Virginia' s rare but not unheard-of 
snows.  All the things that I'd never had in the 
utilitarian base housing.  Maybe a pond with frogs to 
catch and big, lazy carp to overfeed, and a tire 
swing. And a big fence full of sensors to keep the kid 
in and the monsters out.  Maybe if the case went 
well I'd make the call. So much was depending on 
convincing the judge that we could make Miranda 
safe from me. God, I had spent the past six years of 
my life trying to make the country safe for truth, 
justice, and the American way, and my reward was 
that I had turned into one of the monsters.  

I'd watched a child of mine die and felt only an 
intellectual frustration because I hadn't been able to 
solve her medical problem.  I'd taken out my 
frustration on Mulder's mind and body afterwards. I 
had set fire to the end result of experimentation on 
my ova - I couldn't even think of the twisted 
mutations as children - and I'd have to defend my 
position to God about that later on. Again, I'd used 
Mulder as my willing whipping boy.  Was I really 
going to be able to recite fairy tales after this?  Could 
I tell a child that Baba Yaga wasn't going to eat her 
or that Sleeping Beauty could be revived with a kiss 
if she was in a deep coma with no indication of brain 
activity and the best thing to do was see if she had a 
donor card?

I just couldn't see myself as a cuddly, comforting 
mommy the way that my mother had been.  I 
couldn't tell a child that everything was going to be 
all right when there are pedophiles, smallpox, killer 
bees carrying viruses, Ebola, pollution, SUV's, and 
dangerous men in dark suits to contend with.

But Mulder could.  He had the nurturing routine 
down cold - and it fit him as well as his boxer briefs 
did.  And, as much as I hated to admit it, it was 
equally as attractive.  The only female that you don't 
mind seeing in your lover's arms is his baby 
daughter.

"Dana?" 

I was still so unused to hearing my first name in his 
voice that I looked up after the third repetition.  

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I managed a wry smile.

"Yes, you must go and make sure that we haven't 
gotten fucked over once again and that Laura is 
exactly as advertised - an earnest young family 
lawyer and not another minion of darkness."

I stood up and shuffled barefoot over to the door 
where he loomed in the darkness.  Barefoot, the top 
of my head barely reached his shoulder, but I was 
still able to put my hand on the center of his chest. 
Through the wear-wrinkled cotton of his shirt, I could 
feel his heart beating through the flesh and bone 
casing.  This calmed me somewhat.

"Go ahead, we'll be fine."

In an awkward, bobbing motion that showed me the 
gangly over-bright teenager he had been, he bent 
down and gave me a quick kiss.  My momentary 
surprise evaporated after I remembered that we 
were, after all, married now and such domestic 
expressions of affection were considered normal.

Shit.  Normal.  What a joke.

****

Scully being passive is not unlike a shift in the 
barometer before a major storm front comes 
through.  Although we'd had an appallingly wet 
spring, early summer storms are not uncommon 
around the Potomac.  The sky around the Capitol 
looked like one of the psychedelic light shows that 
accompanied Grateful Dead concerts.  In a funny 
way, I missed Dead shows.  A couple nights a year I 
could put on a t-shirt and melt into an amorphous 
contact high of happiness.  I wasn't crazy about the 
music or the drug culture; I just liked being an 
anonymous part of an entity for a few hours.  
Deadheads, like Trekkers, are an incredibly 
*pleasant* subculture.  I'd take a long bus trip with a 
group of Deadheads or Trekkers over conspiracy 
theorists any day of the week.  The food was 
generally better too.

Just to underscore the theme of predeterminism that 
was pervading my life like the smell of urine in a 
Manhattan summer, Langley was wearing a dancing 
bear t-shirt and Frohike was sporting an IDIC button 
on his work vest when I rolled into conspiracy central 
that evening.

It occurred to me that the Lone Gunmen's war room 
wasn't a family-friendly place.  Standing in the 
computer-monitor-lit darkness, I could still make out 
half a dozen objects small enough to choke a baby 
and a host of unprotected electrical outlets.  Not to 
mention that the caseless server with the blinking 
lights and running processors looked like it had great 
potential to have Teletubby bodies shoved into the 
works.  AGAIN!  Babies confounded technology on a 
regular basis.  Miranda had already figured out that 
the rubber bands that I had wound around the knobs 
on the lower cabinets of the kitchen would break if 
enough force were applied.  This meant that she had 
open access to the cleaning supplies underneath the 
sink until I had figured out her MO and replaced the 
rubber bands with genuine toddler locks.  Now *I* 
couldn't get the cabinets open. Yet another reason 
to keep Scully around.

I'd have to lock down all my bookmarks when 
Miranda got tall enough to reach a keyboard.  
Actually, I'd have to lock them down that night since 
Scully was tall enough.

"Your lawyer's clean," Langley announced and 
looked at me from over his glasses, which were pink 
with diamond rhinestones for some reason.

"About the only connection she has with Roush is 
the fact that she used their brand of birth control pill 
when she was in college.  Must have been the 
standard issue for the Ivy League dispensaries," 
Byers finished, "but I consider that an extremely 
tenuous link - more than six degrees of separation."

"She's a legal babe," Frohike added with one of his 
more lecherous smiles.

Unaccountably, I was annoyed and shoved my 
hands in my pockets.

"Speaking of babes," Langley moved a little closer to 
me, "we have a general net search run on your 
name as part of our daily server routine."

"How thoughtful."

"We received information from the database on the 
Arlington County server that a marriage certificate 
was issued to you and one Dana Katherine Scully, 
MD."

"Not that we were surprised," Frohike added, fiddling 
with a keyboard until the bare Oracle database fields 
from the courthouse server were displayed like 
bones in a filleted fish, "you've been heading that 
way for years with the grace and skill of that downhill 
skier on the 'agony of defeat' segment of Wide World 
of Sports."

"You could have told us," Byers chimed in with his 
customary gentle tones.

"It's none of your business," my voice came out like 
chipped ice,  "it happened because of the custody 
battle over Miranda."

"Mulder, you should quit deluding yourself.  You've 
had it bad for her for years," Frohike said, "Do you 
want copies of your changed tax status forms?"

My heart was banging around in my chest like a 
loose filter on an air conditioner.

"I want whatever additional information you have 
about Roush.  I have to get back home."

"What's the matter, the wifey not letting you out at 
night?" Langley mocked.

The banging got louder as the AC in my chest went 
into Antarctic mode.

"I guess this means that the Red Dwarf marathons 
are over." Frohike said with a sad shake of his head, 
"what a shame, I just got the latest transferred over 
to VHS format."

"We would have thrown you a bachelor party," Byers 
handed me a sheaf of papers, "there's not much new 
here.  Just some additional detail like telephone 
numbers and e-mail addresses for the BioQuest 
staff."

I realized that they had effectively surrounded me in 
the dark and dirty little room.  I wanted to be back 
home with Scully's stupid throw pillows and scented 
candles instead of this dingy burrow.  Underneath 
my wrinkled shirt, I could feel agitated sweat 
condense on my skin.

"Right.  Thanks."

I took the papers and fled to the steaming street.  
The watery air clogged my lungs and the now-dark 
sky had taken on the gouty complexion it gets before 
the rain comes like the wrath of God.  I stared at the 
monstrous sky over the Washington monument 
which looked it was going to lance the swollen 
clouds.  Jeez, even the sky looked evil that night.  
Rubbernecking at the view probably saved my life. I 
clicked Scully's little gadget that unlocks the car and 
flashes the lights but I was still staring at the sky 
when the car exploded, knocking me to the ground 
like a doll brushed by a giant's shoe.

The printed pages fluttered the dirty pavement like 
oversized snowflakes as the Ford burned away like 
a backyard barbecue.  I believe in spontaneous 
human combustion but not spontaneous automotive 
combustion.  At least they shouldn't combust when 
the internal combustion engine is not running.  
Damn Henry Ford anyway.  Ford: "Found On Road 
Dead - Fix Or Repair Daily". Fox On Road Dead.  
Had I actually been in the car, Miranda would have, 
essentially, been an orphan.  I doubted that the 
judge would have granted Scully even temporary 
custody after he had decided that she had 
abandoned Miranda in Montana.

While the heat from the fire tongued my face, I 
resolved to be more careful with my driving.  Then I 
sat up on the pavement, pulled out my trusty 
cellphone and dialed Triple A, 911, and the voice 
mail of my insurance agent in that order. Then I sat 
on the pavement and waited for the cavalry to arrive, 
making one last call.

"Hi honey, I blew up your car."

****

Miranda was cooing along to Trout Fishing in 
America's rendition of "The Window" on the one of 
her kiddie tapes I'd pulled out of her baby stereo in 
her room.  It was raining; big fat early summer 
raindrops a bucketful of water each pounded the 
Outback.  I pulled up at the scene of the crime, 
identifying it by the flashing red and blue of DC's 
finest, and the flashing yellow of Buddy's Towing 
Service flatbed.  My car looked like a marshmallow 
that had been left in the fire too long.  Plastic had 
melted into the soggy asphalt of the street, the paint 
was scorched away, and the chassis looked like it 
had gone through a garbage disposal.  The driver's 
seat was a distant memory.  Even without much 
explosives expertise I could tell that the blast began 
there, brushing glass away like cobwebs and 
pushing metal out into a giant blackened orchid.  If 
Mulder had sat down -- I'd seen a few of the 
Unabomber's victims, I'd worked on some Mafia 
types who hadn't been able to adhere to witness 
protection guidelines, and I was quite able to 
imagine what would have happened to his too, too 
sullied flesh.

Therefore, I made myself concentrate on the car.  
That topic allowed annoyance to fill the hole that 
terror had just bored through me.  I was going to 
have to go through the whole paperwork dance with 
the insurance company and we were down to one 
car during the interim.  At least we had racked up 
enough frequent driver points with Lariat over the 
years to rent a Porsche Boxer for a month.  Damn..  
I couldn't get a baby seat in a Boxer.  I had an 
unsettled-stomach feeling that there was a minivan 
looming on the horizon.  The station wagon was bad 
enough, but a minivan . . .

Mulder opened the passenger side door and 
collapsed wetly onto the seat.  From the back seat 
Miranda started a running commentary to the world 
at large.  I'd had her down for the night and had to 
bundle her up in a blanket and shove her into the car 
seat in the rain, which had done nothing for my black 
mood.  Ingveld and Warwick had been spooned 
together on his bed like babes in the woods and I 
didn't have the heartlessness to roust them out of 
bed when I was capable of handling this myself.  
Almost.  My hands were white on the wheel.

"Da da da Lee Da.  Nah?" Miranda asked.

"I blew up your mommy's car," Mulder told her, 
turning around in the seat to poke her in the fat 
pouch of her belly.

"Voon?" she asked and her eyes rounded, 
impressed. 

"Voon." He agreed.

"M -- Fox, she'll never learn to speak properly if you 
talk baby talk back to her," I snapped, feeling a little 
rattled at the fact that he had referred to me as 
Miranda's 'mommy'.

"You weren't carrying any plastique under your seat, 
were you?" he asked and turned back around.

"Not this week, no.  I might have had a flat fix 
aerosol can and ice melt spray, but my cargo of 
accelerants was low." I pulled out and began to drive 
home.

Gradually the red, blue, and yellow lights faded and 
were replaced by the cool gold lights of government.

"Zen I azzume zat it waz a bim," he said in the worst 
Inspector Clouseau impersonation I had ever been 
unfortunate enough to experience.

"Bomb?"

"B-B-B-B-B 
AhAhAhAhAhAhAhAhAhAhAhAhMMMMMM !" 
Miranda enthused from the baby seat.

"Oh shhhhhh - sugar, M --" I had to stop to breathe, 
between the baby and the forced renaming I was 
stuttering like the shyest kid in first grade. "Taking us 
to court isn't bad enough, they have to blow us up as 
well?  Isn't that, pardon the pun, overkill?"

"She shouldn't be doing that yet - she shouldn't be 
mimicking words for at least three more months."

"MULDER!  Someone has tried to kill you and NOW 
IS NOT THE TIME TO DO THE PROUD DADDY 
ROUTINE!"

"Why do you assume they were trying to kill me? It's 
your car," he pointed out, leaning through the gap 
between the front seats in an extremely dangerous 
manner so that he could continue to pay more 
attention to Miranda than to me.

"Which you were driving at the time. And with the 
court's ruling today, getting rid of you would be 
sufficient to get Miranda handed over completely 
aboveboard. Maybe they've decided that kidnapping 
causes such a fuss that it's worth the effort to do it 
legally."

"Bahm bahm baaaahhhmmmmm!" Miranda 
continued, thumping her fat pink fists on the bar of 
her baby seat.
 
"What was it?" Mulder asked her.

"Bahm!"

"Who loves the Mooselet?"

"DA! Lee! CAT!"

"BAHM!" she added a moment later.

At a red light, I put my face down on the steering 
wheel.  I had not come out on a rainy night with a 
baby in the back seat after hearing that my car had 
exploded and me braless in sweatpants and one of 
Mulder's T-shirts to have to listen to the infant 
explosion chorus at full volume from the back and 
passenger seats.  There was a serious lack of 
sobriety about the whole enterprise.  I knew I wasn't 
over-reacting.  This would have been annoying in 
any state other than my post-abduction coma.

Miranda giggled herself asleep before we crossed 
the river.  I let Mulder get her out of the car seat and 
watched her sleeping, deflated rubber balloon face 
disappear upstairs over the dark fabric of his T-
shirted shoulder.  I went into the kitchen and found 
solace with Cherry Garcia and a Pop Tart.  When 
Mulder finally loped in, he grabbed a spoon before 
sitting in the chair across from me.  He correctly 
interpreted the glacial quality of my silence and 
poked his spoon into the carton of ice cream as well 
in a companionable silence that we hadn't 
experienced in months.

"The social workers and the psychologists are 
coming tomorrow."

He looked up at me and his rain-flattened hair 
flopped across his forehead.

"You're nervous."

"Apprehensive."

"You want to do everything right, score a perfect 
hundred on the test, get the Summa Cum Laude in 
parenting."

I shouldn't have been surprised, he'd gotten his 
psych degree from Oxford, not from a Cracker Jack 
box, and we had known each other for over six 
years.  I just thought that I had my apple-polishing 
obsession under control these days.  I must have 
made some kind of face because he gave me one of 
his special edition boyish smiles out from under his 
hair before he reached over and ran the cool bottom 
of the spoon over my bottom lip.  My thighs shook 
inside the warm cocoon of the sweatpants.  Mulder 
slid out of his chair and around behind me, his 
fingers were cold from the ice cream and my nipples 
jumped to as his hands moved around to cup my 
breasts, pinching me with practiced skill.  His breath 
was warm against my ear as his ice-cream sticky 
tongue lapped at my earlobe, circled my ear canal, 
nipped behind my ear and pulled at my earring until 
a tiny spark of pain/pleasure made me shudder.

"You know we really should get some sleep, it's 
been a *long* day," he growled.

I knew that.  I also knew how long since he was 
rubbing his pelvis into my back between the rungs of 
the Ikea chair.  There was melted ice cream on my 
fingers but I laced them through his soft hair so I 
could pull his mouth down on mine, he tasted of 
cherries and vanilla over his usual un-nameable 
coffee mocha Mulder flavor.  His teeth were cool as 
glass against mine and I sucked on his lips as his 
now-warm fingers headed south underneath my 
sweatpants until he had the heel of his hand against 
my pelvic bone and his fingers where I was melting 
like the ice cream.

"We shouldn't do this," I murmured into his carotid 
artery and my teeth scraped over the shadow 
stubble there.

"Old boring married folk don't do things like this," he 
muttered back.

The world swirled for a second and the tabletop was 
hard underneath my back.  I was so stunned by the 
fact that he had been able to lift me that the fact that 
he was pulling my sweats down over my hips was 
almost incidental.  Once my panties had landed near 
the refrigerator and the t-shirt was wadded up 
underneath my arms, he looked down with a sly and 
self-satisfied expression.  I was spread out on the 
table like cookie dough waiting to be cut, gripping 
the sides of the table that wobbled threateningly on 
its center support.  Thank God Ingveld and Warwick 
were notoriously heavy sleepers.  The sly smile 
deepened into a smirk as his right hand dipped 
down into the carton of melting ice cream.

"Do that and you're a dead man, Fox Mulder."

"Who wants to live forever?"

The ice cream was cold on my breasts, but not 
painfully so. Nevertheless, I did wiggle and squirm 
as he continued to drizzle the sticky goo all over my 
torso.  Bits of cherry, darker than my darkest lipstick 
speckled the liquid that was beginning to run down 
my sides and onto the tabletop.  Grinning, he leaned 
down and began to lick the ice cream from my skin 
with short cat-like laps of his entirely too-talented 
tongue.  I continued to grip the table to keep both of 
us from landing on the floor, even though my back 
arched and I groaned low in my throat as he cleaned 
my collarbones, breasts, nipples, and delved into my 
navel to retrieve a few flecks of cherry.

"I'm going to kill you." I hissed.

"I'm counting on it," he mumbled into my belly and 
pressed my legs open with his own.

My inner thighs scraped against the denim of his 
jeans as he moved and I caught my breath before 
he painted a line of ice cream over my lips and 
licked that off as well.  While his tongue darted over 
and into my lips, he scrabbled somewhere on the 
table and I wasn't shocked when I felt the coldness 
of the ice cream pressed up and inside me.  I 
squeaked into his mouth and he laughed back into 
mine while his long fingers anointed me as far up as 
they would go.

"Mulder!" I warned.

He pulled up his head and his eyes were green with 
mischief.

"This is the only way that I get your cherry."

After the cold of the ice cream his mouth was almost 
unbearably hot on my nether regions. He sucked at 
my clitoris, making me choke back a series of wails, 
and his long tongue plunged inside so he could slurp 
the rest of the ice cream and cherries out along with 
my own juices.  My head thumped back against the 
table when the ice of the ice cream and the talented 
heat of his tongue whipped me into a climax that I 
had to close my mouth on.  Yelps were smothered 
into thickened grunts as I shuddered and spasmed 
on the dancing tabletop.  While I was still partially 
out of my right mind, he slid into me, hot and hard. 
With his hands braced on either side of my head on 
the table, he drove into me with the precision of a 
finely tuned engine.  I moaned and his mouth, sweet 
and cool, covered mine again.  The buttons of his 
jeans scraped my leg as we gasped into one 
another's mouths and the heat between our bodies 
ate up all the air in the room.  I came again like a 
mousetrap snapping on helpless rodents, biting his 
shoulder to keep from waking up the household.  
This made him pound deeper and harder into me, 
until the table bumped and ground underneath us.  I 
held onto the roller coaster tabletop as he growled 
his gopher love call and nipped at my shoulder as he 
finally came with a tremor that threatened to send us 
careening into the dishwasher.

Panting, sticky with sweat, body fluids and melted 
ice cream, he collapsed atop me and breathed as 
though he had brought the news from Marathon.  

"Who's there?"

At Warwick's voice we snapped apart like Lego 
blocks and I bolted, mostly naked, into the darkness 
of the dining room.  I heard Mulder's fly being zipped 
just before bare feet slapped on the kitchen floor.

"It's you," Warwick said and I heard the refrigerator 
door open, "I was afraid that more of your family had 
come to visit."

"Can't sleep?"

"Shoulder hurts.  Want a beer?"

Warwick should not have been drinking with his 
meds, but this wasn't exactly the right time to point 
this out.  Instead, I pulled the t-shirt down far enough 
to cover all the vital areas, frowning as it stuck to my 
skin and headed upstairs through the living room.  I 
was desperate for a shower and I didn't want to 
know where Mulder had hidden the used condom.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
6/

the moon showed up
and it started to show
tonight there'd be ice cream
ice cream for crow
ice cream for crow
sun cream by day
ice cream for crow
ice cream by night
ice cream by day
the sun ain't stable
	Captain Beefheart

The interviewers the court appointed were just social 
workers and psychologists. Unlike everyone else 
who conspires against us, they didn't have access to 
surveillance equipment and deep background. They 
actually had to ask us questions to get to know us. 
As instructed by Laura, I had offered them all soft 
drinks and/or coffee. That was to show that I was 
nurturing. 

We'd also scattered family photos around to show 
that we were family oriented, which had been 
difficult because I wasn't going to let Bill into my life 
even in two dimensions. We ended up with some 
pictures of me and Missy, Charlie and his brood, 
Mulder and Sam when they were still clueless kids, 
dozens of Miranda moments and a few of Emerson, 
Aileen, and their baby Samuel. At the last minute, 
Mulder ran to the store to get frames for the wedding 
pictures. I wasn't too sure about them -- we looked 
like suspects in a line-up in most of the shots, 
though there was one nice picture where I was 
holding Miranda. Mulder had his hand at my waist 
and his downturned face looked, at that odd angle, 
intensely tender.  The only picture on display that 
actually hit any resonance for me had been in the 
office for years - at a crime scene, arguing over 
something in our dark suits with our dark 
expressions.  That was the us that I knew, the other 
pictures from the wedding with our pale clothes and 
earnest expressions were as familiar to me as the 
photos of strangers that came with the picture 
frames.  

I was glad we'd made the effort as our unwanted 
guests wandered through the house. For all I knew 
they were running white-gloved fingers over mantles 
looking for dust, but Laura had said that excessive 
cleanliness was bad because it was child-unfriendly, 
and I just hoped they noticed that Mulder had put 
blocking devices in every unused outlet to prevent 
accidental electrocution. 

Mulder sat beside me on the couch, on the center 
pillow that we'd reversed to hide the bloodstains. His 
legs spread wide in stiff blue denim, his elbows 
poking into his upper thighs, he looked like a college 
professor who'd just found out that yes, the 
sophomore was pressing charges. "So what would 
you like to know?"

A kindly-looking woman with carefully styled grey 
hair leaned forward in her chair and asked, "Perhaps 
you could tell us a little about your family, what their 
childrearing style is like, and your brothers and 
sisters if you have any."

"Maybe it would help if I could draw a chart." 

Instead of glaring, I put my hand on his thigh, and he 
gave me a startled glance, then recovered to his 
standard blankness. "Well, I was raised with one 
younger sister until I was twelve..."

I tried to tune out the horror story as best I could 
while still maintaining a sympathetic and 
understanding demeanor. The sufferer is allowed to 
distance himself from his suffering, people 
understand that kind of defense mechanism, but his 
loving wife is supposed to manifest the symptoms of 
his trauma for him. I guess Mulder would have a 
name for it, a socially approved transference, but I 
had enough trouble feeling my own emotions without 
projecting Mulder's.

Nevertheless I needed no artifice to make my voice 
hesitate and drop when they asked me the same 
questions and I had to talk about Missy. I have 
blocked out as much of the interrogation as possible, 
but a few highlights remain in my mind.

"And how did the two of you meet?"

Even I knew the right way to respond to that 
question, by turning to Mulder and smiling shyly; 
he'd figured it out too and I felt a surge of hope.

I looked at my hands as he gave a Reader's Digest 
explanation of the X Files, trying to make them 
sound about as harmless as the Goosebumps series 
for children. (Though I hear some people blame 
Goosebumps for the rash of schoolchildren 
shootings, so maybe the comparison was apt.)

"And what attracted you to each other?" This from a 
slight gentleman with a neat mustache and a 
disarmingly friendly style, like so many of the cold-
blooded killers we'd known.

And how was that relevant to the inquiry? I smiled in 
the general direction of the professional voyeur's feet, 
as if I were shy about it. "His intelligence, his passion 
for his work." Thinking: His ass, his bedroom eyes and 
barroom stubble, are you blind? Can't you feel the fact 
that the man radiates sex?  Not just a good fuck, but a 
smart one.  I realized uneasily that the official story 
might have just as much truth as the unofficial story, 
and then I thought I shouldn't be analyzing myself at 
this juncture. "He challenged me, both to prove myself 
as an agent and to discover the answers behind 
events that were on their face inexplicable. Um -- he's 
got an incredible sense of humor, he has unending 
compassion for the victims of the crimes we 
investigate." 

The appalling thing about the interrogation was that 
it not only removed my self-respect, it made it 
impossible for Mulder to credit any of these nice 
things I was saying. Humiliation without the upside 
of tenderness. I cleared my throat and looked the 
questioner in the eye, wanting to seem honest and 
friendly. "Fox has supported me through some very 
hard times for me both personally and 
professionally. He's brave, insightful, and incapable 
of giving up. And he is never, ever sick at sea."

The matronly type smiled at me. I was surprised that 
she was the one to take the bait. "Never?"

I grinned back; it was a real love-in. "Well, hardly 
ever."

Mulder squeezed my hand. "Dana is brilliant and 
challenging in her own right. She made me work to 
get results. She took me seriously even when she 
didn't believe my crazy theories. She trusted me." 
And I suffered for him so he felt honor bound to 
suffer me, because no one else would after what 
we've been through. 

A younger woman, the third of the Fates, cleared her 
throat. "What do you think are your husband's 
strengths and weaknesses?"

I really wanted to laugh and point out that he had an 
endless capacity for abuse which was a stellar 
quality in any husband and an even more endless 
capacity for going down on me.

Whatever platitude I muttered I don't remember.

"How do you settle conflicts when they arise?" 

With considerable difficulty, I thought, and smiled a 
smile so plastic that Barbie would have been 
envious. "Vigorous argument, usually. We've got five 
years of experience compromising to make final 
reports of case dispositions, and that helps."

We endured over six hours of interrogation before 
they left. I'd actually had to reapply deodorant during 
my bathroom breaks. I suppose I should be grateful 
that bathroom breaks were allowed, since they'd 
failed to read us our Miranda rights and were 
probably violating some international human rights 
treaty with their prying questions.

I had been too nervous to eat in the morning or 
when we served a simple yet nutritious lunch, so 
when they left I rummaged for food while Laura, 
who'd been lurking in the background, discussed 
strategy with Mulder. After a few minutes, I heard the 
red beep of the alarm announcing her departure. I 
stood in the kitchen next to the refrigerator, sticking 
celery stalks into a jar of peanut butter and scooping 
globs out. I had a bowl of raisins to dunk the 
combination into and then I'd eat the whole thing. My 
mother used to make these snacks she called "ants 
on a log," which was the same thing only with much 
more organization. Maybe someday I'd do the same 
for Miranda but I didn't have the energy to smooth 
peanut butter into the grooves of a celery stalk when 
it was all going to get mixed together in my stomach 
anyway.

Mulder wandered in and his face screwed up like a 
pug dog's. "I'm going to have to buy a new jar of 
peanut butter," he complained, "it's not sanitary to be 
communal like that."

"You get all my germs anyway," I pointed out.

"And what are those? Raisins?"

"They just look like raisins, they're actually ants."

"Oh, okay," he took a handful. "Mmm, folic acid. 
Well, I was going to ask what you wanted from the 
store, but now I think I don't want to know. I'll add 
peanut butter to the spreadsheet though."

"Miranda?"

"Napping." He turned on the ubiquitous baby monitor 
resting on the counter and the room filled with soft 
susurration. 

"Ben and Jerry's," I called out as he left. He 
pretended not to hear.

I went to sit in the dining room, staring back into the 
kitchen and looking through wallpaper samples as I 
stuffed my face. My impulse to decorate was 
worsening now that I needed it to distract me. 
Especially since I'd given up the Annapolis 
apartment. This wasn't my home away from home 
anymore, it was a reasonable facsimile of the real 
thing. 

I didn't clean out the entire jar of peanut butter, but I 
ran out of raisins and so I stopped eating anyway. 
It's not the same without the right balance of 
ingredients. There was a pile of case files on the 
sideboy that I sorted through diffidently, putting them 
into rough piles for discard or further consideration. 
I'd had a search run to find out what other vermin 
Roush's law firm had represented; since they were 
helping my brother attempt to steal Miranda I could 
only assume that they were still in the arsenal of the 
Dark Side of the Force. Danny's first efforts hadn't 
produced anything useful, but he had generated a 
list of client names and I was trying to determine 
which ones were high-tech enough to give off that 
conspiratorial bouquet.

When Mulder returned he brought Wavy Gravy and 
New York Super Fudge Chunk, which earned him 
bonus points. I returned to the kitchen to help him 
unload; he had to do everything that went in a 
cabinet, but I could put away things that belonged in 
a refrigerator. When the blue-and-white rectangular 
package landed in front of me, I first thought that it 
was a tube of toothpaste. I couldn't really read the 
label through the glare of cellophane.

"Oh, no," I said when I figured it out. 

He simply looked at me. I wanted to say: no, really, 
the prospect of testifying in court has always made 
me throw up, and also I've liked ants on a log since 
childhood. 

"So go use it and prove me wrong," he said, reading 
my mind. "It's what you like best anyway."

I had to brace my hands on the counter to keep 
upright. Thoughts churned in my mind like a pod of 
dolphins breaching in the ocean, bobbing and then 
disappearing as they threw up spume. Could this be 
God's best joke yet? Could I still take my Zoloft 
safely? Would Bill and Tara try to take this child 
away too?

What the hell was I going to *do*?

I picked up the package, sharp cardboard corners 
pressing red lines into my palm, and staggered into 
the downstairs bathroom on legs as rubbery as beef 
tongue.

They make home tests entirely too easy and too 
reliable these days, I couldn't even wrap the 
possibility that it could be wrong around myself to 
keep my denial warm.  When was the last time I 
menstruated, anyway?  Before George came back 
and killed my gynecologist - what was that, four 
weeks before?  Five?  Shit.  There had been a time, 
when I was seeing Jack, that I had dutifully noted 
each cycle in my Franklin by scribbling the Pill 
prescription code on the day. Then I'd had cancer 
and I had quit taking the hormones, and then I had 
been pronounced sterile and that was the end of 
that.  Then the sex had dried up and I hadn't 
bothered.

I'd been snookered by part of my own subconscious 
that hadn't let me pick up the prescription, and hadn't 
reminded me to use condoms. Although to be fair 
my subconscious had plenty of other things to worry 
about the time we went bareback, such as the fact 
that Mulder was acting the part of his psycho brother 
George and I was playing victim better than Janet 
Leigh. Dead girls generally don't interrupt the 
proceedings to ask about protection.

Shitshitshitshit!

I must have stayed in that bathroom for almost an 
hour, trying to figure out what I was feeling. When I 
gave up, I opened the door and Mulder was there 
waiting. As usual, he could read me like a fortune 
cookie and he knew immediately. He pulled me into 
his arms and for once I had no impulse to resist him. 

"Everything's going to be fine," he whispered into my 
hair as I shook against him.

It was all too much, my legs finally went out like 
Miranda's when she was too tired or too lazy to even 
pretend to walk.  Even with his arms under my arms, 
I slid down Mulder's body until I was sitting on the 
floor.  I knew I was crying because my face wouldn't 
have been wet otherwise.

***

I woke up alone with the alarm clock registering two 
in the morning.  My first chest-tightening thought led 
me to the window and I looked out to see both cars 
sitting in the driveway shining in the light of a waxing 
moon.  So she hadn't left, or if she had she'd gone 
by foot.  In the back of my mind hummed the image 
of Scully wandering the weak-moonlit night with her 
feet torn to shreds by red shoes.  She didn't have 
red shoes.  God, that was about the only color shoes 
that she didn't have.

	Oh I used to be disgusted
	Now I try to be amused
	But since their wings have got rusted
	You know, the angels want to wear my red 
shoes.

Elvis Costello, the only Elvis I could stand these 
days thanks to George.

The things that Scully had brought from her 
apartment (besides the aforementioned footwear) 
included her photo albums, and these were spread 
out on the living room floor in front of her when I 
padded downstairs.  She was hunched over one so 
intently that she jerked when I put my hand on her 
warm shoulder.

"Hey," I said.

"Couldn't sleep."

Sitting down on the floor next to her, I could smell 
whatever strange cream she put on her face at 
night.  She smelled like vanilla wafers and honey.  
She smelled like the Mooselet when she had been 
eating sweets, just before the sour milky baby spit 
and baby pee aroma hit.  She twisted the unfamiliar 
rings around and around on her finger, as though 
they were lined with barbed wire.  The flashing of the 
topaz was making me sick and I wanted to slap her 
hand away from it. I settled for putting my hand over 
hers and she stilled.

"I feel like a fucking pawn.  Just when I think I get it 
all straightened out; it gets fucked up again," her 
voice was as flat as a tortilla.

I squeezed her hand to let her know that I was 
listening, but didn't dare comment.

"What am I going to do now?  Just start having 
babies like a machine so they can be taken away?  
This isn't supposed to happen to people like me!  I'm 
not some breeding mare so the bad guys have a 
fresh set of infants to manipulate the way they did 
you and your brothers!" she snarled and her eyes 
sparked like fat dripped into a gas jet.
 
I could feel the heat coming off her face like a fire.

"This is wrong, this is evil, Mulder, evil.  They turn 
your family against you, they turn my family against 
me, and they try to take Miranda.  They'll try to take 
this baby too, just so they can cut it apart and see 
what makes it tick."

"Did it occur to you that this baby has nothing to do 
with any of their plans?  It wasn't engineered - it was 
made the low-tech way. They don't know about it, it's 
safe."

"Jesus Christ, Mulder, how can you be so fucking 
na‹ve?!" she shouted and jumped up from the floor, 
the long T-shirt flaring around her like a chiton.

"You don't think that they haven't bugged this place? 
The telephone? That there isn't videotape of us re-
enacting George's last great crime!  My God, 
Mulder, I can't even entertain the thought that we 
could have conceived that night!"

She wouldn't be alone. How was I going to be able 
to face another little pink creature knowing that it 
had been made the night I'd squeezed half the life 
out of her before indulging in yet another round of 
destructive sex?  On the other hand, I seemed to 
remember her impaling herself on my resuscitated 
member and not complaining.  But this was hardly 
the time to mention it.

"And how are we to know that I don't get a little 
shove on the stairwell at the Hoover Building one 
afternoon. 'Oh, Mr. Mulder, we're so sorry but we 
weren't able to save the baby' and they go and 
fucking implant my fetus into some zombie like 
Emily's birth mother, Miranda's birth mother! You 
think maybe the third time's the charm?"

I'd taught her an awful lot about the fine art of 
paranoia.
 
She lunged at me, slamming her head into one of 
the more sore spots in my chest, like Catzilla looking 
for a place to nest.  She was shaking against me 
and it wasn't with laughter.   Her fingers were 
knotted in my shirt as though she were trying to 
strangle me with it - and I wouldn't have been 
surprised if she had wanted to kill me.

"We can't tell anyone," she hissed into my ribcage.

"What are you going to do?  Hide behind furniture 
and trenchcoats for nine months?  You're going to 
look like a seahorse this time next month." I pointed 
out, my hands sliding over her shoulders like 
shadows on grass in a vain attempt to make my 
words more calming.

"Not until we get Bill and his keepers contained, that 
can't take all that long.  They like to get custody 
cases wound up quickly to prevent psychological 
damage to the child."

"But pre-natal care and-"

"I'm a doctor, not a high school student. I know what 
I can and can't do.  I'll review the texts," she 
muttered into my body, sounding reassuringly like 
her old self.

I rubbed my hands over the soft cotton covering her 
back, feeling the beat of her heart like a drum 
muffled in a funeral procession. We slid down to a 
kneeling position like penitent and priest, like lovers 
whispering through a chink in the great wall 
separating them. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, 
that everything was going to be all right, that I would 
protect her, Miranda, and whatever new person was 
busily growing underneath her liver. Frankly, I was 
scared shitless.  The possibilities were all too 
frightening.  Something about the strange 
circumstances of Miranda's birth and life with me 
had made her more *my* child than Scully's even 
though we'd both been in absentia at her conception 
and gestation.  That was a dry run, this was the 
whole nine months.

It was terrifying, and exciting at the same time - like 
bungee jumping.

While I was going through my own uncomfortable 
wash of thoughts like cold rainwater running through 
gutters, Scully gradually stopped shaking against me 
and started to soften, her body conforming to mine 
like an electric blanket, giving off her own candy 
sweet heat.  I kissed her forehead, trying to impart 
the same kind of comfort and reassurance as I had 
in the hospital, the night that she had realized that 
she was dying.   She caught my forearms and ran 
the dry palms of her hands up over the guard hairs 
standing erect on my skin.  Breath heated my throat 
as she rubbed her fingers upward through my hair.  
A thrill like a knife blade running up my spine shot 
from my toes to my scalp, making the blood rush out 
of my head and into my groin. Her eyelids trembled 
underneath my lips, her lashes pricking at me like 
spines while her hands reached underneath my T-
shirt where my stomach muscles jumped obediently 
under her touch.  She pinched at my nipples until I 
winced into her mouth and she gave out the satisfied 
growl of a lioness hunched over a downed antelope..  
I stretched my neck as trustingly as a maiden in a 
vampire movie and let her soft mouth and tongue 
explore the borders between healed and raw skin on 
my neck.  Over my thighs, her hands ran up and 
underneath the loose legs of my boxers until she 
was stroking my cock with her hot little hands.

I found her ass with my hands and ran my palms 
over the smooth skin covering her voluptuous little 
backside, until she pressed closer and nipped at my 
collarbone.  While my left hand circled the extra 
erogenous zone of her tattoo, the other slipped over 
her rump and between her legs where she steamed 
for only me.  I used my knee to press her thighs 
farther open so I could wiggle three fingers inside 
her and rub at her clitoris with my thumb.  She 
gasped at the invasion, although I doubt if she was 
in any way surprised.  Kneeling there with her hair 
standing out around her face like a fiery milkweed 
pod, and her eyes watching the thoughts in the back 
of my skull, she grabbed at my shoulders to keep 
herself upright.  I slid my fingers out of her, trailing a 
deliberate path of her own wetness across her ass 
and thighs until I could reach her from the front and 
slipped them inside again. This time, my other hand 
squeezed her breasts together so I could bite at 
each nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt.

She groaned and tightened around me, and I could 
feel each movement of my fingers inside her echoed 
in her body.  I stroked her inside and out, making her 
shudder and sway against me.  And when I looked 
up from her breasts for a moment I saw the 
blackened blue of her eyes and her 
uncommunicative mouth lust-swollen and half-open.

"You are incredibly beautiful," I stammered like a 
pimply teenager with his first date rather than a 
thirty-eight year old man with his knocked-up wife.

"You've never said -- oh," and her eyes flew open 
wide as she started shuddering her climax around 
me.

I could see myself reflected in the blackness of her 
pupils.  

Scully is a like a radio that I can only tune in to 
certain channels, and the sex channel always comes 
in the clearest.

****

I was still reeling, exhausted from the day's events 
and the tendon-popping orgasm I'd just had. Vague 
thoughts about what I should do to Mulder in return 
were scudding across my brain like clouds before a 
summer storm.

Miranda's wails cut through my musings with her 
own personalized test of the emergency broadcast 
system. The baby monitor was still on in Mulder's 
bedroom so that her shrieks fell down the stairs in 
stereo.

"I'll go," I mumbled. I was weak-kneed but Mulder 
was having a harder time, no pun intended. He 
grimaced and nodded with the same pained face he 
used when he was getting stitches. I was just 
amazed this hadn't happened sooner.

The baby was clean and dry, and she wasn't hungry. 
She was just crying on general principles, as far as I 
could tell. If she didn't want competition for our 
affections, she was a few weeks too late. I circled 
her room, asking her to calm down and wondering if 
I could do this twice. We needed another nanny 
(preferably another heterosexual man or a lesbian; 
but with my luck we'd get an Alicia Silverstone type -
- or worse, Alex Krycek -- who'd blow MMulder for one 
of his ironic smiles).

Miranda's wails cycled down after a few minutes. 
"Ka -- ka -- kat?" she asked and gave me a 
suspiciously familiar whipped-Dalmatian look.

"Oh, no you don't," I informed her. "That doesn't 
work for your daddy and it's not going to work for 
you." To be honest, that pathetic face worked quite 
well for Mulder, but I was hoping that I could keep 
Miranda unaware of her hereditary gifts for a little 
while.

She pouted, blew a spit bubble, and lapsed back 
into semiconsciousness. I put her back in the crib 
and backed out of the room.

Mulder had returned to the bedroom; I could see the 
light trickling out around the closed door. 

I wasn't sure what the etiquette of the situation was. 
Maybe he'd taken care of the problem himself. I had, 
after all, broken up a stable and committed 
relationship between Mulder and his own right hand.

I pushed open the bedroom door and stepped 
hesitantly through.

Mulder was under the covers, curled up in his 
standard spiral-shaped sleep pose. I put my hands 
on my hips and surveyed the territory. Mulder 
blinked at me with the sleepy eyes I had just seen in 
the other room.

I must have registered disappointment, because he 
smirked at me. "Cut me some slack -- er, bad choice 
of words. It's the middle of the night, it's been a big 
day, and I'm pushing forty."

Looking over the flowing lines of his shoulders and 
back, it occurred to me that forty was not pushing 
back very hard. "I could write you a prescription for 
Viagra," I suggested.

He groaned and flung the sheets back, inviting me 
in. I could have walked around the bed to get to my 
side, but it seemed simpler just to crawl over him, 
checking to see that he was in working order as I 
went. His skin was slick and cool under my 
fingertips, fine hairs rising at the eeriness of my 
touch. I bent and sucked at a patch of skin just at his 
waist and he yipped a complaint. 

"Dana, I'm tired," he whined. "Can't I just get a rain 
check?"

I needed a brain check. Yes, I was attempting to 
connect with him through raw sexual energy, which 
was irrational and desperate; would you blame me? 
I felt as unstable as a comic book villain. At this 
point, I had a history that would fully justify a funny 
costume and a descriptive moniker, not to mention a 
weird-ass MO: I had been abducted, had my sister 
killed, been given cancer, had my genetic material 
used to make monsters and other people, had been 
raped by my lover's twin who had also created said 
monsters, and I was now the unwilling bride of that 
aforementioned clownish clone and now, like the 
malignantly unnatural cherry on top of the sundae of 
Life, pregnant by him. I deserved some coolly 
nefarious toys, I deserved to have a city of my own 
to terrorize, and I deserved a sidekick. One shorter 
than I was. And Miranda didn't count.

What I had was Mulder, who was asleep again 
before I'd really processed his rejection. 

Ah, the joys of marriage. I finished tumbling over him 
to my side of the bed, pulled the sheets up to my 
neck, and sulked until sleep ambushed me and held 
my brain for ransom.



Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
7/

All there is left is a photograph
You smile and the ice cream`s meltin` down your pants
And I keep living on, you`re in the past, it`s been so long
Since the Ice Cream Summer, it`s forgotten now it`s gone
	Hanoi Rocks

The morning after we realized Scully was pregnant 
was interesting in the extreme.  I was sitting in the 
kitchen drinking my post-run, post-shower coffee 
and reading the Post while the Mooselet crawled 
around on the floor with her stuffed Po. Catzilla was 
sitting on the table, washing his back toes -- which 
would have reduced Scully to vermilion-faced rage 
since she doesn't realize that Catzilla is cleaner than 
most people.  All was all right with the world. Of 
course I had butterflies in my stomach the size of 
Pterodactyls and my hands were shaking around the 
coffee mug, but that was pretty much what it was like 
to be me.  The Mooselet was winding my sneaker 
laces around a cartoonish pink horse and I almost 
killed myself getting up to answer the doorbell.  
There had been a few flower arrangements and a 
couple of gifts as I have been congenitally unable to 
keep my mouth shut about anything that didn't have 
a life or death consequence.  I'd e-mailed Emerson 
and Darien, and out of some perverse sense of 
revenge e-mailed both Phoebe and Diana through 
their work accounts.  I'd actually used stamps and 
mailed a couple notes to the vague friends I had left 
over from Oxford and my tutor, who had retired to 
Greece.  I figured that Dr. Arenson would get the 
letter by the time Miranda was twelve.  I also 
dropped a note to Mrs. Schwartz who had lived next 
door to me at Hegal place and had brought me soup 
when I was sick and had saved my life by dialing 
911 on more than one occasion.  I thought that 
some of these peripheral people in my life would be 
amused to know that I was having the ball and chain 
welded around my ankle with good grace.

I sloped out to the front room with Miranda under my 
arm and answered the door, expecting another 
bored teenager with a mouthful of gum and a flower 
arrangement, or an efficient Fed Ex guy with a 
Pepsodent smile.  Instead, I found myself looking at 
the face that I had dreamed about for years, first in 
the agony of loss and then in the agony of shame.
 
"Sam?"

She looked like hell; one side of her face was bloody 
and raw, her black feather hair sticking into dried 
blood, her eye swollen shut and her lip dripping 
fresh blood down along her chin.  Hanging onto the 
doorjamb she looked like a glare would send her 
shattered to the floor.

"Hey big brother, sorry to crash the festivities," she 
said with a bitter smirk and collapsed into the foyer. 

The Mooselet started to wail.  I put Miranda in her 
playpen and carried Sam, who only weighed slightly 
more than Miranda, over to the recovered sofa 
where she bled onto the new upholstery, while the 
Mooselet stood up in the playpen and appealed to a 
higher power.

"Lee!  Lee!"

Great, my own kid was ratting me out.  I growled to 
myself and scampered off to the kitchen for the 
emergency first aid kit which, thanks to Scully, was 
as well stocked as a small ER.  My blushing bride 
was waiting for me in the living room, looking down 
at my battered sister with the look of caustic 
loathing.

"Oh shit," she muttered.

Samantha's eyes flickered open and she looked 
back up at Scully with a mirrored expression.

"Congratulations," she hissed.

"What are you doing here?" Scully demanded and 
pulled up a footstool alongside the sofa.  I handed 
her the First Aid kit and stepped back out of the fray.

"Where the hell else was I going to go?  They're 
trying to kill me."

"Who?" I asked over Scully's head.

"I don't know their names, you dick.   *Them*, the 
men that Dad worked with.  Men without names.  I 
was going to visit Mom in New England, she told me 
that you two were married and about the custody 
battle.  I was in the airport and they grabbed me in 
the parking lot.  Beat the shit out of me and told me 
that even if you *got* custody of the baby, they'd 
take her from you."

"And we're supposed to believe that?" Scully 
snapped, ripping open a packet of alcohol wipes 
which she then used to scrub at Sam's bleeding 
face.

Sam winced and flinched away from her.  This is one 
of the reasons Scully only works with the dead - her 
in-bed manner is exceptional, but her bedside 
manner lacks certain warmth.   When I broke my 
thumb on a case in Iowa she cracked it back into 
alignment without disturbing a hair of her own 
shining coif.  I, on the other hand, turned sea green 
with pain and slid to the floor like a colloid.  I was on 
the verge of doing the sea-green colloid routine 
again, but didn't want to lose face in front of my 
impressionable progeny in the playpen.  I didn't want 
her growing up thinking that her Daddy was a 
*complete* wimp. 

"Why should we protect you?" a voice that sounded 
more like one of my brothers' emerged from my 
mouth.

"Because you're my brother," she snarled.

Like that was foremost in her mind the night she 
tried to seduce me while Jason was raping Scully. 

"Blood runs pretty thin around here, Sam, George's 
only stained the carpet.  You have to give me - give 
us -- a *very* good reason not to sling your skinny 
ass out into the street."

Her eyes slid away from mine and she was staring at 
Scully, which was not the place to look for sympathy 
no matter how cozy Scully looked in her butter-
yellow toweling bathrobe.  

"The former Roush scientists still have some of your 
ova, not all were destroyed during your clumsy mass 
abortion."

"I don't believe you," Scully said, and I could just 
about see her ears flattening back against her head.
 
"Haven't you ever heard the story about the boy who 
cried wolf?"

"Tell that to your *children*," she snapped.

"Sorry.  Not good enough.  If you can't drive, I will 
call you a cab," I offered, "but you really don't fit into 
our lifestyle right now."

For a second, I saw hurt in her eyes, and it brought 
back all the bad memories of how I had taunted and 
tormented her before she had been taken away.  
Taken away and I hadn't been able to save her - not 
from the aliens as much as what the humans had 
done to change her into this polished stranger.

She narrowed her reptilian eyes at me. 

"You know I'm the only one who knows exactly what 
has been hardwired into that baby's--" she glanced 
over at the Mooselet -- "genetic code. And if you 
won't help me I'm going to have to cut my own deal 
with whoever will."

"I think you better leave." Scully said.

When Sam had finally been whisked away in a taxi I 
felt safe enough to scoop up the Mooselet in my 
arms as if that was going to shield her from the evil 
spores that Samantha had left in her wake.  Scully 
merely gathered up the detritus from the first aid kit 
and threw it all out in the kitchen garbage as though 
she could clear away the memory of Sam with her 
bloodstains.

"Coffee?" Scully asked.

The Mooselet pulled on my ear with her wet fingers.

"Coffee, Mulder?" Scully prodded.

"No thanks.  I'm experiencing an adrenaline rush 
right now-."

Snorting, she dumped the half-pot down the drain 
and watched it swirl into the black hole of the pipe.

"You know," she said in a carefully cool tone, "from 
my experience, all of your sister's injuries were 
consistent with damage that had been self-inflicted."

"I am, " I said to the Mooselet, "going to buy you a 
set of Russian dolls to show you how lies work."

"Doesn't it seem awfully suspect that your sister 
shows up today in light of the information we 
received yesterday?"

It took me a moment to realize that Scully was 
referring to her pregnancy, but subtlety and 
sneakiness have never been my strong points. It 
was funny how Sam managed to show up right after 
we'd gotten an ETA on the stork's next run.  Funny 
as a condom with a hole in it.

"Of course it's suspect, it's another plot complication 
just in case the custody issue wasn't enough to 
sustain interest." 

Scully paled and I thought my paranoid hypothesis 
had made her suffer an epiphany, but when she 
bolted for the bathroom and I heard the sound of 
retching I realized it was just nausea.

***

Monday morning came early. Far too early. I usually 
hung on to sleep with the tenacity of a rock climber 
whose safety harness had snapped, but for the past 
few days I'd been awake with the gray blush of 
predawn. Maybe there was a physiological 
explanation, the hormones of pregnancy were pretty 
potent.  Add the rage and frustration brought by 
Samantha into the mix and I was ready to go up like 
fuel oil and fertilizer.

Ingveld was soldering the case of a computer back 
together when I stumbled downstairs to check on 
Warwick.  He was sleeping through the noise of 
Ingveld's construction with the ease of the young. 
Unlike the rest of us, she couldn't afford to take time 
off of work every time a monster invaded her life. 
She was under deadline for a federal agency whose 
identity she couldn't reveal to us. She didn't have 
American citizenship but she had a security 
clearance; there was something wrong with that but 
Uncle Sam had adopted the philosophy that if you 
can't catch 'em, hire 'em. 

"Vill you mind if I attend the trial?" she asked as I 
collected a few of Miranda's toys that had migrated 
to their level of the house. "I do not know much 
about the American justice system, it is much 
discussed in Europe but not well understood. It 
seems quite complicated."

I shrugged agreement; Ingveld was mostly harmless 
and maybe the judge would like her.  Ingveld was 
hard not to like.

"Americans are so violent and yet you have so much 
law, is it not strange?"

Never one to let a simple rhetorical question go, I 
reverted to standard lecture mode. "It's two sides of 
the same coin, we want our own way in everything 
and so some citizens make the laws for their own 
aggrandizement while others break them to satisfy 
their contrary wills. America has a strong 
individualist tradition that isn't quite as healthy as 
many people like to believe."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "You have so little trust in 
one another. I write the security protocols for one of 
your courthouses, even the guards do not know the 
right codes to open doors at night. They must patrol 
locked in so they do not betray their employers. That 
is the job that brought us here, vhy Varvick became 
Miri's nanny," she looked so sad, she hadn't even 
been the one who'd shot Warwick but she felt guilty 
because her job had indirectly led him to this 
household of insanity. 

"Ingveld," I said, trying not to sound condescending 
with my fifty thousand light years' more experience, 
"you can't blame yourself. You couldn't have known, 
you couldn't have done anything but what you did, 
and Warwick is just happy that you're with him. I'm 
sure he feels that he put you in danger by being 
here, but the truth is that no one is to blame but the 
vicious criminal who assaulted you both."

She nodded slowly. "I try to think that. Is that how 
you feel?"

Well, no one ever said the girl lacked brains. "I try," I 
admitted. "Often I ask what I might have done 
differently. But we make our decisions with imperfect 
knowledge and it's unfair to judge ourselves entirely 
by the outcomes of those decisions. You and 
Warwick were caught at the edge of a whirlwind, not 
of your own volition, and you should take pride in 
your survival."

Ingveld sighed and looked back at the slumbering 
man on the bed. "I try also," she said and I nodded 
goodbye.

I wondered if Mulder envied the easy unity between 
them. I certainly did.

While Mulder dressed Miranda in one of the dresses 
his mother had given her, which was not unlike 
stuffing all the arms of a large and unhappy octopus 
into a mesh bag, I grabbed a quick shower and got 
dressed for the next set of unwelcome guests.  I had 
styled my hair and was dabbing foundation on the 
circles under my eyes when the wave of nausea hit 
me like a tsunami wiping out a small city in Papua 
New Guinea.  I leaned over the open toilet and 
became re-acquainted with my breakfast.  Mulder 
must have heard my un-ladylike gagging because 
he burst through the door of the bathroom with the 
subtlety of a SWAT team making a target.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder." I spat and choked on bile.

He hovered, an Armani-clad mosquito, buzzing and 
annoying me. 

"You should have crackers."

"I don't want crackers," I said and flushed the toilet 
with undue force.

"I'll get you some saltines."

"I don't WANT ANY SALTINES!"

Buzz buzz buzz, he darted around, unsure if he 
should land and finally settled on the edge of the 
bathtub and looked up at me with eyes like healing 
bruises. I ignored him and brushed my teeth to get 
the sour taste out of my mouth.
 
"I just want to help," he whined.

"You can go away," I snapped and spit out 
toothpaste. 

With an injured sniff he left in a cloud of Hugo Boss, 
which made my stomach heave again and the entire 
process was repeated sans well-dressed 
interruptions.  It's a shame that the genetic 
experiments of the Project hadn't made it possible 
for the Mulder line to actually bear any of the spawn 
that they sired. I certainly would have appreciated it.

We spent the day with Bill's hired dog and pony 
show, answering loaded questions (and not with our 
loaded guns, which would have been my 
preference). Sometimes the ludicrous questions 
were the same and sometimes different. How did I 
*feel* about having shot Mulder?  What would we 
look for in playmates for Miranda? Did I think that 
doing autopsies made it harder for me to relate to 
the living? (If it had been an FBI event I would have 
said, "Only some of them," with a significant look, 
but I was trying to hide my acid under a bushel and 
so I smiled demurely. I think. I don't have a terribly 
good idea what demure looks like, but I think it's a lot 
like Mom.)

When they'd gone, we collapsed onto the couch. I 
felt like I'd been strapped to an examining table as 
the doctor brought round after round of medical 
students to examine my exposed innards. Miranda 
had come up from Warwick and Ingveld's lair and 
began pulling the candles off the coffee table and 
seeing what they tasted like.  I was to tired to stop 
her and I watched thirty dollars worth of natural 
beeswax alpine flower pillar candles from Crabtree 
and Evelyn become decorated with dental 
impressions.

Mulder had a bit more energy than I did and he 
scooped her up and cuddled her on his lap. She 
cooed and batted her eyelashes at him.  He couldn't 
help but smile.  He's such an optimist, and I mean 
that in the nicest possible of ways. "Can you hold 
down the fort here for awhile?  I need to run a 
couple of errands."
 
"Real errands or Mulder errands, the kind that end 
up with a trip to the emergency room?"

He smiled a bigger, genuine smile rather than the 
smug one that the rest of the world usually gets.

"Real errands. Suit at the cleaners, diapers, and 
there's Ben and Jerry's in it for you if you're a good 
girl while I'm out."

"Dilbert's Totally Nuts -- the official ice cream of this 
family."

"The baby is going to think that ice cream is the only 
food on the planet."

"At least we'll know where she got the taste for it."

Mulder made no reply but I watched as the tiny 
capillaries hiding just under his skin dilated and filled 
with blood. 

"Why, Fox Mulder," I crowed, "I do believe you're 
blushing."

Five minutes after he left, Tina called. "Fox isn't 
here," I said, but she didn't take the hint.

"I wanted to speak with you, Dana -- I may call you 
Dana now?"

"Why not, everyone else seems to."

"Meet me at the Mutter Museum in Philadelphia at 
eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

"I can't, we have a home visit in the afternoon --"

"There will be plenty of time for that." She hung up. 
Now I knew where Mulder got his phone manners.

****

Scully woke me with early morning vomiting, which 
was apparently being integrated into SOP, right 
before brushing her teeth and styling her hair.  For a 
moment, I thought that Catzilla was coughing up a 
hairball, but when I realized what was going on I 
stayed put.  Scully was unlikely to ruin the carpet.  
After a few tries at being comforting, I was keeping 
my remaining extremities as far away from her 
viciousness as possible. "If you don't want me 
worrying, you could at least close the bathroom 
door," I suggested from the safety of the bed. 

All I got was a muted snarl. After a few minutes, she 
did stagger to the door and shut it with no further 
comment, a disturbing sign in itself. She couldn't 
keep on like this -- I'd flipped through enough books 
to know that we should at least consult an OB-GYN 
if the nausea continued unabated.  There was a real 
danger of dehydration.   Not to mention, there was 
still the question of what the lingering residue of her 
abduction would do when combined with the multiple 
physiological changes of pregnancy. If Sam had 
offered to share her knowledge about *that*, I would 
have been much more tempted to let her slither into 
our garden.

The clock by the bed asserted that it was nearly five 
in the morning, which used to be bedtime but now 
reminded me more of barking my shins on half-
hidden objects as I stumbled to feed Miranda, who 
would slobber half-asleep in my arms. I was not 
looking forward to replaying those months.

Wait, what was Scully of the snooze alarm doing up 
at this hour?

"What's going on?" I called, rising and grabbing a 
pair of shorts from the floor. "Dana?" I rapped on the 
door.

She opened the door in my face, her high-gloss 
finish almost dry, and I felt so scruffy in comparison 
that I had to suppress the urge to scratch my balls. "I 
have to go to Philadelphia. Your mother's got some 
mysterious information she wants to share."

"You could have mentioned this yesterday."

"I'm mentioning it now, telling you yesterday would 
just have upset you. Go back to bed."

"The psychologists --"

"I *know*. I'll be back in time. Your mother's not 
exactly flexible, you know."

"You're a fine one to talk."

"'I know you are, but what am I?' Go to sleep, M -- 
Fox, not even the insult sector of your brain is 
working."

Befuddled, I ran a hand through my hair. As she 
dodged past me, I grabbed her by the elbow and 
spun her back. Our faces almost collided with the 
momentum of my pull as I opened my mouth to 
swap my morning breath for her toothpaste. The hint 
of digestive acid under mint was no worse than it 
had been during some of her chemo days.

When I let her go, she reached up a hand to brush 
my wet lips. The pads of her fingertips came away 
stained with pink. "How very like you," she said. Her 
voice was being broadcast from somewhere beyond 
the moon.

"Hunh?"

"Fox, sometimes I think you want me to come to you 
perfect so that you can see when you've made your 
mark." She found a tissue in her purse and wiped 
her fingers clean, then handed it to me. "Save me 
some lunch, all right?"

***

I was at the museum by 7:50. If I could leave by 
noon, there was a good chance I'd make the home 
visit on time. Tina, however, waited until eight 
exactly to show. The museum wasn't yet open to the 
public, but she had a key for a side door. She 
wouldn't answer any of my questions as we walked 
in.

The Mutter museum is full of medical oddities and 
the remains of various deformed creatures, some of 
them human. I thought she had excellent taste to 
schedule our meeting there.

She led me down a hall, past the woman whose 
adipose material had transmuted into something 
approaching soap, past the conjoined fetuses in jars 
with their faces fused into one another. Up until a 
few decades ago, people believed that a pregnant 
woman who saw such things might through her fears 
transmit the deformity to the baby budding inside 
her, and I felt a stab of that atavistic superstition. 
Hell, I couldn't remember the Mulder boys' birthdays 
and I had no idea how many other Mulderbabies had 
been cooked up to date -- for all I knew this one 
inside me was the seventh son of a seventh son and 
his coming would announce the Apocalypse. Or 
maybe I was mixing myths. Nevertheless the fact 
that the museum's current installation featured 
Siamese/Conjoined twins was ominous; I felt the 
dead eyes watching me, doubled and doubled again 
in the ghost reflections against the protective glass 
cases.

And then there was the wall of skulls, theoretically 
showing the structural differences between nations 
and ethnic groups watching me as a bare bone jury.

Tina led me down a hall, into a small office that 
smelled of old coffee, and sat behind the desk, 
gesturing me to take a seat on the other chair that 
took up almost all of the remaining floor space.

"In the past few months, I reviewed the files Fox left 
with me." Her hands ruffled the surface of the desk, 
disturbing a few papers.

"Five stone killers, a child molester, a prostitute and 
three who only hurt themselves. You must be proud 
of the success stories."

"Don't be snide, Dana. In any event you and Fox 
have killed more people than any of Fox's brothers."

"Was there a point to this harassment?" I was ready 
to leave right then, I could make it back in plenty of 
time for lunch.

"I've also been reviewing the records of the Project 
after I left it. An...old friend let me have them."

I could have said something nasty about the nature 
of that friendship, but speculating about your 
mother-in-law's sex life isn't my idea of bonding. 
"And what have your investigations uncovered?" 

"I believe that, after I left the Project, research went 
in many unproductive directions. The original aim 
was to create more robust versions of humanity who 
could survive whatever plagues and disasters the 
Grays could inflict upon us, or we could visit upon 
ourselves. There was some thought that the new 
breed should be able to live in irradiated 
environments without significant mutation as well as 
having heightened healing powers and resistance to 
disease.

"But the aim changed over time, to creating new life 
that would have capacities known only to legend and 
fantasy."

"So-called psychic powers." 

Tina nodded shortly. "The theory being, I suspect, 
that if we could imagine such powers, there must be 
a way to bring them into existence. The Grays seem 
to have mental powers that we do not share, and so 
the thought was that increased hybridization 
combined with selection of donors who seemed 
'sensitive' would create the desired subjects. 
Unfortunately, hybridization is tricky, and human 
DNA can't take too much of it. So the results were 
mainly nonviable or short-lived."

Emily, I thought.

"The problem is, there is still a grave threat that the 
Grays will attempt to colonize this planet, and we've 
spent the past few decades trying for perfection 
when we simply needed a viable arsenal. From what 
I've deciphered of Samantha's notes, her test set 
down in Austin was an attempt to return to the early 
days of the Project and create normal children with 
advanced immune and healing responses in an 
attempt to counter the perceived threat of viral or 
other biological attack."

"And you think whoever's left from the organization 
that was Roush wants to continue that by gaining 
access to Miranda?"

She nodded again. "I wanted you to come here so 
that you could look at something."

Tina swiveled her chair to reach a dusty cabinet and 
pulled the middle drawer open. At her behest, I 
stood and edged into the sliver of space between 
the desk and the opened cabinet, in which a number 
of vials rested. "What is this?"

"Smallpox vaccine. I want you to take a dose and 
give it to Miranda. Just to be safe."

"How could this -- the CDC should -- " I let myself 
sputter out. No one vaccinated for smallpox 
anymore because it was a dead disease. But I knew 
it had some connection with the Project because of 
the smallpox scar markers that Agent No-First-Name 
Pendrell and I had identified, and Mulder had made 
cryptic comments in the past that suggested he 
knew more. "I don't understand. If the genetic 
engineering is designed to enhance viral resistance, 
why the need for vaccination?"

"The modifications merely enhance the subjects' 
ability to fight off infection. Naturally, they don't 
develop antibodies until they're exposed to a 
disease. And some of the viruses being stockpiled 
now are deadly to anyone with no prior exposure. 
Fortunately, I believe that this vaccine resembles the 
first cowpox vaccine in that exposure to it will protect 
against the more virulent forms, including the 
genetically enhanced supersmallpox." 

As little as I wanted to believe that any group, 
however power-hungry, would want to unleash a 
supervirus on the world, I couldn't make Miranda 
hostage to my skepticism. With trembling fingers, I 
reached into the drawer and withdrew two vials. Tina 
gave me a Ginzu-knife look.

"You know, the cancer you suffered from was 
caused by the manipulation of your reproductive 
systems. I don't think anyone has the slightest idea 
what the consequences of a subsequent pregnancy 
would be for your remission; the Project never 
tracked such things. I hope you're not going to let 
Fox get you pregnant."

I gave her the most unblinking stare in my repertoire. 
"I can assure you that the chance of that happening 
is zero." It was true; she *had* put the statement in 
the future tense.

Tina also gave me a number of Samantha's records. 
From what I could glean on a quick readthrough, 
Sam had been following in her mother's obstetric 
stirrups, abandoning the goal of creating the half-
and-half beings that had led to the monstrosities I'd 
seen in Arizona. Sam's theory seemed to be that 
alien DNA should be scattered on top of a human 
genome like chocolate sprinkles on a sundae. This 
seemed to work with far less incidence of deformity 
and nonviability than full hybridization -- though the 
other babies down in Texas had been stillborn, the 
autopsies I had performed had suggested that they 
would have lived if their mothers hadn't been 
slaughtered.

Sam was trying for a a hardiness that would allow 
the new beings to survive under extreme conditions. 
She wanted it all: enhanced general intelligence, 
survival in baking heat and Frigidaire cold, 
resistance to radiation poisoning, extended 
functioning without water and food, and so on. The 
kids were supposed to see into the infrared without 
benefit of night vision goggles. If Miranda were 
actually so equipped, we'd need to insulate the 
bedroom a little better.

"I'll need copies of these," I told Tina as I checked 
my watch. I had about fifteen minutes to get back on 
the interstate.

"I can't make any promises. But now you know what 
you're protecting, and why."

True, except that nothing she'd shown me had given 
me that knowledge.

We exited the small room and went back towards 
the main exhibit hall. The lower floor, where we 
were, was dimly lit and crowded with funhouse 
exhibits, while the J. Everett Koop Family Health 
Center, beyond the brass and cherry wood display 
of the nineteenth century, was white and shiny as an 
orthodontist's favorite smile with high-tech displays 
about modern medicine. It seemed fitting to be down 
in the atavistic depths of the museum where 
conspiracies and messiness lived along with the two 
headed baby skeletons and the plaster death cast of 
the torsos of Chang and Eng.

The first shot exploded a display case over Tina's 
right shoulder, filling the hallway with the stench of 
preservatives and corruption. Slick gray fluid gushed 
over my calves as I dropped to the floor and 
struggled to find cover. The shot came from upstairs 
-- I'd been wrong about the moral divission between 
above and below.

Kneeling in a shooting stance, I stuck my face and 
my gun around the corner of the wooden case I was 
using for cover. The whine of a bullet drove me 
back. One shooter, it sounded like, but there could 
be others.

Where was Tina? Shit, if I got her killed it would be 
Mulder's father all over again.

"Mrs. Mulder?"

A nervous ladylike laugh came from about ten feet 
down the hall past the display case that was 
protecting me. "Call me Tina." With a crash the glass 
in my case disintegrated, dumping shards all over 
the floor. Jars of deformed human organs scattered 
like gumballs. The one that bumped my knee held 
an ear attached to a vestigal third eye, milky with 
death. Agitated, its fine fringe of lashes bobbed as if 
it were winking at me.

This was an untenable position; all the gunman had 
to do was walk along the gallery upstairs until he 
had the right angle, like shooting abductees in a 
barrel. I bolted towards the corner of the room, 
hearing glass shatter as I dodged past the case that 
held a small intestine the size of a baby elephant. I 
slammed into the far wall because I had too much 
forward momentum to make the turn on my own and 
clung to the side of the case filled with preserved 
animal and human brains to prevent myself from 
sliding to the floor.

After a moment spent regaining my balance, I spun 
and scanned for the shooter. I couldn't see anyone 
on the upper level from my vantage point. If he were 
still in his old position, we were now at a ninety 
degree angle from one another. I wished very much 
for an M-16, which would allow me to get under him 
and make the floor into a cheese grater; 
unfortunately even with my extra clip I doubted I had 
enough ammo for the job.

Now what? Continuing forward was the natural 
move, but he could shoot me as easily as I could 
shoot him once we saw each other again. I had few 
hopes that the cavalry would arrive; they so rarely 
did. "Dana," Tina's panicky voice shrilled out, "he's 
coming for me!"

Decision made. I sprinted back to the misnamed 
small intestine, pushing over the velvet-roped 
barriers that prevented people from getting too close 
in an attempt to create some distracting movement. I 
caught a flash of a slim dark figure with a rifle on the 
upper level before I dropped to my knees behind the 
center display case featuring  the skeletons of a 
giant man and a dwarfed woman along with the 
crushed-skull skeleton of the baby she had died 
trying to deliver.  If I hadn't been so concentrated on 
Tina and the shooter, the resemblance to the 
"family" unit in the case would have brought my 
morning sickness back with a vengeance.

"Dana!" Her voice was a wail now. 

I took a deep breath and ran out into the open, firing 
up at the upper level almost at random. The shooter 
spun and dropped back behind a glowing model of a 
diseased lung and I jumped in front of Tina, 
shielding her with my body which was only possible 
because she was huddled into a fetal crouch. 

Our nemesis popped back up like a Whack-a-Mole, 
swinging the rifle back to face us. Then, inexplicably, 
he tilted it up, away from me, and from fifty feet away 
I could see his mouth forming curses.

I took aim and prepared to take advantage of his 
sudden hesitation when a hot fingernail scratched 
my shoulder and the gunman crumpled and hit the 
banister. His rifle went over first as his grip on it 
relaxed, and then he tumbled over, slamming into 
the marble floor with redundantly killing force.

I turned around.

Tina Mulder, looking not at all like a woman who'd 
just been screeching helplessly, put her tiny Smith & 
Wesson back into her purse and blinked up at me. 
"Help me up," she requested, "My joints aren't what 
they used to be."

I held out my hand and we rose together. I think she 
liked me more when I didn't comment on her aim. 
She'd sliced a nice tear in my jacket with the bullet, 
but the skin underneath was only burned to a 
gardening-in-the-sun level.

The dead man's face, when I examined it, was as 
surprised as mine. I don't really need to explain that 
he wasn't carrying ID, do I?

"I need to go," I said, "the authorities will be here 
soon and I can't be cooped up answering questions 
from the locals while psychologists judge my fitness 
in abstentia."

"I'll take care of it. I have . . . friends here."

"So you've said, but it seems that your friends may 
be carrying some concealed grudges."

"I doubt my friends are behind this -- you noticed 
that he wasn't supposed to shoot *you*. With you 
dead, Fox would be a very sympathetic widower in 
court."

How reassuring to think that my enemies would 
guard my physical safety because I was more useful 
to them alive to be vilified. 

Tina smiled at me knowingly. "Go on, get to your 
appointment. I'll be in touch."

I left her as she produced a cellphone from her 
surprisingly well-stocked purse and began dialing.

Fighting my way out of the city, I pondered Tina's 
cautionary advice about pregnancy. My thoughts 
kept circling around the worst of cliches, which were 
Mulderishly suggestive in this context -- horses, barn 
doors, and all that. It wasn't as if visiting my friendly 
neighborhood Planned Parenthood would eliminate 
the risk. Some studies have suggested a connection 
between abortion and breast cancer, the theory 
being that pregnancy causes breast cells to begin 
differentiation and the interruption of pregnancy 
prevents natural shutoff signals from being properly 
processed, so the cells proliferate without regulation, 
which is the definition of cancer. If my 
nasopharyngeal tumor was the result of reproductive 
invasions, then the same process might operate for 
it. So, while Tina might be right that pregnancy was 
a special health hazard for me, a return to eating for 
one might be even more dangerous.

Not to mention the fact that I had no idea what 
Marita had done to me to restore my fertility. Either 
she'd somehow managed to generate germ cells 
from other cells with a full chromosome complement, 
or she'd taken the pattern of a few straggler eggs 
that had missed the earlier vacuuming and 
replicated them. It was possible that one or two had 
been left behind, perhaps because they were 
malformed and stuck to the walls of my ovaries. 
God, this child had more strikes against it than the 
Phillies.

If Tina mentioned any of this to Mulder, he'd throw a 
tantrum that would cause Miranda to give up the 
habit in defeat. Maybe we could keep his mother 
away from us for another year and just pretend the 
stork brought the next one, or that we found it in 
some other kidnapped woman's womb.
 
Oddly enough, as I drove back, I thought about the 
cabinet in the lower level of the Mutter Museum, the 
one that held, in low, flat drawers, all the objects that 
a nose and throat specialist had removed from his 
patients' stomachs and nasal cavities through the 
years of his practice.  Everything was in that cabinet, 
from apple seeds to tiny toy zebras.  I wondered if 
he had unwittingly removed an implant or two and 
caused a female patient to die from the engineered 
cancer.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
8/

Did she break you did she 
Break your heart 
And break your bones 
And tear your life apart?
Forget the ice cream, it was really just a whim 
Fumble as I try to back out the same way I came in
	The Charms

While Scully was having her covert meeting with my 
mother in Philadelphia, I had arranged a covert 
meeting of my own.

With the Mooselet in her stroller, I couldn't very well 
expect the Park Ranger at the FDR Memorial to 
believe that I was on duty and to forestall any 
problems with the fact that I had my sidearm shoved 
in the waist of my jeans, I showed him my ID which 
he examined briefly but seemed more interested in 
the Mooselet.  He crouched until they were face to 
face and she grabbed the brim of his Smokey the 
Bear hat.

"An' what's your name?" he asked in deep Southern.

She smiled and batted her eyes at him, the little flirt.

"Miranda."  I explained.

"That makes you Prospero, huh?"

"Something like that."

"You gonna' be an FBI Agent when you grow up?" 
he asked her.

God, I hoped not.

She giggled and flirted away from him and gave him 
a sideways look that would get her into shitloads of 
trouble when she got older.  

"You're gonna' be beatin' 'em off with a stick when 
she's a teenager."

"I'm looking into convents now."

"Y'all have a good day."

Bill was standing near the statue of the first dog with 
Matthew in his stroller.  Showdown with babies.  Ten 
paces and the one with the dirtiest diaper wins.

"Bill."

"Fox."
 
Now, I had never given him permission to use my 
first name and this started the unplanned and rapid 
decent into terrain.

"I shouldn't be talking to you without my attorney 
present," he began, "this is probably illegal."
 
"I just wanted to ask you why you suddenly took 
such an interest in Miranda after almost ten months."

Matthew looked at me with a dull expression.  The 
Mooselet looked up at my face as if to say; "I'm 
related to that?  You've got to be joking."

"I saw the tape.  I know what my sister did.  She's 
dangerous and it's all because of you."

I sucked in a breath.  Bill was like any of the worst 
fanatics I had ever come across, fixated on a single 
concept and unwilling to even consider alternatives.  
Not unlike Scully in that respect, but at least she had 
the intellectual/academic interest to listen to a well-
structured argument, even if the chance of changing 
her mind was nil.  Even in a polo shirt and chinos, 
Bill still looked like he was in uniform and had the 
posture of a man with a yardstick well and truly 
rammed up his ass.

"How did you get the tape, Bill?  Was it in the Barney 
videotape jacket?"

He sniffed and looked over to where the Ranger was 
politely chasing children out of the pool at the bottom 
of the waterfall.

"It was forwarded to me with a note suggesting that 
my niece was in danger.  I am concerned about her 
welfare, Fox, although you don't want to believe it."

"Be concerned with your sister's welfare as well.  
This suit is not exactly causing a stress-free 
environment.  She was happy until this all started.  It 
would be unreasonable of me to suggest that she's 
finding total fulfillment in motherhood - Dana's too 
complicated a person for a simple answer - but she 
is content and we're building a home for both 
Miranda and Dana."

"I don't care what your rental shrinks say.  You have 
caused my sister nothing but trouble and pain since 
she  started working with you and no rose-covered 
cottage is going to change the fact that *you* have 
ruined her life.  I care about my sister, I care about 
her and my niece enough to want both of them away 
from you and your crazy theories and the stupid, 
dangerous things that you do.  Dana won't listen to 
reason and Miranda isn't old enough to make up her 
own mind.  The baby is the only one that I can 
protect."

"You can't protect Miranda!  Jesus, Bill you're at sea 
half the year!  How is Tara going to cope if 
something happens?!" My voice and blood pressure 
were shooting into the stratosphere. "You have no 
idea what you're talking about.  Men with guns, men 
who blow up cars and murder children and adults.  
Is Tara going to be able to protect Miranda and 
Matthew when a dozen men with machine guns 
show up at the door?  She can't!  They'll kill her and 
they'll kill Matthew."

"You're crazy."

"If I thought for a minute that you could keep 
Miranda safer than I can, I'd let you have her.  But 
you can't protect her."

"From enemies in your imagination.  You're a danger 
to your daughter and my sister."

Attracted by the shouting, the Park Ranger drifted 
closer.  He knew I had a gun, and was no doubt 
concerned that I was going to pull it on my dickhead 
brother-in-law. Not that I wasn't tempted.  By that 
time was I shaking and stuttering with anger and any 
information I had imagined that I was going to get 
from Bill was shot to hell by our mutual animosity 
club.  

"This is bullshit.  I'll see you in court," I snarled and 
turned the stroller around on two wheels.

The Mooselet squealed with joy as we fled to the far 
end of the Memorial and the Park Ranger trailed us 
at a discreet distance.  I knew what he was thinking -
- DISTRAUGHT FBI AGENT SHOOTS DAUGHTER,, 
SELF IN FDR MEMORIAL, imagining his fifteen 
minutes.  I let him down, however, when I wheeled 
the stroller out of the Memorial and onto the grass of 
the Mall.  There were a variety of picnickers and 
other family groups lounging on the grass in cozy 
little knots.  I imagined that someday Scully and I, 
the Mooselet, and the Baby to Be Named Later, 
would be one of those groups, flying kites, eating 
cold fried chicken, and spreading sunscreen on each 
other in America's front yard.

Bill was right, I had only managed to screw up 
Scully's life from the moment that I had met her, but 
this was the chance that I had to make things right.  
The only three good things in my life were Scully, 
the Mooselet, and whoever was growing inside 
Scully even as the flags around the base of the 
Washington Monument fluttered, and I was not 
going to let Bill, Roush, or Samantha take any of that 
away from me.

****

Even though I failed to respect the speed limits in 
any of the jurisdictions I traversed -- it was such a 
relief to be Mirandaless and able to hit the gas -- I 
arrived back at the house after the psychologists. 
This set was supposed to be friendly; we were 
paying them, anyway. But I suspected that showing 
up late was still a bad idea. They were sitting inside, 
watching as Mulder and Miranda played out on the 
porch.

Unnoticed, I ran upstairs and got into my Mommy 
drag. Jeans, pink T-shirt with smiling teddy bears on 
it, pink socks and white canvas sneakers.  I shoved 
my hair into an untidy clump at the back of my head, 
secured it with a flowered scrunchie and reflected 
that it was only for a good cause that I was wearing 
clothes from Wal-Mart.  The jeans were huge with 
the hope that I'd be able to wear them for more than 
a week or two.  Now that I was aware of my 
impregnated situation, I found myself monitoring my 
waistline on an almost hourly basis.  With my height 
and build, it was going to be impossible to keep this 
under cover very long.  I gave my hair one last tug 
for that mommified (mummified?) look and groaned 
at my reflection. Exit Special Agent Dana Scully and 
enter Yuppie Mom.
 
Jesus, the things I do . . .

I hurried downstairs and onstage.

Mulder had gotten out one of Miranda's wooden pull 
toys, a Crayola-red dragon with yellow and green 
spikes and a lolling mouth that opened and shut as it 
moved. Miranda was dragging it back and forth on 
the floor by tugging on its string and then pushing it 
away so it headed behind Mulder's body. When it 
went out of Miranda's range of vision, she squealed 
with mingled pleasure and anxiety. Then she'd bring 
it back and gabble with glee as if she'd never seen it 
before. Back and forth, as monotonously as that 
strange British television show she watched where 
the puppets did everything twice. I shook my head, 
convinced more than ever that children were the real 
space aliens.

"Having fun?" I knelt nearby to join them, but made 
no move to edge close enough to force him to move. 
I didn't want to get into an argument while the 
psychologists were watching.

Mulder never looked up, apparently fascinated by 
Miranda's game. I shouldn't be surprised -- this was 
a man who enjoyed watching baseball, a game with 
slightly less variation than Miranda's diversion. "Sure 
-- this is your basic fort/da game, Freeud wrote about 
it and then Lacan really took the ball and ran with it. 
The object represents the mother's body -- 
psychoanalysis isn't big on gender neutrality -- and 
the idea is that it's the child's attempt to work 
through the anxiety of separation from the mother by 
exercising control over the representative object. It's 
a first step into the symbolic sphere, the first story 
she ever tells herself."

I scrutinized him. He seemed completely serious. 
"Couldn't we just play pattycake or something?"

"Just be grateful we don't live in New York. There, 
the waiting list for the better preschools starts at 
conception. We'd have to do flashcards, make sure 
she knew her multiplication tables before she 
finished toilet training."

As if she'd understood us, Miranda stopped the 
game, gave us both assessing looks, and then her 
face pinked like a blooming rose. The resultant smell 
was anything but rosy.

We looked at each other. "Your turn," we said 
simultaneously and I had to smile. 

I did take her upstairs in the end, followed by the 
quartet at a discreet distance.  Miranda didn't help 
matters by waving at them.  She'd started waving a 
day or two earlier and practiced her new skill on 
everyone and everything.  Catzilla made a kamikaze 
run at my legs as I reached the baby gate at the top 
of the stairs and I had to make a grab for the 
banister and nearly dropped the baby in the process. 
Jarred, she let out a screech and grabbed at my hair 
with more strength than an adult.

"Shhh," I said, trying to sound soothing rather than 
the one that needed to be soothed, but she started 
wailing, the combination of strangers, dirty diaper, 
and my own fear making her unsettled.

Somehow I made it into the nursery and plunked her 
down on the changing table.  I unsnapped the crotch 
of her overalls and pulled the denim back.  She 
promptly grabbed the flapping fabric and began to 
examine the snaps.  The diaper shredded in my 
hands and I almost gagged.  The sweet little bundle 
of joy was caked with fecal matter from her navel 
down to her knees.  I surmised that she must have 
moved her bowels before the smell escaped and 
had managed to squirm around enough to get 
herself coated.  This was well beyond the ability of 
mere baby wipes to handle.  I needed a biohazard 
team, preferably with a helmet and breathing mask 
for myself.  

Miranda started to wail again, louder than the chorus 
in Aida, her face going brilliant red with effort.

I pitched the dirty diaper into the pail and carried her, 
at arm's length, into the bathroom; the psychologists 
scattered like frightened birds. Let them run: I am a 
pathologist, I've dissected people from throat to 
anus. I've autopsied an elephant from inside. 
Miranda smelled bad, and she didn't look too fresh 
either, but if I could just keep her *happy* there was 
nothing to fear except a bad report card.

In the bathroom, I filled the sink with body-
temperature water and stripped off her clothes, 
managing to get her mess all over my first sweatshirt 
of the day.  I scraped off the majority of the mess 
with toilet paper and threw it in the toilet.  Then I sat 
her in the sink and washed her with the 
hypoallergenic soap that Mulder bought for her.  I 
was worried about e.coli infections so I made sure 
that I carefully washed every nook and cranny of her 
pink little folds and fat wrinkles.  With my luck, the 
psychologists would think that I was being unduly 
sexual with her and I could feel my face burn at the 
public display of my ineptness.  Miranda kept 
screaming at full volume.

I felt like I was flunking a lab practical in baby 
hygiene.

I towel-dried her and plopped her naked and pink 
onto a bath towel and scrubbed the sink out with 
bleach-fortified cleanser.  I had to stop twice to keep 
her from playing with the toilet brush.  I gave her a 
rubber duck from her stock of bath toys and that 
seemed to satisfy her.  Once the bathroom was 
cleaned up, I scooped Miranda up and trucked her 
back into the nursery where I re-dressed her in a 
green and patchwork onesie and brushed her hair.  
In the past few weeks, her hair was getting thicker 
and darker, and was even starting to hang over her 
forehead like Mulder's. This annoyed me to no end 
so I dabbed a little of Mulder's mousse on her 
forelock and combed it back into a curl before 
anchoring it with a green plastic barrette the shape 
of a seahorse too big for her to swallow.  The 
barrette was a little off-center, but at least I could 
see her eyes.

She looked at me with utter amazement.  No matter 
what magic Mulder could do with the dragon, I could 
make her hair disappear!  She looked down at her 
legs, registering that they were covered with 
different fabric, even patting one chubby thigh to 
make certain, and looked back up at me.  Holding up 
her arms to be picked up, Miranda blew Laura's 
carefully constructed guise of normalcy.

"Lee! " she demanded, "Lee!  Lee Lee Lee Lee Lee!"

Not mama, not ma, not mom, but 'Lee', which was 
as close to her nine month old mouth could get to 
'Scully'.  I picked her up and took her downstairs.  
She might have been wide-awake and ready for 
another round of developmental theory play with 
Mulder, but I was ready for a nap.

****

"What was that shit?" Laura was pissed, seriously 
pissed, and her voice was high and whiny.

"What are you talking about?"

"That Freud bullshit. Look, I don't care how inferior 
you make the average person feel in casual 
conversation, but these people are going to be 
reporting to the court. You want them on your side, 
not resentful and vindictive because you made them 
look dumb. These fellows were ours and we don't 
have to use them if they don't make you look good, 
but I want you to *behave* and act like a normal 
father, to the extent that you can."

"Ah, there's just one thing."

"What?" she snarled, sounding almost as pissy as 
Scully could get. Maybe, I thought, it's me.

"I don't exactly know what a normal father is like."

"Go watch some reruns of the Cosby Show," she 
ordered and pivoted on her heel to leave.

Stung, I locked the front door behind her and set the 
alarms before starting my nightly rounds.  
Downstairs, Warwick had become one with his PC 
and was doing the Java jam with his headset on.  
Through the quiet of the rest of the house, I heard 
the dentist drill whine of Kraftwerk.  On the sofa, 
Ingveld was curled up in a ball with her hands, 
marked with festive menhdi, folded under her cheek.  
Out of reflex, I pulled the afghan off the back of the 
sofa and settled it over her body.  Warwick didn't 
move his gaze from the monitor.  Catzilla caught up 
with me in the living room and began rubbing 
amorously around my calves, his tail wrapping 
around my leg in the feline equivalent of a hug.  I 
picked him up and he draped himself over my 
shoulder with his paws brushing my back.  Thus 
loaded, I trudged upstairs.  

The Mooselet was sleeping on her face like a shrimp 
again, in the pool of light from the nightlight on her 
dresser.  I didn't want to wake her up, but I turned 
her on her back anyway to decrease the risk of 
SIDS. She didn't even twitch.  The additional people 
hanging around the house had kept her in 
performance mode all day and she had fallen asleep 
in her high chair between mouthfuls of spaghetti.  I 
knew exactly how she felt.  It had been just about all 
I could handle to shovel the dishes into the 
dishwasher and close the kitchen for the night.

I found Scully lying on her stomach crossways on 
the bed, her feet still sheathed in her much-hated 
sneakers hanging off the edge.  I think she could 
have dealt with the whole makeover in good grace if 
it hadn't been for the sacrifice of her lethal shoes. I 
put Catzilla down on the pillow and he promptly went 
over and sniffed her hair, which was his way of 
taking her emotional temperature.  Apparently it 
wasn't good, as he raised himself up on his toes and 
arched his back like a Halloween decoration and 
skittered across the bed to the nightstand, where he 
began checking to see if my glasses had play value.

"I made a complete fool out of myself today. The 
psychologists now know exactly what an inept 
parent I am," she muttered into the comforter.

"Many have fallen before the horror of a diaper."

"Yes but I should have handled it better." She was 
looking at her hands again, twisting the rings as if 
they were pimples she couldn't bring herself to pop.

I understood about needing to be the best at the job, 
whatever it was. But taking care of a child quickly 
disabuses you of the idea that you *can* be the best. 
If Scully still thought that she needed to do it 
perfectly or not at all, there was a good chance she'd 
be hitting the road within days.

I reached out to flick her shoes off and began to rub 
her left foot through the sock. When I dug my thumb 
into her arch she shuddered and flexed her hands 
against the comforter.

"My shirt is ruined," she commented distantly as I sat 
down facing away from her and tugged to get both 
her feet in my lap. "The stain won't budge."

I responded with a general sound to indicate I was 
paying attention without expressing an opinion. I 
guessed from prior experience that the shirt could be 
saved, Zoula at the dry cleaners was Romanian and 
I'm pretty sure that witchcraft was part of the service.

The HEPA filter in the corner gave out a whoosh of 
fresh air guaranteed to blanket the room with a layer 
of white noise (courtesy of an upgrade from Frohike) 
to befuddle any prying ears and we could talk in 
private.

"What did you find out?" I asked.

"Roush wants Miranda back as the only living 
survivor of the newest generation of alien-influenced 
humans. Actually she's retro, she's like you and 
Samantha -- fewer genetic modifications, no green 
pustules, no toxic blood. They're trying to go back to 
basics because it was a success."

"If you call George, Jason, and the rest of the freak 
show a success."

"Genetically it was a success.  What fell apart was 
the nurturing of the infants as they grew, Darien's all 
right, Emerson's overcome his environment and 
you're all right."

"That's debatable." In a way Emerson was the worst 
news of all: It's not so bad to have eight loser 
brothers if that makes you the best one, but 
Emerson had survived worse than me and he had 
turned out better. Not only was he sweet and kind 
but he had also made ten million dollars churning 
out software before I darkened Bill Patterson's 
doorstep. Some might find that intimidating, but I've 
lived with low self esteem for a while.

Scully's tiny feet twitched under my hands. "I have 
some of Samantha's records, I haven't read through 
them yet, and I also have two vials of what is 
allegedly smallpox vaccine suitable to protect 
Miranda from genetically engineered viruses. I think 
I should vaccinate her."

"You trust my mother?" Let's face it, standard in-law 
jokes weren't really sufficient to cover the situation.

"No, but I think she's telling the truth about the 
vaccine. Her story about your enhanced resistance 
to disease jibes with what we already know about 
your swift healing and may also help explain why 
you didn't die in Russia like so many of your co-test 
subjects."

"If you think it's a good idea," I moved up to her 
calves and she groaned, whether at the massage or 
at my submission to her recommendation I'm not 
sure.

She twisted away from me and sat up, bringing her 
knees to her chest as she scrunched up against the 
headboard.  I caught her ankles in my hands and 
slid her back down the bedspread, and she looked 
at me as though I'd pulled her tail.  A little more 
roughly than I should have, I plunked her feet back 
into my lap and started working on her instep again.  
Noticing that when I touched her instep her toes 
spread out from the hard ball of her foot like 
Miranda's did something that made it hard for me to 
swallow.

"I talked to the Gunmen and they've managed to 
track down some of the scientists that used to work 
for Roush," I told her and peeled off her socks and 
found her toenails cherry cough drops.  "I thought I 
would go and see if they had any connections with 
Bill or were continuing any of the human genetic 
projects."

"*You're* going to find them?  Leaving me here with 
Miranda and the press?  I'm now a weak and 
helpless woman because I'm *gestating*?  As if that 
lowers my IQ or efficiency rating?" her voice began 
to get harder and staccato, which is the Scully 
version of getting shrill.

Sometimes I wished she'd get shrill just for variety.

Catzilla picked up on her tone and fled underneath 
the bed.

"Hey, hey, " I warned, walking my hands up her hips 
to where I could grab the belt loops of her jeans, 
"you're still suspended for shooting George.  We 
can't both go - Warwick can't *lift* the Mooselet yet 
and Ingveld works all day.  You stay here and run 
interference with the lawyers and the evaluators.  I'll 
take Zippy and it will be fine."

"You are *ditching* me."

She got a stranglehold on the unbuttoned Henley 
neck of my shirt, which hurt my still-healing neck and 
reminded me of the many circles of hell that the 
genetic manipulators had put us through. I didn't like 
the look in her eye, it reminded me of Texas, 
Arizona and when things had been as bleak as a 
desert landscape.  

"I'm telling you what I'm doing.  That does not 
constitute a ditch." I put a hand on her breast. 
Obviously, massage was not doing the trick.

She turned her head away from my questing mouth. 
"Let's not do this," she mumbled.

"Do what?" I was now up on one knee above her 
and if sexual activity didn't commence shortly I was 
in severe danger of falling over.

"Is this how you want Miranda to settle *her* 
disagreements?"

I released her instantly and rolled to sit alongside 
her. "You're good."

"Thanks." She almost smiled.

"If I get delayed it's not so bad, but you've *got* to 
show up for all these appointments. I promise I'll be 
good, Velcro my cellphone to my jacket, duck when I 
see the punch coming, all the things I never do."

The corners of her lush little mouth drew further 
together. "Could I talk you into an electronic 
monitoring device?"

"Matching leashes for me and Miranda?"

She arched a rusty parenthetical eyebrow. As far as 
I knew she was taking the proposition under 
advisement.

"I want a phone call every three hours or I'm coming 
out there."

I grinned raffishly at her. "So, now can we have 
sex?"

She snorted. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, I 
think I'm going to start a diet."

"Dana, food products are so *yesterday*. Why can't 
you live in the *now*?"

The first actual smile I'd seen in days graced her 
lips. "Actually I have a present for you." She scooted 
to the edge of the bed and jumped off, shedding her 
sweatshirt as she went.

A large flat object covered by a sheet was propped 
against the wall. I'd vaguely noticed it when I'd 
entered, but Scully's emotional state had been at 
Defcon One and I hadn't devoted any brainpower to 
it.

"I ordered a full length mirror for the closet," she 
said, tugging at the sheet so that it pooled onto the 
floor, "but I thought we might try it out before it gets 
permanently installed." Lengthwise against the wall, 
the mirror was longer than she was tall and about 
two and a half feet wide.

It took me a few seconds to figure out her intent, and 
then I thought I'd been abducted and the aliens were 
feeding me fantasies to get my seed. She looked at 
my gape and shrugged. "If you're not interested . . ."

"No!" I squawked. "I mean, yes! Yes!" Way to go, 
Molly Bloom, I thought to myself but we were 
married now and theoretically I no longer needed to 
impress her with my cool.

Standing on the fallen sheet, she tugged at her 
scrunchie, which pushed her breasts out and made 
my dick throb as if she were pulling pasties off of her 
nipples. Through a smog of lust, I watched as she 
undressed and followed her lead.

She laid down on the sheet (clever Scully, no 
rugburn, I thought) and turned on her side to peruse 
her naked body in the mirror. "Well?" she asked and 
ran her hand over her breast, as if to see what it 
looked like.

I could have told her: it looked good. I shed my 
clothes as if ejecting from a doomed fighter plane 
and joined her so that I could see us both in the 
mirror. 

Not without regret, I decided to skip going down on 
her, which wouldn't provide much extra visual 
stimulation.

Slipping down behind her, I reached a hand around 
and watched as the devilishly handsome man in 
front of me squeezed his partner's breast. She 
pushed her head against his marred chest and the 
soundtrack added a soft sigh. I could feel her humid 
skin along my body as I watched her breasts flush 
and swell under my hand.

I pried her up so that I could get one hand 
underneath and around to pinch the nipple closest to 
the floor. My other hand dove between her legs and 
I watched her legs part. While I wouldn't recommend 
red on pink as a fashion statement ordinarily, on 
Scully it drew me like an insect to a full-bloomed 
flower. The mirror showed a man's fingers 
disappearing inside his lover, then slowly returning, 
slippery and glistening. I repeated the motion 
because it looked so good. And again, so slowly that 
she tried to push against the bunched-up sheet to 
urge me on faster.

Her legs scissored closed around my hand, trapping 
me in her hot butterscotch depths. It felt good, like 
my hand was being melted down to blackened bone, 
but it obscured the view and so I tugged my hand 
out, trailing heat and wet down her thighs.

I could see her reflection looking up at mine as I 
stared at her mirror-face. My doppelganger was 
busy coveting the real Scully as she watched me. 
This cat's cradle of gazes was somehow less raw, 
less painful, than directly watching one another.

Time for action. With both of my hands, I tugged at 
her shoulders to get her up on her hands and knees. 
The reflection prevented her from hiding the 
momentary hesitation that swept over her features 
like a flash fire, but she gamely braced herself 
against the slip-sliding sheet and allowed me to 
observe her.

I pulled her elbows back a little so that they didn't 
obscure my sight line for her breasts. Stretched by 
gravity, tight little nipples stabbing downwards, they 
were unutterably gorgeous, and my hands trembled 
with the memory of touching them.

With a clumsy paw I scraped the hair from her neck, 
directing it all to the side so that in the mirror her 
face was framed by a gleaming magician's curtain. 
In profile her face was as perfect as a Greek 
statue's. She was Galatea in reverse: my love for 
her had made her stone.

But she wasn't stone now. Not when she was 
surging back against me with a hungry growl as I 
stared. Her breasts swung with the motion and I 
grabbed at this newly legitimate fruit, keeping one 
hand on the ground so that I wouldn't crush her.

The mirror-Scully's eyes were wide and pleading. It 
couldn't be real, the real woman would never 
willingly make herself so vulnerable, but the movie 
playing behind the silvered glass was convincing 
and I lowered my head to her neck, still watching the 
show. The man in the mirror was draped over her 
body like a rowdy fur coat. He reached in between 
his partner's legs to rub the head of his cock against 
her. 

"Please- " the doppelganger woman in the mirror 
moaned.

And she was hot-wet but the films are always cool 
and dry. The film was still playing and I was 
watching it and acting it out, following the lead of the 
man in the mirror, thrusting slowly, watching her 
vertebrae shake and the red brand on her back 
shimmer as she sucked in air.

 "Please  -  harder -  faster - more - " the woman 
begged on broken gasps between the hungry 
thrusting of the man.

The line of her body was still catlike but the pride 
had fled in the desperate overriding want to be 
fucked.  Her head was raised, her hair flaming and 
her ass was raised high in the air like she was in 
heat.  The man, he was watching my Scully with 
such consumptive passion that I thought he might 
break the wall between us and seize her.

No. He couldn't have her, nobody could have her but 
me. No image, no brother, no enemy or friend would 
take her away. I think I was saying all this but I can't 
be sure because I was convulsing deep inside the 
wet tight depths of her like an electrocuted fish, 
hanging on to the soft chamois covered bone of 
Scully's hips to keep myself on the planet.

When I collapsed on her, she lost stability and sank 
to the ground underneath me. I had enough higher 
brain function remaining to push my hand towards 
the general area of her clitoris and let her grind 
against me until she came as well with a wail that 
sounded more like pain than pleasure, her body 
stretching out as the shocks raced through her, her 
throat white as a line of frost through the wave of her 
hair. As a result, she didn't push me off, despite the 
fact that I must have felt like 10 G's on her back. 
When sanity returned, I rolled off to the side so that I 
wouldn't kill her. 

"Dana?" I panted, spooning up against her back so 
that I could see her body stretched out like the 
naked Maja as her sweat cooled on my skin.

She tilted her head up. In the mirror, I could see the 
feather fall of her hair as it hit the sheet beside her 
ear. "Mmm?"

"Order another mirror, leave this one here."

She chortled and then yawned. Evidently I'd worn 
her out. Well, a short hospital stay for 
convalescence purposes wouldn't be out of place on 
my end, either.

"Dana?"

"Unh?"

"Did I mention I bought a video camera?"

I know she was tired because she gave a bark of 
laughter and then rolled over, obscuring her silver-
backed competition. "We should get in bed or you'll 
be too stiff to sit in your seat tomorrow." She rose, 
wobbling only slightly, and gave me a hand up.

We'd made up too well, now I didn't want to leave 
her side. Or her legs, or her breasts, or the mirror. I 
clutched her to me like an insecurity blanket and 
slept.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
9/

Stretch your eyes a little closer
I'm not between you and your ambition.
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am thirty two flavors and then some.
	Ani DiFranco

It was a tough call to make, figuring out what I was 
going to wear to the Hoover Building while toting a 
baby.  A suit was out, as Miranda had a tendency to 
really pump out the fluids and food crumbs with vigor 
on anything with a Dry Clean Only tag.  I was also 
technically suspended for shooting George Naxos, 
and ostensibly going in to update HR on my recent 
change of marital status.  Or was that martial? I 
settled for a white cotton oxford-style shirt and a pair 
of chinos.  All I needed was a tie and I would have 
looked like I was waiting tables at Friday's.  The 
buttons on the shirt were just on the right side of 
stretching over my swelling breasts. I had to blouse 
out the shirt over my straining waistband and 
reflected that I had a week or two before I had to 
start replacing my wardrobe in earnest.  My leftover 
'fat' wardrobe was starting to run out.

Miranda took up her car screaming the minute I 
pulled out of the driveway and I popped my old Abba 
Gold tape in the cassette player. That seemed to 
placate her enough for me to drive without killing 
both of us.  I parked in the garage under the building 
and hoisted Miranda on my hip and her diaper bag 
over my shoulder.  Thank God, Mulder's idea of a 
diaper bag was a worn computer satchel rather than 
something covered with frolicking bunnies.  I didn't 
think that I could have handled that at all.  The trip to 
Human Resources was fairly painless, since I hardly 
knew any of the clerks; they accepted the fact that I 
was toting a baby as commonplace.  

Miranda was passed through the clerks, male and 
female alike, letting them cuddle her and coo at her 
while she smiled and cooed back with the feigned 
sincerity of a politician.  Of course, I'd rather she 
walk the streets as a career rather than seek public 
office.  I was touched to notice that each time she 
was passed over to another person, she looked to 
me for reassurance.  I'd been reading Mulder's child 
development texts behind his back and now knew 
that she was exhibiting the classic insecure bonding 
behaviors which was common for children with 
working parents. Had she not been bonded at all, 
she would have been more anxious and begun to 
fuss or whine since she would have believed that 
she was in danger of being left with strangers.  On 
the other hand, she was far better bonded to both 
Mulder and Warwick than she was to me, which was 
understandable since I'd only been with her full-time 
for about a month after six away and she didn't trust 
me 100% yet.  She wouldn't be the only one.

No one was surprised that I wasn't changing my last 
name.  I had the suspicion that the official policy was 
that one Mulder on the payroll was more than 
enough.  Let me amend that, one Mulder pushing 
the boundaries of the health care plan was more 
than enough.  My now-husband probably had his 
own commemorative file drawer between the 
commendations and chastisements that he had 
accumulated through his tenure.

After the paperwork was done, I took Miranda up to 
the executive level and gathered myself to face the 
lion in his den.  Kimberly greeted me with open-
mouthed shock, which she quickly covered with an 
embarrassed smile.  

"The e-mail just came through from Human 
Resources," she said and turned a darker shade of 
rose, "I guess I should say congratulations."

Her happiness was feigned, I knew.  The water 
cooler rumor for years had been that she had a thing 
for Mulder.  Frankly, I was pretty sure he had 
encouraged her office crush as a means to get 
better access to Skinner.  This willingness to use his 
good looks and charm to get what he wanted was 
not one of Mulder's more attractive character traits.  
We were going to have to talk about this.  One of the 
things we had not discussed was how much of the 
marriage was going to be a legal fiction and how 
much was not.  Maybe I was being sensitive since I 
was looking at being the size of South America 
come fall.

"Thanks.  Is the AD in?"

She hit the intercom and I was admitted to the Inner 
Sanctum in short order.

I don't think that Skinner expected me to bring 
Miranda with me since he looked at her as though I 
was carrying an armful of biological waste rather 
than a small human being.  Unaccountably, this 
irritated me.  Skinner stood and shook my hand, 
eyeing me with an expression of distrust as though 
either Miranda or myself were going to make a mess 
on his nice beige carpet.  Hell, I'd been toilet-trained 
for years and I'd gotten quite good at throwing up 
into trash cans when the morning sickness hit.  I sat 
in the visitor chair and Miranda stood up on my legs 
to tug at my hair and stare at the shiny-headed man 
behind the big desk.

"You'll have to forgive me for bringing Miranda, 
Warwick isn't quite up to full nanny duties.  His 
physical therapist doesn't want him lifting heavy 
objects until his shoulder is rehabilitated."

"She's getting quite large."

"She's crawling now and starting to cruise from 
pieces of furniture on her own.  I estimate that she 
will be walking before the end of the month."

"I understand that you've been to Human 
Resources."

He wanted me to say it.  He couldn't just accept the 
facts of the matter as though I had simply changed 
my withholding tax so I would owe more money to 
my employer in April.  I had to admit what I had done 
- what Mulder and I had done - as thouggh it was yet 
another one of our classic field fuck-ups like losing a 
body, a gun, or annoying local law enforcement.

"Yes.  Because of the custody issues with my 
brother, Mulder and I were married last week.  It was 
a *very* small affair with only sympathetic family in 
attendance."

"Congratulations," he said in a voice that indicated 
he was deeply regretting yet another mistake that I 
had made in a chain of many.

"Bill raising Miranda rather than Mulder is a non-
option.  I would marry Newt Gingich to prevent that.  
Mulder and I no longer work for the same division 
and have virtually no contact at the workplace so 
there should be no conflict of interest."

"That would be the least of my concerns."

I swallowed and Miranda squirmed around in my lap 
like a wet cat, stretching out a drooly hand to reach 
for the brass bulldog on Skinner's desk, knocking 
over his nameplate, coffee cup, desk lamp, and pen 
holder in the process.  Mortified, I bent over and 
started picking things up from the floor while 
Miranda complained at her inability to capture the 
shiny bulldog.

"Na na na LEE!  NA!  CAT!  LEEEEEE!!!!!!!!" she 
bitched, in pretty much the same tone Mulder 
adopted when I'd told him that he couldn't do 
something.

Sometimes, I swore that if I hadn't run the test 
myself, I would have thought that Miranda had been 
an X-chromosome clone of Mulder.

"Just leave it, Agent Scully."

Defeated, I sat back and bounced Miranda until she 
giggled and clapped.

"Sir, our lawyer is going to be in contact with you to 
testify at the custody hearing.  Please keep in mind 
that Miranda was created in one of Roush's labs as 
one of their experiments.  Mulder and I believe that 
some distaff branch of Roush is using Bill as a 
vehicle to gain access to Miranda, which will not be 
healthy for her in the least.  Understand that 
whatever you may think of either of our abilities as 
parents, her alternative really isn't Bill, but Roush."

"You have proof of this?"

I almost laughed, when did we ever have proof of 
anything?

"We're researching it now.  You don't even have to 
assign a case number, as it still falls under Miranda's 
original case file."

"And Agent Zipprelli is working on it as well?"

Translation: is there anyone sane involved in this?"

"Yes."

"Have your lawyer contact me with the schedule for 
testimony."

I didn't want to push my luck, but I was painfully 
aware of how little Skinner likes surprises.

"One other thing, sir."

The frown told me that I was tap-dancing in a puddle 
of nitroglycerin.

"I'll be taking some leave in January.  Agent Zipprelli 
will be up to speed on all open case files at that 
time.  From November on I will be available for 
consultation, but not field assignments."

I watched him do the math.  It only took a moment 
for him to count backwards nine months.

"Once again, congratulations."

In the elevator, headed for the parking garage, I 
wondered how long it had taken Skinner to reach for 
the Scotch he probably had hidden in the credenza.  
Miranda looked at the floor numbers flashing by over 
her head and broke into delighted peals of laughter.  
I inhaled her sweet baby smell and realized that it 
was better than any aromatherapy candle in the 
world.

****

Twenty scientists at the top of their respective 
genetic sub-fields disappear into the ether and no 
one notices. Money answers a lot of questions, 
closes numerous eyes, and shuts mouths.

But, what if five of those scientists had spouses 
and/or children? And what if, by coincidence, all five 
of those familial units moved to the greater Chicago 
area four months after the initial disappearances?

It just goes to show that family values and 
conspiracies really don't mix.

BioQuest was too new and small to have its own 
building. Instead they leased a floor of a nondescript 
downtown office building. I got into the offices on the 
floor below by judicious use of my badge and then 
waited for closing time, at which point I headed one 
floor up. Security was less than it might have been 
and I ended up in a gray-toned hallway dotted with 
abstract art, the kind that scientific types generally 
preferred.

Even minions of darkness need to know where each 
others' offices are, and I found the workplace of one 
Justine Barnabas, whose name was close enough to 
that of Dr. Judith Barnaby, last seen in Roush's 
Texas research enclave, to make me confident that 
I'd found the right place. On Roush's organizational 
chart, Judith had worked directly under Samantha 
Mann, my erstwhile sister and the mad scientist 
who'd merged sperm and egg to create Miranda 
(among others).

Judith had left her lights on; I closed the door and 
turned everything off but one lamp on the desk. The 
large banks of filing cabinets lining one wall of her 
office were mostly empty, as befitted a young 
corporation. She had company prospectuses, her 
employment contract, and a stack of 
incomprehensible technical reports that ostensibly 
dealt with lab mice. I just wasn't sure that lab mice 
wasn't a euphemism for cute little babies.

I heard motion in the hallway, two women's voices. 
Judith returning? Well, I was no Holofernes and I 
wasn't afraid. I settled into the comfy chair behind 
her desk, waiting for her to come in. With the lights 
down and shadows on my face, my non-surgically 
enhanced nose wouldn't be as noticeable and I tried 
to recall Jason Lindsay's smooth whiskey voice.

The door opened and a woman stepped in; I 
recognized her as Judith from a picture on her desk, 
Judith with a young girl. Straight black shoulder-
length hair, a little plump but succulent, with a wide 
wry mouth that promised both wisecracks and great 
head. (God, was the wedding ring on my finger 
responsible for these recent hints of sexual 
awareness of other women? Maybe it contained 
another microchip broadcasting evil thoughts.) She 
closed the door behind her and then turned, her face 
blanking with shock as she took in my darkened 
form lounging proprietarily in her chair.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," I drawled in 
Jason's voice.

"Oh my God, Jason--?" From the look on her face, I 
could tell they'd been lovers. The man certainly got 
around.

Her hand flailed against the wall until it found the 
light switch and we both blinked, inundated by the 
fluorescent glare.

She drew in a shaky breath. "You're not -- you're not 
Jason."

Regaining some equilibrium, she advanced further 
into the office, so that she was standing on the 
opposite side of the desk from me. "Which one are 
you?"

"I'll give you nine guesses and the first eight don't 
count."

"Fox Mulder," she said, leaning forward to examine 
me. "You've got that facial mole, we've never been 
able to figure out the minor variations in 
pigmentation."

"Yes, I'm sure that's very interesting, but I'm here to 
find out what you nice people want with my 
daughter."

She blinked. "In light of recent events, I'd be a fool to 
answer that question, wouldn't I? I think you ought to 
leave before I call security."

"Don't bullshit me, I can have a team of agents here 
in fifteen minutes if I wanted to disrupt your 
operations. I'm offering you a chance to do this 
quietly."

"I will not talk to you.  You are wasting my time."

The sensual mouth tightened down harder than 
Scully's and made dangerous wishes undulate 
underneath the surface of my mind.  I pushed the 
chair back from the desk and carefully placed my 
sidearm on the blotter, next to the mouse pad.

"Dr. Barnabas, you must know enough about me to 
know that I tend to be a little excitable.  Tendency of 
the breed, I suppose.  Now right now I am a micro-
millimeter away from losing my daughter and that 
makes me very anxious.  You don't want me to be 
anxious."

"All right," she said, "I'll tell you what you want to 
know, because we have nothing to do with your 
concerns. We are interested in your line's enhanced 
resistance to other alien organisms, I have to admit 
we've had endless difficulties making it breed true. In 
some ways the destruction of the Texas facility was 
a godsend, we had to try a number of more 
aggressive strategies and we believe that some of 
them have paid off. We don't need your daughter, as 
you call her."

"Then what's BioQuest's new law firm doing in the 
custody suit?" I was definitely not going to think 
about the phrase 'other alien organisms,' no siree 
bob.

She shrugged. "Do I look like a lawyer? We've got 
enough to deal with trying to rebuild without buying 
trouble from you and your friends in government. If 
you want someone to blame, I suggest you look to 
my former boss -- Samantha Mann. Her departure 
nearly got us all killed, but I wouldn't be surprised to 
find out that she was still manipulating events. She 
apparently made her own...side agreements, I 
guess...with those 'higher up.'" She jerked a thumb 
at the ceiling to indicate the possibility of alien 
involvement. "If Sam wants to restart a breeding 
program on her own initiative, even if she's got 
backing, she needs the raw material."

"And you don't?"

"Please, Mr. Mulder. Your line's sperm has gone 
more places than Bill Clinton's. I could populate a 
small Asian nation with your relatives, if I wanted to.  
We've played that hand out," she smiled, the 
reference to Jason and Ian's more-than-brotherly 
relationship making my stomach lurch.

I felt as perceptive as office furniture. None of this 
made sense. Even if they'd had huge stockpiles of 
genetic material, so much was destroyed in Texas 
that I couldn't believe that Miranda held no interest 
for them. Could Judith be imputing her organization's 
own motivations to Sam? Other informants had 
made similarly misleading statements to me before.

"I don't suppose you've got a phone number for 
Sam."

She flipped a hand toward her nearly empty 
Rolodex. "I'm afraid not, but we're always happy to 
cooperate with law enforcement."

I'll bet. She was watching me now as if I were a 
martini after a bad workday. I suspected that if I 
asked she'd enact one of my videos' more common 
boss/secretary scenarios. But she'd probably been 
present when Miranda and all the other created 
children were inserted into the wombs of kidnapped 
women. She was a manufacturer of merchandise, a 
purveyor of flesh, and that was as effective to 
dampen my libido as saltpeter.

"Leave my family alone," I said, unhappy to hear the 
words come out with more pleading than piss and 
vinegar. "You stay on your side of the line and I'll 
stay on mine."

"Threats, Mr. Mulder, should only come from a man 
in a position to make good on them."

"If you take away Miranda I've got nothing to lose. 
You and your handlers should think about that for a 
while," I stood and my gun was steady in my hand, I 
used it to gesture to the photograph of herself and 
her dark-haired daughter on her desk, "You have a 
daughter as well, I suggest you imagine our 
situations reversed."
 
Reaching in my pocket, I handed her one of my 
cards with the Batphone number on it.

"In case you change your mind, or remember 
anything, I'd appreciate a call."

I pointed at the picture on her desk.

"You're lucky she didn't inherit the nose."

When I left she was already reaching for her phone 
to call security. 

***

That afternoon the moving van came and unloaded 
all the contents from my Annapolis apartment, which 
filled up the garage to the bursting point.  I 
embarrassed myself by dithering over what box went 
where in a stereotypical female fashion, but the 
moving men only smiled and toted the boxes and 
furniture in with indulgent smiles and deliciously Diet 
Coke commercial brawny bodies.  I paid them and 
tried not to notice the effect all the excess 
testosterone was having on my already hormone-
swamped body.  They were probably used to 
dealing with flushed and stammering women 
anyway - an occupational hazard.
 
After they had gone, I stood amongst the boxes and 
the furniture with Miranda glued to my hip, and 
suffered a few anxieties.  With the Annapolis 
apartment now a thing of the past, my escape route 
had been cut off.  I had nowhere to go should things 
not work out.  On the other hand, should things work 
out I was faced with an even more appealing 
possibility - I was going to have to organize a yard 
sale.

Still in pro-active mode, I took Miranda upstairs and 
wandered through the bedrooms, trying to settle in 
my mind what was to be done with the incipient 
child.  Having grown up in base housing and having 
to share a room with Missy, there was no way that I 
was going to inflict this on Miranda and the Baby To 
Be Named Later.  That was another issue that made 
me sink to the floor in shock.  We hadn't talked 
about names, hadn't really planned, hadn't intended 
this child at all.  
 
I'd been so wrapped up in the trial and stunned by 
the sheer facts of the marriage and the pregnancy 
that I hadn't bothered to think that far ahead.  I had, 
in the past, set a plan to my life.  I was supposed to 
become head of Forensic Pathology at Quantico by 
the age of forty-five, I was supposed to marry a 
surgeon and drive a Volvo station wagon with one 
darling child and one darling Golden Retriever in the 
back.  I was supposed to alternate holidays between 
my family and my husband's family, and my father 
would tell my child the same stories he had told me 
at the same age.

Then I met Mulder and that shot that plan to hell.

I now had a legal sham of a marriage, no father, no 
sister, a mother who had sold me up the river in the 
nicest way possible, a cat, a daughter conceived in a 
dark laboratory somewhere as part of a foul plan, 
and a second child that might or might not be killing 
me as it grew in my body. 

I suddenly missed Mulder with a pang so physical 
that I nearly vomited in the hallway.

Miranda, sensing my mood, crawled over and pulled 
herself up on my body until we were nose to nose.

"Lee Dah?" she asked.

And when I started to cry, she did too, as misery 
hates to be alone.

Then we went downstairs and had ice cream.
  
I couldn't believe how empty the house was without 
Mulder.  I had thought that I would use this time to 
soak up whatever kind of privacy I had without 
having him hanging around my neck like the fallen 
angel he had been so often in the past.  But to tell 
you the truth, I was starting to feel as though he had 
a better grip on the realities of life than I did.  His 
nonchalance in dealing with Miranda, the 
exasperation with the lawyers, the irrefutable logic of 
our bizarre wedding, and the casual way that he had 
accepted the fact that I was pregnant was nothing 
short of a miracle.  His acceptance was a miracle; 
the benefit of the pregnancy was still under 
consideration.  Actually his acceptance was also 
questionable.  After all this time, after all we'd been 
through the one thing I knew for sure was how little I 
actually knew about him.

Happiness is not a warm gun, it is cold ice cream 
and I needed a lot of happiness that night.

****

Despite the implicit promise I'd made to Dr. Barnaby, 
I had the Chicago Bureau sweep in an hour after I 
left and shut the place down. Regrettably for Roush, 
not only had they engaged in illicit and deadly 
human experimentation, they'd *also* run afoul of 
the federal forfeiture laws. This meant that Roush's 
assets became the property of the government; a 
corollary was that any attempt to hide such assets 
behind a new corporate identity was itself illegal. 
While normally the government's much-expanded 
power to define and adjudge crimes made me 
nervous, it was a definite asset in this situation. 
When Dr. Barnaby as much as told me she still had 
access to Roush's resources, she provided probable 
cause to shut BioQuest down.

Naturally, a few of the Roush refugees slipped 
through the Bureau's greedy fingers, including the 
lovely doctor herself, but we had an office full of data 
and a lab full of things the field agents couldn't even 
describe. Not bad for a day's work. 

This was beyond my level of scientific competence. 
Okay, so light bulbs are beyond my level of scientific 
competence, I'm not ashamed of it. The upshot was 
that Scully's assistance was required, so I called her 
and told her to get to the airport. She could bring 
whatever looked interesting back to Quantico so that 
she'd be able to analyze it and still jump through 
hoops for the childcare experts. She greeted the 
news with the expected enthusiasm.

We did the great baby trade off in National, which 
might have amused anyone who noticed.  Scully met 
me in the main section of the airport, lines of 
exhaustion around her mouth and her carry-on bag 
and laptop hanging over her shoulder, Miranda 
clinging to her neck.  I had my own laptop and carry-
on bag. She handed me the baby; I handed her a 
travel mug full of coffee.  Remembering that the 
rings glittering on her finger meant that we were now 
allowed to acknowledge our relationship in public, I 
leaned down and kissed her.  She returned the kiss 
with more relief than passion and her mouth tasted 
like cookies.  She kissed Miranda's hot little head 
and jogged off to catch her flight, a slim little figure in 
black, exiting stage left like one of Shakespeare's 
girl-boys off to save the day.  The entire process 
took less than five minutes.  The Mooselet greeted 
me with a squeal of delight and patted the side of my 
stubbly face to reassure herself that I was really 
there.  I rummaged around in my pocket for a minute 
and pulled out the little Chicago Bulls baseball cap I 
had gotten her at O'Hare.  The hat fit and she looked 
out from under the brim at me with a sarcastic 
confusion as if to remind me that a Teletubby hat 
would have been more welcome.

I just wanted whatever good luck we could get from 
affiliation with a winning team.

"Da da da Lee Da," she reminded me.

"She'll be back tomorrow.  Were you a good little 
gremlin while I was gone?"

Her toothy grin indicated otherwise.

We could do this, it could work.

****

I caught up with Zippy at O'Hare.  His expression 
indicated exactly how far Mulder and I had pushed 
him with the latest of our stupid schemes.  Pride had 
forbidden him to get the services of the go-cart for 
the officially disabled, and with his crutches and the 
blue binding of the cast extending to his foot poking 
out from under his suit trousers he looked like a 
professional athlete sidelined at the championship 
game.  Poor guy, he was being traded off between 
Mulder and myself in very much the same way 
Miranda was, only she was young enough not to 
realize that this was not the way that things were 
supposed to work.  Zippy knew it was crazy and he 
was jangling with annoyance as he hobbled up to 
me.

"This has got to be the most fucked-up piece of shit 
plan that has ever lurched out of Mulder's sick 
head."

"Hi Zippy, how's the leg?"

"Bite me Dana," he grunted and began hopping 
alongside me.

"Excuse me for a minute.  Bio-break." I said and 
ducked into the ladies' room.

Morning sickness is a misnomer in the extreme.  
Morning, noon, and night sickness was more 
appropriate.  The only good thing about it is that 
unlike vomiting from excess of alcohol or a viral 
infection, I genuinely felt better after I'd thrown up.  I 
wanted to tell Zippy simply because I was afraid that 
he would start some diatribe about eating disorders 
if I didn't.  I also couldn't tell him that I'd given up the 
Zoloft for fear of fetal damage.  Since baby #3 was 
starting off au natural, it seemed best to keep it that 
way.

"What's the deal?" he asked as he slid into the 
passenger seat of the Bucar he had purloined from 
the Chicago Field Office.

I pulled the seat forward.

"Mulder wants me to take a look at whatever 
BioQuest was growing in the lab."

"You know, Mrs. Zipprelli's little boy has got to tell 
you a couple things," he said as we headed down 
the brilliant morning rush hour toward the city.  
"What the fuck is wrong with you and Spooky? Are 
you fuckin' nuts or what?"

"That's what my brother Bill seems to think."

"Hey, I've been your goddamn audience through this 
fucking circus. I remember when you took the baby 
and left us in Texas, he drank himself stupid in my 
guestroom for two months for missing both of you.  
What happened next?  You left the baby with his 
brother and he threw the computer at you, then you 
called him several zillion times and didn't leave 
messages, then the postcards, then you're face to 
face again and I'm thinking that I'm going to have to 
call in a squad in riot gear.  Now, now not only are 
you living at his house after almost being killed by 
his brother and you're married and making like 
happy ever after?  I don't get it."

"You forgot the custody battle." I reminded him.
 
"Yeah, don't call me for a witness.  I think you're 
both fucking nuts - and I mean that with the deepest 
affection. I also hate perjuring myself.  It makes me 
sweat.  Sweating messes up my hair. "

"Thanks Mike, you're a prince."

"You should have married me when I asked you."

"Probably."

"Do you love him?"

The Sears Tower poked up over the other buildings 
in the bright distance.

"Give me an empirical definition of love and I'll tell 
you.  I trust him, I value his opinion, most of the time 
I enjoy his company, and I know that I was unhappy 
when we were not together."

"That's a cold analysis."

I shrugged and looked down the street at the 
stoplight.

"Down here?"

"Three blocks."

"Zippy?"

"Yeah?"

"One more thing --  I'm pregnant."

Half a dozen expressions chased each other over 
his face before the final one settled over his features 
and one again I found myself bathed in the blinding 
light of a full-force Zippy smile.

"Cool," he said.

I didn't know humans had that many teeth.


****

The batphone rang at midnight and I snatched it off 
the bedside table before it rang a second time.

"Have you ever thrown up in an airplane bathroom?" 
Scully asked.

"As a matter of fact, I have.  Don't give me shit about 
there not being enough room to puke because I'm 
taller than you are."

"I hadn't noticed," she said and I heard the 
unmistakable rustling of bedclothes.

"Anything good?" I asked.
 
"Little pitchers have big ears," which was her way of 
reminding me that the lines could be tapped, I made 
a note to have the Gunmen check it out in the 
morning.

"The Mooselet misses you.  I'd let you talk to her, but 
she's down for the count."
 
"You probably shouldn't call her that, she might end 
up confessing it an eating disorder group when she's 
a teenager."

If that was the extent of the Mooselet's psychological 
problems, we were ahead of the game.

"What have you found out?"

She sighed into my ear, which made the short hairs 
rise on the back of my neck.

"We did find some embryos - but they weren't 
human.  They were porcine.  Fetal pigs that were 
being grown in that green medium that we've seen 
before.  My theory is that they have been trying to 
replicate the gene or genes that gives the viral 
immunity and the acceleration of cell regeneration. If 
they could manufacture it through the pigs the way 
insulin is manufactured and inject it into already 
living people they would have a lot more flexibility in 
shaping the new regime. Not to mention the fact that 
it would be very hard for even sturdy hybrid babies 
to survive if all their caretakers died of plague."

"Pigs --  that's not kosher."

"After the viral epidemic, Jews, Muslims, 
vegetarians, and other non-pork or non-meat eaters 
by theology, choice, politics, or cuisine, will be wiped 
from the face of the planet.  "

"Which reminds me, did you eat a real dinner or are 
you living on coffee ice cream again?"

"Moo Shu pork, actually.  Securing my place in the 
New World order.  Zippy says hi, by the way."

"The bed's too big without you."

"I was thinking the same thing," she said and 
yawned.

"Go to sleep.  You have to be bright and cheery for 
court tomorrow."

"Bite me."

"As soon as you get home."

She laughed softy into the phone and cut the 
connection.

It wasn't easy falling asleep alone.  I wondered if 
Scully was thinking the same thing in the hotel room 
in Chicago, or if she even noticed the lack of a 
snoring lump next to her.  Catzilla hopped up on the 
bed next to me and began to knead my shoulder 
with his paws, looking seriously at me with his 
sulfurous eyes and purring as though making me as 
soft as pizza dough was the most important thing in 
the world.  Other parts of me were far from soft and I 
briefly entertained the thought of indulging in my 
favorite one-player sport but decided I would let the 
pressure build until I got Scully alone again.  
Planning what I was going to do to her on her return 
was worth the dull ache of want in my cock.  With 
Catzilla snoring in a surprisingly Scully-like fashion 
into the pillow next to me I finally fell asleep.

Alone in my big bed I dreamed a classic Lewis 
Carroll dream.  Scully had the baby, and was quite 
pleased.  Proud even, with the little creature's head 
enclosed in a white lace cap.  I took the baby from 
her arms and was stunned when I realized that it 
had the bristle-eyelashes and angry red eyes of a 
piglet.  No one else noticed.  I stood there with the 
pig-baby in my arms and began to sweat with horror.  
I was trying to explain to the judge that it was the 
wrong baby.  Scully eyed me with contempt and 
began to breast-feed the beast in the courtroom 
while the bailiffs dragged me away in horizontally 
striped prison garb with an enormous ball and chain 
weighing my leg down.

No, I wasn't having any anxieties.
 
Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
10/

The sky coloured perfect
As the man slipped away
Waving with a last vanilla smile
...
One more ice cream river body
Flowed underneath the bridge
Underneath the bridge 
	The Cure

If it's in the newspaper, it must be true, after all they 
wouldn't lie to a credulous American public, would 
they?

After the first one paragraph story in the Metro 
section, I knew we didn't have enough luck to keep 
the story from going national.

FBI Agents in Custody Battle over Miracle Baby.

Just in time for the first day back in court, when the 
experts would vomit their carefully acquired 
knowledge of our parenting skills in front of the 
world.

Fuck.

Somewhere they had dug up an old picture of both 
Scully and myself in that black year when she was 
eaten by cancer.  From her haircut  and the 
gauntness of her face I placed it at the time she'd 
gone into the hospital to die.  She was white and 
haggard in her cool black suit and I was hovering 
next to her looking like I had something pinching my 
balls.  It wasn't a picture to inspire any kind of image 
of nurturing. By contrast, the photo with the inside 
story was of the two of us leaving the courthouse 
with the Mooselet a few days earlier and at least we 
looked human there, even though the line of scabs 
was clearly visible on my throat.  Give the Post 
credit, the story was pretty much factual as much as 
the facts were public knowledge, but some 
uncomfortable questions were raised to the effect 
that our "privileged position as government 
employees might unduly influence the verdict". 
Which was kind of bizarre considering the fact that 
Bill Scully was a government employee as well as 
being a highly respected Navy officer.  The fact that 
Bill was respected by anything of higher intelligence 
than a chickpea was bizarre in and of itself.

The Miracle Baby decided that she really wanted to 
chew on the side of the newspaper and I had to pry 
it out of her fat hands before she ingested any ink, 
which I suspected would not mix well with the 
Cheerios and banana she had already eaten.

There we were in the renamed Ronald Reagan 
National airport, and the Mooselet was drooling, not 
unlike the former president.  There was a certain 
pathos there, former leader of the free world in the 
kaleidoscope of Alzheimer's spending the golden 
years of his life on a park bench like Forrest Gump.  
I just hoped that Miranda would be kind to me when 
I was too old and feeble to take care of myself.  I 
hoped the Mooselet would understand that should I 
find out that I was incapable of taking care of myself 
I'd floss with Smith and Wesson.

"Voon?" the Mooselet asked, pulling on my tie.

"Voon." I agreed.

I folded up the paper and shoved it in the diaper bag 
before stretching my legs out in the uncomfortable 
chair in the airport lounge.  Scully's flight was ten 
minutes late but there was still enough time to make 
it into court even if there was a tremendous back-up 
on the Beltway.  I bounced Miranda on my thighs 
while she clung onto my fingers.  The morning e-mail 
from Danny hadn't been promising; enough of the 
BioQuest crew had decamped before the net had 
been dropped which made me consider that there 
was a very large leak in the Chicago field office.  

"Who's coming home?" I asked the Mooselet.

"Lee!"

"Say 'ma-ma'" I encouraged.

"Lee!" she corrected me and frowned at me as 
though I were suggesting that Scully's name was 
now 'Beaufort' or 'the Artist formerly known as 
Prince'.

It wasn't unheard of for children to call parents by 
their first names, but even in my experience, calling 
a parent by their last was a bit odd.  Of course, in 
many traditional households where the parents had 
the same last name this could have caused some 
confusion.  Additionally confusing was the fact that 
the Mooselet was Miranda Scully since Miranda 
Mulder sounded ridiculous.  What was  the new 
baby going to go by?  Frankenbaby Mulder?  What 
name went with Mulder anyway?  Not a lot.

This was another one of the questions that we were 
going to have to discuss when this farce with Bill 
was finally over and done with.  There were also 
some serious closet space issues that had to be 
handled before I replaced enough suits to feel well-
dressed again.  

The light board at the airline registered that Scully's 
flight from O'Hare had come in and I gathered up 
baby and diaper bag and schlepped over to the 
gate.  About halfway through the string of crisp 
government types and some bovine tourists was my 
own crisp government type with her hair shining like 
a new copper penny.

"Hi." I said and the Mooselet reached out both 
hands.

"Lee! Lee!" she greeted Scully and patted her face 
with both hands.

We did an awkward yuppie shuffle where I kissed 
her on the cheek and took her overnight bag while 
she received an armful of baby in return.
 
While Miranda sucked most of Scully's make-up off 
with baby kisses, we made our burdened way out to 
short term parking.  Was I imagining things or did 
she really seem glad to see the Mooselet and me?  I 
had finessed a used Ranger out of Lariat on an 
extended rental that could turn into a purchase if we 
liked it.  I figured after one good Mooselet mess we'd 
be too embarrassed to return it.  It was in excellent 
condition and had more than enough room in the 
back seat to accommodate another baby seat.  
Besides, it was only logical for us to get a vehicle big 
enough to accommodate the growing tribe.  I even 
had a fantasy of driving north to the summer house 
in August and the Outback had claustrophobia-
inducing tendencies for a drive of that length. I 
opened the back hatch and popped her bag, 
briefcase and laptop inside.  The Mooselet, kicking 
and squirming, went into the baby seat in the back.

"Mulder, it's *enormous*," she gasped.

I batted my eyelashes at her.

"Why thank you."

She turned as pink as the Mooselet's onesie.

"How *Yuppie*," she stuttered.

"Laugh all you want, you're driving it."
 
"Driving it?  I won't be able to reach the pedals."

"Drive, Scully, drive."

It took her five minutes to get the seat and mirrors 
adjusted but she managed and we set off, with her 
smirking a little over the grandiosity of the vehicle. 
True, it did look like a normal SUV swollen from 
steroid abuse but wasn't that part of the fun?  Once 
we were out on the highway, she slipped through the 
morning traffic with the skill and ease of someone 
who had commuted from Annapolis to DC for six 
years.  I had the feeling that Scully would be able to 
handle the M25 - right-handed driving and all.  
Maybe, before she got too uncomfortable in her 
pregnancy, we could go to England, I could show 
her Oxford, we could look at crop circles, take the 
Mooselet to Stonehenge (she would probably want 
to put one of the standing stones in her mouth) and 
climb Glastonbury Tor.  God, I was such a sappy 
romantic.

"Find anything interesting?" I asked.

"Pigs in jars, pigs in tanks, pigs in pieces, little bits of 
pig on slides.  If they're performing human 
experiments it isn't at the BioQuest location.  I also 
went through their files to see if there were any 
references to off-site locations and I found 
something."

"What?"

"There were some locked down files in a 
subdirectory called 'segue'.  I copied it onto a DAT 
tape and overnighted it to Danny.  For all I know it's 
their accounting files, but I thought it was worth a 
shot."

"Sounds promising.  Now, forget about that for a 
couple of hours.  I talked to Laura last night and she 
said that Bill and Maxwell have lined up some pretty 
heavy hitters for this morning.  The child 
psychologists and some more specialists.  All we 
have lined up is Skinner."

She took a deep breath and the big SUV wobbled 
for a moment.  The Mooselet chortled with glee.

"He knows," she said.

"You *told* him."

"I *implied*.  I needed to indicate the seriousness of 
the situation, also that it was connected to Miranda 
and the Roush file."

I rubbed my neck.  The only problem with Skinner is 
that he changes teams more often than a farm-
league outfielder.

"Keep doing that and the scarring will be 
unmanageable," Scully instructed sharply. As far as I 
could tell, she'd never looked away from the road.

When we pulled into the lot, I had to shield Miranda 
from the camera flashes with her own diaper bag. 
Scully fended for herself, sailing through the 
reporters shouting their intimate questions as stiffly 
and proudly as the carved lady on a ship's prow.

It was rough sailing inside, too. Bill's experts had 
completed their evaluations and they were Not 
Amused.

Watching psychologists testify was enough to make 
me highly grateful that I'd never gone into private 
practice. At least when you're a profiler there's a 
certain mystique, a "how did he do that?" glamour 
that allows you to make what seem to the hoi polloi 
like highly specific and un-evidenced predictions 
even though they follow naturally from the facts of 
the case. By contrast, most average citizens believe 
that they can tell the difference between a fit and an 
unfit parent, so psychological expertise doesn't go all 
that far.

Bill's experts thought that we were mad, bad, and 
dangerous to know. (Okay, so they were right on two 
out of three, but I still thought they didn't have a 
clue.) I was a big clumsy puppy, full of goodwill but 
lacking real knowledge or stability. There was 
something about my attention span, I think, but my 
mind drifted . . . Scully, by contrast, was cool and 
competent: too cool and competent, a robot nurse 
instead of a warm, fuzzy nurturer. She was distantly 
inaccessible; I was over-involved and hyper-vigilant. 
Together we were guaranteed to produce a child 
with more neuroses than the DSM-IV listed. A kid of 
ours would probably be a lesbian and an intellectual 
(it's not clear which is worse in Virginia). And that 
was only if said child didn't blow her brains out first 
with one of the many guns in the household.

These folks weren't thrilled with working women, 
particularly women in law enforcement. I think they 
probably suspected Scully was gay even though she 
was married, she wore skirts and lipstick, and her 
hair was nearly shoulder-length -- lesbians can be 
tricky that way. Several of these jokers suggested 
that, lacking the experience of sustaining life inside 
her for nine months, Scully could never form a true 
maternal bond with Miranda. I  wondered how Tara 
would do if that were true, and what these people 
thought a father's bond should be, and to give our 
lawyer credit she was quite effective on cross 
examination on those points. Unfortunately, the 
judge, who reminded me disturbingly of Archie 
Bunker, seemed to take all this quite seriously, and 
nodded sagely when the experts talked about the 
importance of female figures fulfilling the traditional 
nurturant roles so as not to confuse the developing 
child's sense of self. Laura also made fun of some of 
the more dramatic predictions, but the damage 
would be done as soon as they brought up the 
choicer moments from my past with the X Files. 

Tara testified that she loved Bill, loved little butterball 
Matthew, adored Miranda, and would be thrilled to 
raise another child while waiting to have more of her 
own. I was sure there was a real person under there 
somewhere, like the bit of grit at the center of a 
pearl, but I didn't have the luxury of smashing her 
open to see.

Bill was more interesting. He wasn't allowed to 
testify about seeing the tape of Scully in Arizona. 
However, he did explain that he'd watched the two of 
us suspiciously for years, and though as the head of 
the family after his father's passing he was naturally 
concerned for Scully he hadn't felt justified in 
intervening until Miranda appeared.

Laura walked up to him with the intensity of Catzilla 
stalking a squirrel from behind the screen door. I 
hoped she didn't bounce off like he did.

"Could you tell me what this is?" She handed him a 
piece of paper.

He blinked down at it. "Looks like a credit report."

"Whose?"

Her tone made him frown. I bet the men under him 
didn't talk to him that way. Or the women either, as 
few as they were. "It's my credit report. Mine and 
Tara's."

"And is the statement of your outstanding debts 
accurate to the best of your knowledge?"

He scrutinized it as if translating it from the Russian. 
"Yes, I think so."

"So, you pay over $600 a month servicing your 
credit card debt?"

Good God, what were they doing, eating caviar and 
truffles every meal? Maybe he went to Hooters and 
tipped really well every time he was on land.  Maybe 
he had a mistress who wasn't happy wearing K-mart 
markdowns like his wife.  Sex lines?  Lap Dancing?  
The possibilities were endless, but one thing was for 
sure -- he wasn't spending the money on his 
wardrobe.

"Yes," he admitted.

"And are you aware that Miranda Scully's legal 
guardian will be responsible for her trust fund?"

"Yes."

"About how much is that per year?"

Bill looked over at his lawyer, then at the judge, who 
looked down expectantly. "About twenty, twenty five 
thousand a year, I guess."

"You guess? Money like that will fund a lot of 
expensive new toys, won't it, Lt. Scully?"

"We'd use that money to make Miranda's life better!"

"And your life would be her life, correct?"

"I don't see what this has to do with anything," he 
complained. "This isn't about me, it's about Dana 
and that fruitcake destroying the life of my niece."

"So your motives are perfectly altruistic here? Tell 
me, Lt. Commander Scully, the day after the judge 
made his first rulings in this case, did you go to the 
Ford dealership in Annapolis and arrange to 
purchase a Ford Explorer?"

"We need that car," Bill whined.

I thought about the Ranger in the parking lot and 
tried not to cringe.  Well, that was a little different, 
Scully's car had been blown up, and we were fixin' to 
put another youngin' in the back.

"Yes, of course. And before the court-ordered 
evaluation with Miranda, how many times had you 
met her?"

Bill was now as stiff as week-old bread in his seat, 
looking past Laura towards the back doors of the 
courtroom as if he would really rather be elsewhere. 
"At her christening, and then again when Dana 
brought her over to my mother's a few weeks ago."

"So, that's about forty minutes, total?"

He sneered. "It was more than that."

"Fifty, then? What makes you so confident that you 
should rip Miranda away from the only parents she's 
ever known?"

He stared lightning bolts at me and Scully. "Because 
I know these parents, and I wouldn't leave a pet 
rabbit with them." Beside me Scully twitched as if 
he'd sawed through a long-healed scar.

"Well, that's another interesting question. Since your 
sister joined the FBI, about how much time have you 
spent with her and Fox Mulder?"

"I'm in the Navy, Miss, I don't get as much time as I'd 
like to visit my extended family around the country."

"So, you were with your sister a week last 
Christmas, a week when Dr. Scully was in the 
hospital, maybe a few weekends more in six years -- 
and you're confident that you know her and her 
husband well enough to judge her unfit?"

Bill clenched his hands on the wooden witness 
protection barrier and leaned forward. "I'm a military 
officer, trained to observe a situation and make a 
quick judgement. That's the only way to save lives in 
a conflict and it's just as relevant here, with Miranda. 
I know as much as I need to."

"I have nothing further," Laura told the judge in a 
way that indicated she thought it was a waste of time 
talking to this moron.

She had to tread a little more softly with Maggie, 
who expressed great concern for "Dana's mental 
health after all the troubles of the past few years" 
and thought that "she hasn't taken the time to be a 
real mother." I think Mommy Scully was pissed that 
Scully didn't turn Miranda over to her tender mercies 
when Scully decided to take a vacation from 
parenting.

I used to like Margaret Scully. From the outside, she 
seemed like the mother I would have wanted for 
myself. Scully found her overinvolved at times, but 
since my mother was about as involved with me as 
Saturn is with the Earth's moon I thought it was 
charming.

What Maggie's testimony made apparent was that 
there was a serious control freak under that 
matronly, warm exterior, which shouldn't have been 
surprising to someone who knew Scully. When 
Scully decided not to move in with Mommy Scully, 
who would babysit while Scully switched to a real job 
at which she could meet some nice Catholic 
(breathing) men, Mom decided that Scully was a bad 
girl in need of correction. (I had a fantasy that went 
that way, but it really had very little to do with 
Miranda.)

Laura did her best, suggesting that Maggie was 
infected with just a smidgen of religious prejudice 
and that she was retaliating against Scully because 
her daughter cut the apron strings, but it's not that 
easy to attack the morals of a smiling grandmother.. 
And there was no way we were going to counter 
Maggie's testimony with my mother's; the judge 
would have stopped right there and awarded Bill 
custody.

Bill's final witness was Scully's oncologist. I hadn't 
even considered it, but the fact was that from the 
perspective of everyday science there was no 
reason she'd gone into remission, and the oncologist 
was very clear that the cancer could reappear at any 
time to claim her. So, Maxwell's assertion was, it 
was better never to let Miranda get attached in the 
first place.

Laura wasn't great on cross-examination. There 
were no good numbers on survival rates after 
remission because nobody but Scully, apparently, 
had ever gone into remission from a nasopharyngeal 
tumor after the cancer metastasized into the blood. 
And Laura didn't want to dwell on the microchip in 
Scully's neck as a source of protection. As 
alternative medicine went, it was hardly 
acupuncture.

I don't remember that night. I think we might have all 
slept in the SUV, because I have absolutely no idea 
what happened between the time that we fled the 
cameras at the courthouse and the time we pushed 
through them the next morning.  Hell, it wasn't my 
first experience with missing time and I would have 
welcomed a free trip to Alpha Centauri at that point.  
But no, Scully, we're still in Virginia.

As promised, things moved rather swiftly, family 
court not being subject to the kind of delays that 
made the Simpson trial into a long-running soap 
opera. Our experts took the stand and swore up and 
down that we were as stable and loving as the 
average suburban family. Their main contention, 
though, was that a "good enough" parent with a 
bond to a child was better than any wonderfully 
doting stranger. This is why Emily never really 
warmed to Scully despite Scully's best efforts; she 
was always waiting for Roberta Sim to return. 
Though Scully had been absent for six months -- 
indeed, maybe because of that -- Miranda needed 
the stability of caretakers she knew rather than more 
disruption.

It sounded good to me. Maxwell sneered and 
pranced and asked whether the fact that children 
usually love and bond with their abusive parents 
means those parents should be left alone to destroy 
young lives. I wanted to smack him but decided it 
wouldn't look good in front of the judge.  Miranda 
was too young to know what was best for her, that 
was the point of the trial. We were paying our folks 
well enough to hold their ground, though, and they 
did, asserting that Miranda was not showing the 
definite signs of suffering associated with abuse. 
She was developing well despite the fact that she'd 
been the main event in a three ring circus for the 
past month. If we had lingering parenting problems, 
they claimed, we should be ordered to take 
parenting classes instead of losing custody. I had no 
enthusiasm for sitting through lectures by underpaid 
social workers along with parents who hit their kids 
with broomsticks, but I'd happily do it just to piss Bill 
off.

I don't know exactly what voodoo Scully pulled to get 
Skinner to testify, but it was clearly the high point of 
the trial. 

God bless his shining head.  He sat up on the stand 
looking like authority incarnate, like Mr. Clean 
testifying against the forces of Dirt.  If I could have 
pulled another ace out of my sleeve, it would be a 
Skinner clone.  My former boss would stop just short 
of perjury to paint my portrait as a dependable agent 
and to give the court a different picture of Scully -- 
strong, compassionate, full of sympathy for victims 
of crime.  I knew this was only because he wanted 
the whole sordid mess tidied up as quickly as 
possible to prevent any other bad press for the 
Bureau.  He was a company man, after all.  The fact 
that he was a former Marine and Bill was Navy must 
have had something to do with it as well. Service 
rivalries were ingrained more deeply than school 
rivalries, it seemed.

"Agents Mulder and Scully are the most creative and 
tenacious investigators I have seen. I would hesitate 
to call any case unsolvable without first invoking 
their expertise."

"So you consider the two of them valuable and 
reliable members of the Bureau?" Laura asked.
 
"Yes. Though I have supervised them through a very 
difficult period, I have always relied on their 
commitment to one another and to their jobs."

This was really skirting lying under oath, but through 
the years I have learned that Skinner is capable of 
telling the truth with the appropriate spin for the 
situation.

Maxwell, when he got his turn, brought a file folder 
an inch thick over to the stand. "Do you recognize 
these?" he asked.

Skinner flipped through the papers quickly and 
frowned down at the lawyer like the Lion King telling 
off a bad hyena.  I really had to widen my video 
viewing.

"They're discipline reports for Agent Mulder. I signed 
them."

"And these?" Another file folder, thicker than the 
first. 

Skinner didn't even bother to look. "I assume that 
those are the rest of the official reprimands."

"And you still think this man is stable and reliable? 
How many other agents have discipline records like 
this?"

"I am not aware of any," Skinner conceded, "and I 
am not aware of any others with the resolution rate 
or the --"

"And how many other agents have killed as often as 
Agents Mulder and Scully?"

"I wouldn't have those statistics at hand." Skinner 
didn't like being interrupted, but I hoped he'd stay 
copacetic and keep the judge sympathetic to his 
masculine authority.

"And how many agents have been allowed to stay 
with the Bureau after at least four psychotic breaks, 
one of which resulted in an attack on you?"

Skinner leaned forward and stared into Maxwell's 
eyes. "I would draw your attention to the fact that the 
FBI has officially classified that incident as an 
assault on Agent Mulder through the use of covertly 
administered psychoactive drugs in order to thwart 
his investigative activities. I believe that the other 
incidents to which you refer are similarly being 
distorted."

I wanted to stand up and applaud.

The Mooselet applauded for all of us.

Then only Scully and I were left to tell our side of the 
story.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
11/

Let be be finale of seem
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
	Wallace Stevens

The next morning, I was standing in the kitchen, 
trying to choke down a prenatal vitamin the size of a 
robin's egg (I'd chided but Mulder insisted that he'd 
paid cash which was enough to keep Them off the 
trail if it was at all possible to do so) when it 
happened. Not a post-abduction gusher like the girl 
on our very first case. Just a regular drippy 
nosebleed. No sweat.

No sweat, just blood. Pregnancy increases blood 
flow to the mucous membranes, and bleeding from 
the gums and nosebleeds are perfectly common 
consequences. I'd just gotten a clean bill of health 
and the cancer couldn't possibly have resurfaced so 
quickly. After all, even though the remission 
happened almost instantaneously, that doesn't mean 
that it would end with the same speed...

And I'll respect you in the morning, and nuclear 
weapons are only for deterrence, and Santa Claus 
and the Tooth Fairy are making tea for the Easter 
Bunny right around the corner.

As soon as the bleeding stopped I cleaned up the 
few drops that had fallen on the kitchen table. The 
sweatshirt I soaked in cold water; I'd have to throw it 
out unless the residue was unrecognizable before 
Mulder did the laundry. I planned to get out the 
Vaseline and use it at night, when my nose got a 
little less tender, to prevent the delicate tissue inside 
from drying out. Pregnancy-based nosebleeds are 
most likely when the air is dry and cold. And, hey, 
even though we were sitting on a filled-in swamp 
with humidity running 90% every day, it was 
perfectly possible that the air conditioning was 
causing the problem. 

Everyone needs a few foundational delusions. Mine 
are very concrete and limited, compared to Mulder's.

I booted up the laptop and fixed my will so that Zippy 
got my guns and Mulder got everything else. 

Mulder returned from his stress-reducing run (he 
must have jogged to Asbury Park and back) and 
grabbed coffee, kissing my head in passing, not  
knowing what was going on underneath my morning 
fright-fest hair.

The psychologists had been right on one count, 
Mulder was a big clumsy puppy, full of goodwill, with 
a short attention span when he wanted.  When he 
needed to be, he was as canny and cunning as a 
stray in any city of the world where poached pooch 
appears on the menu.  He stopped in the middle of 
the kitchen, his eyes flicking over towards the 
laundry room for a moment before he looked back at 
me, irises more brown than green with canine 
awareness.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Same old morning sickness," I lied.

He wasn't satisfied and he sniffed the air 
suspiciously before trotting off upstairs.
 
Court time came, and with it the revelation that an 
appeals court had ordered the courtroom open to 
the press. Apparently Miranda was too young to be 
negatively affected by the trial publicity, and Bill's 
case raised important questions of open, democratic 
government by challenging the FBI's willingness to 
tolerate our shenanigans and exposing our 
misbehavior. The First Amendment uber alles, never 
mind that the media presence added a new ring to 
the already world-class circus in progress.

It couldn't have come at a worse time as far as I was 
concerned, when only Mulder and I were left to 
testify. We'd achieved the dubious distinction of 
having CourTV actually schedule a daily show about 
us, thus guaranteeing us a place in the OJ 
Simpson/Louise Woodward pantheon.

I'd forever be haunted by my pale morning sickness 
face on video.  It would be a depressing addition to 
Miranda's baby book.

Laura couldn't help but give last-minute advice as 
we pushed past the cameras and the shouted 
questions. "They'll try to bait you and make you lose 
your cool.  Remember that the entire gist of their 
argument is that you are mentally unbalanced." 

"That Scull-- er -- *Dana's* mental stability is under 
question never fails to amaze me," Mulder muttered.

"And do not be fooled by how Maxwell looks or acts, 
he's an absolute piranha who has cultivated the 
outward appearance of a goldfish."

Her bitterness was the most emotion I'd seen from 
her yet. I looked at her curiously as she straightened 
her skirt and sat down at our table, but she was 
staring straight ahead with a brave and confident 
demeanor that was probably worth fully half of what 
we were paying her, just for the image.

Mulder looked good on the stand. He looked slightly 
nervous and there was a suspicious wet spot on his 
tie, which could have been coffee, but I suspected 
that it was baby drool.  There were lines of tiredness 
under his murky eyes and his shirt and tie really 
couldn't hide the raw healing skin on his neck.  If 
Laura was hoping to prey on the judge's sympathy, 
Mulder was playing the part to perfection.

Laura and Mulder went over the story just as they'd 
rehearsed it. Oh, no, I wasn't supposed to say 
'rehearsed.' They'd discussed his testimony, that's 
all. His background, his education, his career with 
the FBI. His medical history. Some of the worst 
incidents from his employment files, to get them out 
in the open before Maxwell could introduce them 
and make us look like we were hiding something.

"This quest for your sister and the machinations of 
the men behind her disappearance seems to have 
consumed your life, Fox," Laura said as she got to 
the end of the story. It was nearing lunchtime and 
she was obviously planning to break soon. "Why did 
you give it up?"

Mulder's eyes collapsed into isosceles triangles of 
pain. No matter how many times he heard the 
question, he couldn't prevent the wince.

"I discovered that some things are more important. I 
was pursuing the past, a past that never truly 
existed, and...suddenly I was confronted with the 
possibility of a future. I want to make sure that 
Miranda never feels alone, or uncertain or afraid. I 
want to keep her away from the kind of people who 
created her by force and fraud. I want...I want to do 
one small thing right..." Laura let him ruminate, the 
pauses increasing the impression of deep thought. It 
would have impressed me too had I not seen it in 
the bedroom the previous night. "Raising a child is 
such a small thing in a world of five billion people. 
But I've discovered that it is also the largest thing in 
my existence. I know that I've made mistakes in the 
past. In many ways I've been reckless because I did 
not know what I had to live for. But since I've had 
Miranda, everything seems clearer--more in 
perspective."

I could not prevent the small stab of jealousy that 
pinned me just above my heart. Such a small thing 
in a world of five billion people, really.

After lunch we had cross-examination. I'd seen the 
like before, it was the way the average Bureau 
inquiry went on a contested X File, but it was still 
difficult for me to watch without trying to intervene to 
save Mulder from himself.

Maxwell began where we'd all expected him to, at 
Spooky Central. "Before the so-called 'X Files' were 
opened in 1991, you were a profiler for the FBI's 
Violent Crimes Unit."

"That's what my file says." I winced inside at 
Mulder's obstructionism, but maintained the 
standard composed face I always kept on while 
Mulder was being questioned.

"Now, Mr. Mulder, I've seen 'The Silence of the 
Lambs' but other than that I don't really know much 
about profiling. From what I understand, your 
objective is to understand serial killers, to think like 
them?"

Mulder leaned forward, placing the tips of his fingers 
on the wooden half-wall in front of him, in full lecture 
mode. "Not to think like them, but to know how they 
think so that their behaviors can be predicted. It's the 
Bureau's long-term goal to know enough about the 
kind of people who are capable of such repeated 
vicious acts so that we can engage in 
comprehensive prevention strategies." He sounded 
like a TV commentator, pleasant and simplifying 
things just a little bit for the listeners.

"But you, you were one of the best at really getting 
into their heads, in a way that was much more than 
theoretical. Tell me, is it true that you can find 
murder sites as you drive along the road just by 
looking for the kind of place a murderer would put a 
body?"

Mulder winced. "Okay, that story has been stretched 
*far* out of proportion to what really happened." 

Really? That's not what I'd heard when I was at 
Quantico. 

He shifted in the hard wooden seat and adjusted his 
tie away from his neck. "It was an accident, I was 
answering the call of nature when I stumbled on a 
crime scene, and then my boss decided to scare all 
the trainees by telling them that I'd done it on 
purpose. And then the other times after that we 
already had reason to suspect the presence of 
remains in an area."

Hmm . . . Having met Bill Patterson, I found it 
plausible that the man would exaggerate his golden 
boy's achievements just to make the other agents 
work even harder to please the master. 
Nonetheless, I wasn't entirely convinced -- Mulder 
was wisely downplaying his spookitude for the court, 
but get him out on a deserted highway and he'd find 
a body faster than Michael Jordan finds the net. 
Mulder was also conveniently forgetting about Addy 
Sparks -- the missing victim in the Roche case -- but 
since he wasn't in ISU anymore by then I suppose 
he thought it didn't count.

"But profiling does demand that you immerse 
yourself in the lives of serial rapists and murderers. 
Do you think that has had an effect on you?"

Once again, Mulder rolled out the prepackaged 
answer. "Of course, it's impossible to be unaffected 
by the sheer horror of the crimes we investigate. I'd 
have to be a monster myself to be oblivious. One of 
the reasons the X Files appealed to me initially is 
that they were a change from ISU, where sometimes 
it felt like catching one killer only opened up a slot 
for two more. I think what I've taken away from the 
experience is how precious and fragile life is."

We'd visited cattle mutilation sites with less bullshit 
around, but the judge was listening carefully. 
Maxwell favored Mulder with a tight smile that 
suggested that the lawyer hadn't expected Mulder to 
be such a good actor. "And yet you maintain that 
immersing yourself in the twisted thinking of these 
criminals for years on end has not warped your view 
of the world in any way?"

Mulder sighed. "Doctors don't have to be sick to 
diagnose disease. That's essentially what I *did*" -- I 
thought the subtle emphasis was a good trick -- "in 
ISU."

"I'm going to show you a list of magazines now," the 
lawyer passed a sheet to Mulder, whose hand 
twitched as if he wanted to crumple it and use it for a 
three-pointer. "Do you recognize these names?"

"They're names of pornographic magazines."

"Did you subscribe to these magazines for the 
purpose of 'diagnosis'?" Maxwell casually handed a 
copy up to the judge, who frowned over the tops of 
his glasses at Mulder. For his part, Mulder blanched 
and visibly swallowed, trying to formulate an answer.

"I, uh, before Dana and I were together I 
occasionally used some of these magazines for, uh, 
for myself," he euphemized. "They're fantasies, not 
reality. And they have nothing to do with how I raise 
my -- my child." That stutter at the end, by the way, 
was Mulder almost broadcasting the news about 
Baby X to the world -- he wasn't doing well.

"You subscribed to 'Tit Torture'?"

I looked down at the table so that I wouldn't have to 
watch. Though I never voted for Hilary Clinton or her 
husband, I felt a sudden surge of sympathy for her 
public humiliation. If I could have, I would have 
stuffed cotton in my ears as Maxwell made Mulder 
say "yes" to a revoltingly long list of disgustingly 
named periodicals. The upside, I suppose, was that 
none of the titles even hinted at pedophilia.

Eventually the list was done. Mulder was gasping 
like a landed fish and like a good angler the lawyer 
changed tactics. "So you and Dr. Scully were 
partners for over six years?" Maxwell asked in a 
voice that sounded like old Southern money.

"About six and a half."

"During which time you carried on a clandestine 
affair.  How long did that go on before Miranda 
entered the picture?"

"Objection, cumulative," Laura chimed out and the 
judge nodded.

"I'll rephrase," Maxwell said smoothly. "How long 
had you and Dr. Scully been having sexual relations 
before you discovered Miranda's existence?"

"About a year, give or take a few weeks."

"And did your superiors know about this 
relationship?"

"*Someone* did, given the camera that was covertly 
installed in my apartment."

"Just answer the questions, Mr. Mulder."

Up on the stand, Mulder reddened a bit and went 
silent again, his hands knotted tightly together in his 
lap.

"Given that Section Chief Blevins was implicated in 
the series of events surrounding that unlawful 
surveillance, I think it's fair to say that he knew."

"Yes, the unlawful surveillance. That's when you 
shot a man in the face and left him to be identified 
as you?"

"Yes."

"And Dr. Scully lied to your superiors, confirming the 
misidentification so that you could break into a 
Pentagon facility with the dead man's credentials?"

Mulder swallowed. "Yes."

"Is that standard FBI practice?"

I was glad to see that he'd remembered Laura's 
instructions: breathe before answering, every time. 
"Dana was dying and I had reason to believe that a 
cure for her could be found in that research facility. I 
was right."

Maxwell looked down on his pad. "So, the object you 
stole from the Pentagon was the chip in the back of 
her neck, the one of unknown origin that you and Dr. 
Scully ordered her physicians to implant because it 
might have some relation to the cancer?"

Laura didn't object and Mulder said, almost 
inaudibly, "Yes."

"Please speak clearly so that the reporter can get 
your responses. Does anyone other than yourself 
and Dr. Scully endorse the claim that this stolen chip 
can cure cancer?"

"I was told that the chip would work by a man who 
has been involved in secret government projects of 
this sort for decades."

"What sort is that? No, never mind. Who is this 
man?"

"I don't know his name."

"Well, can we find him and ask?"

"No, he was shot soon after he told me about the 
cure. His body has never been found."

Maxwell paused and looked around the courtroom 
so that we could all understand exactly how 
implausible Mulder sounded.  This piqued Mulder 
enough that, against advice of counsel, he added to 
his reply voluntarily. "Exit wounds are a perennial 
problem in our line of work." The cameras loved it, 
which did little to discourage him from being snide 
no matter how the judge frowned.

It went on like that for a while, from Arecibo to 
Wisconsin and back. Even I almost laughed when 
Maxwell asked Mulder to list every time he'd been 
arrested or custodially detained by some other 
government agency and Mulder had to ask whether 
he should include state or just federal.

I was confused by the finale, though.

"Let's go back to your early employment records 
now. During your tenure in ISU, you managed to 
accrue a substantial number of commendations for 
difficult cases and your reviews from your superiors 
are downright fawning. Then you reopened the 'X 
Files.' It was to this division that Dr. Scully was 
assigned shortly thereafter."

I looked over at Laura, but she was concentrating on 
whatever she was writing on her legal pad and 
seemed to be only paying slight attention to what 
was going on at the front of the courtroom.

"With the reassignment and the addition of Dr. Scully 
as your partner, I notice that you have more 
reprimands than anything else in your files.  To what 
do you attribute that sea change?"

Mulder's face tightened. I knew he was trying to 
figure out what he could say that would deflect 
Maxwell from whatever course he was taking, and 
he wasn't much enjoying being put on the defensive.

"My charming personality."

Someone in the back, possibly one of the clerks, 
snickered.

"Really?  Answer the question please."

"The nature of the cases require a more extreme 
approach than a normal case would warrant.  
Unorthodox methods need to be used and such 
methods do not generally meet with the approval of 
the higher-ups."

"You initially regarded Dr. Scully as a 'spy' sent to 
discredit your work, did you not?"

"Yes, but she quickly proved that she was interested 
in the truth --"

"So interested that you were able to take risks you 
hadn't before, with her to back you up when you got 
in trouble?"

Mulder saw the trap close, but he was already 
inside. "It's not like that --"

"Isn't it? I submit to you that your once-harmless 
conspiracy theories became dangerous to yourself 
and others once Dr. Scully came on the scene. I 
submit to you that she pushed you to further and 
further extremes, whether simply to impress her or to 
convert her to your beliefs it's not clear."

Laura was on her feet now, objecting, but Maxwell 
continued to talk.

"I submit to you that no matter how intelligent and 
brave the two of you are individually, the 
combination of your energies is explosive and 
deadly."

The judge banged his gavel. "That's enough, Mr. 
Maxwell!"

More than enough. "I have nothing further, your 
honor," he said and sat, concealing a smirk behind a 
serious facade; he knew he'd made his point.

Mulder staggered off of the stand like he'd been shot 
again.

Their strategy was clear now: divide and conquer. If 
they could successfully argue that Mulder and I 
together were like hydrogen introduced to chloride, 
then we'd be condemned for our loyalty to one 
another rather than rewarded for it.

My own testimony loomed before me. Tomorrow. I 
didn't think I could face that kind of questioning when 
I couldn't make myself entirely believe our side of 
the story. 

I couldn't let Mulder lose Miranda because of his 
connection with me. We still didn't know whether the 
judge would admit the videotape of me in Arizona or 
what it would show; Mulder had been distressingly 
silent when I asked him what he'd seen when Jason 
showed him a copy those many months ago. And 
this morning's ill-timed nosebleed suggested that I 
might be as bad a bet as a Powerball ticket, even 
without the custody battle.

I looked across the table, where Mulder was 
greeting Miranda -- he'd been away from her for so 
long and Miranda demanded to be reacquainted with 
his nose -- and hurried over to my brother and his 
entourage. I felt Laura following, trying to control the 
interaction.

"Bill," I caught his arm as he began to walk out of the 
courtroom with Tara. Maxwell looked at me 
speculatively. "I have something to say to you. An 
offer."

Laura made a warning noise behind me, but I 
ignored her.

"What kind of offer?" He loomed over me, still 
believing that his height somehow made a difference 
to me. How could I blame Bill for being the same 
kind of person I was -- afraid of the unknown, 
determined to make the world conform to his sense 
of reality?

There were conference rooms scattered throughout 
the courthouse for just this kind of activity. We found 
an empty one and sat down, Laura at my side in 
roughly the same way as my gun.

"I think it's obvious to everyone that the main 
problem you're having here is with me," I said as 
soon as his ass hit the chair, "You don't want me 
around Miranda. You don't really care about Mulder. 
And you're not going to find anyone to say he's a 
bad father. You're flailing around with things he did 
five years ago, and you know the court's not going to 
think that's enough.  So this is my proposal. You 
drop the lawsuit and I'll agree to leave them alone. I 
will stay away; I won't play any role in her 
upbringing. Mulder will have sole custody."

Maxwell immediately opened his mouth, but Bill put 
his hand up. Tara looked at him worriedly. I was 
starting to get sick of her Tammy Wynette routine. 
"Will you wait out in the hall while we discuss this?"

I nodded and Laura and I left. As soon as she shut 
the door she started in on me: "Dana, this is a 
problem."

"You're the one who told me that I was hurting 
Mulder's chances of retaining custody." I realized 
that I wasn't bothering with the first-name thing 
anymore; it didn't seem as if it would be necessary.

"If you want to do this, you really need to get 
separate counsel. Your interests and Fox's are 
diverging here, and I'm not sure I can represent you 
both."

"Our interests are exactly the same -- what's best for 
Miranda. And that's being with Mulder, not *them*," I 
waved my hand contemptuously at the closed door. 
"Now you know I don't have the money to pay 
someone else to sit in there with me. I want you to 
make this happen. I want you to make sure that they 
can't ever challenge Mulder's custody. And I'll do 
whatever it takes."

She shook her head and nibbled at her lower lip, 
thinking. 

"I knew I should have been a criminal defense 
attorney," she said as the door opened.
 
Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
12/

But she's giving him an ice cream headache
And I don't know why he's gonna take it
Anymore, anyhow, anywhy, and he tried to take it back
But it was much too much too late for that
Well, they're headed down a rocky road
And she's got a chocolate chip on her shoulder
She's giving him an ice cream headache
She said, "I always fake it"
And that might have been the last strawberry
	Ilios

Testifying wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought it 
would be. Maxwell almost had me a few times, and 
the allegation that Scully and I were dangerous 
together but not apart was a little worrisome. But I 
had admitted my mistakes when Laura asked me 
about them; I was a changed man these days. At 
least as far as the court was concerned. I felt that I'd 
explained myself tolerably well, especially with all 
the evidence Laura had introduced about the 
conspiracy against us on direct examination. She'd 
gotten me to discuss Blevins, and the missing 
evidence over the years, and the revelations from 
Roush, and the look on the judge's face when he 
realized that Bill's side could not disprove any of it 
was priceless. 

When Scully had peeled off with Laura to discuss 
her upcoming testimony, I'd been a little hurt that 
she didn't want to do it at home. But then I realized 
that she needed the familiarity with the courthouse. 
She gets nervous in courtrooms, she'd never admit it 
but I can see her twitch and I know that her skin isn't 
always quite so pale. And that's just when she's 
testifying as a federal agent, upholding the law. It 
must have been even worse for her to be in court as 
a citizen, as a defendant.

Feeling reassured, I spent the afternoon filling out 
personnel evaluations and working on a proposal to 
put ISU personnel in the major field offices. Crime 
was being federalized faster than crimes were being 
committed; what with the Violence Against Women 
Act, every serial rapist and murderer in the country 
was suddenly our responsibility whether or not he 
crossed state lines. Getting agents in field offices 
would be a good way to improve our 
responsiveness, maybe catch some patterns we 
wouldn't have seen otherwise. I was very excited 
about the proposal, and it occupied my time 
painlessly until Scully returned.

She still had Laura in tow. I was a little surprised but 
there was room at the dinner table, so what the hell?

"Mulder," she said. Her voice had the sooty flavor of 
disaster in it.

"*Dana*," I said, just to remind her, but she shook 
her head. 

"I talked to Bill. He's willing to make a deal --"

"Goddammit, Scully, no! I'm not sharing custody with 
that rat b--"

"No shared custody. All yours." 

I blinked in confusion. That wasn't a deal, that was 
surrender. "How?"

She gestured towards Laura. "Laura will explain. I'm 
going to -- I'm going to take a look at Miranda."

I sat heavily on the couch. "What's going on?"

Laura perched on the edge of a chair and leaned 
forward, her hands braced on the seat. "Dana 
offered a trade. You get full custody, uncontested, 
and she signs an agreement giving up all rights to 
Miranda and agreeing not to see her or 
communicate with her in any way until Miranda is 
sixteen."

"*What*?"

She continued as if I hadn't spoken. "I think the 
communication provision is gratuitous cruelty, but 
she agreed to it in order to get you full control over 
visitation, if any, with any other member of the Scully 
family. To enforce the agreement, you and Dana not 
allowed to live in the same area and are not to 
spend the night under the same roof, even on a visit. 
You may talk to Dana but not carry messages 
between her and Miranda. Break the agreement and 
Bill and Tara get custody, though that's not 
completely enforceable. Dana also agrees to submit 
to psychiatric evaluation at a facility to be named 
later, and to comply with any inpatient or outpatient 
treatment regime recommended." She paused and 
we were silent for half a minute. "He hates her, Fox. 
I don't know what to tell you."

"Bill suggested this?" 

Laura folded her hands in her lap and wouldn't look 
at me. "No, it was Dana who made the initial 
approach. We worked out the details over the last 
few hours."

I felt like someone had taken an ice cream scoop 
and applied it diligently to my chest. She was 
abandoning us. Again. Didn't think us worth fighting 
for. Didn't want to be Miranda's mother. All my 
delusions -- the hopes that this crisis would bring us 
together, the satisfaction of knowing that she cared 
enough to oppose Bill -- were crushed and broken 
by her indifference, screaming and bleeding in my 
mind. I should have put them out of their misery a 
long time ago, but I was never good at mercy 
killings.

"So that's what she wants." My voice came out as 
flat as ever. I suppose I should be grateful that no 
emotion came through.

Laura slammed a fist down on her knee. "No! 
Dammit, I knew this was going to happen. No, it's 
obviously not what she wants, you don't have to look 
very hard to see that. But she thinks that the judge 
will see her as an unfit mother and give Bill and Tara 
custody, at least joint custody, unless she agrees to 
this."

I looked towards the stairs. Was she saying good-
bye already? Was she packing? How long would it 
take before she forgot Miranda's face, her bright 
clear eyes, her perfect fragile skin?

"What do you think I should do?"

She sighed. "Look, if that tape shows what they say 
it shows, a judge is going to have a hard time with a 
custody arrangement that involves Dana. He'd 
probably refer her to the authorities for prosecution. 
And if you're endorsing her, supporting her after she 
did something like that -- it will be hard for him to 
believe that you've really stabilized and become an 
upright citizen after all."

"So you're saying that our chances aren't good."

"Let's put it this way -- imagine that this case was 
about someone else. Would you want a child to be 
raised by people with your backgrounds, people who 
are struggling with these incredible burdens? We've 
got a fair shot of proving that you're an excellent 
father -- at least for the past half a year. But that's 
only a little over one percent of your lifetime. And, 
honestly, you look good because you responded 
well when Dana did the thing that looks so bad -- 
she left Miranda halfway across the country, in good 
hands of course but it's hard to get around the fact 
that she abandoned her daughter. Who's to say that 
she won't take off again when she recovers from her 
latest problems?" 

When I didn't say anything, she prodded. "As your 
lawyer, I can only tell you about your options. I don't 
know what the right thing for you to do is. Maybe 
you'd be better off if Dana had never proposed this 
deal. But here it is, and you need to decide. We're 
supposed to go in front of the judge tomorrow to get 
his approval. Because the best interests of a child 
are at stake, the judge has to approve our 
agreement. And your consent is required, too. So 
you'd better know what you're going to say when he 
asks whether you've agreed to this."

After about five minutes of strained silence, she got 
up and made her goodbyes. I was paralyzed more 
effectively than if I'd been staring at the Medusa and 
I didn't even bother with the alarm behind her.

The sun slowly dissolved into the earth as I sat, 
trying to comprehend. The sunset was spectacular, 
clouds at the horizon glowing pink as the water 
running down an ax murderer's drain. The new-
summer sky darkened into hot night as I sat.

I went to the study, my knees protesting at the 
sudden motion after hours of disuse. She was there, 
curled up on my couch.

"So when are you going to leave?" I heard my voice 
come out before my brain had completely engaged.

She looked up from where she was reading the Post 
and the light flared off the lenses of her glasses.

"Excuse me?" she asked in a lemon sorbet voice.

"Well, you're going to fuck my brains out tonight and 
then vanish before sunup aren't you?  Did you call 
the airline yet?  Or is this going to be a local 
escape?" I marched over to my desk and dropped 
down like a thrown rock, swiveling the chair so I 
could face her.

Her eyes were round as the Mooselet's.

"Alaska is nice this time of year, except for the 
mosquitoes, and you can get a one-way ticket to 
Juneau with no problem.  You could even rationalize 
a trip up there for an X-File.  I think there have been 
pipeline workers missing again.  I never bothered to 
check it out because I froze my ass off once up 
there," the ichor in my voice surprised me.

"Mulder--"

"That's what you do, isn't it?  When the going gets 
tough, Scully bails.  You take off so fast that you 
scorch the flight deck."

"Does the word 'ditch' mean anything to *you*, 
Mulder?"

"I had to stop doing that when you took the 
Champion's Cup for taking off," I had my fingers so 
tight on the arms of the chair that I was probably 
leaving fingerprints in the hard foam of the armrests.

I tapped an imaginary button on the chair arm.  
Prepare deflector shields, Mr. Chekov, incoming 
photon torpedoes.

"I'm sorry if my family is disturbing your quiet little 
island of domesticity here.  I didn't ask for this to 
happen."

"I'm getting really tired of that song, Scully.  Really 
tired.  You didn't ask to be abducted, you didn't ask 
to have your ova taken, and you didn't ask for the 
cancer.  You didn't choose to have Miranda, and 
when she inconvenienced your life you dumped her 
with Emerson and Aileen.  You didn't provoke 
George into stalking you and you certainly didn't 
*aid* him when he tried to strangle you," I continued, 
trying to keep my voice under control even though it 
was crackling like a cheap stereo speaker. "When 
things don't go your way, you cave like a house of 
cards."

"I don't!"

I snorted.

"This is bullshit, Mulder. I'm trying to do what's best 
for Miranda. You were *there* today, you heard 
yourself rationalize and it's not going to get any 
better tomorrow when that lawyer crucifies me 
alongside you. I'm offering you a way out and as 
usual you just resent my attempts to help."

"Hey, I was dealt a bad hand here too, Scully, and 
I'm just trying to bluff my way through it.  I used to 
think that you were one of the strongest people that I 
know, and in the past year I've realized that it wasn't 
strength that I was seeing. You're self-centered, 
emotionally straightjacketed, and utterly inflexible to 
change."

"Sounds to me as though you've taken the psych 
findings to heart -- or ego as the case may be.  
You're believing your own press.  You are *not* 
Saint Mulder and you are *not* the poster boy for 
emotional stability. Aren't you paying attention? 
There's a good chance we're going to *lose* this 
case, and then what will you do?" 

Okay, so she had a point.  It wouldn't be the first 
time. Fortunately I still had ammunition.

"And what are you going to do about the fact that 
you're pregnant? You think no one's going to notice? 
Maybe you could go away and visit an aunt like girls 
in the fifties used to."

Her spine stiffened -- she seemed to grow an inch -- 
and when she began to speak again she had the 
precise tone of her case reports. "RU 486 is 
available in Virginia. Chemical abortion works in the 
home and I will be able to verify that this child will 
not be anyone's experimental subject."

She stalked forward a few paces, until her hand was 
resting on the doorknob. "For the record," she said 
and turned back so that I could see the bone-white 
cheeks below her bruise-bright eyes, "going upstairs 
does not constitute a ditch."

I sulked in the study for awhile until my natural 
curiosity got the better of me.  Catzilla, who 
understood these things, shadowed me as I crept up 
the dark stairway and stopped.

Scully's voice was soft and I had to strain to hear it. 
What made her good with children was that she 
treated them like real people, albeit with different 
interests and talents than adults had. The mewling 
newborn Miranda hadn't been amenable to such 
attentions, but she was old enough now to respond 
to Scully. She was silent for the moment as Scully 
spoke to her.

"Neither side of your family is any good at 
forgiveness or understanding, so I'm not going to 
ask you for that. I know you'll be angry when you 
figure out what happened. I'm angry too, but -- I had 
to make sure you were safe. And you could never be 
safer than with Mulder. Whatever you think of me, 
you should know that Mulder loves you more than a 
thousand mothers and fathers. He --" her voice 
caught, and then Miranda whimpered. Scully was 
probably holding her too tight. "You've got the best 
Daddy in the whole wide world, you know that? He'll 
make sure you grow up big and strong and nothing 
bad will ever happen to you --" 

I could hear her heaving breaths as she was unable 
to keep the tears from coming. I heard her walk 
across the floor, then a rustle of plastic diapers as 
Miranda was lowered into the crib.

She'd taken a few steps away when Miranda began 
to cry. "Lee," she wailed. "Lee!" 

More rustling, then, and her voice faded in and out 
as she began to circle the room. Each word was 
thick, forced through salt and bone. "It's okay, baby. 
I'll just stay until you fall asleep --" But Miranda 
wouldn't shut up. She was picking up on Scully's 
distress and responding the only way she knew how, 
by fussing. After a few minutes, Scully spoke again.

No, not spoke. She was singing, her voice flat and 
stumbling over every other word.

"Take me out to the ball game, 
Take me out to the show.
Buy me some peanuts and Crack-er Jack
I don't care if I never --"

I broke and ran, my brain pounding against my skull, 
desperate for escape. There are some things that no 
human being should have to face.

Just for a little variety, *I* went into the hallway 
bathroom and threw up. Of course morning sickness 
was soon going to be a thing of Scully's past. Why 
would she want a child when the one she had now 
had brought nothing but pain?  It was Emily all over 
again, but worse.  Scully had actually bonded with 
the Mooselet in a way she hadn't with Emily.  Well, 
the Mooselet was better looking, had more 
personality, and was smarter than Emily, which was 
probably due to the infusion of Mulder genes.  (The 
only one of my brothers who hadn't been vain about 
his appearance was Ian, and he'd been insane.)  

I couldn't let her go.  It was that simple.  No matter 
what the judge ended up with as a verdict, no matter 
what white rabbits Maxwell was able to pull out of 
his tailored pocket, no matter if I had to keep Scully 
in a locked room and force-feed her prenatal 
vitamins for nine months in whatever place I 
managed to find without an extradition treaty to the 
US, I was going to keep this strange little family unit 
intact.  Period.  Full stop.  She could go along 
willingly or not..

****
 
I was surprised to find Mulder in bed when I came 
out of the bathroom.  I would have thought that he'd 
gone to ground on his sofa in the study.  But there 
he was, lying on his side of the bed on his side, with 
the covers pulled up to his hairline as though I hadn't 
promised to leave both him and Miranda and abort 
the embryo I was carrying like a concealed weapon. 
I hovered in the bathroom doorway for a moment. 
He had to be up to something but I wasn't quite sure 
what.  I'd played this scene out in dozens of hotels 
through the past two years: the argument was going 
to be worked out on a purely physical level once 
again.  I had a fairly good idea what loomed in the 
next hour or so.

The tickling in my nose warned me just in time. I put 
my hand up to my face as if I were trying to cover my 
mouth, blocking my nostrils incidentally, and spun to 
return to the bathroom. Running the water to cover 
up the sound of me not puking, tilting my head 
forward so that I wouldn't choke, I knew I was doing 
the right thing. I couldn't let Mulder run the risk of 
losing Miranda because he dreamt of reconstituting 
a family from my freeze-dried life. The last time I was 
dying I'd launched us into this terrible cycle, and I 
could get him out this time. Whatever he was about 
to do to me, I could take, with pleasure. 

I knew that I was enjoying the role of martyr, of 
beautiful dying sacrificial Camille and all the other 
tubercular operatic heroines. But what is there to 
embrace about dying but the martyrdom? I had 
hopes that Mulder would one day look back on my 
choice and see that it had been about love and not 
weakness. I couldn't wish him permanently 
damaged, though, because about one thing he was 
entirely correct: Miranda had a chance to escape her 
legacies, and Mulder could make it happen through 
the power of his convictions.

Clean and bloodless, I emerged to face him.

The mattress creaked underneath my weight as I 
settled into my side (the 'passenger' side, mind you) 
of the bed.  I could tell that he wasn't asleep by his 
breathing.  I reached out to touch the warm skin on 
his back.  He flinched away from me as though my 
fingers gouged his flesh.  Stung, I inched to the edge 
of the mattress and clung there like a burr.

"I'm only saying this once - don't do it.  Don't leave 
Miranda and me again."

Damn the hormones, I started to cry.  And damn 
Mulder, after barely five minutes of listening to me 
sob into the extra-firm pillow, he got up and left.

**** 
  
I slept on my old couch in the study. When I heard 
the shower going, I snuck into the master bedroom 
to grab my outfit for the day, then used Warwick and 
Ingveld's bathroom to prepare. I gave a garbled 
explanation of what was going on while I tried to 
make my hair behave without mousse.

"The videotape, the lawyer thinks it will hurt you so 
that you will both lose if the judge sees it?" Ingveld 
asked again.

"That's what she says."

"And this is why Dana has made this deal?" she 
asked and handed me a tube of hair gel which would 
do in a pinch.

"That's what she says."

In the mirror I saw Ingveld's face contort, trying to 
puzzle out the ways of adults. I looked like the 
Hanged Man of the Tarot, the tie choking my scabs 
no matter how loosely I knotted it. I gave up and 
loosened the tie.  It wasn't as though I had a single 
fucking secret with these people anymore anyway.

Warwick watched me impassively from the bed 
where he lay with his keyboard cuddled against his 
side like a favored stuffed animal.

"So this is all going to be settled and everything will 
go back to normal, right?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, it'll be normalicious."  I gave one 
last swipe at my hair and plodded out to the car 
where I waited like Fred Flintstone for the rest of the 
family to arrive.

Scully came out with Miranda and I realized, too 
late, that I had probably added insult to injury by 
making her bring the baby out.  The steering wheel 
wavered in my untrustworthy eyesight as she 
opened the back door and put Miranda in the kiddie 
seat.  Then Miranda began to scream, demanding 
motion, while Scully tried to decide whether it would 
be worse to sit next to her or next to me.

I won, I guess, and she got in the front seat. 

I won another round when she had to speak first.

"Last night..."

I remained as impassive as a crashed computer 
screen.

"...You never said you would accept the agreement."

I darted left, in between two Tauruses.  Fucking 
Tauruses.

"Well, are you?"

I couldn't very well leave her in suspense until the 
moment arrived; it would look too bad to the judge.  
More's the pity.

"No."

It took her four exits to recover from that.

"Mulder, you're . . . not making a decision based on 
all the relevant information."

"What, it's really Zippy who knocked you up?"

Her hand twisted on the door handle as if jumping 
out at forty miles an hour would be safer than 
staying with me.

"You want to take this risk so that we can stay 
together, and I appreciate that.  But . . . I believe that 
. . . it may be the case that . . .."

If I hadn't needed both hands to swing in and out of 
traffic, I would have strangled her.  "Spit it out, 
Scully, you're getting so good at that."

She took a lungful of air-conditioned baby-scented 
air.  "There is a not inconsiderable possibility that I 
am out of remission."

First I didn't process it because I was trying to avoid 
plowing into the asshole attempting to cut me off, 
and then my operating system suffered fatal errors.

"So you see," she said, emboldened by my obvious 
inability to respond, "it would be highly unwise to risk 
losing your custody when it may not guarantee my 
presence even if you succeed."

I caught a look at myself in the mirror.  Red, ugly 
eyes stared at me from a low circle of Hell.  And then 
there was the courthouse parking lot, and we pulled 
into our spot.

"Nice try, Dana," I said lightly as I unlocked the 
automatic doors.  "But you're going in there and 
you're going to testify that you want to be an adoring 
wife and mother.  It's too damn easy for you to 
sacrifice yourself for us and I'm not going to let it 
happen."

Laura trotted up as I liberated Miranda.  "I was 
expecting a call last night," she chided.

"No deal," I informed her, and she went over to 
Scully's side, comforting her with a low feminine 
murmur as Scully pulled away to hide her confusion 
and hurt.

Scully's oncologist had just testified the other day to 
Scully's recovery and I refused to believe that this 
much misfortune could befall us.  Scully would call it 
a statistical improbability; me, I just determined to 
keep her in good health by sheer force of will.  If I 
had to go hunt down an ET and kick its ass into 
submission just to make the damn microchip in her 
neck work properly, I'd do it. Maybe they had a tech 
support line I could call -- "excuse me, but this 
microchip is still under warranty, can you send 
someone to replace it?"

Laura gave Scully the hurried rundown of tips on 
testimony that I'd heard too many times before.  
Then she shuffled over to the Dark Side to explain 
that there would be no deal and there were a few 
self-righteous noises on that side.

I tried very hard not to listen to Scully and Laura's 
very public conversation about our life and times.  I 
was too busy projecting whatever psychic powers I 
had into the destruction of any cancerous or 
precancerous cells that might be lurking in the 
vicinity.  Even if that benefited Bill accidentally. I 
could still hear my voice echoing in my ears from the 
time Scully first discovered the spate of cancer 
among the Allentown abductees. But you're all right, 
aren't you Scully?

Aren't you, Scully?
 
Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
12/

white pepper ice cream
it's like a line drawing
it snipped my heart
white pepper ice cream
in my mouth
it stings my lips
it's like an eclipse
as if i'm in the crossword puzzle
but i can't fill in the blank
	Cibo Matto

Give him his due, Maxwell didn't waste any time 
before going for the good stuff.  He quickly reviewed 
all the times Scully covered for me, disrupted Bureau 
protocol against her better judgement, defied 
Skinner, or otherwise participated in the effective 
investigation of X Files. 

He asked her about events in Bethel, Arizona, and 
she averred that she hadn't been allowed past the 
front gate of Roush's facility there because she didn't 
have a search warrant.  She claimed that the lab 
had been destroyed while she was there in order to 
hide evidence of human experimentation that she 
would have discovered had she been successful in 
her attempt.  Though this was the kind of naked 
assertion that usually got me in trouble, here there 
was a public record of the dirty work Roush had 
been doing in Texas and Maxwell didn't press her 
very hard. I assumed that he was merely waiting for 
the tape to prove her a liar.

Scully had very little trouble with the professional 
part of the story.  But when it turned personal, she 
was running on fumes.

"Did you have sexual relations with Edward Jerse, 
the man you'd met only that afternoon and who the 
next morning tried to kill you?"

"No, I did not." How I hoped she was telling the truth. 
She hadn't let the folks at the hospital do a full exam; 
evidence of intercourse, if any, had disappeared with 
her next shower.

"Is it usual for you to stay overnight with a man 
you've just met, a man who was a suspect in a 
murder case?"

"First, there was a blizzard outside, and second, 
Edward Jerse was not at that time a suspect, his 
behavior was not overtly psychotic."

"So you just stumbled into this murder case? Bad 
luck seems to follow you around."

"I would think your presence is empirical evidence of 
that proposition," she muttered and someone in the 
press corps emitted a bleat of laughter.

Maxwell then got her to restate every trauma she'd 
experienced in the past six years, Duane Barry, 
Leonard Betts, Luis Cardinal, Donny Pfaster, Gerry 
Shnauz, Jack Willis, Mighty Morphin Bounty Hunters 
(okay, so that's not alphabetical, but I wasn't really 
sure where they fit anyway), et cetera. The little 
bastard referred to each one by case number.

Finally he spiraled in to Miranda, the eye of the 
storm. "Instead of abandoning your child entirely, 
why didn't you simply reach out and get some 
assistance? Your mother, Mr. Mulder, Mr. Mulder's 
brother, they were all willing to help you. But instead 
you chose to give up entirely."

Scully swallowed and straightened infinitesimally. 
"Even with their assistance, I was overwhelmed. I'd 
lost Emily not long before, and I was still devastated. 
I...couldn't acknowledge my experiences, couldn't 
make myself open up to others."

"But you can now?"

"Yes," she enunciated clearly, and I winced as she 
realized the problem. It didn't make me feel any 
better that I'd been suckered the day before, though.

"Well, then, let me ask you some questions about 
your reactions to the troubles you encountered. 
Now, you testified that after the death of your 
daughter Emily and the discovery of Miranda and 
the rape, you suffered understandably lingering 
trauma. You've been taking antidepressant and anti-
anxiety medications, correct?"

"I have been," she said carefully. I tried not to squirm 
in my seat. Being a lawyer, Maxwell was highly 
sensitive to the nuances of speech and he paused.

"Are you doing so now?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She took a slow, careful breath like a dolphin 
preparing to dive under water and hide. "The 
medications were very helpful, but now that I can do 
without them I prefer to do so."

Not in the least untrue, yet incomplete; a letter-
perfect Scully answer. But there was blood in the 
water, despite the fact that she showed no signs of 
injury, and Maxwell tilted his head slightly. "Isn't the 
usual minimum prescription for six months?"

"Yes."  Laura's hands twitched on her legal pad and 
relaxed when Scully didn't volunteer further. 

"And did you discontinue taking the medications 
before that time on the advice of your physician?"

"No."

"So you decided that you were recovered from your 
depression based on your own evaluation, is that 
right?"

"Yes."  Watching Scully choke back explanations 
was incredibly difficult, even knowing that Laura 
would allow her to say more under redirect if the 
cross went badly.  I could understand how people 
tripped themselves up this way.  The temptation to 
justify, expound, and elucidate was enormous.

"Independence is very important to you, isn't it," he 
said softly, sympathetically.  "Your strength is your 
strongest asset."

Her eyes grayed with puzzlement. 

"When you had active cancer, you continued 
working against medical advice up to the point at 
which you collapsed during an important meeting, 
isn't that correct?"

"I fainted," she conceded.

"And when you discovered Miranda you took care of 
her all by yourself for three months, despite what 
had just happened to you and despite Mr. Mulder's 
availability.  You only stopped when your maternity 
leave ended and you had to return to work."

"I..."

He put his hands on the wooden barrier separating 
the witness box from the courtroom floor.  "It was a 
relief to go back to work, wasn't it?  To be confronted 
with a choice between a job that demands twenty-
four hour commitment and a baby with the same 
requirements -- no one could fault you for choosing 
only one, could they?"

"I don't know what you mean," she whispered, eyes 
flickering like the whirring of a countdown timer on a 
bomb.

"You want to be in control of your life so much that 
you take action even though it's physically or 
emotionally too taxing for you, isn't that true?  With 
the cancer, with your daughters, with your 
medication."

She shook her head, but he didn't pause to tell her 
to speak up for the court reporter.

"If the court decides that you're just not healed 
enough for custody, if someone other than you 
makes that decision, won't that be a relief?  You've 
done your duty to your daughter and to Mr. Mulder, 
you've fought the good fight, but wouldn't it be just a 
little bit reassuring to have someone else take up the 
burden of caring for Miranda while you get yourself 
back together?"

Now, finally, the first tear track shone, like a freshly 
cut scar, on her face.  "No," she denied, finally 
bowing her head to preserve whatever dignity she 
could imagine she had left.  When she straightened, 
she had her voice under control, but the price was 
that her tears were flowing more freely.  "You may 
be right that I can't be as strong for myself as I want 
to be.  However, what you don't understand is how 
strong I am for them.  How strong I am with him."  
She turned to the judge, her raised face beseeching 
despite itself.  "Don't make a decision to protect me.  
You can judge me or punish me, but if you decide 
against me out of some twisted version of solicitude 
you will have done a terrible disservice to everyone 
involved."  She swiveled her head back to glare at 
Maxwell.  "So don't attack me for what I've done and 
tell me that defending myself is simply proof that I 
don't know what's good for me."

She took a breath to say more but seemed to realize 
that she'd already broken the cardinal rule of cross-
examination and subsided into her chair with an 
interrupted gasp.

Maxwell shook his head, almost indulgently.  "One 
more thing, Dr. Scully."

She looked at him warily; as if he were brandishing a 
gun at her and she had to hold him off for a few 
minutes so her backup could take him out.

"You've testified that your relationship with Mr. 
Mulder has been tempestuous at times.  Are there 
any lingering difficulties caused by the fact that when 
you wake up in the morning you see the face of the 
man who raped you?"

I stood up at precisely the moment that Laura 
shouted out an objection.  She grabbed onto my 
sleeve and hung on despite the fact that she had to 
tilt halfway out of her chair to do so.  Maxwell gave 
me a look that suggested that physical violence was 
exactly what he expected from me, and I tumbled 
back into my seat as the judge spanked his gavel on 
the bench.

With one last snide look at me, Maxwell turned to 
the judge.  "Goes to the stability of the marriage, 
which is important to the family environment."

"I'll allow it, Mr. Maxwell, but I understand why a 
gentleman might object to having such a question 
put to his wife.  Answer the question, please," he 
told Scully in a tone nearly as severe as the one he 
used on the lawyer.

Scully glanced at the judge.  I may be the master of 
puppy-dog looks, but her 'I'm disappointed that you 
failed me but not terribly surprised' face should have 
pride of place between us. 

Maxwell put his hand on the half-wall between him 
and Scully and leaned forward so that he was 
invading her personal space.  "I can repeat the 
question if you'd like."

The shellac of long-suffering motherhood had worn 
off under Maxwell's previous assaults, and Scully 
gave him a look that should have disassembled him 
into his component atoms.  "No, it does not cause 
any 'lingering difficulties.'"

He let that unlikely statement have a moment to 
plummet to the ground.  "And what about the more 
recent attempts on your life by yet another of your 
husband's criminally inclined brothers?"

"No 'lingering difficulties' there either.  Evil isn't a 
matter of blood, it's a matter of volition," her left 
eyebrow explained exactly what she thought of his 
manners, intelligence, sexual prowess, and personal 
hygiene, "Like most career choices."

"Of course, of course."  He waved his hand; she was 
talking in trivialities and platitudes while he wanted 
to have a serious discussion.  "But if none of that 
bothers you, how can you expect this court to 
imagine that you have the sensitivity necessary to 
raise a child?"

This is the point at which, if we were animated 
figures, little clouds of steam would shoot out of 
Scully's ears.  Her patience was somewhere in 
Canada by now.  "Make up your mind," she 
snapped.  "You want to portray me as a broken-
down victim and a heartless witch at the same time."

Maxwell pulled away from her with a satisfied nod.  
"All right, which is it?  Withdrawn," he said before 
anyone else could react.  "We'll continue cross-
examination tomorrow.  At that time we intend to 
present videotaped evidence that Dr. Scully has 
been somewhat less than truthful about her activities 
in Arizona."

"Sidebar, your honor!"  The judge beckoned and 
Scully got off the stand.  We stewed for a long time 
as the legal beagles argued back and forth and the 
cameras targeted us, looking for reaction shots.  
Miranda was trying to eat Laura's abandoned pen 
and Scully was offering numerous other objects for 
her edification; each was satisfactory for about a 
minute, and then Miranda wanted the felt-tip pen 
again.

When Laura returned, her face was so 
expressionless that I knew the news was bad.  Over 
at the other side, Bill and the others began arranging 
their things to leave, jauntily confident.

"They've found someone they say can verify the 
tape," Laura whispered in a voice of dry autumn 
leaves.  "Some security guard who escaped the fire 
and then worked in Vegas for the past year.  They 
just tracked him down and he's flying out tonight."

"What does that mean?"

"It means very little if Dana's testimony was 
accurate."

I let her stew, refusing to feed her the next line.

"And if it was not, if the tape does show her after she 
testified that she never made it beyond the outer 
perimeter of the compound--it will go badly."

***
 
Dinner was ugly.  Ugly in the extreme.  Ingveld had 
made Warwick an early dinner and run off to take 
care of some consulting work she was doing for the 
feds or some other mysterious project.  This meant 
that Mulder and I ate alone, Miranda having 
collapsed into a sack of potatoes not long after we 
returned home.  The trial was wearing on her usually 
good nerves. She was getting whiny and clingy by 
turns, clearly sensing the stress and tension that her 
adoring public was undergoing on her behalf.  
Whatever damage the psychologists thought my 
alleged abandonment of her had done was 
compounded by their presence and the custody 
battle.

We'd given up any pretense of domesticity and 
reverted to our old bachelor ways, a pizza on the 
floor of the study with the television muttering CNN 
in the background and cans of soda sitting on the 
top of the open pizza box.  For some reason, the 
tomato sauce tasted strange to me and I had to 
scrape it off with my fingertips and then replace the 
cheese like a bad toupee.  The green peppers were 
inedible and I had to pile them on a napkin.  Catzilla 
had stolen a chunk of green pepper that he was 
playing paw-hockey with underneath the desk and I 
was so tired and depressed that I had no energy to 
try to stop him.

Rumpled and tired, Mulder leaned his back up 
against the sofa and wiggled his toes dangerously 
close to the pizza box.  It was unhygienic and he 
knew that it drove me crazy.  He looked entirely too 
calm, too accepting and I was wondering what was 
going on in that pretty head of his, assuming that it 
wouldn't be good and not sure if I wanted to know.

"Are you going to eat that pizza or just dissect it?" he 
asked in a sharp voice.

"Pardon the hell out of me.  I'm pregnant and my 
taste buds are doing strange things."

"You asked me to order green peppers and now you 
won't eat them.  Didn't you know you didn't want 
them?"

"They taste wrong.  Do you want me to throw up?"

"That's your excuse for everything now, isn't it?"

"Fuck you," I snapped and climbed to my feet. "If 
you want a dartboard you can get your ass out to the 
sporting goods store and buy one.  You didn't marry 
one."

I made for the door.  After a day spent being filleted 
by Bill's lawyer I would be damned if I was going to 
undergo Mulder maceration.

****

"Do not walk out of this room."

Goddamn, it wasn't even my voice that snapped out 
of the hole in my face.

This, at least, gave her enough reason to pause like 
a cat who isn't sure if the shine on the kitchen floor is 
wax or water, one paw raised for disappointment.

When the lies get too hard to keep straight, one 
must resort to telling the truth.

"Don't leave me," I croaked, "I've lived without you 
and I don't like it.  You've proved to me that you can 
live without me, but I can't do the same."

She blinked, which was not quite the reaction I had 
been looking for.  I was hoping for something more 
positive since I was spewing my heart's pumping 
blood out all over the hardwood floor.  The door was 
only a few steps away from where I sat and the area 
stretched for miles of tundra while I slogged to cross 
it..  Her body was vibrating at a higher pitch than 
usual and I could hear her breath catching in her 
throat.

"The tape," she muttered.

"Fuck the tape.  Fuck it all, Scully, just think for a 
moment.  Were you happy?  Are you happy?  Can 
you even entertain the thought that I'm something 
other than an annoying but necessary plaything."

The blinking continued and I considered the 
possibility that she'd gone into mental vapor lock.  I 
reached out and touched her forearm where the 
downy hairs had jumped erect as though there was 
entirely too much random static electricity in the 
room.
 
"You can't make this work," she said, "Even if the 
tape doesn't show what we both know it does, you 
heard them, the psychologists.  I'm not cut out to be 
anyone's mother."

"So?  I've been through it with the Mooselet and if I 
can be a parent, anyone can." I tried a smile and got 
yet another blink in response.

I slid my hand up her arm, working my way from 
fabric to flesh, and cupped the searing heat of her 
cheek in my hand.

"You know I lay awake at night wishing that 
everything that has happened to you because of me 
hadn't happened. I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for it all.  I'm 
sorry I love you. I'm sorry that causes you pain.  But 
that's one thing that I don't want to go away."

Breath warm against the underside of my wrist, 
Scully shut her eyes, which made everything easier 
for a moment.  My knees were trembling like the skin 
on a saucepan of hot milk.  She gave no comment 
or argument (mark your calendars) when I led-
shuffled her over to the sofa and pulled her onto my 
lap.  Her head curled between my shoulder and 
jawbone and she went soft as Catzilla in midmorning 
snooze. We had trained each other really badly, no 
wonder I felt free to hurt her if she'd forgive me so 
easily. Or was that vice versa?

"You need a haircut," she muttered into the scarred 
terrain of my neck.

"Yeah, and -- " I prodded.

"And what?" Her cool fingers played over my stubble 
as if she were sanding her fingerprints away.

"And I've just gotten emotionally naked and you 
could at least point and laugh," the palm of her hand 
smelled like pizza but I kissed it anyway.

"I'm sorry, was I supposed to confess undying love 
or something?" 

"If it's not too much of a problem."

Sitting upright, she looked into my eyes with an 
expression as warm as Mont Blanc.

"Oh Fox, I have loved you since the beginning.  My 
life is incomplete without you. Oh you big beautiful 
stud, you," she recited in a flat, level tone, "you had 
me at hello."

My outraged squawk was muffled by her lips.  

Then she moved back to get the space to pull my 
shirt off. She looked at me quizzically before she 
obscured my face. "You understand that it is now 
officially my turn. You will not begin another fight 
until I have done so."

I could live with that.  

But there was something that still bothered me. I 
pushed back from her bathwater-warm mouth as I 
realized what it was.

"I *never* said hello!"

"M -- Fox, what did I just tell you?"
 
"All right, but can we make up again like this?"
 
"Maybe," she said and threw my shirt over into the 
corner. 

Then she knotted her fingers in my hair and pressed 
my head into the sofa back while her tongue darted 
into my mouth with teenage frenzy.  Her back was 
smoothly warm under my hands and I pulled her 
closer until she was straddling the growing bulge in 
my sweatpants, her breasts hot and soft against my 
chest.  It had only been a  matter of days since we'd 
had sex and it felt like months.  She nuzzled along 
my jaw and stuck her tongue in my ear which 
seemed to be attached to my dick by a thin strand of 
enraged nerve.  I was hard as quantum physics in 
the warmth of her thighs even before I squeezed the 
deliciously soft curves of her ass.  Breathing on the 
banding of scars around my neck, she reached 
down between our bodies and squeezed me with 
her hot little hand.  I grunted greedily into her hair 
and she chuckled softly into my shoulder.

"When all else fails," she teased.

"Hasn't failed yet."

"Pride goeth--" she said and slid her hand up and 
down with consummate skill.

I growled and ground my teeth.

"Now," she demanded.

Well, that was a hardship.  I wiggled out of my 
sweats and shorts and they joined the rapidly 
growing pile in the corner.  Finally she was gloriously 
naked, and smiled back at my appreciative gape.  
She undulated over to me and climbed into my lap, 
her finely shaped legs twining around mine.  I 
groaned in gratitude when the smooth bulk of her 
ass warmed my upstanding cock.  I squeezed the 
pale skin of her breasts, watching her tight peach 
nipples compress between my fingers. I looked up 
and into the lasciviously glowing depths of her eyes 
and finally saw through the wall of control and 
distance she'd always erected there.  And what did I 
see?  Bemused indulgence, some need, and a hell 
of a lot of lust.. This was better than any cupid and 
rose-bedecked declaration of love.

On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt for Scully to go 
Hallmark on me just once.

"What?" she asked and gave me a shy smile.

"Tell me you love me."

The color rose from where my hands darkened her 
breasts to her hairline.

"It doesn't count if you're naked," I prodded.

"I think this couch has certain aphrodisiac 
properties."

She smiled and flicked her hair back away from her 
face with one hand in a heart-stoppingly wanton 
gesture before leaning over and beginning to cover 
my face with sloppy, sultry kisses.

"I wouldn't be surprised if I had gotten pregnant from 
sitting on the sofa.  For all we know your 
spermatozoa can live through an autoclave," she 
murmured into the shell of my ear and sent a thrill 
down my left side that made me jump and shudder.
 
"Do you?" I asked again.

"I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that 
it will incriminate me," she said and chuckled, and 
the chuckle followed the murmur down my neural 
network.

I pressed her down into the tired leather, her skin 
white chalk on the blackboard underneath.  I 
reached up and killed the table lamp which was 
trying to strike me blind, and she glowed in the 
yellow light from under the door.  Wantonness gone, 
she shivered underneath me suddenly shy, and her 
skin was cool, smooth milk glass under my fingers.  I 
traced her face, the proud line of her nose, her 
stubborn chin, and her closed eyes like butterflies.  
The lush line of her mouth, the swoop of her 
eyebrows, like swords - beautiful in repose with 
clean line and delicate tracery that were deadly in 
use.  Her breath stuttered in her throat and her legs 
scissored on the dark water of the couch.  Her 
fingers stroked my back, running down my shoulder 
blades and spine like silken tails.  I kissed her throat, 
her shoulders, her breasts, every scent and texture 
sweet and familiar.  The soft skin of her wrapped 
around me and underneath me, I drowned in her 
vanilla peach rich and wild smell.  Ivory on onyx with 
amber inlay she stretched out below me and I 
polished her with my hands, my mouth, proving my 
worship.  When she finally parted the slim columns 
of her thighs and invited me inside she was hot 
honey and wine.  Smooth, delicate, barely moving I 
slid back and forth within her.  Opening her mouth 
underneath mine, she suckled on my lips, darted her 
tongue inside my mouth, mirroring what my cock 
was doing inside her, sleek thrust for sleek thrust.  
Dazed and drunk on her, by her, through her, with 
her, I looked down into her endless eyes and saw 
what I had been begging her to say.

I could feel her climaxes, delicate tremors around 
and through me, in a narcotic haze.  I was swimming 
through her skin, through her blood, and curving 
through and around her heart used for so much 
more than mere circulation.  Filled with the warm wet 
wine that I drank from her mouth, I coursed into her 
with a dreamy gold fire from somewhere in my 
marrow and sank half onto her like a man in an 
opium dream.  Smooth-handed, she polished me, 
my back and shoulders and as much as her small 
hands could reach.  I wanted to cry at the enormity 
of it all, rail against anything that would deprive me 
of *this*.  It wasn't going to happen.  Things simply 
could not be that cruel.

I shifted on the sofa, pulling her around and over me 
like an undersized blanket.  Her hair streamed over 
my face and she sighed in my chest, sounding for all 
the world like a happy housecat.  I smoothed her fur 
and listened to her purr.

She followed me home.

I just had to keep her.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
13/

Cherry on the top
Like a nuclear warhead
Nuclear bomb
Gonna lift the trigger
I had a
Dog Fly Religion
Neutron
On a chocolate sundae
	King Missile

Mulder came back from his morning run while I was 
re-experiencing breakfast in our bathroom.  Although 
he was being nicely unhelpful, the smell of his sweat 
(which I have to admit I usually enjoy) made my 
stomach heave harder. With his tail between his 
legs, he went to see if Miranda was available to play 
with.  After I managed to get my stomach under 
control I wandered downstairs and found Ingveld in 
the kitchen, sitting at the table grazing her way 
through a bowl of granola and a peach.  I grabbed 
some coffee (I was planning on having a high 
caffeine baby, thank you.) and plopped down across 
from her.

She looked up at me with the most serious 
expression her fresh young face would handle.

"I haff three older sisters," she said.

The smell of the coffee only made me feel sick 
again.

"My sister Marta had a baby when she was sixteen.  
She was not married."

I put the cup down because my hand was shaking 
so badly that I couldn't trust myself to spill it all over 
the floor.

"What are you saying?" I asked.

"I think it will be good for Miri to have someone to 
play with.  Too much loneliness makes you go inside 
your brain, yes?

Okay, so she'd figured out the covert pregnancy, but 
no one said that Ingveld was stupid, even though 
she was a natural blonde.

"Ingveld, I don't know if you understand, but there's 
a good chance that Mulder might not only lose 
Miranda, but I'll end up in jail."

"You worry too much," she shrugged a graceful 
shrug as though we were discussing nail polish 
colors, "So you know what you are going to wear 
today?"

Sackcloth and ashes would have been a good 
choice, but I had a couple suits left that still fit and I 
let Ingveld help me choose the black one with the 
slim pants and a pale pink blouse which kept me 
from looking like one of the living dead.  I drove to 
the courthouse that day, while Mulder tied his tie in 
the mirror on the sun visor and Miranda screamed in 
the back seat.  He decanted the baby and we 
walked the gauntlet of cameras into the courthouse.  
Laura met us in one of the small conference rooms 
and managed to give us a stern look, which didn't 
rest easily on her young features.

"I take it that you have solved your issues here on 
the proposal with Bill?" she asked.

"Yeah," Mulder said.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't throw me curve balls 
in the courtroom.  It doesn't help your credibility at 
all.  It goes to Bill's argument that you two are 
unstable."

I sighed and got up, the morning nausea returning 
with a vengeance.  "Excuse me, I need to use the 
ladies room."

After I had thrown up breakfast, I was washing my 
hands at the sink and chewing a handful of breath 
mints when Laura came through the door.  I thanked 
God or Fate or Whatever that she hadn't walked in 
on my vomiting.  She smiled and started running a 
brush through her hair.

"Miranda is a cute baby.  She was trying to eat Fox's 
tie," she commented. "She seems to have a lot of 
personality for such a small person."

I knew what she meant.

 "She's been an education."  I agreed.

Looking in the mirror, our glances met.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said in a tentative 
tone.

"It's not like we have any privacy anymore."

Blushing, she looked down.  "I was just wondering, 
when you and Fox were working together, and you 
were involved, how did you manage to keep your 
personal and professional lives separate?"

"Is this going to haunt me on the stand?"

"My own curiosity only.  This doesn't pertain to the 
case in the least."

"Well, there was never any formal agreement, but 
when we were working there wasn't any mention of 
the personal aspect.  It isn't Hoover High where you 
can go cow-eyed and make out in the hall.  We 
worked when we worked and that was all.  On the 
other hand, it wasn't as though we couldn't discuss 
elements of a case outside of work."

Actually, I could remember a couple of times when 
the fog had cleared on certain cases immediately 
after some truly astounding sex and on several 
occasions I'd done autopsies with toilet paper 
wadded between my legs to catch any stray drips 
from the morning encounter.  The sex had been for 
tension release more than anything else, just as 
Mulder had gone on his runs and I'd taken to the 
bathtub.  There hadn't been much overlap between 
work and play.  We were either fucking, working, or 
sleeping, and to think back on it the hollowness of it 
all made my teeth hurt.  Empty calories, with no 
nutritional value.

"The one thing that Bill's psychologists said about 
me that I heartily agree with is that I have always 
been able to keep my emotional life under strict 
control."

It was a sideways look that she gave me, full of 
questions.

"Well," I amended "in all honesty, I was able to keep 
it under control.  The rules are a little different now."

There were no rules, that was the problem.

****

A shadow fell over the table in front of me and I 
looked up. "I didn't expect to see you here," I told my 
sister, "aren't you still hiding out?"

"I heard things were going badly, no big shock, and I 
wanted to see my niece again before she gets 
legally severed from the family," Sam said and bent 
to the stroller where Miranda made a grab for one 
shiny silver earring. Sam hissed, lips peeling back 
from teeth, and she the Mooselet growled back.  
They stared at one another, mongoose and cobra 
well-matched.

Scully came up behind Sam and I could tell that she 
had rarely regretted her inability to carry a gun 
during this trial more. "Come to examine your 
handiwork?"

"I did good, don't you think?" Sam pivoted on one 
rapier heel and looked down at Scully, who stiffened 
and seemed to expand like a cat with its fur on end.

"What do you want? We're somewhat busy at the 
moment," Scully pointed out, and Sam shrugged and 
turned to kneel in front of the stroller.

"You're my sole survivor," she said to the baby, 
almost wistfully, and then stood up, straightening her 
charcoal-gray fitted jacket where it had rucked up. "I 
can't stay. I'll call you when I have information for 
you."

I was obsessing about the videotape and Sam's 
revelations were not at the forefront of my mind. 
"Sure, whatever."

As Sam receded like Kaiser Soze into the distance, 
Scully came and sat next to me, frowning. Around 
us, people were settling in for the day, the clerk and 
the bailiff splitting a donut as Bill huddled with his 
entourage. "This isn't right," she said, discomfort 
working through her face like worms under the skin.

I tried to read the Post as if there were absolutely no 
doubt in my mind about the contents of the 
videotape, which in fact there were not though not in 
the way I'd like. My hands were sweating so badly 
that the sports pages smeared dusty black onto my 
palms.

"M--Fox, the people at BioQuest think she's cut a 
deal to work against them, if she thinks we're going 
to lose and Miranda will be turned over to them --"

I looked up as Scully jumped to her feet, drawing the 
attention of everyone in the room. I followed her 
eyes down to the floor, by the stroller.

Where Sam's calfskin briefcase, so appropriate to 
her professional image, still sat.

I rose as if ejected from a crashing jet. We didn't 
have to look at each other to know the score: my 
legs were longer, I could push past crowds better, I 
had to take Miranda. Scully was already striding to 
the center of the room, her hand grazing her hip to 
flash her missing badge, as I reached over the 
briefcase, careful not to dislodge it, and ripped 
Miranda from the stroller. She began to howl at 
precisely the moment Scully began to yell to 
everyone that they had to evacuate, now. I caught 
Bill's incredulous look and the judge's somewhat 
disapproving curious face as I spun and began to 
run.

Out the narrow corridor between the dark wooden 
seats for spectators, through the double doors and 
into the hallway where witnesses and lawyers and 
security guards lounged. "We need a bomb squad," I 
yelled as I dodged past clusters of people rooted like 
trees in the hallway. People who'd been sitting on 
the hard benches lining the walls began to rise as 
the lights flickered and an alarm began to blatt. 
Scully had apparently convinced someone that she 
was serious. The hallway darkened as if my vision 
were going in a faint, and then the emergency lights 
began to spin, flashing red and white.

I was still moving fast away from the courtroom -- I 
didn't know how much destruction could be packed 
into one briefcase, especially if Sam did have friends 
'high up' like the doctor from BioQuest said. On the 
other hand she'd delivered it personally so it 
probably wasn't more than one city block's worth of 
destructiveness. The slippery marble floor was 
obscured as litigants and court personnel poured out 
of other courtrooms; ahead of me a jury room door 
opened and twelve more wild-eyed citizens added 
themselves to the crush. Underneath the harsh 
quacking of the alarm, the babble of confused voices 
was like putting your ear to the world's largest conch 
shell.

Police officers were everywhere, some escorting 
handcuffed felons and defendants, others just with 
their hands on their guns, trying to figure out the 
problem. One saw me and evidently thought I'd 
taken the crisis as a chance to kidnap a bundle of 
joy; he pulled out his gun and started after me.

I felt Miranda's body shaking with outraged sobs but 
I couldn't hear her over the rest of the noise. Now we 
were in the main atrium, and the crush of reporters 
refusing to leave the building saw me. More strobes 
exploded in my face and I couldn't raise my arm to 
shield myself without loosening my grip on Miranda, 
so I spun and looked for another way out. The cop 
was yelling at me to halt, but he wouldn't fire at the 
baby and I was safe for the moment.

People were running everywhere, like a box of ball 
bearings spilled on the floor. No, ball bearings would 
at least be controlled by the rules of physics. I was 
buffeted by glancing blows as people hurried past 
me, trying to find a free door, spun around and 
around in the middle of the elegant circular room like 
a billiard ball with very poor English as I screamed 
for Scully. She should be out here by now, directing 
traffic, getting things under control. Pressed up 
against my chest, Miranda's wet face soaked into my 
shirt.

There was a whump like a grocery bag bursting as it 
hit the ground, and the hallway we'd come from 
exploded into fire. I saw a hall bench come free of its 
moorings and sail into the air, arcing over the jetting 
flames and landing right on the main information 
desk, which collapsed into a thousand expensive 
splinters. I turned to keep Miranda away from the fire 
and felt a hot fist of heat against my back, pushing 
me away. Then a body hit me right behind the knees 
and I collapsed, barely able to stick out an arm in 
time to avoid crushing Miranda beneath me. In my 
peripheral vision I saw that I'd been assaulted by a 
semiconscious police officer, maybe even the one 
who wanted to arrest me.

While I was down and squirming away from the 
groaning body half on top of my legs, more debris 
thudded against my back and I almost lost hold of 
Miranda twice before I could struggle to my feet. 
Screams filleted the air through the now absurdly 
slow and repetitive sound of the alarm.

The fire was already dying as I staggered upright, 
sprinklers pissing lukewarm water onto the scorched 
and unscorched alike. As more people managed to 
escape the building, I searched for Scully among the 
refugees. It would have been impossible to hear me, 
but I yelled her name anyway, howled like Brando 
demanding entree to Stella's bed, as more and more 
people swept past me towards the blinding summer 
light of open ground and safety. A kaleidoscope of 
humanity, flashes of shoulders and waists and eyes, 
swept past me, and all I could do was sift the 
fragments and ignore all that was not Scully.

It was when the first firefighters pushed upstream 
and passed me, running down the blackened 
hallway to see if anyone still lived in that part of the 
building, that I began to panic. The smell of chemical 
smoke was heavy in the air and I couldn't keep 
Miranda here, her infant lungs were in danger.

Scully's name died into an undifferentiated howl in 
my throat.

The hot damp baby in my arms swung furious fists 
against my chest that seemed to thud directly 
against my heart as I loped towards the door. I'd just 
find somewhere safe to put her --

Where was that? Sam had to be nearby, waiting to 
see if she'd succeeded. 

The roaring in my ears had nothing to do with the 
explosion or the people panicking around me. I 
should have made Scully take Miranda, she's short 
but she's determined, she would have gone through 
the crowds like Michael Jordan through a double-
team defense, I should have been the one alerting 
the others to the danger and clearing the courtroom. 
Hell, we should have let them all die, let God sort 
them out and save ourselves a lot of trouble.

The sunlight smacked me across the face and I 
stumbled out the door where spectators were 
clotting. I looked back into the building and Scully 
was still not there.

I shuffled gracelessly down the granite steps, 
mumbling reassurance to Miranda. She had to be all 
right, Scully's always fine, she doesn't die. I can't let 
her. 

More firetrucks, more ambulances, the police were 
already setting up barriers. I felt the chill of incipient 
shock as the hot morning sun melted my skin and I 
wasn't sure I'd be able to hold on to Miranda.

When Zippy materialized and caught her from my 
Gumby arms, propping his crutches under his 
armpits to free his hands, it didn't surprise me in the 
least.

"What did you do this time?" he joked and then 
blanched when he got a look on my face.

"You armed?" I managed to croak.

He nodded. 

"Shoot anyone who approaches you. Keep her 
safe."

I fled into the darkness as I began, finally, to hear 
Miranda's cries.

Inside, stretchers yawned hungry mouths. Many 
were already being fed by victims who'd been too 
slow to escape the hallway. No one challenged my 
presence. I was ambulatory, barely, and the rescue 
workers had better things to do.

In front of our courtroom the marble floor was black 
as Sam's hair. The impressive wooden doors had 
disappeared, blown into the next century. The room 
was nothing but a gutted shell, charred lumps where 
chairs and tables might have been stuck to the floor 
like rotted teeth. Nothing in that room during the 
explosion could have survived.

Breathing the fouled air, I entered Hell's 
antechamber. The floor was still smoldering in 
places, and my shoes felt like they were red-hot iron. 
The image of the room as it had been fifteen 
minutes before, whole and unmarred, flickered in my 
vision, layered over the new reality like a hologram. 
This was the sign that the profiler part of my brain 
was trying to send the idiot part a message. 

There, behind the bench. Where the judge always 
emerged from in the mornings and after lunch, 
where the lawyers had their private conferences. 
There had been a door, once.

Now it was a wall, solid metal distorted in its frame 
by the force of the explosion but not blown apart. Its 
strength puzzled me until I figured that it had to be 
part of the enhanced security many courts were 
investing in, in these days of Freemen and McVeigh. 
And Samantha Mulder, apparently.

I pounded on the door and screamed Scully's name 
once more.

Silence. Dead silence.

The wail of denial piped through my head at about a 
hundred and twenty decibels. She was there, she 
had to be there, surely she was on the other side 
pressing her hands against the blast-rippled door 
directly parallel to mine.

I was pounding with both fists now, I could feel new 
bruises and cuts explode as my knees began to give 
out and I started to slide toward the floor, unable to 
breathe. I looked away and realized that some of the 
things I'd thought were just burnt chairs had merged 
with bodies.

Blackened tears dripped from my nose as I lay 
against the hot door.

Vibration, not of my own makings, under my helpless 
hands and I pressed my ear to the door.

The sound was muffled, but I knew it was my name.

I wept as I pulled myself up like Pinocchio under 
Gepetto's control and went for the firefighters.

****

I can yell pretty loudly when I have to, and I could 
feel my throat going raw when I called for a bomb 
squad and an immediate evacuation. The press is 
fairly sensitive about the danger after so many 
terrorist incidents in past years: naturally, they want 
to report on tragedy happening to others, but they 
decidedly don't want to *be* the news. My yells 
produced a Niagara-sized rush through a Rock 
Creek-sized outlet.

Looking at the crush of people (reporters, anyway) 
stopping up the main doors like a cork in a bottle, I 
decided that the judge would never make it. I ran 
back to him and grabbed his shoulder. His face 
tightened and reddened with outrage. "I'm sorry, 
your Honor," I said as I half-dragged him back to the 
door to his chambers, "but it's not safe for us to stay 
in this room." Whatever he said to me over the 
confused foaming of the others in the room involved 
the phrase "young lady," but that's all I know.

I noted that Tara and Matthew made it to the real 
exit, but Bill must have suspected a trick of some 
sort and followed me. Our loyal counsel, somewhat 
like dogs, stayed by our sides -- or maybe they just 
figured that, starting from the far end of the room, 
their chances of making it out the main doors were 
slim indeed. 

My stomach shrunk into a black hole when I realized 
that there was no through exit. We could be trapped 
like a microwave dinner when the bomb went off. I 
bolted the door and the lawyers backed away from 
me as if I were the potentially explosive element. 
"We should get behind the desk, it may protect us 
from the blast."

"These doors are supposed to be bomb-proof," the 
judge said sharply, as if I were letting the American 
justice system down by not trusting their strength. 

"Yes, your Honor," I agreed as I urged him to the 
back of the room behind his desk. 

We all hunkered down behind the judge's enormous 
mahogany desk, the judge in the middle and the 
lawyers flanking him to provide maximum possible 
distance between me and Bill. Just as we got 
uncomfortable, the blast door groaned like a lion 
roaring on the veldt.

The judge's bronze statue of Justice weighing empty 
air leapt off the desk in her own need to escape and 
smacked into my left hand, drawing blood which I 
hardly felt as I stared open-mouthed at the Legal 
Eagles crouched next to me. Laura and Maxwell 
were arguing about whether the judge should end 
the hearing and recuse himself as sirens wheeped 
and water began pouring from the ceiling. More 
books and soft-backed supplements fell off the 
shelves as the building shuddered. Laura took a hit, 
continued yammering, and only paused when she 
and Maxwell both leapt to protect Hizzoner from 
assault with a deadly casebook. They collided, the 
judge got slightly bonked anyway, and I almost 
laughed. It was worse than watching the Gunmen at 
play.

Maxwell gave Laura a hand back up and looked like 
he wanted to object when I checked the judge's 
pupils and made the older man track my index 
finger, but my nemesis undoubtedly realized that 
looking as if he didn't care if the judge was 
concussed was even worse than letting me earn 
brownie points by playing doctor. The judge was well 
enough to snap at me for asking him to do silly 
tricks, in any event.

When I'd pronounced the judge fit for work, Maxwell 
and Laura began to argue about the legal import of 
recent events. All three of them ignored the sirens 
and the smoke in favor of legal argument, while I 
tried to determine whether there were any operative 
exits. I was beginning to think that lawyer jokes 
substantially understated the differences between 
the profession and the rest of the human race. Bill 
sat with his hands over his knees, disgusted with 
life, while I peeked at the judge's smoldering books 
on the far wall and guessed that we'd been spared 
the brunt of the blast. The frailer doors on the other 
side of the courtroom must have exploded and 
channeled the explosion outwards.

Mulder ruined my new suit when he grabbed me 
after the firefighters finally knocked the door in. I 
couldn't actually work up any annoyance, though, 
not when he was still crying (from the smoke, of 
course) and his chest shook against mine like a car 
that had lost its shocks. I rubbed his soot-streaked 
face with the heel of my hand and accepted life 
without breathing while he attempted to squeeze me 
back down a dress size.

Zippy was waiting outside for us. His badge was 
flipped open and hung at his waist so that everyone 
could see it. He was leaning against a local squad 
car with his crutches propped up beside him, one 
arm around Miranda and the other ever-so-casually 
training his gun towards the ground in case 
someone tried to dispute his right to babysit.

As we approached, Miranda waved at us, looking 
from Mulder to me and back, awed by the incredible 
amount of dirt and debris Mulder had accumulated. 
She was reporting on her impressions of the whole 
incident in triple time, but when I took her from Zippy 
she grabbed a hank of my now-stringy hair and said, 
in exactly Mulder's tone when I'm not playing along 
with his latest joke, "*Scuh*-lee."

Ever the gentleman, Mulder took Miranda from me 
just before I vomited, narrowly missing both Zippy's 
cast and  the hood of the squad car.

Miranda applauded. MSNBC and CourTV both 
showed me getting sick, damn them, but the 
broadcasters didn't. I guess puke is against 
Standards and Practices.

"Baahhhhm!" Miranda yodeled happily. 

She made it into prime time.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
14/

Well I never get to do the things they wanted to do to you,
I have to do them to myself, or go find someone else,
Well if you were so good, I wouldn't be so bothered by you,
I like to drink your nose, and suck your little toes,
Strawberry sundae is mine, 
Only funday, it's the one day I can lie and dream about you.
	BMX Bandits

Still life with old magazines, me leaning against the 
wall in the triage unit at the local emergency room. 
This was the same emergency room we'd gone to 
after George had taken himself out of the line of 
succession courtesy of the FBI SWAT team.  The 
way things were going we would be rating our own 
curtain. Scully was sitting in one of the waiting room 
chairs with a makeshift bandage around her injured 
hand. The Mooselet was clinging to her like a limpet 
and cooing at her in soothing tones of Moose-
Speak.  With her eyes shut and the black smudges 
from the soot marking her haggard face, Scully 
looked like one of the victims of the Oklahoma City 
bombing who had managed to get her child out of 
the wreckage.  I wished that the fucking TV cameras 
had been around to get a shot of that, it certainly 
was a blow to the balls to the argument she wasn't 
attached to the Mooselet.

How could she not be when the Mooselet had 
inherited the old Mulder charm, right?

We waited while the badly injured went in and were 
whisked to ICU or wherever.  Scully had already 
diagnosed the possibility of a green break to the 
small bones in her hand and she definitely was 
going to need stitches, even I could tell that. I'm sure 
she would have been just as happy to suture herself 
in the privacy of our kitchen, but the EMT's had 
gotten hold of her before she could escape.  Which 
was pretty much the way I had - before she could 
escape.

The judge, bruised on the head from where a flying 
law book had beaned him on the noggin, was sitting 
across from us in the waiting area, with his gown 
folded neatly in his lap.  I bit back the urge to walk 
over and plead my side of the case without the 
benefit of legal counsel, because I had the sinking 
suspicion that a pissed-off Laura could give Scully a 
challenge for the crown of Queen of Bitchiness.  
Instead, I put my hand on Scully's messy hair and 
tried my best reassuring smile on her.

She opened her eyes and frowned.

"What?" she asked in a nasty tone.

"How're you feeling?" I asked.

"Very nauseous.  Go away," she said and shut her 
eyes again.
 
"You want a soda or something?  Flat Coke always 
helps me." 

"And how often have you had morning sickness?" 
she asked in the same precisely vicious tone, but did 
not open her eyes. "I just want you to promise me no 
x-rays.  X-rays would not be a good thing."

Of course she was right, no point in asking for 
trouble with her incipient Mulder-mutant by having 
the fetus irradiated on top of any already present 
mutations - like my sense of humor, for instance.  I 
tried the smile again and the Mooselet smiled back 
at me and started pulling at Scully's hair.

"BAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!" 

"Mulder, we really have to teach her some more 
words," Scully sighed and smoothed down a stray 
lock of the baby's hair. 

"No time like the present."

I crouched down next to them and went eye to eye 
with the Mooselet's baby jades.

"Say 'ice cream'."

The Mooselet tracked from my face to Scully's, 
checking to see if it was all right.  Scully nodded 
almost imperceptibly.

"Yiiiii Cweeeeeeeem."

"Close enough for government work," I agreed.

I held the Mooselet while Scully got her stitches. The 
Mooselet craned her head around to watch the 
blood and the gore, while I watched her watch.

"If you're a good girl there's some Chunky Monkey in 
it for you." I offered.

The resident pursed her lips.

"You shouldn't feed babies sweets."

"I was talking to my wife."

"Skuh-lee," the Mooselet explained.

Scully smirked when she gathered up her rings and 
held them out to me in her right hand.  I think I must 
have been wearing one of my more stricken 
expressions.

"Help me put them on the other hand.  My fingers 
are numb."

For the second time that month, I slid the rings over 
her knuckles and into place. Although they were on 
the wrong hand, I was just glad she was willing to 
wear them.

We were a sad little crew that piled out of the 
Ranger that evening, Scully bandaged and sooty, 
me sooty, and the Mooselet both sooty and drooling 
asleep against my shoulder.  Warwick and Ingveld 
had made it home and had dinner on the table and I 
was so grateful that I could have kissed them both, 
but I only kissed Ingveld and thumped Warwick on 
his good shoulder.

"That was pretty fucking spectacular," he said, "I 
can't see how they would deny you custody after you 
saved everyone's lives."

Scully was balancing the Mooselet on the counter 
and trying to wipe the worst of the soot off her red 
puckered face, the Mooselet wailed and flailed, 
nearly sending both of them into the dishpan.

"You are going to bed, young Miss.  You are too 
tired and cranky to be with humans." Scully told her 
and scooped her up against her chest.

"You can't trust lawyers.  Maxwell will probably make 
out that we set the bomb for just that reason," I went 
to the refrigerator and got a beer, "Rat bastard."

"What do you call a boatload of lawyers at the 
bottom of the ocean?" Ingveld asked.

I looked at her.

"A start," she said.

I realized that it was a joke and smiled at her.  
Warwick looked over at his ladylove and rolled his 
eyes.

"She's been looking at lawyer jokes on websites," he 
explained.

"I would think that you would need funniness now." 

"Yeah, that's about right." 

"Come on," Warwick tugged at Ingveld's arm.

"Was it not funny?" I heard her ask as they went 
downstairs.

I sighed and drank the beer. God, it tasted good.  
Nothing like a cold beer after a hot day of trauma 
and a major explosion.  It almost made me regret 
ever leaving the X-Files. 

Catzilla rubbed against my shins in greeting and 
jumped up onto the counter so I could rub him from 
ears to tail.  While the rest of us had suffered over 
the past few weeks the now-neutered cat was 
getting fatter, sleeker and silkier by the minute. 
(Scully took him - I didn't have the heart.  I had the 
suspicion I was next in line to get fixed.)  I know I felt 
guilty for not giving him enough attention and made 
up for it in cat snacks, and I suspected that he also 
hoovered up everything that the Mooselet threw to 
the floor.

"What's that cat doing on the counter?"

Guilty, Catzilla and I both started when Scully came 
back in.
 
"Down." She ordered and he leapt gracefully from 
the counter and glared greenly at her before he went 
after Warwick and Ingveld, his tail held high with 
offense.

Too tired to talk, we ate the pasta salad in silence, 
and she went upstairs afterwards while I fed the 
dishwasher and closed up the house.

Up in our bedroom, I shucked off my shoes, jacket, 
and socks and went into the bathroom. The room 
was dark save for candlelight flickering from a votive 
candle resting on the side of the sink.  Scully was 
submerged with a froth of bubbles up to her chin and 
her bandaged hand resting on the side of the tub.  I 
could see the ruby tips of her toenails through the 
bubbles as well as a couple of more strategic 
places, such as the auburn shadow of her pubic hair 
and the salmon tips of her breasts.  Her eyes were 
shut and she had a folded washcloth draped over 
her forehead.  The room smelled of strange floral 
perfumes and the water had a decided lavender cast 
to it.  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet and picked 
up the bottle that sat on the tub rim next to the 
spigot.

"Quiet moments - for relaxation." I read.

"I should buy it by the gallon," she murmured, her 
voice dreamy in the steamy room.

"I should drink it," I put the bottle down and looked at 
the tub, measuring it for size, "Room enough for 
two."

One eye opened and considered me.  I was in 
dangerous territory, knowing that Jason had raped 
her in the shower of his family estate.  But that was 
miles and months away.  She shrugged and half sat-
up to make room, the suds running intriguingly down 
her breasts and back into the tub.  I stripped down to 
my scar collection and eased into the water with her.  
The water in the tub was hot enough to burn my 
balls but I manfully lowered myself into the boiling 
depths.  By careful angling, we were able to fit face 
to face with our legs overlapping.  I leaned back and 
felt the faucet nudge the back of my head before I 
wiggled around to avoid it.  Water splashed out of 
the tub and onto the bath mat.

Scully, unexpectedly, graced me with one of her 
zillion watt smiles and leaned back into a wreath of 
bubbles.

"If anyone had told me in 1993 that I was going to 
end up in a bathtub with you, let alone married to 
and pregnant by you I would have told them that 
they were delusional."

"So you weren't immediately captivated by my 
charm?"

"I thought you were an arrogant bastard."

"And your opinion has changed?"

"No."

"So you lied to the shrinks?"

"Every word of it," she said and blinded me with the 
smile again. 

I snorted and realized that her good hand was 
walking up my thigh in a manner that was anything 
but relaxing.

"We'll drown," I pointed out.

"Spoilsport," she said and gave my cock a friendly 
squeeze before withdrawing her hand.

We lolled in the water until it grew cold and 
emerged, water-wrinkled and thoroughly boneless 
with the effects of Scully's magic bath oils. Damp 
and naked, we tumbled into bed.  Scully had her 
injured hand pillowed on my chest and her head on 
my shoulder, our legs wrapped like ropes around 
each other's.  I listened while her breathing 
smoothed out and she grew limp and heavy against 
me, pulled down into sleep's waters like a swimmer 
with no plans to survive.  The old demon of insomnia 
came and sat on my left shoulder, reminding me that 
the worst was yet to come, I'd once again been 
betrayed, and there was no assurance that Scully 
would stay a minute longer than was necessary.  
There was no assurance that she could even if she 
wanted to, now that the specter of that bad old 
astrological sign of infinitely proliferating cells had 
returned. Exhausted in both body and mind, I lay 
there and listened to the demon whisper poison into 
my ear until the morning sun changed the colors in 
the room.

****

The telephone rattled me out of my cozy post-
trauma snooze, I slid out from under Mulder's arm 
and flailed at the nightstand until I grabbed the 
telephone and dragged it to my head.
 
"S'kly?" I groaned.

"Dana, " she corrected me "the trial has been 
adjourned until Monday pending investigation of the 
explosion." Laura, sounding entirely too chipper for 
what had to be the middle of the night burbled into 
my ear.

"Wh' time izzit?" I asked as Mulder's arm re-velcroed 
itself to my middle

"After nine.  The judge called me at six if you can 
believe that.  The old fart must not sleep at all.  But I 
talked to Maxwell already and he's begun making 
noises about how the judge can't possibly have an 
unbiased opinion after what happened yesterday - 
which might give them cause to call a mistrial."
 
"Fuck," I groaned.
 
Mulder, who must have thought it was a command, 
slid his hand between my legs and homed in on his 
intended target while I concentrated on what Laura 
was saying.  He nuzzled the back of my neck and 
began nipping at the semi-ticklish scar from my chip 
implantation.

"I don't know if we can go through all this again." I 
admitted, and squirmed under the dual assault on 
my nervous system.  I batted ineffectually at his 
hand but Mulder only made a low gopher noise and 
started wedging my legs open like the jaws of life 
opening a crashed car.

"Unless you have some incredible piece of 
information that you want to share with the class, I 
can't see how we can avoid it - unless he's so sure 
of himself with that tape that he won't use the 
bombing against the case."

It was getting hard to think while Mulder's entirely 
too-talented tongue started working its way down 
along my ribcage and towards my stomach, the soft 
fur of his hair dragging along in the wet trail from his 
mouth like a paintbrush.  I tried to arch away from 
him but he was insistent.

"It all comes down to that damn tape."
 
Teeth grazed the inside of my thigh and I bit my 
lower lip to choke back a moan.

"Do you know what's on the tape?" she asked.

"No."  I lied and received a reward for my falsehood 
in the form of a hot mouth sliding onto my already 
aching center.

"There's only so much I can do - your brother's 
squeaky clean other than his finances."

Squeak.  There was a squeak building up inside my 
throat while Mulder's teeth and tongue worked 
merrily away on my clitoris.  My body was shaking 
like a car going over rough terrain and Laura's voice 
was filling with a static that had nothing to do with 
the cordless phone.  My heels drummed helplessly 
against his shoulders as he bent me nearly in two.

"I know who set the bomb," I offered as the bomber's 
brother set my body on fire.

"Who?"

"Samantha Mann.  Samantha Mulder, Mul --- Fox," 
the name came out in a muffled choke more related 
to what he was doing than the name itself, "sister.  A 
woman with a black bob, black suit, left a briefcase 
near Miranda's stroller.  That's where the bomb was.  
Someone blew up our car right before the -"

I had to stop and catch a shaky breath.

"-psychologists came. - "

Bad word choice.

"There's a police report with the DC Police.  You can 
---"

God damn him anyway!  I was shaking like one of 
James Bond's vodka martinis.

" - just check it out Laura."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. . .  " my back was at least six inches away 
from the mattress and I swore that my toes were 
curling upwards with the strain of keeping my voice 
under control, "I gotta go - something's come up."

With a vengeance.

Just as I hit the disconnect button, Mulder slid into 
me with the efficiency of a bullet entering a gun 
chamber.  That was enough to send me over the 
edge.  I grabbed at his shoulders and dragged him 
in as deep as he would go as I clutched down and 
around his cock which felt as though it were filling 
me to the brain stem.  He slammed hard inside me, 
breathing as though he had done the four-minute 
mile.  I shuddered, grabbing his hips and squirming 
until each and every thrust grazed my clitoris and I 
came in a blinding burst of snow and ice that ripped 
me down to the bone.  I was moaning his name - I 
don't know which one -- as the shock waves coursed 
through me for what felt like a decade.  I was dazed 
and limp as he continued to thrust in and out of me, 
his narrow hips so thinly covered with skin that I 
could see the layers of muscle, the bunching of the 
muscles in his arms and shoulders, corded 
forearms, and the emerald insanity lighting his eyes 
that pinned me into the rumpled sheets.  And I came 
again with a sudden violence that made me wail like 
a cat with a trodden-upon tail.  He growled his 
gopher growl, lip turning up, and shot hot and hard 
and heavy into me while I went up like the courtroom 
in a glorious burst of flame and destruction.

Manners forgotten, he collapsed on top of me like a 
pile of hardback novels falling from the top shelf.

I wanted to kill him for pulling that stunt, but instead, 
I slid my legs around his and kissed his sweaty hair.  
Grunting, he adjusted his weight so I could breathe 
again and burrowed between my breasts.  
 
"Scully, Scully, Scully . . ." he muttered.

"You forgot to call me Dana in the courtroom, when 
the bomb went off."  I chided him, "goes against our 
pose as a quote normal unquote couple."
 
"There's nothing normal about us."

"True."

He looked up at me with a half-smile twisting his 
eminently fuckable lips.

"Sweetheart.  Darling.  Pumpkin.  Honey-Bunny.  
Precious.  Babycakes," he taunted.

"Don't push your luck, Gopher-Boy."

"Poopsie."

The good thing about Mulder's nose is that it makes 
a good target, and he squawks if you pinch it hard 
enough.

I slid off into a woozy sleep with his head on my 
chest.  I didn't feel him leave, but rather when he 
came back and flopped onto the mattress hard 
enough to make me bounce.  Groaning I pushed my 
hair out of my face and rolled over on my stomach 
so I could watch him wiggle snakelike out of his 
sweatpants.  Underneath he was smoothly naked, 
long and lean with his narrow hips and lean 
muscles.  The Gopher stirred inside me.

"The baby?" I asked.

"Is being tutored in C++ downstairs. Warwick and 
Ingveld decided that we needed the day off," he 
pulled off the sweats the rest of the way and bundled 
under the sheets with me, his legs knotting around 
mine.

"How do you feel?" he asked in a voice that had 
nothing to do with the stitches in my hand.

"Worried.  Exhilarated."

"Nauseous?"

"Maybe later.  I'm worried about the tape on two 
counts. The first is should the tape show what I 
believe it does, which is Marita and I setting fire to 
the fetuses in Bethel. There is no way in hell that 
anyone would let you retain custody since you 
willingly suppressed evidence that a crime had been 
committed.  That crime could be construed as either 
murder or illegal abortion and destruction of property 
at the very least.  The other possibility is that the 
tape is only of you and me stealing the Power Point 
presentation from Jason's office and this all has 
been much ado about nothing.  This means that you 
and I are still married, I'm still pregnant, and I still 
have to do something about the things from my 
apartment in the garage."

"Yard sale?" he asked.

I wrinkled my nose.

"I think I'd rather go to prison."

"Okay, this is the plan, you have the baby and I'll run 
the yard sale."

"Be serious."

"I am."
 
He reached over and twined his fingers in my 
frightening morning hair.

"We just keep going.  Cross the bridges when we 
find them and burn them behind us.  C'mon, Scully 
surely family life is less frightening than liver-eating 
mutants or six foot intestinal worms," his tone was 
light but his eyes were dark with emotion, "how bad 
can it be?"

I couldn't answer that.  I didn't know.  I wanted to 
plan but so much depended on a shiny black 
videotape and an older man in a black dress and I 
was left feeling small and helpless again.  Struggling 
on in the face of adversity and against the tide of 
common sense was Mulder's realm of being, not 
mine.  I liked answers, endings, closures, even if it 
wasn't the hero and heroine walking off hand in hand 
into the sunset.  I just wanted to know that it was 
over.  I wanted to know who the key grip was. The 
only problem was that the minute I wet my feet in 
Mulder's dark pool of reality the chance of having a 
satisfactory conclusion to anything was virtually nil. 
And now I was in it up to my neck.  A neck that he 
was nuzzling and making seductive gopher-noises 
into.  

I sighed and relaxed.  At least the water in Mulder's 
pond was warm and comfortable, and the local 
wildlife was *very* friendly.

"You know, we really do belong together."
 
He stopped nuzzling and went as still as a 
taxidermied fox over the jukebox at Kelly's.

"Excuse me. I thought you just said that we 
belonged together," he looked up at me with the 
usual mischief. "Who are you and what have you 
done to Scully?"

"At this stage of the game, after the mutants, the rain 
of frogs, the black oil, the toilets full of dead rats, 
sentient viruses, the Conundrum, and your brothers, 
who else would have either of us?"

He blinked and the fringe of his eyelashes brushed 
my face.

"Can you imagine getting involved with someone 
else and trying to explain all that?"

"For richer, for poorer, for flukeworms, mutants, and 
parasitic twins, until aliens do us part?" 

Or something like that.

It was a good day, all in all.

By the afternoon, we'd managed to make it out of 
doors and the sunshine was making my eyes hurt in 
the back yard.  Miranda and I were lolling on a 
blanket while Mulder was trying to put together a 
mini-playhouse for Miranda.  I suppose he figured 
that he would be able to move into the four-foot 
square pink plastic palace if things got too rough for 
him in the big house.  The Mulder equivalent of the 
doghouse.  If he ever got the damn thing together.  
Despite all of his stellar qualities, stated at the 
psychologist's interview and unstated at the same 
interview, skill with tools is not one of them.  I let him 
struggle for another half-hour until he became 
sweaty, frustrated, and commenced using language 
unsuitable for Miranda's tender years.  

I finally had pity on him, exchanged Miranda for 
hammer, and worked on the playhouse myself.  He 
lolled on the grass and watched me with a slightly 
outraged expression while it took me a half an hour 
to get the thing together.  However, I cheated - I 
read the directions.

When the pink cube with the bright yellow roof and 
door was finally complete, I crouched next to it and 
pointed, Miranda watched me with her usual bright, 
curious gaze.  She was standing upright, holding 
onto Mulder's shoulder and blinking at the bright 
pinkness of it all.

"This is your house.  Just for you.  This is Miranda's 
playhouse."

She let go of Mulder's shoulder and carefully walked 
across the lawn to me.  She didn't wobble or toddle, 
but took the measured steps of a woman in high 
heels on an uneven surface.  When she finally 
crossed the ten feet between Mulder and me, she 
put her arms out and caught me around the neck 
rather than going to the house.  On the blanket, 
Mulder was trying very hard not to look like he was 
sniveling.  At least I could bury my face in Miranda's 
sweet-smelling neck and hide my own watering eyes 
that way.

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
15/

They're Justified, and they're Ancient,
And they drive an ice cream van.
They're Justified and they're Ancient,
With still no master plan.
	KLF

The Giant Mutant Gopher Kings Sing Songs of 
Love woke me up Sunday morning.  Mulder was 
burrowing his snout into the tunnel between my 
legs and growling happily to himself.  I was 
growling in return as he continued to nibble at 
me, making the transition from sleep to 
wakefulness more than bearable. I groaned as he 
worked away, setting fire to my pelvis like a dry 
hillside and the flames swept along my nerves 
and into my brain.  My legs were shaking as I 
shut my eyes and let the morning light fill me..  
The soft  wash of his hair against my legs, silky 
as Catzilla's underbelly, his stubble scraping for 
contrast, the hardness of teeth against the 
softness of his lips and the insistent, flexible 
tongue.  It was enough to make me sing an aria 
in praise of the man's mouth.  Since there was 
nothing but time, he teased me to the point of 
climax twice, until I was shuddering, sweating 
and mewling with need like an angry kitten 
deprived of a toy.

"Will you still want me when I turn into a blimp?" I 
muttered into his ear as he pushed his way into 
me. (In the morning I generally let him do all the 
work; it's much easier that way.)

He chuffed like a startled horse and failed to 
begin his usual rhythm. Instead he cupped my 
face in his hands and stared into my eyes, which 
unnerved me. "I wanted you when the X Files 
were shut down and you turned into a little 
porker." I must have snarled at him because he 
laughed at me. He began to thrust irregularly, like 
an engine missing strokes, and I squirmed under 
him. "Also," he said, breath teasing my lips, "your 
breasts are going to get bigger, too."

Wait one cotton-pickin' second, what was wrong 
with the breasts I had? I pushed against him, 
annoyed, and he just smirked at me. Which was 
less aggravating up close than from across the 
room, but still... I closed my eyes and grabbed his 
narrow hips, rubbing up against him like a cat 
with a particularly inviting scratching post.

He yipped as my claws found him and he came.

****

The soap bubble of happiness lasted almost 
throughout the weekend. 

The e-mail I received Sunday morning looked at 
first like one of the average cashew-and-
macadamia sort -- the kind that show up in my 
mailbox on a regular basis, like utility bills. It 
came from an anonymous remailer, a standard 
sign that the person trying to contact me was a 
few peanuts short of a full Planter's cocktail mix, 
though the title "Deal?" lacked a certain paranoid 
panache.

"Mr. Mulder," it said. 

"You've shown your ability to make things difficult 
for us, and we for you. A compromise might serve 
our separate interests equally well.  We will de-
fund the legal battle against you. In return, you 
will provide samples of Miranda Scully's blood on 
a regular basis, no more than three times a year. 
We will take no further action against you or any 
member of your family as long as you continue to 
comply with our requirements.

"Call 312 555 1013 by 9 am Monday morning to 
confirm your agreement.

"JB"

That had to be Justine Barnabas/Judith Barnaby, 
the woman I'd so briefly met in Chicago.  The 
woman with the dangerously sensual mouth.

Did she mean it? 

Of course I wouldn't trust her, per se, but we'd 
only just missed being blown up; there were dead 
people who'd been alive yesterday morning 
because of me and even if I didn't know them I 
was part of the reason they died. That sort of 
thing would only continue as long as we were 
playing this game with the Conspiracy.

It's blood, I thought. It's not as if they're asking for 
*her*. Not like giving up a whole daughter. 

Blood has many uses. Clones. Antibodies. 
Vaccines, mutagens, DNA extraction, thousands 
of Scullywords that boiled down to one: 
complicity.  Just what I liked over the Sunday 
Post - a moral dilemma.  Scully was still 
stretched out on the bed like a Parrish painting 
and I stood and stared at her for a few moments, 
knowing full well that the minute I mentioned the 
e-mail she was going to go off like a M-80.  The 
fragile peace of the weekend was going to end 
with a sickening thud.

At least Scully was still asleep on her face. Maybe 
sex could stave off morning sickness; every morning 
we'd started the day off right, she had foreborne the 
vomit comet act. It would be fun to try out the theory, 
anyway.

"Hey," I poked her shoulder with a tentative finger.

She grumbled and grabbed onto the pillow as if I 
were trying to pry her away from it.

"We need to talk."

Reluctantly, she turned her head and blinked like a 
thoughtlessly awakened cat. "Yeah?" Sad to say, 
this was the nicest morning greeting I'd ever 
received without presenting both coffee and a 
pastry.

"C'mon and read the mail I just got."

Grumbling like a poorly tuned engine, she staggered 
out of bed and pulled on my Knicks shirt. Pouting 
and rubbing her hand through her morning hair, with 
the shirt nearly to her knees, she looked cute 
enough to get her own ABC sitcom - Dana Mc 
Scully.  If she started to do the Macarena with the 
Mooselet I would be waving goodbye as she headed 
out to Los Angeles.

As if she could read my mind, she turned and bared 
her teeth at me, but the intimidation factor was 
lessened when she yawned.

The e-mail woke her up faster than an amphetamine 
injection to the heart.

"This is from the person you met at BioQuest?"

"At least we're supposed to think so."

"Jesus wept, M -- Fox," the stutter was beginning to 
get slightly annoying, as I was having no reciprocal 
problem getting *her* first name right. One might be 
tempted to think that she had a problem with 
intimacy. On the other hand it was cute as hell.

There is something terribly cute about Scully, once 
you peel away the layers and layers of professional 
detachment and the designer suits - she's as cute 
as a bug's ear.  Her cuteness is directly linked to her 
size and her big blue eyes, and if I ever opened my 
mouth to remark upon it I would be de-balled in a 
blink of said big blue eyes.  In any event, when she 
was being so cute with her hair mussed and 
rumpled, wearing the big shirt, and when I knew that 
I'd well and thoroughly fucked her silly before sunup, 
it was impossible for me to keep my hands off her.

I reached out and touched her shoulder. Through 
the cotton she was as hot as sunburn. "What do you 
think?"

She brushed her flyaway hair away from her face 
with an aggravated grimace. "Have we ever met 
anyone who's made a successful deal with these 
people, one that doesn't end with a dead body in an 
alley and missing evidence?"

"I don't think we ever found any traces of the 
*successful* deals, we only got leads when 
something went bad," I replied.

"So we're just supposed to drain her blood 
periodically and trust that the deal will stay put? And 
that's if we don't care what happens to her genetic 
material. What am I going to tell her when I draw the 
blood every quarter, 'don't worry, this is just mommy 
and daddy's version of an IRA'?"

"I'll get some coffee," I suggested, and fled.

In the kitchen, Ingveld was fighting with Warwick. 
Who knows, maybe Scully and I were giving off 
pheromones. "I *know* the algorithm is not sensitive 
enough, this is why I give the problem to you!" she 
said. "It is no different than one of your QuickTime 
movies!" I backed away slowly, shutting the door so 
that they wouldn't know they'd been seen. Much 
more can be forgiven in private than what's 
memorialized in public.

I jogged out to the 7-11 for coffee instead, which 
gave me a bit more time to think. I didn't mind 
getting bent, folded, spindled, or mutilated, and I 
guess Scully was able to make her own choices, 
most of the time, but Miranda had never chosen to 
be in danger.

When I returned to the house I entered the bedroom 
with the coffee and the maple frosted donut held out 
in front of me like bait. Scully snatched them away 
with a look that told me she knew exactly what I was 
attempting and was not impressed, but she ate the 
donut anyway.

I sipped my own coffee tentatively. I didn't want to 
have this conversation. "There's a question we 
haven't really asked."

"Enlighten me." Her voice was as sharp as if I'd told 
her that the solution to an X File loomed in one of 
my famous slide shows.

"We have to consider the possibility that the people 
behind Roush and BioQuest are acting on what they 
believe to be legitimate motives. Though their 
methods are unconscionable, everyone involved 
seems to believe that there is a distinct possibility of 
hostile alien intervention into human affairs. If they 
are trying to defeat colonization, is it wrong to 
oppose that objective?"

"You want to say yes."

"I think we should consider it."

"Like father, like son."

That was low.

"Dammit, Dana, you think I don't *know* that?"

She chewed on her donut and glared at me, 
which was somewhat diluted by the fact that she 
was sitting on the bed wearing only my shirt, 
which had ridden up to her waist.  I think I might 
have lost even more fights in the past if Scully 
had argued with me in the nude.

She sighed and looked away as I sat down beside 
her, as tentatively as a kid with a fake ID trying to 
sneak into his first bar. She still smelled like sex; it 
was distracting. "You know, I never used to worry 
about what was happening to my stray genetic 
material. I brushed my hair, I scratched when it 
itched, I flushed. Now I wonder when the next clone 
is going to turn up."

I gulped hot coffee, wanting it to hurt.
 
"It's obvious that we can't just agree to their terms. 
We need to know more. I propose that we call them 
and suggest further negotiations. If you're going to 
stick a needle in Miranda's arm on a regular basis I 
think you'll earn the right to know what purpose the 
research serves."

Her hand burned through my sweat-sodden shirt 
and into the knobs of my spine. "I wish I had a better 
plan," she admitted. "Make the call. The risk is that 
after they play the tape our negotiating position may 
change, but we can't make a decision right now.."

Relieved, I trotted downstairs to get more food for 
Scully. At some point, I was going to have to 
suggest to her that, though she was eating for two, 
the other person was the size of a lima bean, not 
Alfred Hitchcock. For the moment, though, being 
able to do nice things for her made me feel too good 
to tease. Ingveld and Warwick had made up -- what 
was that about pheromones? -- and she was just 
finishing the punchline of yet another lame joke: "-- 
and the bartender says, I don't care what you do 
with the fish but the lawyer has to go!"

"Let me guess," I said over Warwick's tortured 
groan, "comedy was a new thing with the fall of the 
Communist empire."

Ingveld frowned prettily. "I live almost half my life 
under capitalist government."

"Never mind," I said and got some orange juice out 
of the fridge. It would be better for Scully than 
coffee, though I wasn't sure that being the bearer of 
healthy beverages was going to be good for me 
personally. "How's tricks?"

Ingveld twitched (prettily, too, I might add) and gave 
Warwick a Significant Look. I looked them over as if 
they were the kind of food I found in my refrigerator 
after long hospital stays.

"Everything's good, Mulder," Warwick informed me, 
patting Ingveld's rump reassuringly. "We're all just a 
little wound up, looking forward to ending this whole 
court case."

I nodded, unwilling to find out what forms of lesser 
illegality my young friends were basing out of my 
home. Instead, I picked up my morning offering of 
juice, cereal, and eyeball-sized vitamin and turned to 
go back to the bedroom.

"It's just a *phrase*," he was saying to her as I left.

"Breakfast in bed?  You should get untenable offers 
more frequently," she sniped as I slid the tray over 
her lap.

I squinted down at her and tried to read the Magic 8 
Ball of her face while she dug into the Cheerios. No 
good, the Ball wasn't talking.  Answer Unclear; Try 
Again Later.

****

Scully's efficiency, and I think feminine wiles, made 
a truck filled to bursting with over-muscled workmen 
and rolls of grass sod appear.  Under Ingveld's 
watchful eye the men set to work and eyed her back. 
Meanwhile we escaped to the local kid emporium.  
While I trundled along with the Mooselet in her 
stroller, Scully went through the store picking out the 
swingset and kiddie pool we would acquire should 
the court decide our way.  The Mooselet went moon-
eyed at the vast array of toys and *things* all child-
sized and brightly colored.  Scully selected a few 
items that the Mooselet had to have, including a Cat 
in the Hat stuffed toy almost as big as the Mooselet 
was.  We ate lunch at Mc Donald's and I enjoyed 
watching Scully put french fries on the tray of the 
high chair; the Mooselet picked them delicately up 
one by one before jamming them in her mouth.  
Then it was over to the mall and I had my first real 
taste of married life as I tried to keep the Mooselet 
entertained outside the women's fitting room at 
Petite Sophisticate while Scully tried on clothes.  
Nothing she liked fit and everything she didn't like 
did fit.  While I had been secretly pleased with the 
voluptuousness pregnancy was bringing out in her 
small body, she wasn't.  Finally, she found a couple 
of suits that she could tolerate and had room to grow 
into.  By that time I was so stressed out that the 
baby and I decamped to look at ties.  I had to buy a 
somewhat less than satisfactory yellow and green 
golf-ball printed tie since the saleswoman spotted 
the Mooselet shoving the pure silk monstrosity into 
her mouth.  No child of mine is going to suck on 
artificial fibers.
 
Scully took Miranda to GAP KIDS and I went looking 
for some new CD's.  I met up with Scully again in 
front of a jewelry store where she was eating an ice 
cream cone and looking through the glass with 
chocolate on her chin and a wistful expression 
above the chocolate.  The Mooselet was even more 
coated with chocolate and so was the new pug dog 
beanie baby in her fists.

"What you got there?"  I asked crouching down next 
to the stroller since it was easier to deal with an 
infant female of the species than the fully-grown 
variety in front of a jewelry store.

"Yiiiii Cweeeeeeeem."

What can I say?  She was brilliant.

"Mulder, I miss my crucifix," Scully admitted.

That's right.  She hadn't had it since Bethel.  

"Do you want another one?" I asked. Wouldn't that 
aggravate my mother? I liked the idea already.

"I don't know.  I have the feeling that God and I have 
entered into a non-aggression pact."

"Something else?  A charm in the shape of an ice 
cream cone?"

"Solid gold UFO with diamonds for lights?"

"One of those charming charms in the shape of a 
stick figure with Miranda's birthstone in it?"

"Baaaaahhhhmmmm," Miranda suggested.

"Dr. Scully, Mr. Mulder."

We turned, Scully moving behind the baby and 
me in front as we went for our weapons. The 
portly man who'd addressed us waved soft hands 
and chided, "Please, be calm. I'm here in 
response to your message of this morning."

"Now, that's service," I said. Scully inched closer 
to the baby. I couldn't place the man in the 
rosters of conspirators I'd met. I might have heard 
his voice over my cellphone once, but I couldn't 
be sure. His face was ringed with oval rolls of fat 
and he had just the right avuncular twinkling eyes 
to make a decent Santa Claus.

"Your concern for the uses of your child's unique 
genetic material is perfectly appropriate," he 
continued, gesturing expansively at Miranda, 
"and we would be delighted to show you the vital 
work we're doing for humanity, to convince you of 
our good intentions."

"You'll have to work pretty hard to do that after 
trying to blow M--my husband up," Scully bitched 
and stared at him as if wondering what his 
pancreas would look like under her microscope.

"Please, Dr. Scully, we didn't know you were 
willing to be rational about this, and also we 
believed that Miranda would be safer with us than 
out in the world with so many dangerous enemies 
against her. But if you help us, we can help you."

"What are you offering?" That's my little forensic 
pathologist, straight to the gelid heart of the 
matter.

"I would be pleased to show you our laboratories, 
the work we're doing to fight the black cancer and 
the other threats from...foreign outposts. Dr. 
Scully, I believe your expertise would be most 
appropriate. If you'd come with me while Mr. 
Mulder watches the child? It won't be more than a 
few hours."

She slashed her eyes at me and I could tell that I 
was about to experience that most rare of 
creatures, the Ditch in Partner's Physical 
Presence, no cellphones in sight. I bowed to the 
inevitable by taking her shopping bags, like 
Dagwood helping Blondie, and lugged the 
purchases and the baby back to the car so I 
could go home and brood while the contractors 
fixed the lawn.

****

It was an insane weekend. Somehow we'd come to 
an unspoken agreement that we were going to try 
acting like the normal family that we had been 
posing as since the custody war began. 
Nevertheless, the bones of the matter were always 
holding the structure together, smiling like a skull 
back at me.

Deals.

Enough fucking deals.  Really.  I've been dealt 
with more than a casino worker.  I've played 
hands that would make the best card shark weep 
and run from the table like a wet baby.  Mulder 
wouldn't let me deal with Bill and I didn't want to 
deal with these Roush people.  As if my deal 
wasn't good enough, he had to show me up with 
a better offer - a more palatable one.  It's easier 
to hand over a vial of blood than an entire human 
being.  

The man from the mall told me to call him 
Joseph. "Do you have a last name?" I asked him 
as we pulled out in his chauffeured Mercedes 
limousine.

"That's not really important," he said. "Drink?"

"No thank you. That's not conducive to a high 
level of trust on our part," I pointed out, but he 
only smiled and folded his rounded pink hands 
over his midriff.

The trip took half an hour. The underground 
facility was located under another mall; I always 
knew there was something sinister about those 
places with their cloned Gaps and Expresses and 
Tower Records, though I'm not sure if I would 
have guessed that a mall would be the staging 
ground for the New World Order. Lurking under 
the shoppers and strollers was a world of 
morguelike cool, gleaming silver and drowning in 
fluorescent light.

I was shown a virus that Joseph averred was 
more lethal than Ebola, with a week-long latency 
period so that the infection would spread like 
gossip before the 95% fatality rate kicked in. I 
was shown alleged victims of said virus, as well 
as casualties of the "supersmallpox" Tina feared. 
Injected into animal tissue, the supersmallpox 
deformed and destroyed with the swiftness of 
acid.

Joseph told me that these were not entirely 
earthborn creations. That They wanted to protect 
humanity. That They were trying to find vaccines 
and cures, but with pitiful success so far. We 
stopped in a room filled with clean suits so that 
he could chat with one of the workers. 

"How's your little Jennifer?" he asked and the 
woman smiled, pleased that he'd remembered 
the girl's name. I suspected a veiled threat -- 
They really liked children, especially with 
tomatoes and lettuce -- but LabGirl just pulled out 
baby pictures.

He took me to see rabbits that had supposedly 
been infected with "black cancer," in varying 
stages of the disease/infestation. I couldn't be 
entirely sure the victims weren't elaborate 
puppets stolen from the Alien 5 set, but it 
*looked* as if the cancer took over the invaded 
organism's entire respiratory and cardiac 
functioning, keeping it paralyzed yet somewhat 
alive as the body was otherwise dissolved from 
the inside out, leaving only collagen and water 
surrounding a nest of new cancer-worms. I 
touched one with a gloved hand and the body 
parted under my fingertip like a spoonful of jelly. 
Not a sensation that would soon replace the 
cotton in Miranda's Pat the Bunny book, that's for 
sure. It was more disgusting than a frat house 
bathroom.

Mulder, Joseph intoned, was immune to the black 
cancer thanks to his mother's black arts. Miranda 
might be as well (and what did that mean for the 
Young Jedi Knight inside me, I wondered?) and 
was designed to have even stronger resistances 
to alien vices. If her blood was appropriately 
productive, it might save humanity. Joseph even 
"confided" in me that They had hopes of 
counterattack: if we were vulnerable to hybridized 
viruses and green blood, might not the Little Gray 
Men wither like H.G. Wells' Martian invaders if the 
right pathogen could be found, perhaps aided by 
the insights provided by Miranda's zebra 
constitution?

The song and dance was nice, but I was a highly 
dubious investor. The claims of beneficient intent 
rang as hollow as a chocolate bunny. We already 
*know* how to make AZT and antimalarial drugs, 
we know how to purify water and yet millions 
upon millions of people worldwide can't get 
treatments, whether simple or complex. As far as 
the fat and happy nations, we can't get people to 
get tested for STDs or even convince them to 
watch their weight. Even if this secret project did 
come up with a vaccine or a treatment, They'd 
need an authoritarian government and an 
unprecedented manufacturing base to implement 
it.

Thus, perhaps, the secret government spanning 
across the conventional nation-state boundaries, 
in place since at least World War II.

Power does not subside when the occasion for its 
exercise has passed. The scheme's anorexic 
chances of success might lead only to a 
thousand year Reich, this time aided by 
postnuclear weapons and implanted microchips 
to monitor and control the populace.

And yet -- as a scientist, I wanted to believe that 
knowledge moves only forwards. If there *was* a 
protection against these bioweapons, surely it 
could be publicized, replicated, shared as widely 
as possible. If the weapons already existed, 
would we be wrong to assist in the effort to 
control them?

Joseph offered me the opportunity to participate 
in the research project. "Nonhuman animals only, 
naturally," he said with a twinkle in his eye. 
Somehow the animal-rights political correctness 
was terribly jarring coming from him.

Despite what Mulder thinks, I don't actually know 
everything about medicine; in particular I'm not a 
virologist, though I might enjoy playing one on 
TV. "If we agree," I told him, "I'll want to monitor 
the work, but I'm not interested in becoming a 
Lab Tech in Black."

"But of course," he said in a faintly injured tone, 
lowering his lashes at me. "Are you sure I can't 
offer you a snack?"

I was beginning to suspect that he knew I was 
pregnant. And it would be very convenient for 
Them to have a control subject, with the same 
genetic background but without Samantha's 
enhancements, to see what the real source of 
any special resilience. 

"Mulder and I need to discuss this," I told him. 
"We'll need assurances of your reliability before 
we let you play God with Miranda's genetic 
material."

He nodded. "I understand that, as you must 
understand that if you no longer have custody we 
will have no further reason to negotiate."

I nodded confidently while terror tangled in my 
insides like a razor-edged strand of tinsel.

Joseph offered to ride with me back to the house, 
but I declined. I let the chauffeur take me two 
blocks away from our address, then walked the 
rest of the way in case a media flack was 
watching. I didn't want to give the impression that 
I was tootling around in a limo while I was in 
grave danger of losing my daughter.

That night Mulder and I went to bed right after 
Miranda did, and lay there in the darkness like two 
tomb sculptures, trying not to think about whether or 
not the judge was going to sunder the fragile peace 
that we'd fostered like an exotic bloom.  My cold 
hand was on my stomach and I wondered what was 
growing inside.
 

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
16/

Fingertip sun at sideshow stalls, they throw the balls
At coconut fur that hides behind
Coloured shades that blind your eyes
Every child's mother holds an ice-cream cone, they circle round
Perceived unknown by an eye that peers from a hole in the tent where no 
one goes
	David  Bowie

They rolled out the VCR first thing next morning. 
Holding hands in the conventional manner wasn't 
good enough for Laura; we actually had both hands 
wrapped around each other's fingers like Romeo 
and Juliet about to be separated by fate. 
Alternatively, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth before the 
shit hit the fan.  This made it difficult to face forward 
but we twisted ourselves around so that we could 
watch the disaster unfold. 

Langly was waiting in a blue Ford Taurus outside, 
press pass around his scraggly neck. If the tape was 
sufficiently bad we'd be in Havana with Miranda in 
twenty hours. I still hadn't told Scully because she'd 
have wanted to pack shoes, and that might have 
alerted someone. She could always buy more, 
Imelda did.

Laura argued with Maxwell and the judge, but she 
knew she was beat and the tape went into the 
machine like prison doors closing out the light of 
day.

The tape lacked the scratchy look of most security 
tapes that have been recorded over every week; 
Roush must have been willing to invest in 
replacements. Or maybe the tape was actually a 
fake. However, wouldn't they have made it look 
more realistic then? I pondered the question as 
Maxwell fast-forwarded through about an hour of 
shots of tanks, corridors, lab rooms, bathrooms, and 
the like.

He started playing the tape at regular speed before 
anything out of the ordinary occurred, to give himself 
time to talk. "When Dr. Scully and her accomplice 
entered the secure area of the facility, the security 
guard switched the camera in that area to go full-
time." Sure enough, the black-and-white door on the 
screen opened and let through two women and the 
camera focused in on them instead of switching 
away after five seconds.

At least, I think they were women. 

They might have been aliens, though, except for 
being too tall. Hell, even Scully was Wilt 
Chamberlain compared to the little gray men. But 
the figures were as blurry as Leonard Betts' aura. If 
I'd seen the tape in any other context, I would have 
speculated that it showed a Sasquatch or other 
humanoid; though I'd mainly be doing it to annoy 
Scully, it was true that it would have been hasty to 
identify the figures as human beings.

Maxwell blanched and stopped the tape, ejected it, 
and reinserted it. When he began playing it again, 
the clarity was still the same.

Now, when I needed it most, my famously 
uncommunicative visage threatened to dissolve into 
an unashamed gape. This was most definitely *not* 
the tape that Jason had shown me in Texas, the 
tape that clearly showed Scully setting fire to a 
bunch of kids stuck in their green baths like bananas 
in Jell-O. Yes, the two figures -- one Scully-size, the 
other Marita-size -- were poking around, and then 
the little one got an ax and began to break the tanks 
that were visible as the camera swerved to follow 
them. But what came from the tanks when they were 
broken was unidentifiable. It might as well have 
been bundles of dirty laundry waiting for the dryer.

Laura had risen to her feet as Maxwell played 
hopelessly with the color and tint functions of the TV, 
as if that would help.

"That person could be *anyone*!" Laura gestured 
around the room, taking in the spectators and the 
judge with the sweep of her hand. "This tape entirely 
fails to identify anyone of any import to this action. 
Nor does it show these supposed 'infants' in the 
tanks; they look more like aquatic plants of some 
sort."

On screen, the little one was pouring gas.

"Your honor," Maxwell said with a thin edge of 
desperation, "this tape has obviously been tampered 
with."

"Obviously?" Laura's voice was rich with contempt. 
"During our last session counsel was most 
forthcoming about the careful chain of custody in 
which this tape has been kept."

Maxwell tried again. "We have copies that clearly 
show --"

Unnoticed the laboratory exploded into fire, and then 
into static.

"This was admitted into evidence as the original. If 
other copies look different, can we have any 
confidence that they have not been tampered with?"

"Counsel," the judge's voice boomed and they 
looked up at him, seemingly having forgotten that he 
was going to decide and that the issue was not 
going to be settled by personal combat between 
them. "It's obvious that this tape does not show 
exactly what was claimed. If you," he pointed at 
Maxwell, "adduce evidence of tampering with the 
original, I'll look at it. In the absence of such 
evidence, I must agree that the tape, verified or not, 
contains nothing that bears upon this case."

"May we have a brief recess?" Maxwell asked in a 
defeated voice.

"Fifteen minutes," the judge waved his hand, it was 
purely charity. And we all decanted into the hall 
where reporters rushed towards us, shouting 
questions.

Maxwell's hand reached out and snagged Laura's 
arm. "I'm going to have you disbarred for this," he 
warned.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Laura 
replied calmly, pulling free and continuing to walk 
towards the exit. Her face was transparently 
innocent, and I was once again glad we hadn't let 
her in on everything. She didn't have the necessary 
guile.

"You and your clients tampered with that tape, and 
I'm going to find out how!"

Laura stopped walking and turned to face Maxwell 
directly. "Don't blame me because *your* client 
jumped to conclusions based on a blurry tape and 
some innuendo against his sister. Gosh, Andy, you 
should never believe the client -- next time, try some 
independent investigation."

Maxwell's face went studiously blank for a second as 
he shifted gears and his charming smile came back 
into play. "You know this isn't over."

"I'm looking forward to continuing it."

****

The sign on the door read "Janitor" but the 
disinfectant-stinking utility room was unoccupied 
save for the alien shapes of the mops hanging in the 
corner, I finally released Mulder's arm when the door 
closed behind us.

"What the hell was that all about?  What did you do 
to the tape?" I hissed.

He shrugged, wide-eyed, and ran a hand through his 
hair.

"I didn't do anything to the tape."

"Frohike?"

"He never said -- Holy fuck," he said with something 
like awe although he was clearly not having a 
religious epiphany. 

I waited.

"Ingveld. Her mysterious project --"

Suddenly it all made sense -- her skulking (inasmuch 
as a giant blonde goddess can skulk), the strange 
errands she had run, her questions, her intimate 
knowledge of the courthouse security, and her odd 
assurances that all would work out well.  I had 
thought she was merely being na‹ve and guile-less.  
Here La Femme was living up to her television twin's 
sneaky skills. I didn't care so much as Mulder's 
mouth descended on me with the subtlety of a 
backhoe.

I managed to pry my mouth away with only as much 
difficulty as resetting a dislocated joint. "This isn't 
why I dragged you in here," I explained as my body 
melted like ice cream in the sun.

"It's why I came," he smirked and tugged up my 
skirt. 

"You haven't yet."

There was a stack of sweeping compound canisters 
piled against the far wall, big 25 gallon containers 
which you can't use for buckets at home as toddlers 
tend to fall in and drown like chipmunks in a 
swimming pool, but they were the right height for our 
purposes.  With my ass on the top line of canisters, 
the height difference was rectified and he clawed my 
hose and panties down past my knees.  

I had forgotten the thrill of the forbidden. Dimly, I 
hoped that we wouldn't feel the need for even riskier 
sex to compensate for the newfound legality of 
intercourse itself. But mostly I just moaned as he 
squeezed my breasts through my shirt, holding me 
up with his hands and his cock. My legs wrapped 
around his thighs and my hose acted like bondage 
gear, making it difficult for me to move 
independently as the nylon hissed against his 
summer-weight trousers. My pumps slipped to my 
toes and then clunked to the ground by his feet. I 
trembled against his thrusts and clutched his 
scratchy wool shoulders.

I wasn't going to come like this, and I was running 
ahead of his orgasm count by an order of 
magnitude, so I attacked the fragile cartilage of 
Mulder's ear, running my tongue along the curve of 
flesh and down to the scarred-over earring holes. 
When I bit the lobe he groaned and gave in, 
pumping into me his relief.

He staggered away from me and sat down on the 
floor, his pants still around his thighs. He panted as I 
patted my hair, hoping against hope that it was still 
in place. He watched proprietarily as I stripped off 
the overstretched hose -- it was summer in 
Washington, surely no one would make too much of 
it -- and stole a roll of toilet paper from the state of 
Virginia to use to contain any untoward leakage. I 
handed him the roll and then put my shoes back on.

"I'll go first," I commanded and cracked the door. No 
one was visible so I stepped out as confidently as 
Dr. Who from the TARDIS. I headed back to where 
we'd left Laura et al. She was looking around 
frantically. "Where's Fox? We've got about thirty 
seconds -- And did you have anything to do with the 
way that tape looked?"

"He's coming, and no I didn't."  I said.

Well to be completely correct, he came and I didn't 
but what was quibbling at this point?

I examined Ingveld, who was studiously readjusting 
the lace on Miranda's collar, which was a brave thing 
to do considering that the spit and half-chewed food 
there were probably an excellent medium for new 
and unusual microbes.

Mulder returned and distracted Laura -- part of me 
hoped that she could smell me on him -- so I leaned 
over and took Miranda from Ingveld. "That was you, 
wasn't it?" I whispered.

She blinked. "I have lived many places," she told me 
as we headed back to the courtroom, "done many 
things. You think I am so young but inside --" Her 
voice dropped to a nearly inaudible thread among 
the bustling of newshounds. "It is not the worst I 
have seen or the worst I have done. You saved our 
lives," and now didn't seem like the time to point out 
that she and Warwick wouldn't have needed saving 
absent us, "and you should have Miri."

Miranda smiled at her, in total agreement.

"BAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMM!" 
my infant terrorist enthused.

"That was not needed." Ingveld said with a small 
frown.

****

Maxwell paced even though there was no jury for 
him to impress, head down as if he were actually 
gathering his thoughts. Did anything ever happen in 
public, in the halls of government, that was 
unscripted? Certainly nothing I'd seen.

After a minute he raised his head, shaking back an 
impatient lock of hair, and began.
 
"It is probably correct to think of Fox Mulder and 
Dana Scully as heroes," he said mildly and I looked 
at him in surprise. Scully frowned at him and then 
smoothed her face like spilt milk when Laura tapped 
her on the hand. "Certainly their investigations have 
saved lives and brought criminals to justice. All this 
despite suffering torments that the Devil might 
personally have dreamed up.

"They are heroes; they are larger than life.

"The problem is that children, babies, need real 
people, not giants. Giants can sometimes fail to see 
the little things in their way. They crush smaller 
people. These heroes' flag of victory is planted on a 
mountain of dead bodies.

"We've heard extensive testimony from both sides 
about Fox Mulder's incredible sensitivity to others' 
suffering, his passion for truth at any cost to himself. 
Both of them are willing to do anything in their power 
so that evil might not prosper, wherever it may hide.

"Where is Miranda in that calculation? What 
happens to her the next time a tantalizing lead 
comes along? We know what Dana Scully will do -- 
what she has done before. And Fox Mulder admits 
that, since he took custody of Miranda, he has 
deliberately avoided learning any more about the 
conspiracy he fears lurks behind every doorway. 
How long will that willful blindness last? Until 
Miranda is old enough for day care? Until a new 
informer shows up on his doorstep?

"We have also heard testimony from both sides 
about the various traumas to which these two people 
have been subjected. The important point to 
remember is not whether they 'deserved' any of it, or 
how sorry we should feel for them. It's a sad thing 
that fighting darkness can cripple a person inside, so 
that he or she can no longer function entirely in the 
light. But the sadness should not deter us from 
putting Miranda Scully's best interests first, and 
those interests lie with adults who can devote 
themselves to her without having to fight their own 
deeply wounded souls.

"Dana Scully has a computer chip of unknown 
origins in the back of her neck. She and Mr. Mulder 
think that it cured her cancer. What experiments will 
they subject their daughter to in the name of open-
mindedness?"

That one made me flinch a little. But if he had known 
about the smallpox vaccination, he would have 
asked us about it on the stand.

My nose twitched like a rabbit's and I suddenly 
needed an excuse to leave, right then, before 
anyone else noticed that I was bleeding. 

Beside me, Miranda wailed as if she'd been 
switched on.

I had no time to wonder about the fortuity of the 
event; I grabbed her and pressed her to my face, 
closing off my leaking nostril. I hoped that being 
used as a human Kleenex would not unduly 
traumatize her in the years to come. She screeched 
like Courtney Love as we hustled out the courtroom 
doors. As soon as they shut, she stopped sobbing 
and I ran into the ladies' room.

With one hand pinching my nose, I used the other to 
clean Miranda off. The door opened and I flinched 
back against the wall.

It was only Ingveld, sticking her head in to confirm 
our presence. "You are alone?" I nodded. "I vatch at 
door until you are fine."

That might take a few years, my friend, I thought as 
the door swung shut on her shapely behind. Thirty 
seconds later, I heard her voice raised outside. "I am 
sorry, but in here is sewage. You must use the 
bathroom in the next hall."

I loved her, then.

It's too bad that Maxwell was wrong about the chip, 
since I was no longer confident that it could do 
anything but set off airport metal detectors. My blood 
thickened quickly enough that I made it back to the 
courtroom in time for Maxwell's big finish. He 
frowned at me for my inattention and continued.

"In closing, I must remind the court of our new 
surroundings, necessitated by recent events that no 
one denies were targeted on Fox Mulder and Dana 
Scully. Their love, however sincerely felt, is no shield 
against bombs. Whether it's cancer or explosives, 
Death is stalking these two. They chose to live in 
danger, but Miranda Scully has not, and we should 
ensure that she remains safe even if the two of them 
do not."

****

Here we were again facing judgment. This time not 
merely to determine the survival of the X Files in a 
dark paneled  room on a high floor of the Hoover 
Building, but to be judged as human beings under 
the all-consuming gaze of the American public.

I didn't concede the right of any court to judge me for 
what I'd done. Maybe it was different when George 
Washington, that wily old Mason, was running the 
government, but truth and justice were decidedly not 
the American way at present. When I wanted to be 
judged, I was my own best critic; I knew when I'd 
failed myself and failed to find the truth. No one -- 
not even Scully -- could evaluate me better than 
that.

I was still coming up short in the Finding Truth 
department. I knew now that my leaving the X Files 
didn't keep Miranda safe. Moreover, Scully had no 
plans to abandon the quest, and therefore I was 
bound to continue as well, even if it was while I was 
pushing a stroller.

The quest was going to have to proceed differently, 
though. The public Roush hearings had made less 
of a splash than speculation on what the presidential 
genitalia looked like. I no longer desired to expose 
the truth behind the secret government to the public; 
that undifferentiated mass was more interested in 
Scully's haircut and lurid details of my porn habit 
than anything substantive I might say to them about 
trust and self-rule. The truth that I sought, like the 
judgment, would have to be private. Yes, I wanted to 
foil evil plots, but I now understood that fighting 
Them required more than just accurate information 
and some interested reporters; it required 
counterattack. I would begin the real battle as soon 
as this latest skirmish ended.

Even though I didn't concede the court jurisdiction 
over my soul, the prospect of being publicly weighed 
and measured for fitness was occasion for some 
self-evaluation. 

There are many things I wish I'd done differently. I 
wish that my last memory of my innocent baby sister 
wasn't of me harassing her. I wish I'd treated 
Phoebe like she was camp instead of high drama. I 
wish I'd figured out that Duane Barry was going to 
go for the chip and that Krycek was a traitor. I wish I 
hadn't listened to John Lee Roche for more than a 
minute. But most of all, I think, I wish I hadn't kissed 
Scully that night she drove me home from getting my 
brain reamed by Dr. Goldstein.

Understand that I would not change loving her, or 
being sexually attracted to her, nor could I. But it 
was not a constructive way of dealing with her 
impending death. Even then, we could have worked 
through it and found an equilibrium, I like to think, 
were it not for Emily's subsequent appearance and 
equally rapid disappearance. So instead we used 
sex as another of our finely honed weapons against 
one another.

If we had waited -- maybe Miranda could have 
brought us together in some way less terrifying to 
Scully. If we had only waited, then when Jason 
Lindsay came into her room that night and 
impersonated me she would have shot him. Or she 
would at least have investigated, and unlike Brad 
and Janet from Rocky Horror, Scully wouldn't have 
ignored a mistaken identity for a good orgasm. 

My mistakes weren't that important when they only 
hurt me. But I seemed incapable of confining them 
to that level. It was only the confidence that Miranda 
was infinitely safer with me than anywhere else that 
gave me the balls to fight -- I'd promised myself that 
things would be different with her, and I've always 
been able to believe in my own passions.

The judge cleared his throat and looked at the 
papers in front of him as though he was looking at 
something about as important as a grocery list. Next 
to me, Scully was breathing like Catzilla did when he 
chased rabbits in his sleep. My mother, returned just 
in time to catch the last act of this farce, was 
resplendent in Nancy Reagan red on my other side.

"I'm an old man, and because I'm an old man who 
grew up in a far different world than we have today, I 
don't understand anythin' about babies bein' made in 
laboratories, host mothers, dectuplets, and e-mail.  I 
can barely figure out how to set the clock on my 
VCR.  I get my son to do that," he looked up over his 
half-moon glasses at the motley assemblage in the 
courtroom.

In my lap, the Mooselet stood up and started waiving 
at Ingveld and Warwick in the back of the room. 

"So when I look at this case, I try to put all that 
behind me and look at things that I understand.  I'll 
tell you what I see.  I see a young woman who has 
gone through hell a couple of times over, and she's 
been hurt by all this.  Hurt to the point where she 
knew that she couldn't take proper care of a baby so 
she abandoned it - in a very good home.  Let's not 
confuse the issue and make it look like she left the 
baby in a basket on their doorstep," he looked over 
at Maxwell who had gone the color of tofu. 

"Then the young man takes the baby to Virginia and 
proceeds to set up a home and support system for 
the child down to rearranging his work priorities to 
the child's convenience.  The young woman returns 
and they begin trying to negotiate a family after they 
get married.  On the other hand, I see some strange 
things in both their pasts, which might indicate that 
they are something other than perfect parents.  I'm 
sure that most of the married couples in this room 
wouldn't pass that kind of scrutiny with flying colors."

Bill now matched Maxwell in skin tone.  

I wasn't sure how I felt about the judge 
characterizing Scully and I as 'young'.  I felt an eon 
old sitting in that chair.  Scully's fingernails were 
piercing the bones in my hands.

"I see assertions that this child is endangered by her 
connection to her parents. And if you believe all this 
fancy conspiracy talk maybe she is. But anyone, 
enemy or friend, could take one look at this couple 
and see that vestin' legal custody elsewhere would 
not make them a whit less vulnerable to threats 
against their daughter. If the girl's in danger, there's 
no one better suited to protectin' her than her 
parents. And, despite the inflated claims of counsel, 
I see nothing in this case relating to a blurry 
videotape with unidentifiable people doing mischief 
to unknown objects.  Other than a waste of the 
court's time.  I see nothing that indicates to me that 
Bill and Tara Scully would be any better parents 
than Dana Scully and Fox Mulder.  Therefore, 
custody of Miranda Julia Scully resides with Fox 
Mulder and his lawful wife. Bill Scully will pay the 
associated court costs relating what I feel is little 
more than a nuisance suit rather than genuine 
concern for the child.  Court is dismissed."

I was going to need to get my heart jump-started.

****

The reporters fell back -- I couldn't tell why they'd 
ever let us get away, and then it became obvious as 
my mother emerged from the forest of taller people 
and their video cameras. Of course they'd let her 
through, it would make a better story.

I turned away, but she hurried over to me and pulled 
at my arm. "Dana," she said.

I refused to look at her. At that moment I believed all 
the terrible things they'd said about my cold-
heartedness. I *wanted* to feel something, and on 
an intellectual level I could identify all the symptoms 
of pain, but that's not the same as really feeling it. It 
was like watching a person with whom you couldn't 
empathize suffer. Only that person was me.

"Look at me!" she commanded, her voice harder 
now. From force of habit, I swiveled my head. 
Mulder stopped walking, prepared to swoop in 
between us. Tina perforce halted as well, hanging 
on to his gentlemanly arm. I felt the cameras move 
in closer, to catch every nuance of this moment on 
tape for the world to see. 

The lines around her mouth were deeper now than 
they'd been weeks before, like mine. Her eyes bled 
sorrow; she truly believed that she'd been trying to 
do the right thing for all her children. She truly 
believed that injustice had been done in that 
courtroom. "I'm still your mother," she said softly -- 
though not so softly that it wouldn't play on CourTV.

"I don't have a mother." I turned back to Mulder and 
his mother and took Tina's free arm. Tina glanced at 
me, her face blank but nonetheless I got a distinct 
feeling that she was hiding a small smug smile. 

What the hell, we were more alike than me and my 
biological mother. But if she thought I was going to 
call her "Mom," the brain damage from her years of 
tranquilizer use hadn't been fully repaired.

The encounter with my mother dampened the 
euphoria, but only for a short while. When we were 
all ensconced in the Outback I felt as lightheaded as 
if I'd spent the day on a rollercoaster, looping the 
loop.

There were still things I needed to settle. I would 
return to the oncologist and find out if our 
carelessness in bed was going to kill me yet. (And it 
was possible that pregnancy hadn't mattered, that 
someone had broadcast a deadly message to the 
metal in my neck. I could imagine both of us 
deciding to believe that rather than conceding that 
one unlucky fuck destroyed us when a planetary 
conspiracy couldn't. If I had to die I was going to 
uncover the truth about that chip first.) I would 
integrate my stuff with Mulder's and make the best 
approximation of a household I could. I would take 
Miranda to Emily's grave so that she could visit her 
sister. 

I would thank Skinner for his support.

I would disrupt the conspiracy and make them beg 
for mercy. Which would not be forthcoming. I would 
kick ET ass if necessary.

I would have a yard sale.

The emotion I felt was more alien than Mulder's little 
gray men. Maybe I didn't get it right, because I was 
awfully out of practice. But I think it was hope.  

****

Iolokus IV: Res Judicata
16/

Close your eyes and let's pretend
We're little children once again
Sticky fingers, dirty minds
When I touch you, girl I come alive
Let's fall in love
It's exciting
I'm gonna make your mouth
A sunny sundae smile
	My Bloody Valentine

I have spent entirely too many hours of my adult life 
in health care facilities.  The waiting room at Scully's 
oncologist's office had good magazines but I was in 
no condition to read any of them.  Scully had the 
Mooselet in her lap and they were going through 
The Cat In the Hat with the thoroughness that Scully 
usually reserved for reading other people's autopsy 
reports.  I was just as happy to see the Mooselet 
pointing at the cat and the hat and the fish in the 
dish while Scully asked her the names of the items.  
In a way, I was glad that Sam had engineered 
Miranda to be intelligent, as the Mooselet was 
certainly giving Scully a run for her money.  I was 
also glad that Scully had decided to stay with us 
since this meant that I could actually get a break 
from MooseDuty from time to time.

Julie Graff was expecting me back to work the 
following Monday so I had to get all the loose ends 
tied up.  First there were the doctor visits - I booked 
Scully oncologist and gynecologist appointments 
practically back to back.  I think she called someone 
to get an estimate on having a contract on me after 
that.  Through bitching and judicious badge-waving, 
I got past the office manager and the doctor returned 
my call himself.  When I explained that Scully was 
pregnant and we couldn't wait, we got an 
appointment for the next morning and the promise 
that any test results would be expedited.  He also 
seemed to think that there wasn't much to worry 
about.  But then he hadn't expected her to go into 
remission either.

While I listened with a mouth open in dumb shock, 
she told him about the nosebleeds, and I kicked 
myself for not noticing.  The doctor nodded and 
listened to her shopping list of symptoms couched in 
medical terms that I didn't understand.  He took 
blood and made friends with the Mooselet during 
Scully's MRI as though it were only a routine visit.  
Scully watched him seal off and label the vial of 
blood.

"I know it's not terribly professional of me to say this, 
but I was less than happy with the testimony that I 
had to give for your brother's case.  I would have 
lived a happier life without having to aid his cause 
against you."

The Mooselet squirmed around in my arms so she 
could watch the nice bald man talk to her mom.

"There's no adequate medical reason for you to go 
into remission in the first place, by the same token, 
there's no adequate reason for you not to remain in 
remission for five years until you are pronounced 
cured."

"There's more at stake now.  I have to worry about 
people other than myself.  I have responsibilities."  
Scully said and her eyes looked suspiciously 
sparkling under the lights.

As for me, there felt like there was a brick lodged in 
my throat.

"Dana I've seen people die who had only a mild form 
of cancer, and I've seen people live who shouldn't.  
All I know is that there are some things that defy 
medicine.  Call it faith, call it will to survive or call it a 
miracle."  

Docile, she nodded her head. 

"I'll have the lab rush the results."
 
In the Ranger, Scully's eyes were red but she didn't 
say anything as we drove the half-dozen miles to the 
next appointment.

****

With the verdict from the oncologist pending the 
blood work-up the last thing that I wanted was to go 
to the gynecologist, but Mulder dragged me with the 
same kind of amused stubbornness that he used 
when Miranda refused to eat her vegetables.  I think 
he was disappointed that I left him in the waiting 
room during the exam, but regardless of his 
predilection for oral sex, I didn't feel comfortable with 
him getting an up close and personal view of my 
cervix.  Call me old fashioned, but a girl likes to 
retain some kind of mystery in sexual matters, and I 
was willing for him to forgo seeing his favorite bodily 
orifice cranked open with a speculum like a car with 
the air filter open.

After the demise of Dr. Shimada, I was looking for a 
sturdier gynecologist and ended up with a former 
Navy doctor with the unlikely name of Blaire 
Wellington.  She was cool and efficient and had the 
upper arm muscles of a woman who worked out with 
weights - she was serious.  I didn't feel that I was 
endangering her all that much. George was dead, 
after all, and Dr. Wellington looked as though she 
would be able to bounce any unquiet ghosts out on 
his ear.

"Well Dana," she said as she peered below the 
sheet covering my stomach and the cold air from the 
air conditioning unit made my thighs break out in 
gooseflesh, "From the home test and the change in 
color and texture of your cervix, you are definitely 
pregnant."

"I'm not sure how it happened."  I muttered.

"You need me to go over the birds and the bees for 
you?" she said with a wry little smirk.

"No, in regard to the fact that I was considered 
sterile a year ago."

She shrugged, "The test may have been incorrect.  
It's possible that your chemotherapy caused you to 
go into a premature and temporary form of 
menopause.  Now that time has passed and your 
body has been able to re-regulate the hormones, 
you may very well have begun ovulating again.  I 
notice that you didn't actually have a laproscopic 
examination of the ovaries so the physician may 
have been drawing conclusions from incomplete 
data."

"Can you tell me when I got pregnant?"

"Not exactly.  We establish a due date by the date of 
your last period and subtract three months from that 
date which is the due date the following calendar 
cycle."

When had been my last period?

Before George came which had been in the 
beginning of spring and now it was nearly summer 
and ---.

Wait a minute.

Condoms don't have a 100% success rate, which is 
what any high school health teacher will tell you.  
With the various manipulations that the Mulder gene 
pool had gone through at the hands of the scientists 
who created them, it might have been possible that 
his sperm might, in fact, have somehow penetrated 
the latex?  Wasn't that also part of the plan of the 
cold war mad scientists?  Be fruitful and multiply, 
breed the New World order and spread hybridized 
genes hither and yon?  Was it possible that every 
time that we'd interrupted the natural course of sex 
for condoms it was habit rather than help?

Imagine the paternity suits.
 
Oh God.  That meant that I could have gotten 
pregnant at any time since we had gotten back 
together.  Which also meant that the George fantasy 
might not have been the seminal (ha!) event.  The 
worm of hope buried a little harder into my heart, 
and I wasn't sure if I wanted to kill it.

"What about the nosebleeds?" I asked. 

"When I had my first, my nose was like a spigot.  I'd 
be performing an exam and gush all over the floor.  
And it was like 'excuse me, I'm bleeding on you." 
And I'd run for the tissues.  The morning sickness 
should pass after the first trimester, but with the 
weight that you've put on and the fact that you 
haven't lost your appetite--" God no, I could now out-
eat Mulder at any meal -- "It's an inconvenience 
more than a danger.  I'm going to give you some 
literature and you'll need to set up a schedule of 
appointments with Allie up front, but other than that, 
there's not much to do but let your body do its job."

Like grow cancer cells, like consume an entire 
freezer worth of Chubby Hubby, like throw up for the 
next three months, and like die before Miranda or 
this baby was old enough to vote.

Let my body do the job.  Great.  My body was one of 
the things that I didn't trust anymore.

"You don't even want to do an amniocentesis?" I 
asked.

"No.  I don't think it's necessary."

I wanted a warranty on the fetus that promised that it 
would be replaced if it was defective in the least.  A 
five-year warranty, an extended service agreement, 
and product insurance.  Dr. Wellington wasn't even 
going to try to make me feel better.  Still she did, 
ostensibly, know her job and had given birth herself 
so I should believe that she was making the right 
decision.

I was still fairly dissatisfied by the whole 
appointment.

Feeling bruised, I let Mulder drive home, even 
though he did seem to take the slowest route 
possible and let every car possible out in front of 
him.  Maybe he thought we needed the good karma.  
While he took Miranda to her room for her afternoon 
nap, I roamed around for awhile, before going to 
ground in the bedroom.  I shucked off my clothes 
and put on the rattiest pair of sweats and ugliest 
oversized t-shirt in my collection of 'go to hell' 
clothes, and collapsed on the bed.  The final verdict 
from the judge and the gynecologist had been given 
and now I was waiting to see if the oncologist was 
going to come back with death or life imprisonment.  
Well, I guess that wasn't entirely accurate.  I was 
getting used to the idea of being legally joined to 
Mulder.  Not much had really changed since we'd 
gotten married other than the fact that we were 
habitually getting out of the same bed in the morning 
and could show affection for one another in public.  
He was still stubborn, narrow-focused, and 
annoying, but I didn't think that marriage was 
supposed to change an essential personality 
anyway.  Actually, from what I had heard from 
listening to my married friends over the years, he 
made a pretty decent husband.  He was domestic, 
supportive, didn't appear to have an interest in other 
women, and was more than willing to change dirty 
diapers.  And the best thing was that he wasn't 
expecting me to turn into Donna Reed.

I rolled over onto my stomach and sighed.

"You're sulking," he observed as he pulled off his 
ironed henley-neck shirt and traded it for a worn 
gray t-shirt spotted with baby stains.

"I am not sulking," I sulked.

He crept across the bed with his eyes flickering 
green in the warm sunlight melting in between the 
blinds until her was straddling my hips and  began 
working at the aching muscles in my shoulders and 
upper back.  "The doctor didn't seem too concerned 
about your cancer coming back and the gynecologist 
gave you enough stuff to read that you won't have 
time to worry for the next nine months.  And once 
the baby gets here you'll be too busy to worry."

"What if I die?" 

"We're all going to die eventually.  I don't know when 
I'm going to die, why should you know?  Don't you 
think that's an unfair advantage?" he purred into my 
ear.
   
Damn him, the sulk was slowing to a crawl like 
Washington traffic to be replaced with a drowsy 
contentment and a lazy kind of pleasure.  I stretched 
under him and decided I would explore the 
contentment for awhile.

"I'll bet you twenty dollars that your blood test won't 
show any abnormal cells. And I should know.  I'm 
composed entirely of abnormal cells."
 
"Especially your brain," I muttered into the 
bedspread.

"It's good to see that pregnancy hasn't spoiled your 
sense of humor," he said in a sour tone and flopped 
onto the mattress next to me, "Let's celebrate."

"What?"

"Well, we've been married for almost a month and 
we haven't killed each other.  We've been co-
habitating for two months at least and we haven't 
killed each other.  We get to keep the Mooselet, and 
we haven't killed each other.  Also, you're pregnant 
and we haven't killed each other."

"Modified rapture."

"You are planning on staying, aren't you?"

"You promised you'd take care of the baby to be 
named later.  I'm only slightly unfit and I wouldn't 
want to abandon another helpless infant."

"The infamous nurturing Scully." He ran his hand 
over my back and I sighed, my obstreperousness 
was partially feigned, the rest of it was post-trauma 
crankiness.  Mulder knew that and knew me well 
enough to indulge me while I was being grumpy.  
His caress gained a little intensity and I could feel 
my nerve endings perk up a bit.

"Is that the only thing you ever think about?" I asked.

"Sometimes I think about food," he admitted and I 
could tell from his voice that he was grinning.

I rolled over and looked across the bedspread at his 
crooked, goofy smile and wondered exactly how we 
had gone from frustrated, secret, and angry sex to 
this domestic idyll.  The answer was painfully simple.  
Once we had finally gotten past the posing, the 
posturing, and the delusion that we should not be 
together in the traditional male/female way and 
realized that we were - in some perverse design of 
fate, really -- the only proper mate for one another, 
we had finally succumbed to the inevitable.  Not that 
this made me happy, but it certainly made me less 
miserable than I was when I was alone.  
And he could make me drip like melted chocolate 
down the side of a sugar cone.  I buried my face in 
the skin of his neck and smelled his Muldersmell, 
and I could feel the wrinkles smooth out of my mind.  
He needed my control, I needed his passion, and we 
fed off of one another's strength.  Maxwell had  been 
right, we were dangerous together but it was a 
controlled danger.  Apart we were as dangerous and 
unpredictable as a tropical storm gaining strength 
and building into a hurricane.
 
When I pushed him over onto his back, he whuffed 
deep in his throat and his eyes glowed green gold 
under lashes fit for a girl.  I licked his neck, teasing 
his tendons with my tongue and his fingers dug into 
my ass.  He breathed wet and crackled into my ear, 
making me shudder and my nipples turn into bullets.  
I growled gopher-speak at him and he growled back 
in the same, grabbing at my swaying breasts 
through my t-shirt and sucking on my mouth until my 
lips almost hurt.  I straddled him and ground my 
pelvis against him, feeling the hard rod of his cock 
prod up at my rapidly soaking crotch as I dry-
humped him like a teenager in the back of a car.

"You really have to stop it with this sexy wardrobe," 
he growled into my ear.

I pushed his head to my breasts, luxuriating in the 
softness of his gopher fur, and felt his teeth nip at 
me through my shirt.  The heel of his hand ground 
against my pubic bone through the layers of 
sweatpants and panties and I could feel the spring 
start to wind tight inside my stomach.  He could 
make me wet with one glance over a dead body, 
practically make me come when his fingers brushed 
the back of my hand, and make my knees turn to 
pasta with a filthy thought telegraphed across a 
polished conference table.  

I grabbed the hem of my shirt and hauled the whole 
thing over my head, and he grabbed my breasts, his 
hands hot and dry the moment they sprang free of 
the fabric.

"Come on gopher-girl.  Do your worst," he teased 
and gave my left nipple a meaningful, painful pinch.

"Oh yeah?"

"I triple-dog dare you."

He shouldn't have said that, really.

I bounced off him and pulled his sweats down to his 
knees with a brusque jerk.  He yelped at the rough 
treatment but started to laugh when I dug my fingers 
into the ticklish part of his stomach between his 
hipbone and the thin line of hair running to his cock.  
I danced my fingers over the delicate skin of his 
stomach and he whooped with outrage, his cock 
doing the Macarena as he moved.  

"That's-not-fair!" he choked.

"Of course not."

I traced the vein on the underside of his cock with 
my fingernail and enjoyed watching him shudder.  
Mulder has a body like a tightly stretched drum and I 
can coax different sounds out of him depending on 
where I touch.  I tongued him a few times, enjoying 
the feral taste contrasting with the baby skin of the 
one eyed trouser snake.  He moaned and his hips 
jerked a few times, encouraging me to take all of him 
in my mouth, which I did in short order.  I worked him 
hard, making him wince from time to time with my 
lips and sucking until my cheeks went concave, 
while I pumped at his base with a tight ring of my 
fingers.  With shaking fingers he pushed my hair 
away from my face and our glances met with 
incendiary effect.  I could feel that I was soaking my 
way through the fabric of my sweats.  I pressed my 
mound against the bed and felt a pre-orgasm 
shudder run through me like razors on my bones.  
He groaned and bucked underneath me.  Twice, 
when it seemed that he was on the verge of coming, 
I clamped my fingers tight around his base and he 
slackened for a moment.

"Oh Jesus, Scully," he whispered, "you're killing me."

In the end I took pity on him, since his cock was 
beginning to look a little sore, and I shimmied out of 
my drenched pants and climbed on top of him.  He 
cried out when I eased him in as far as he could go.  
It felt so good to have him filling me to the utmost 
degree, pressing on my spine, impaling me as far 
and as deep as possible.  I leaned forward so when I 
moved, the shaft of his cock scraped deliciously on 
the burning center of my clitoris.  I pressed down on 
him, slid up, pressed down, and so on until the 
sweat was dripping out of my hair and onto his face.  
Mulder's hands on my breasts were the only thing 
keeping me upright.  This kind of fucking was harder 
than digging ditches.  Finally, the spring wound 
tighter and tighter inside me snapped with a ping 
that made me screech with agonizing pleasure and I 
clenched down and around him as I started to 
shudder and sway with my climax.  Dimly, I heard 
his own gopher cry of delight as he surged up and 
into me with his latex-defying semen.

Like the Energizer Bunny given Duracells by 
mistake, I fell onto him, sticking to him with a variety 
of bodily secretions and we lay there in a cooling 
puddle in a state of blissful brain-death.

"Love you," he muttered in my hair.

"What you said." I grunted.

I drifted off then and must have stayed that way for 
the rest of the night.  I was vaguely aware of Mulder 
moving around later after the baby monitor started to 
snivel, but I rolled over and went back to sleep while 
he dealt with it.  That was a good thing.  When the 
other baby came, I was likely to push on its nose 
thinking it was a snooze button.  When the warm 
lump I idenified as Mulder came back I curled up 
against it and went back to sleep.

Light.  Banging.  Grumbling.  Me blinking and 
making out movement somewhere.

"Well I knocked-" was Warwick's voice, sounding 
aggravated.

Well, it was re-run season after all.

"What?"

I foused on Mulder whose hair was doing truly 
amazing things while he glowered at the younger 
man.

"The doctor - the oncologist is on the phone."

"Oh God."  I said and pulled the comforter over my 
head.  

I couldn't handle it, didn't want to know that I was 
going to die, not with the morning bubble of nausea 
starting to fill my throat.

"Talk to him," I groaned to Mulder.

"Right."

Warwick shut the door behind him, and Mulder 
picked up the line on hold.

"Mulder.  Yeah.  She's asleep.  You can talk to me.  
No, really."

Like a Charlie Brown cartoon all I could hear was 
disjointed honking noises coming from the other side 
of the conversation.

"Okay.  Fine.  I'll tell her."

I heard him put down the phone.

I held my breath.

A hard finger prodded me in the ass.

"No abnormal cells.  Go back to sleep."

I wasn't sure which sentence gave me more 
pleasure.

****
  

After the right and proper order of things has been 
restored, it is
traditional in the plays of Shakespeare for there to 
be 
some kind of celebration to mark the re-unification of 
the community. 
All the characters gather together for food, drink, 
and song while the audience plots the quickest way 
out of the theater and
the way to avoid the rush at the parking lot. 

We had our post-drama celebration catered.  The 
weather had tapered off
to a manageable level of heat and humidity 
and the tent the caterers had erected on Scully's 
emerald-green sod
looked prettily festive in the dying daylight.  The 
gold twinkle lights in the bushes flashed like horny 
fireflies and were
reflected off the incredibly ugly swan ice sculpture 
sitting on the main table.  Scully had gone apoplectic 
when she'd seen
the frozen monstrosity and was threatening not 
to pay the catering company since she'd specifically 
asked *not* to have
a swan ice sculpture.  She also hadn't liked it 
when I pointed out that the nice Korean family 
catering the 'do' had
probably just misunderstood her.  This led to a 
prolonged bout of sulking in the bathroom but I was 
finally able to lure
her out with the promise of ice cream cake.  
Marriage and pregnancy were making Scully weird, 
but not unmanageably so.
 At least not so far.  Eight months into 
the fight for the future and weirdness might be too 
mild of a term.

In any event, I'd extended an olive branch and 
invited Bill, Tara, the
rotund Matthew, and Mrs. Scully which provoked 
another bout of bathroom incarceration. But once I'd 
removed the
doorknob, Scully had seen reason.  I'd also 
promised 
that the ice swan was going home with Bill which 
perked Scully up
immeasurably.  The Gunmen were there in their 
motley finery; Byers surprised one and all by 
bringing a woman with him,
a small woman with a wealth of curly hair who 
I recognized as being the savior from the deli 
department of the
supermarket.  

A rental car brought Charlie and his wife and their 
tribe, but Emerson,
Alieen and Samuel were too busy in Montana to 
come.  With the 
three babies (the Mooselet, Matthew, and whatever 
Charlie's youngest was
named)  in pretty much the same 
age bracket, we plunked them all down in the 
playpen while Warwick kept
an eye out to make sure no one killed the 
others.

Zippy brought a woman I had never seen before 
(and I suspect, was *not*
the home health care therapist) and 
immediately delivered her into Frohike's clutches so 
that he could hit on
Laura.  I soon saw our lawyer giving him her 
number.  Skinner came alone, Julie Graff brought a 
smoothly pretty
African American woman of the same vintage as 
herself, and although nothing was said other than 
the woman's name (Anna
Franklin) and the fact that she worked at 
the Smithsonian as a curator.  I had the distinct 
feeling that the two
were a couple.  No wonder she never said anything 
about my unusual  domestic arrangements.  After 
darkness fell and
everyone was feeling somewhat the better for 
alcohol, Maxwell showed up.  To my great surprise 
and Scully's sudden
look of total comprehension, he immediately 
stalked up to Zippy and Laura and puffed his chest 
out; if he were a
Daschund, he'd have been yipping and peeing in 
circles around her.  My man Zip is not exactly easily 
intimidated,
particularly not by bantamweight blondes who pay 
more attention to their suits than their biceps, but 
then Zippy wasn't
really the target of his odd behavior.  It was Laura.

I knew the mating dances, having fluffed my feathers 
on more than one
occasion. Then I met Scully, and she clipped 
my wings but good.  Maxwell was doing the dance of 
the jealous male with
his attention focused on Laura who returned 
his with the smile of a Renaissance femme fatale. 
She looked really
pretty with her hair down too.  Interesting.

"What," I said to Scully as she fluttered by with a 
champagne flute of
what had damn well better have been ginger ale, 
"the hell is going on with the lawyers?"

"It's what Jackson Browne calls lawyers in love."

"God." I said and shook my head.

"No worse than Gophers, Gopher-Boy." She said 
and laid one of her zillion
watt smiles on me.

Hanging around her neck was the gift I'd presented 
her with that morning
in bed - a gold gopher charm with blue topaz 
eyes.  Yeah, I'm a romantic slob who's willing to get 
jewelry custom
made.  

Bill watched all this and glowered at his former 
attorney from the other
side of the ice sculpture.  Matthew unwisely 
made a grab at the Mooselet's onion ring at that 
moment and got bitten
for his trouble.  Tara tried to separate the 
youngsters who both began to scream blue murder.  
I grabbed the Mooselet
and Tara and I stared at one another over 
our screaming progeny.

"All this could have been yours," I pointed out.

She smiled over Matthew's wails.

"You realize of course, it was mostly Bill's idea."

I believed her.

"Dana's lucky," Tara remarked, "I don't think that Bill 
has ever touched
a dirty diaper."

"Hey everybody.  Just a minute here!"  Frohike 
announced and climbed up
on top of a chair.

Zippy's dish du jour looked embarrassed.

"I just want to say that Justice has finally been 
served, and both Mulder
and Scully have gotten the punishment they 
deserve - each other."

Which was another reason no one asks Frohike to 
be their best man.  There
were some scattered applause and the 
Mooselet, riding on my hip joined in.  

"Any words Spooky?" Zip yelled "anything you want 
to share with your near
and dear ones?"

"You're an asshole," I shot back and Scully stepped 
on my foot.

After hopping around for a moment or two, I picked 
up my own champagne
glass and watched the fairy lights strung on 
the trees dance through the bubbles.  

"I can't imagine a worse punishment than this.  I 
always thought that I
would have a wonderful house, a beautiful wife, 
and a brilliant child.  Of course this is what I get 
stuck with."

Laugher all around.

I didn't tell them that the only reason we were here 
and not in hiding
was that we'd given in. Scully would supervise 
anything done with
Miranda's blood to ensure that it really was antiviral 
research and not
more cloning and breeding; it would give her 
something to do with her
maternity leave. We were in and we wouldn't get out 
alive; no one does.
But maybe we could tell the truth and shame the 
devil, once we knew the
truth. Then again, it wasn't our way to live a life 
without extreme
complications.

"And just in case anyone was wondering, yes it was 
a shotgun wedding and
Scully is not just getting fat."

Bill looked like I'd spit in his champagne and Scully (I 
shit you not)
blushed like a Victorian virgin.

"Warwick has the sign-up sheet for babysitting, and 
if you can't give
your time, we do take checks."

This time I got laughter and applause.  The 
Mooselet, who may or may not
have understood most of it, clapped and 
giggled in my arm.  Scully shook her head as if both 
the baby and I had
gone mad, but only smiled - and there was no 
edge to it.  The barbed wire she'd wound around my 
heart pulled tighter,
but it was a good hurt.

"Laugh while you can Gopher Boy.  I know where 
you sleep."

In front of the world, I kissed her and tasted the sting 
of ginger ale on
her lips.  If an asteroid had hit Arlington at that 
moment and reduced it to a smoking crater, I would 
have died the happiest
man in the world.

Then I smelled it - the fragrant aroma of dirty diaper.  
I sighed and
headed off to the house to deal with reality. Mom 
had cornered Scully
near the desserts and they were hissing at one 
another, two cats in the
same territory.

"I should have known better than to think you were 
sensible," Mom said,
looking my wife over as if she were Jerry Springer 
trailer trash.

"I worked with Fo--, with Mulder for five years," 
Scully pointed out, and
only then I realized that she no longer had to fake 
the unthinking use of
my first name. Which would return a weapon to our 
arsenal, and so I
smiled graciously at Mom. She stared at Scully as if 
large boils had
begun to swell on her face. Who knows, maybe that 
was a normal symptom of
being pregnant with a Mulder. 

"If it's a boy there will have to be a bris."

"Is that like a Jewish christening?"  Scully asked, 
widening her eyes
innocently.

Mom made a strangled noise and stalked away, 
shaking her head. 

"That wasn't very nice," I said  over Scully's 
shoulder, I couldn't help
smiling. "I think you're going to have to eat an extra 
serving of dessert
to make up for that."
 
"I'm fully prepared to be the daughter-in-law from 
hell." Scully
reassured me.

The next time I saw Mom, she was hitting on 
Skinner, which fit her MO
perfectly.

In the dirty diaper, Miranda started to whine and I 
hastened into the
house.

In passing, I heard the tag end of the joke that a very 
drunk Ingveld was
telling Maxwell.

" . . .  and the frog zaid it started as a pimple on my 
ass and it haf
turned into a lawyer."



*****
  
Rivka says: Res ipsa loquitor.
Sally says: Omni mutantur, nos et mutsamur in illis.

*Well almost. . . *
 
At nineteen weeks it is customary for the expectant 
mother to undergo a sonogram.  The theory is to 
check fetal size and development, but more often 
than not it fulfills no other function than to sex the 
fetus and allow yuppie parents to start picking 
names.

"You have got to be fucking kidding!" was all that I 
could manage.

"No," the ultrasound technician said, continuing to 
rub the wand over the freezing cold goo on my now-
protruding stomach, "women of your age have a 
marked tendency to ovulate more than one ova at a 
time and the occurrence of fraternal twins is not 
uncommon after age thirty-five."

I swallowed and looked at her earnest young face, 
trying to block out the horrified hyperventilating that 
was coming from my right.  I swear that if Mulder 
squeezed my hand any tighter bones were going to 
break. 

"Well," my OB-GYN added from where she was 
lurking in the doorway, "you can't really blame your 
husband either since he's an identical twin and that 
indicated one ova rather than two.  I hope you're 
prepared for a high-risk pregnancy.  With your age 
and health history, I'm going to watch you like a 
hawk so we can get these babies to term in the best 
health possible."

"Thanks," I muttered.

"Looks like we have one of each." The technician 
sounded delighted, good, she could take over the 
rest of the pregnancy.

He gloved finger indicated the image on the screen 
- two bulbous headed forms, looking likke bad fake 
alien photographs from Mulder's collection.  One of 
the little creatures was proudly sporting a penis and 
the other was not. I caught my breath and looked up.  
Dear God, *two*?  I hope you're having a good 
laugh over this.  The acoustic tiles on the ceiling 
began square dancing and I had the feeling that I 
was in a rapidly descending elevator, descending 
rapidly because the steel cables had been severed.

"Scully?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

"Good."

And the sound was that of paper and fabric rustling 
followed by a thump as he hit the floor.

End

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