A SMALLER WORLD by Rae Lynn (claypotato_AT_netscape.net) RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: story, angst, MSR SPOILERS: The entire series. KEYWORDS: Post-series. ARCHIVE: Please inquire within. DISCLAIMER: All characters contained within are the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. No profit will result from this story and no copyright infringement is intended. SUMMARY: It's 2012 and Mulder and Scully have already saved the world. What else is left to do but go to Disney World -- in a desperate bid to save Mulder's life? AUTHOR'S NOTE: There have been a number of stories written that describe, in detail, exactly how Mulder and Scully go about saving the world. This is not one of them. In this story, all you need to know is that Mulder and Scully have already saved the world...but this story will not expect you to understand how they did it. (This author is not ashamed to admit that she hardly understands it herself.) This story also takes some liberties with the way the end of the series played out (because that's what fanfic is all about, Charlie Brown). Namely, the thing that happened to the Lone Gunmen in the ninth season of the series did not happen in this story; in addition, Doggett and Reyes are absent, not because I feel any particular animosity towards them one way or the other, but mostly because I never got to know their characters nearly well enough to incorporate them into my fanfic (yes, I admit it, I fled The X- Files like a sinking ship when Mulder left and only returned for the finale). And now, without further ado... A SMALLER WORLD * * * "The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution." -- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone * * * Shortly after Christmas, 2012, Walter Skinner received a postcard from the Magic Kingdom. 'Merry Christmas,' it read. 'We saved the world (P.S. it's a small one after all).' It was postmarked Orlando, Florida. Skinner stared at the card in silence for a full minute, not daring to hope at what it might mean. There was no signature, of course, but there was no question who it was from: the handwriting was unmistakably Dana Scully's, the sentiment unmistakably Fox Mulder's. It had been ten years since Skinner had seen the former partners and six months since he had had any contact with them. In that time, Skinner had done his best to help Mulder and Scully -- once his troublesome agents, now his troublesome fugitives, he once mused ruefully -- in any way he could, maintaining his position inside the Bureau while also maintaining communication with Mulder and Scully. They trusted him absolutely, Skinner knew, but it had been Ringo Langly -- the unlikeliest of the Lone Gunmen to break the news, Skinner remembered thinking -- who had told him what Mulder had disccovered at Mount Weather. Since then, Skinner had understood why Mulder and Scully had fled and continued to flee, why their channels of communication were complicated and secretive, why his agents considered themselves the only thing standing between the invasion of Earth. But when they had suddenly gone quiet for the last six months of what the Lone Gunmen indelicately referred to as the "Final Countdown," Skinner couldn't help but worry. When the world didn't end on December 22, 2012, there was no doubt in Skinner's mind who to thank. He still wasn't sure that he believed it...but somewhere in the last twenty years he had come to believe Mulder. And if Mulder claimed via postcard that two middle-aged former FBI agents had saved the world, Skinner believed it. Feeling alternately foolish and determined, Skinner set the postcard aside and booked a one-way plane ticket to Disney World. * * * A day later, Skinner found himself waiting on line in Fantasyland, grimacing at the irony. Was this someone's idea of a joke? Mulder's, no doubt; Skinner had only a little trouble picturing his agent tucked away behind the ride's chirpy animatronic characters and having his first good laugh in ten years. Perhaps it had been ridiculous, Skinner thought, to consider the cryptic postcard an invitation. The tremendous feeling of relief he had felt upon receiving it had been replaced with a growing sense of wariness. What were Mulder and Scully playing at? And why Disney World, for Christ's sake? "Happiest place on earth," a voice behind him murmured, as if reading his mind. Skinner instinctively turned around and found himself faced with an uncomfortable-looking John Byers, improbably dressed in shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian T-shirt. An oversized pair of Mickey Mouse ears completed the ensemble. Skinner, who had never seen Byers wearing anything other than a suit, was momentarily stunned into open-mouthed silence. "Turn around or you'll get us both killed," Byers hissed. Skinner complied, mostly out of surprise. It was the first time he had ever heard Byers speak sharply to anyone. "Get on the ride," Byers muttered from behind, and climbed in after Skinner onto a tiny motorized train car. "The music will drown us out," Byers continued in a low voice as the train jerked away from the gate. For the first time, Skinner allowed himself a brief flash of annoyance. "What the hell is going on?" he hissed in Byers' direction. Byers merely blinked at him. "Watch your language on this ride," he replied mildly. "It's a beautiful day to see the world, isn't it?" Byers nodded his head in the direction of the singing figures surrounding them. It took several choruses of "It's a small world after all" for Skinner to compose himself enough to reply. "And is it a small world after all?" he said in a low voice, sensing that the only way to pry any real information out of Byers would be to play along. "Very small," Byers agreed smoothly. "So small, in fact, that one might even find oneself running into old friends." "These friends," Skinner said, "are they fans of Mickey and...and..." He paused, casting about widly in his brain for a Disney character whose name began with an S. "Cinderella?" Byers cut in calmly. "The biggest." Unfair, Skinner thought, somewhat hysterically, Cinderella starts with a C. "In fact," Byers was saying, "they're dressed up almost just like them." Skinner took that to mean that his former agents were indeed somewhere in the park, dressed almost like the Mulder and Scully they used to be, but as the ride pulled into the gate he allowed himself the small luxury of picturing Fox Mulder in a Mickey Mouse costume complete with oversized ears. The image was so satisfying that he almost missed Byers' parting words. "If you haven't been to Space Mountain yet," Byers said meaningfully, "I hear now is the best time of day to go." And then Byers, his Hawaiian shirt and his Mickey Mouse ears blended back into the crowd before Skinner could ask how the hell he was supposed to receive covert information while hurtling through Space Mountain. * * * In Tomorrowland, Langly was not exercising as much caution as Byers had. Skinner spotted him unconcernedly munching popcorn as he waited in line, leaning nonchalantly against a sign that sported a miniature Goofy and read "You must be THIS TALL to ride this ride!" Langly had cut his trademark scraggly blond hair but kept his thick black glasses. Steeling his resolve, Skinner sidled up behind him and whispered, "Do you have any idea where I might find Mickey Mouse in this park?" Langly jumped, spilling most of his popcorn on the ground. "Jesus, man," he said. "You want to blow our cover?" "What I want is some idea of what's going on here," Skinner replied impatiently. Langly jerked his head toward the long line slowly snaking its way toward Space Mountain. "Get in line," he said, sounding very much like Byers. "Listen," Langly said once they were in line behind a sign that proclaimed their wait from this point to be fifteen minutes, "this is Disney World. Lots to see and do. No sense in rushing things." "Let's say I'm in a hurry," Skinner gritted out. "What would you suggest I do next?" Langly grinned. "I bet you've never been to Disney World before," he said cheerfully. "I guarantee you're gonna love Space Mountain." Twenty minutes later, Skinner staggered off the ride sure of only two things: first, that his next destination was Pirates of the Caribbean and second, that Langly was definitely regretting that bag of popcorn. * * * Adventureland, Skinner noted as he crossed the park to Pirates of the Caribbean while trying hard not to look as out of place as he felt. Langly had refused to give up even a scrap of information on Space Mountain, though Skinner felt that might have had less to do with the blanket of secrecy surrounding the entire day and more to do with what turned out to be Langly's rather delicate stomach. When he finally reached the ride, Skinner was wholly unsurprised to see Melvin Frohike loitering by a gift stand and prodding at a miniature model of a raft full of singing pirates. "Shoddy mechanics," he said out loud as Skinner approached. "I could build you a better toy with three paper clips and a stick of gum." The manager behind the counter scowled at him. "Hey, MacGyver," he said. "Why don't you get lost?" Frohike, unlike Langly and Byers, looked Skinner over gravely as he stepped away from the stand. "It's a pleasure," he said formally, bowing his head. "Have you ever ridden before? I hear the pirates are most excellent this time of year." Resigned, Skinner climbed mutely into a motorized raft with Frohike carefully on his heels. "What is this, like the three ghosts of Christmas?" Skinner said in a low voice as they set off to a joyful chorus of "Yo ho ho"s. "I have to be visited by each of you before I understand my true purpose?" Frohike looked insulted. "We're taking necessary precautions," he said indignantly. "If you had been followed..." Skinner let the statement hang in the air; both of them knew what could have happened if any of them had been followed. "It's been ten years," Skinner said, "so you'll have to excuse my impatience. I assume you three have a good reason for this little charade?" Frohike smiled. "You mean you're not enjoying your trip to the Magic Kingdom?" "I'd be enjoying it more if I knew what it was leading to," Skinner nearly growled, his vocal irritation drowned out by a crowd of shrieking lady robots. "There's one more ride you have to try," Frohike said pleasantly as they climbed out of the boat at the end of the ride. "It's -- " "Let me guess," Skinner interrupted, suddenly understanding what the entire goose chase had to be leading up to. "The Haunted Mansion." Frohike nodded seriously. "I think you'll find it's everything you want out of a theme park," he said. There was, Skinner thought, a slight catch in his voice as he spoke. As he walked to Liberty Square, Skinner had a sudden vision of Mulder in the orange jumpsuit he had been wearing before his trial, of Scully in tears fighting valiantly not to show it, of the look on Mulder's face when Skinner had told him what had happened to his son. No, he thought, not everything. * * * The mansion was not haunted by Mulder and Scully, at least not as far as Skinner could see. This time, he found, he was riding alone. A single man past middle age riding in his own car at a Disney World attraction? Skinner tried not to dwell on the details as he reluctantly pulled the lap bar over him. Three-quarters of the way through the ride, Skinner was beginning to think Frohike and the boys had erred in sending him here when it happened. As his small car rocketed around a corner, Skinner caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He was not alone in the car. That itself might not have alarmed him -- the ride was called the Haunted Mansion, after all, and there were bound to be trick mirrors scattered throughout -- but for the fact that his fellow passenger was none other than Alex Krycek, whom Skinner was absolutely certain had been dead for more than ten years. "24 Skyline Drive. Don't come before dark," hissed a voice in his ear, and then the entire ride went black. Skinner emerged into the blinding sunlight feeling relatively certain that he was alone. But, he thought a little shakily, he might never be able to tell again. * * * 24 Skyline Drive, Skinner was mildly surprised to discover, was a very nice house in a quiet suburban community miles away from the commercial bustle of Walt Disney World. He rang the doorbell with great trepidation and then waited, studying the front of the house; utterly non-descript, it seemed a strange place to find Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Skinner didn't know what he had been expecting to happen -- more subterfuge, he assumed, another delicate dance around the truth -- so he was stunned when the door swung open after several minutes of waiting to reveal one of the people Skinner had traveled several hundred miles and ten long years to see. "Sir," said Dana Scully, her tone guarded but her eyes warm. "Please come in." Scully looked different than Skinner remembered her, at once seeming more compact and yet stronger than she had been as an FBI agent. Her red hair had been dulled to a warm brown color. "You changed your hair," Skinner said automatically after Scully seemed to notice him staring. She reached up self-consciously to touch it and then reflexively pulled her hand away. "Yes, well," she said dismissively, her tone careful and forced, "it was too noticeable the way it was." Skinner had sometimes wondered how he would react to seeing Scully or Mulder again after all these years -- would he hug them? shake their hands? salute? -- and now, still standing on the doorstep of the house, he had his answer: He would freeze motionless. Scully motioned him forward. "You'd better come in," she said. "The boys are bound to be watching, and John gets antsy when something doesn't go according to plan." John? It took Skinner several seconds to realize that Scully meant Byers. The Gunmen had been an integral part of Scully and Mulder's lives on the run from the beginning, then. "Scully..." Skinner started to say as he stepped inside. Scully gave him a quick, sad smile. "Thank you for coming," she said. "I know it might have seemed...presumptuous." Skinner shook his head mutely as Scully continued. "I apologize for all the subterfuge," she said. Skinner smiled. "Actually, I assumed that was Mulder's idea," he replied. Scully froze. It was obvious that Skinner had said something terribly wrong. "Scully," he said again, stepping closer to her, "Dana. Is Mulder...is he..." He trailed off, unable to finish. Was this why Scully had contacted him, after all these years? But the postcard said 'we,' he thought wildly. Scully shook her head as if coming out of a trance. "Mulder's alive," she said quietly, her voice catching on the last word. "He's here. But sir..." She looked up at him, her eyes wet. "There's so much I need to explain," she said. Unthinkingly Skinner reached for her hands. "You have no idea," he said haltingly, "how glad I was to hear that you and Mulder were alive, and safe." He paused, then amended: "Are you safe?" Scully seemed to shudder. "Relatively," she agreed, "for now. Please, come inside so we can speak further." As they walked along the hallway, Skinner barely registered his surroundings; the interior of the house was as non-descript as the outside, the furnishings reflective of neither Scully's taste nor Mulder's. "Have you been living here?" he asked. Scully looked surprised. "No. Courtesy of the Gunmen," she explained, leading him into the living room. "They -- " But she suddenly stopped short; from behind her Skinner could see a familiar outline across the room. "Who's there?" a voice said sharply. Even from behind, Skinner could almost sense some part of Scully begin to crumple with despair. "It's Skinner," he said, stepping forward after a beat of silence. At the sound of his voice Mulder's head jerked up, and Skinner was suddenly, horrifyingly, able to see why Scully had been so evasive, why Mulder hadn't spotted Skinner when he walked into the room. Mulder's eyes, once so alert and tinged with life, were blank and shockingly scarred. Mulder was blind. * * * It had been Langly's idea to send Skinner the postcard. Once the most affable of the three Lone Gunmen, without either the bravado of Melvin Frohike or the quiet intensity of John Byers, Langly had evolved over the years into Mulder and Scully's fiercest protector. The ten years since Mulder's escape from the death sentence had not been easy or kind to Mulder and Scully. To Scully, even that first night they had spent together as fugitives -- a night on which it had seemed that all things were possible as long as they had each other -- seemed very far away. Mulder was a man whose passion and intensity Scully had always admired but never completely understood, and giving up her life to share it with him was not as simple as Scully had pretended it would be. On the run, Mulder was tense and agitated, hyper-paranoid one minute and withdrawn the next; he could go for days without speaking to her and at other times jabbered for hours at a stretch about their tactics and strategies. In medical school, Scully had perfected the science of taking care of herself and her health even when under stress, but Mulder had difficulty sleeping or eating and seemed to fold in on himself as the years wore on. Once, after a particularly grueling defeat -- the Gunmen's attempt to get them into a high-security facility had backfired, and she and Mulder had barely escaped with their lives -- Mulder in one of his rare moments of complete honesty had confessed that he feared he was becoming his father. "Which one?" she had snapped without thinking, regretting it even as she spoke; it was unquestionably the cruelest thing she had ever said to her partner. Mulder had refused to look her in the eye for weeks. She and Mulder had spent a lifetime practicing the art of avoiding certain topics of conversation, and they couldn't afford to shatter their careful agreement by speaking about William. Late one night, in a seedy motel somewhere on a long stretch of midwestern highway, Mulder had come across a small photograph of William that Scully always carried with her. He had exploded. Even years later, Scully would remember being frightened at the sheer intensity of Mulder's inexplicable rage. "How can you carry this? Do you understand how dangerous it could be to have this?" he had shouted, his eyes furious. Later that night, as she pretended to be asleep in the sagging hotel bed, she heard the unmistakable sounds of Mulder in the bathroom, sobbing audibly. When he came to bed later that night, both of them pretended that she hadn't heard. Still, as gut-wrenchingly difficult as their lives had become, Scully and Mulder slept in the same bed night after night, Mulder's arms always curled reassuringly around her as if he feared she might slip away before dawn. Dana Scully had been reborn as so many different aliases in the past ten years that she craved the echo of her name on Mulder's lips at night, the mere sound of it enough to send shivers down her thighs. Making love to Mulder was never routine; there was always an element of danger to it, as if each time might be the last one before the end of the world. But when the end of the world had come and gone and they were left with nothing to show for it but their lives, Scully sensed in Mulder some final reckoning of anguish. It had been her idea to contact Walter Skinner-he had been willing to give his life to protect them, and Scully knew he would do so again-but Mulder had strenuously refused. It was too dangerous, their plan wasn't foolproof, there was too great a margin of error. Mulder had been right about so many things over the years -- 98.9% of the time, he had said to her so long ago -- that it was hard to overrule his protests that he could decide what was best for him, but Scully was determined. Ultimately, the genius of Langly's idea had been too strong for Scully to resist: "Mulder and Scully, you've saved the world!" Langly had announced enthusiastically in his best game-show voice. "What are you going to do next?" Scully had answered grimly. "Go to Disney World." * * * The silence in the air was palpable and seemed to settle around Scully like a second skin. After a long moment, Mulder stood -- with increasing difficulty, Scully noted with the detached panic that had so rapidly become a part of her daily routine -- and with great determination pushed himself forward. "You'll have to excuse my inhospitality," he said flatly, "but you shouldn't be here." But Skinner was recovering quickly. "Mulder," he said, stepping forward to shake Mulder's hand, "it's good to see you." Mulder's mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. "I wish I could say the same," he said, "but you can see for yourself. Or didn't you know, sir?" he added rhetorically. "I've always been blind." He turned in Scully's direction, his face devoid of any emotion. "Haven't I?" he said. Scully refused to flinch. Mulder wouldn't be able to see it, of course, but she knew with the utter certainty she had always possessed when it came to her partner that he would be able to sense it somehow, and that would be worse. "Can I speak to you outside?" Mulder said before she could speak; then, as he always had, Mulder took her silence as an acquiescence. Scully watched him maneuver painfully into the hallway, knowing that Mulder would resent the feeling of her eyes cataloguing his every step. Scully had had a thousand arguments with Mulder begin this same way, and as he whirled to face her, she was struck for the thousandth time by what she saw: simply Mulder's eyes, full of depth and promise. Scully had the strong feeling that no matter how many times they stood like this, post-apocalypse, she would never see his eyes as blind. "He shouldn't be here," Mulder said, his voice low and furious even as he leaned in close to her. "I am not having this argument with you right now," Scully replied calmly. "This is not your decision," Mulder said tightly. "Nor is it solely yours," Scully responded. "Mulder, I know that you're angry. But you have to trust me." Trust had always been a critical concept in their relationship, a lightning rod around which their arguments centered, and at its mention Mulder seemed to deflate in front of her. "Everything we did," he said quietly, "we did to keep him safe." Mulder wasn't referring to Skinner, but Scully understood what he was thinking. Unconsciously she felt herself stepping closer to him, reaching up to touch his face with her hands. Underneath them, Mulder was still. "What about keeping you safe?" she murmured into his chest. They stood that way for a long moment before Mulder abruptly pulled away from her. "I'm going upstairs," he said stiffly. Scully could do nothing but watch as Mulder swayed unsteadily towards the staircase -- though she ached to help him, she knew that Mulder was more than capable of making it on his own. "You have a lot to tell me," Walter Skinner observed as Scully returned to the living room. Scully nodded and took a seat across from Skinner on the couch. "Mulder was exposed to something," she said without preamble. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'd rather not go into the details of the lives Mulder and I have led since leaving the Bureau right now." She looked away from him and drew in a breath. "Last month, Mulder managed to infiltrate a top-secret facility in the New Mexico desert." "The same place where you and Mulder were last seen alive," Skinner noted. Scully nodded. "Sir, don't ask me to explain it. I don't know if I can explain it. But please trust what I'm about to tell you." She looked at him, her eyes piercing, and Skinner nodded silently. "The threat," she said slowly, "or the perceived threat of...invasion" -- her voice caught reluctantly on the word -- "has been neutralized. But in the process..." She closed her eyes briefly as if gathering strength. "In the process," she continued cautiously, "Mulder may have been exposed to something." "A toxin?" Skinner asked. "Possibly," Scully replied. "We don't know enough about it to be sure where it came from. Or what it's capable of," she added. "It blinded him," Skinner said. "No," Scully said sharply. Skinner looked at her questioningly. "There was an explosion," Scully said. "That's where the scarring -- " She broke off suddenly, swallowing hard. When she continued, it was in a softer voice. "Mulder was positioned directly in the line of fire," Scully said, not meeting Skinner's eyes. "He was wearing specialized protective gear, which is likely why he wasn't killed. Yes, the explosion damaged his eyes. But my primary concern right now is the substance he was exposed to in the fire." She paused. "It's paralyzing him," she said quietly. "His mobility has been affected. I have reason to believe that his condition will continue to deteriorate. We have no way of knowing if it is life-threatening, but regardless..." She swallowed. "It will nevertheless affect his quality of life." Stunned, Skinner attempted to process the information. "How can you know?" he asked finally. "We've seen its effects before," Scully explained, her voice clogged with anguish. "On who?" Scully looked away. "Gibson Praise," she whispered. Skinner sighed. "The Gunmen never mentioned Gibson," he said, more to himself than to Scully. He looked at her. "But you know of a way to help him," he said. It wasn't a question. Scully drew in a deep breath. "Mulder knows of a way," she said. "Mulder," Skinner observed, "didn't exactly seem receptive. You didn't tell him you had contacted me?" Scully shook her head. "He didn't want me to know," she said softly. "But he was...contacted." "By?" Skinner asked. "By a former informant of his who believes he has information that can help us." Skinner made a skeptical noise in his throat. "And who might that be?" he pressed. Scully sighed. "Sir, believe me, I'm not trying to be evasive. But I realize that this might sound...unbelievable." "Try me," Skinner said grimly. Scully squared her shoulders and settled into her chair, her back ramrod- straight. "His name is Joseph Donovan," she said. "Mulder knew him by the code name Deep Throat." Skinner stared, his mind instinctively flashing back to the sight of Alex Krycek sitting beside him in a carnival car. "I know how it must sound," Scully continued, a hint of desperation in her voice. "And to be honest, sir, I've never quite understood it myself. But since Mulder and I left the FBI, Mulder has experienced..." She trailed off, not knowing what to call Mulder's increasingly frequent nocturnal visitors -- visions? Hallucinations? Prophecies? Scully had spent the last ten years living among ghosts -- some of them hers, all of them Mulder's -- and attempting to carve a life among them. A great deal of Mulder's unease over the past decade, she knew, came from his interaction with his otherworldly company; the idea that the dead were not lost to them, as Mulder had put it, though once a source of comfort to them both, had become disquieting and foreboding. Scully had never grown accustomed to hearing Mulder carry on conversations in a harsh whisper when he thought she couldn't hear; she had never been able to completely shake off the fear that someone was with them even in their most private moments. Mulder had done his best to shield her from what he had cryptically referred to as his "ability," but somehow this had only made things worse, driving a wedge between them when they could not afford secrets. More than once, Scully had feared for his sanity -- but even to think it seemed so much a betrayal of the man she trusted with her life that Scully had long ago learned to banish such thoughts from her mind. "You're telling me Mulder can see dead people," Skinner interrupted flatly. Scully's eyes flashed. "I'm telling you," she said icily, "that I have witnessed things I can neither explain nor deny." Skinner's eyes narrowed -- her response had been classic Scully and they both knew it -- but Scully refused to back down. After a long moment, Skinner sighed. "I saw something," he admitted. "During the little funhouse of horrors the Gunmen rigged up for me." "What?" asked Scully. "Alex Krycek," Skinner answered grimly. "He's the one who gave me your address." Scully stared at him. "Son of a bitch," she whispered. "Mulder never told me that he..." She trailed off absently and then shook herself back into awareness. "I heard him arguing," she continued with difficulty. The discussion had been one-sided, of course, but Scully had heard enough to piece together a hypothesis. "He was telling someone that it was unacceptable, that he wouldn't go through with it." "Go through with what?" Skinner asked. Scully closed her eyes briefly; when she opened them again, they were wet. Mulder's voice had been firm, unhesitating. What he had said, what Scully had heard echoing into her nightmares every night since it had happened, was clear. But Scully couldn't allow Mulder to dictate her decision. Not this time. "He lived on faith," she said softly, "that we would be able to save the world. That there would be something in it worth saving." "And when you did, the world didn't even notice," Skinner finished heavily. "He gave up everything," Scully said. "He fought incredible odds. He believed in what we were doing long before anyone else did. And I refuse to believe now that nothing can be done." "What?" Skinner said impatiently. "What is it that needs to be done?" Scully swallowed difficulty, her voice reluctant but strong. "I believe," she said, "that there is something that may help him. A blood transfusion. It would have to come from someone who has the same DNA type as Mulder. Most likely a relative." "But Mulder has no living relatives," Skinner said, confused. Scully reacted as if she had been struck. "He has one," she said in a whisper as realization dawned in Skinner's mind. "I need to find William, sir," she said, her voice seeming to reach Skinner through a haze. "I need to find our son." * * * For the first time in ten years, Fox Mulder had neither a danger to flee from nor one to prevent. December 22, 2012 had come and gone and before it had, he and Scully had done what they had set out to accomplish. The conspiracy that had shaped his life since before he was born had been neutralized. And no one, Mulder reflected bitterly, would ever know about it. No one would ever know him as anyone except the blind, crippled man who lurched around the house like a ghost. Mulder had expected to feel a range of emotions after effectively saving the world, but he had never anticipated that self-pity would be one of them. During their anxious, desperate years on the run, Mulder had done his best not to dwell on what might become of him and Scully in their battle against invasion. He had accepted the distinct probability that he might have to sacrifice himself for the truth. But he had never considered the possibility that he might be reduced to a shadow of a life, the shell of a superhero. It must have been obvious even to the living dead that he wasn't coping well; on Christmas Day -- Scully was in the kitchen microwaving eggnog out of a can -- Mulder's half-hearted hope that his otherworldly visitations might stop after the threat of invasion was averted had been dashed when Deep Throat stepped through the large French doors that led to the patio. Mulder hadn't been able to see him, but he could sense that Deep Throat was there. "Can't you rattle some death chains or something to warn me you're coming?" Mulder said wearily. "Or are you just trying to have a little fun with a blind man?" "You've always been a blind man, Mr. Mulder," Deep Throat answered gravely. "Perhaps your blindness allowed you to see danger where others could not." Mulder held his tongue; the dead had always come to him shrouded in mystery. "You must realize by now that you are still in danger," Deep Throat continued. "From what, sharp edges and potholes?" Mulder retorted. Deep Throat went on as if he hadn't heard. "There is, however, something to be done." Mulder's breath caught. Was Deep Throat promising him a cure? "What are you talking about?" he spat. "I'm talking about your son." Mulder froze, the sound of his breathing harsh and ragged in his throat. "What?" he choked out. "William has lived his entire life protected from forces that you feared might do him harm," Deep Throat explained airily. "But Mr. Mulder, that danger has passed. The time has come for your son to fulfill his destiny." Ice water seemed to balloon inside Mulder's lungs. "You son of a bitch," he seethed. "You stand on the other side of the grave and lecture me about danger and destiny? You can go to hell." Deep Throat chuckled. "Your temper has not diminished with your eyesight, I see," he observed. "My *temper* may be the only thing I have left," Mulder snarled. "Quite the contrary," Deep Throat said. "You have Ms. Scully, do you not? And you have your son." "Leave my son out of this," Mulder warned, his voice low and deadly. "Mulder?" Scully had walked into the room; Deep Throat promptly vanished. "Who were you talking to?" she asked. Mulder remained silent. "Mulder," she said sharply. It was the tone she routinely used to force the truth out of him, and it had worked for the past twenty years. When Mulder finally, reluctantly shared what Deep Throat had told him, Scully had -- against his wishes -- contacted the Lone Gunmen, who had done some digging and rapidly divulged a single key piece of information: William's current address. But despite Scully's optimism that William could be the miracle they had been searching for, Mulder found himself with too many misgivings to count. Now, with Scully and Skinner downstairs, Mulder sat moodily on the upstairs balcony, wondering how he could have gone from the key player standing against a worldwide invasion to utter uselessness in less than a month. "Mulder?" Mulder didn't turn around. "Scully told you everything," he said bleakly. "Not everything," Skinner answered. "She told me enough to help me understand what you've been through." Mulder barked out a short laugh. "You've been downstairs for less than an hour, sir. Believe me, it takes a lot longer than that to understand what Scully and I have been through." He turned around slowly; Skinner realized with a start how labored his movements were, how old the scar tissue around his eyes had already become. "You saved the world, Mulder," Skinner said. Mulder's mouth twisted. "Scully did most of the saving. I mostly slacked off and went to the beach," he said sardonically. He paused. "She saved my life. Did she tell you that part?" Skinner shook his head mutely before remembering that Mulder would be unable to see it. "No." "I -- " Mulder tried to take a step forward but stumbled, sagging, into a chair, his breathing audible as he tipped his head back. The smooth pink skin of the scars around his eyes seemed to glisten in the sun. "How bad is it, Mulder?" Skinner asked quietly after a moment. "How bad are you going to let it become?" Mulder shuddered. "I have minimal residual vision," he acknowledged. "I can distinguish light from dark, I can make out shapes. Scully's opinion is that it might be possible for surgery to restore most of my eyesight." "But your limbs...?" Skinner pressed. Mulder's mouth was set in a thin line. "According to Scully," Mulder said reluctantly, "the toxin seems to mimic the effects of a disease like multiple sclerosis or cerebral palsy." Mulder gestured with one arm toward his legs and Skinner realized that Mulder's hand was trembling. "I have some numbness," Mulder admitted. "If it continues to progress, I will lose the function of my legs." And eventually the ability to breathe on your own, Skinner thought but did not dare say aloud; already he could see how much Mulder's disclosure had cost him. "Scully asked for my help because she wants to make sure she's doing what's best for you, and for William. She saved your life, Mulder," Skinner said in a low voice. "Don't you think you owe it to her to agree to save your own?" Mulder jerked in response. Alarmed, Skinner started forward; Mulder's movements, once so fluid and graceful, now looked very much like he was having a seizure. But instead Mulder rose to his feet. "Can you give me your word," he said, his forearms quivering as he braced them against the chair, "that you can protect them?" "No," Skinner said honestly. "But I can give you my word that I will do everything in my power to keep your family safe." Mulder was silent for a long time, the blankness in his eyes concealing any trace of what he was thinking. "You do what you think is best," he said shortly, leaving Skinner to stand alone and wonder what that was. * * * The next day, Skinner found himself barreling along the highway with the three Lone Gunmen in a beat-up van whose ominous rattling sounds gave Skinner the sickening suspicion that it was at least as old as Mulder's work on the X-Files. Scully had done everything but pack them brown bag lunches. And as they headed out the door, Scully pulled him aside. "He's weakening," she murmured in a low voice so that Mulder wouldn't hear. "Please hurry." Now, in the van, Skinner pondered the situation he had gotten himself into. "Look, Skin-Man," Langly said casually while Skinner glowered, "why do you think Scully called you in the first place? She shows up at this family's doorstep, claims she needs her long-lost kid to lay hands on her ailing partner, they figure her for a fruitcake and narc to the cops. But an assistant director of the FBI getting his authority figure on? That swings weight. You sit down with them, have some coffee, make nice, then you tell them William's birth father is gravely ill, so sad, you need to take William for an emergency blood transfusion. Voila, let the healing begin." In the back seat, Byers politely cleared his throat. "Just so we're on the same page," he said calmly, "let's be clear that we are not seeking to kidnap William from his adoptive parents." Skinner raised his eyebrows; no one had ever said anything to him about kidnapping. "No, we're just planning to use him to heal Mulder," interjected Frohike, not sounding all that pleased with the idea. Skinner, too, was conflicted -- the plan itself, if one could call it that, was a logical one, but how after all these years could he deliver William to Mulder and Scully's doorstep and then expect them to give him up again? It seemed improbable, Skinner thought, that the treatment for Mulder's condition could be delivered to them so easily. "Is there any indication," Skinner said aloud, "that this is dangerous in any way for William?" The Gunmen glanced at each other. "No," Frohike spoke up. Nothing had ever come easily for Mulder and Scully. Maybe, Skinner thought, this would be the one thing in their lives that went right. * * * It was too quiet, Scully decided as she got to her feet and headed upstairs. Mulder was standing on the porch, his forearms lightly resting on the railing as he stared off into the distance. "Can you see the Magic Kingdom from here?" Scully said softly as she stepped outside, not wanting to startle him. "This is my Magic Kingdom," Mulder said, lifting his arm and spreading it in front of him to indicate the world outside their house, a world he could not see but which he sensed pulsing beneath them like a heartbeat. "All of this." "You're right," she agreed, moving forward and taking his arm. "It is." Scully laid her head against his chest, savoring the sound of his heartbeat beneath her. He stroked her hair slowly. "Is your hair still brown, Scully?" he murmured. She nodded against him. "In my mind I always imagine you with red hair. You should let it go back to red." "I'd probably be gray by now, Mulder," she noted. His expression sobered, and he looked down at her; Scully felt that his eyes seemed to look right through her despite the blankness in them. "It doesn't feel right. I don't like this, Scully," he said seriously. " I know you don't, Mulder," she said. "But what choice do you have? We deserve - *you* deserve -- better than this." "What about our son?" he said quietly, pulling away from her. Scully flinched; Mulder had always avoided talking about William. "What about what he deserves? What about his chance to live a normal life without being overshadowed by threats and conspiracies?" Scully took a step back. "Do you think I don't want that for him?" she demanded. "Mulder, you have no idea. When I lost him..." She felt her eyes fill with tears. "Do you think that was easy?" Once, Scully thought, Mulder would have reached for her and pulled her into his arms, murmuring comforting words into her hair. But time and the fight for survival had hardened them both, and Mulder merely turned away. No, Scully thought. I will not let this happen to us. She stepped forward and put her arms around him from behind. "You're his father, Mulder," she said softly. "What is it you're really afraid of?" After a moment, she felt a shudder run through him that turned into a sob. She slipped out of their embrace and moved to stand in front of him. "You saved the world for him," she said, reaching up to touch his face with her hands. "Let him try to save you." Mulder closed his eyes. Scully felt a shiver run through her as he touched his own hands to her face and tilted her head up to place a gentle kiss on her lips. "You already have," he said almost inaudibly, and left her standing on the porch with his taste still lingering on her lips. * * * Skinner was beginning to wish that while Mulder was out saving the world, he had also thought to get the Lone Gunmen a nicer van. Their cross-country trip took four days -- the Lone Gunmen, still full-blown paranoiacs, refused to fly -- and by the end of it, all four passengers had frayed nerves and the van itself was beginning to become fairly ripe. But as they turned up the driveway of the Van de Kamp farm, Skinner reminded himself why they were there. Even the Three Stooges suddenly looked sober, he thought. "All right," Skinner said as he extracted himself from the back of the van, "go take a hike. I'll call you when and *if* I need you." The Gunmen nodded and drove away. Skinner took a deep breath and started up the long pathway to the Van de Kamps' front door. He knocked firmly. After a pause, the door opened a crack and a little girl's face peered out at him. Skinner shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Uh, hi," he said, trying hard not to sound intimidating. "Is your mom or dad home?" The little girl nodded solemnly as an adult's footsteps approached. "Maya!" a man's voice called good-naturedly. "What have we told you about opening the door?" The door swung open to reveal a man. "Hi," he said, swooping the girl into his arms. "Can I help you?" "Mr. Van de Kamp?" Skinner questioned. "Yes," the man said cautiously, as his daughter giggled and buried her head in his neck. "What's this about?" Skinner pulled out his badge with an easy, practiced motion. "Mr. Van de Kamp, my name is Walter Skinner, I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I come inside?" Mr. Van de Kamp looked confused. "The FBI?" he said. "What's this about?" "Please," Skinner said, in a tone that was more commanding than imploring. "Let's go inside so I can explain." Mr. Van de Kamp took a step back and leaned in to murmur in his daughter's ear. "Go find somewhere to play, okay, Maya? Take Scout with you." He placed her gently on her feet and the little girl scampered off. "Is she your daughter?" Skinner asked. Mr. Van de Kamp's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said guardedly, "Maya's nearly six. Why?" There was no easy way to explain, so Skinner forged ahead. "Mr. Van de Kamp, do you have a son?" The man was clearly becoming agitated. "Yes, Will's eleven, he's upstairs. What's wrong? Why are you asking these questions?" "Nothing's wrong," Skinner tried to assure him. "I'd like to talk to you about a situation concerning William's birth parents. Is your wife home?" Mr. Van de Kamp's eyes had widened in shock at the mention of William's birth parents. "Yes," he said numbly, "let me get her." He left the room and returned a moment later with a frightened-looking Mrs. Van de Kamp. "My husband said you wanted to talk to us about Will's birth parents," she said nervously. "What is this about?" The three of them took seats in the living room as Skinner began to speak. "I know this must come as a shock," he began. "I don't know how much you know about William's birth parents..." Both the Van de Kamps shook their heads. "Nothing," Mrs. Van de Kamp said. "Only that his mother was a single mother and it was a difficult decision for her to give him up...that she believed she was doing what was best for him." "And we thank God every day for the precious gift she gave us," Mr. Van de Kamp added, his fingers tightening around his wife's hand. Skinner nodded. "At the time of his birth, William's parents worked for me," he said. "Both of them were agents with the FBI. The work they did was...dangerous. So dangerous that William's father had to...go underground...to avoid being hurt. William's mother believed that it wasn't fair to raise her son that way." Both the Van de Kamps were wide-eyed, listening to him. Then Mrs. Van de Kamp began to shake her head. "They can't have him back," she whispered tearfully. "Will is our son, do you understand, he's our *son*." Skinner took a deep breath. "Mrs. Van de Kamp, no one wants to take William away from you," he said slowly. "But William's father is sick, very sick. He needs a blood transfusion. And William...William is his only living relative. He is Mul -- he is his father's only chance for survival." Mrs. Van de Kamp looked as though she had been struck. "No," she whispered. "Why now? If their work was so dangerous, why choose to have a child in the first place only to give him up?" Mr. Van de Kamp looked at his wife. "Honey, please," he said imploringly. "Let's just listen to what he has to say." He nodded at Skinner. "I know how difficult this must be for you," Skinner said. "All I can tell you is that the work William's parents did is highly classified and that the objectives they were working for when William was born have been fulfilled. Believe me, they never intended to have to give him up. Both of them love William very much, and their greatest wish was to protect him from harm. I can't tell you how glad they both are to know that he is healthy, and safe. But they need his help now. Desperately." Mrs. Van de Kamp was crying softly, Mr. Van de Kamp rubbing her back. He glanced up at Skinner. "What," he said slowly, "what would we have to do?" Skinner gave Mr. Van de Kamp a grateful look. "William's parents live in Florida," he said, "and William's father is too weak to travel. I would ask that you allow William to travel with me to Florida." Mr. Van de Kamp's eyes narrowed. "If all you need from him is blood," he said, "why can't you take it here? Why does he need to fly across the country?" Skinner had been prepared for such a question. "The procedure, while not at all dangerous," he assured them, hating himself for lying, "is somewhat complicated. William will not have to undergo surgery of any sort" -- this much, at least, was true -- "but his father may require more than one transfusion." "He's not going anywhere alone with you," Mrs. Van de Kamp said. Suddenly Skinner heard footsteps in the hallway. "Mom? Dad?" It was a boy's voice. Skinner turned... And found himself unable to speak, the words stuck in his throat. There was no mistaking him; before him, holding a basketball under one arm, stood the son of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, a gangly eleven-year-old with untidy red hair and piercing hazel eyes. "Just a minute, Will," Mr. Van de Kamp said tightly, as if he was trying not to cry. "Go find your sister, please." Will shrugged and left the room, and Mr. Van de Kamp gave Skinner a searching look. "He looks like them, doesn't he?" he asked quietly. "That's why you look so shocked." Skinner nodded, and Mrs. Van de Kamp made a small noise of despair. "We always used to say," she said softly, "someone in his family must have the most gorgeous red hair..." "His mother," Skinner said. He managed a small smile. "And a temperament to match." "Will's wondered about them," Mrs. Van de Kamp said abruptly. "His parents. He knows he was adopted, he's forever asking questions..." "Just like his father," Skinner said without thinking. "Constantly asking questions." The Van de Kamps looked at each other, and Skinner could almost sense them coming to a mutual decision. "You never told us their names," Mr. Van de Kamp said after a pause. Skinner looked at him. He had no way of knowing that this wasn't a trap, that the Van de Kamps weren't in contact with Mulder and Scully's enemies and willing to reveal their location. But something in their eyes had convinced him that their concern for William was genuine. "His mother's name is Dana Scully," Skinner said slowly, "and his father...is Fox Mulder. Scully - Dana -- named him William after both their fathers." Mrs. Van de Kamp looked at him with tears in her eyes. "All right," she said. "But we need to discuss it with William first." * * * In Florida, Scully woke abruptly from sleep, her heart pounding. She glanced over; Mulder was awake, sagged back against the headboard, his eyes open and staring ahead at nothing. "Mulder," she said. "What is it?" Mulder's hand groped blindly in front of him. "Something's...wrong," he gasped. Scully's heart sank. "Tell me," she ordered, grabbing his wrist; his pulse was racing. "Cccan't...breathe," he wheezed. "Mulder. Mulder!" Scully's voice was firm. "Listen to me. Take a deep breath. Breathe with me, okay? It's okay. You're okay." "O...kay," Mulder repeated. "O...kay." Scully looked down and noticed for the first time that though she was holding Mulder's hand, it hung limply underneath hers. "Mulder, squeeze my hand," she commanded. She watched closely as his face seemed to strain with the effort, but his hand barely twitched in hers. "Okay, Mulder," she said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. "That's okay." "Legs...feel...heavy," he choked out. Scully ran a gentle hand from his forehead to his cheek. "It's progressing more rapidly," she said despondently. "Listen to me, Mulder, you need to hold out, okay? Keep breathing with me, in and out." Mulder nodded, his breath a cruel rattle in his throat. "Sc-scully," he said, "...something...I have...to tell you..." Scully shook her head. "No," she said firmly, "Mulder, you don't have to tell me anything." "Scully..." he breathed. "I know, Mulder," she said, stroking his hand though she wasn't sure he could feel it. "I know." * * * The next day, Skinner and the Van de Kamp family boarded a plane bound for Orlando. Mrs. Van de Kamp kept looking at him suspiciously, obviously wishing he wouldn't make small talk with her children, but William was -- as promised -- full of questions about Mulder and Scully, the FBI and the world in general. "Will I get to meet them? My birth mom and dad?" It was the first thing he had asked the day before when Skinner met with him to discuss their plan. Mrs. Van de Kamp glanced anxiously at Skinner. "We'll see," she said. Just before they boarded the plane, Skinner stepped away and placed a phone call to Dana Scully, who answered the phone anxiously. "We're on our way," Skinner said, placing a small emphasis on the word 'we.' "Oh, thank God," Scully breathed. She was so rattled, Skinner thought, that she didn't even ask how he had accomplished the task. "William -- is he...?" "He's perfect, Scully," Skinner answered. "He has a good life. And Mulder...?" Skinner could hear her voice tremble through the phone connection. "Not good, sir," she admitted. "His condition has progressed faster than I anticipated. He..." She trailed off and he gave her a second to regain her composure. "He's not able to walk," she said quietly. "I'm afraid his breathing will be affected." "Tell him to hang on," Skinner said grimly, and hung up. In the boarding area, as Will and Maya chased each other gigglingly around the terminal, Skinner worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Van de Kamp a question. "Mr. Van de Kamp, has Will..." He plunged ahead. "Has he ever demonstrated any...unusual abilities?" Mr. Van de Kamp gave him a suspicious look. "What do you mean by that?" he said. Skinner sat back in his chair and shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Never mind." It was William's first plane ride, and he was practically wriggling with excitement; for him, Skinner thought, this was nothing less than an adventure. Skinner only prayed he was doing the right thing. * * * In the car on the way to Mulder and Scully's house, Will and Maya kept up a running chatter, most of it about nearby Disney World. "Maybe Mr. Mulder and Mrs. Scully can show us around Disney World!" Will suggested enthusiastically. The Van de Kamps glanced at each other. "I'm not sure Mr. Mulder will be feeling up to it, Will," Mr. Van de Kamp said gently. "But maybe -- *maybe* -- we'll go while we're in town." "I'm going to be a princess when I grow up," Maya piped up from the back seat. "I'm going to be an architect like my dad," Will announced. "Or maybe," he mused, "an FBI agent." Mrs. Van de Kamp closed her eyes briefly and pressed her lips together, but she did not say anything until Skinner turned into the driveway. "Why are we going to a house?" she said nervously. "If Mr. Mulder is so sick, why isn't he in a hospital?" "For personal reasons, he's preferred to be at home," Skinner answered. "Scully is a medical doctor, she's been overseeing his care." The Van de Kamps unfolded hesitantly from the car. "Will, Maya," Mr. Van de Kamp commanded, "stay in the car while your mother and I go inside." "But Dad -- " Will started to say. "Not now, Will." Skinner felt as though all three of them were holding their breath as he rang the doorbell. He heard the door unlock almost immediately, as if Scully had seen them arrive and had been waiting to open the door. As it swung open, he realized with a start that Scully's hair was back to the same vivid red color it had been when she was with the Bureau. It was a color that the Van de Kamps clearly recognized; he could hear Mrs. Van de Kamp draw in a sharp intake of breath upon seeing Scully for the first time. "Mr. and Mrs. Van de Kamp," Scully said in as steady a voice as she could manage, "my name is Dana Scully. Thank you so much for coming all this way..." But then her voice trailed off, her eyes focusing somewhere behind them. Skinner turned; William, in defiance of his father's orders, had stepped out of the car and was standing uncertainly in the front yard. "Oh my God," Scully whispered, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. "William." William jogged a little closer to them while Skinner and the Van de Kamps stood frozen in place. Scully reached out to embrace him. "William," she repeated, stroking his hair. "William. William." William reluctantly pulled away from her and turned to face his parents. "It's all right," he said to them. "Isn't it?" Scully was wiping tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I...I never thought I would see him again. Thank you." Mr. and Mrs. Van de Kamp, Skinner noticed, were crying as well. "Please," Scully said, "come inside." The Van de Kamps looked at each other, once again seeming to communicate without words -- they were a couple that was in tune with one another in the same way Mulder and Scully were, Skinner realized. They seemed to reach an agreement; Mr. Van de Kamp said in a low voice, "I'll go get Maya from the car," and Mrs. Van de Kamp nodded. "Maya is my sister," Will confided to Scully. "She's five." Scully gave him a quick smile. When they were all inside the house, Scully took a deep breath. "I can't thank you enough for this," she said. Mrs. Van de Kamp's eyes filled with tears. "I have to admit, I was reluctant at first," she said softly. "But, Ms. Scully...we're parents too." Scully looked away, unable to speak. When she regained her composure, she looked at her son. "Will," she said quietly, "would you like to meet your dad?" Will nodded eagerly, looking anxious but excited, and got to his feet. The Van de Kamps did the same. "We'd like to stay with him, if you don't mind," Mr. Van de Kamp explained. Scully nodded. "Of course," she said. They climbed the stairs slowly. "He might look a little scary to you," Scully cautioned William. "He was hurt, in an explosion, and he has scars around his eyes." "Is he blind?" Will said in a whisper. Scully nodded, a lump in her throat. "He's very sick, Will," she said, her voice trembling. "He can't walk or speak right now. But he will know you're here." She paused. "He's wanted to meet you for a very long time," she said. They stopped just outside the door to a bedroom, and Skinner was dismayed to hear the sound of harsh, labored breathing from inside. His eyes met Scully's. "It happened yesterday," she whispered. "The paralysis is making its way upwards, through his lungs." Scully slipped into the room, placing one hand in Mulder's and the other on his forehead. "Mulder," she said softly, "there's someone hear who wants to meet you. It's okay, don't try to talk." Mulder's lips moved almost imperceptibly, and Scully bent her head close to him; his voice was hardly a breath in her ear. "...William?" She nodded before remembering that he was unable to see her. "Yes," she whispered. Scully was startled to feel Mulder's grip tighten on her hand. William stepped into the room. "Hi," he said hesitantly. Scully swallowed a sob as Mulder's eyes opened, frantically darting back and forth but seeing nothing. "It's okay," Will said, more confidently. He turned to his parents. "I know what I'm supposed to do now." The Van de Kamps looked at each other, and all the color seemed to drain from Mrs. Van de Kamp's face. "Wh-what do you mean, honey?" she said. William took another step forward into the room, his voice sounding eerily less like an eleven-year-old boy's. "I know why I'm here," he said. "I know." Mulder's breathing was becoming more high-pitched and frantic, the sound of it like a wail deep inside Mulder's chest. "William," Scully whispered, feeling her chest begin to tighten, "William, please..." But William never removed his hand from Mulder's chest, his face tranquil. After what seemed like forever, Mulder sank back against the pillows, wheezing. It was Mr. Van de Kamp who broke the silence. "William," he said, sounding shocked, "what did you do?" William dropped his hand to his side and turned to face them hesitantly, looking dazed. "What happened?" he said uncertainly. "What did I do?" Mrs. Van de Kamp broke into sobs and buried her face in her husband's shoulder. "What did I do?" William repeated, sounding as though he was about to cry. "What happened?" Mrs. Van de Kamp slowly raised a trembling hand and pointed towards Mulder. "Look," she said. "Oh God. Oh my dear God." "What...?" Mr. Van de Kamp said, and then stopped short; Mulder's breathing was slowing, but not stopping, and Mulder's eyes were opening. "Scully?" he said wonderingly. Scully lunged forward and grabbed Mulder's hand. "Mulder, squeeze my hand," she commanded, her voice thick. Mulder complied. His grip was strong and firm. Scully nearly collapsed against the bed with relief. "Push your leg against my hand," she said. Mulder's leg pressed forward. "Oh, Mulder," Scully breathed, hoping he could hear the smile in her voice. "You did great, Mulder. You did just fine." Mulder nodded and reached a shaky hand towards her. Scully felt a shiver of relief run through her as his hand touched her face. "I can feel you," he said softly. "Oh my God," Mr. Van de Kamp was saying. "It's a miracle. We've witnessed a miracle." "But how?" Mrs. Van de Kamp asked unsteadily. "How?" Scully turned to look at them, her face wet with tears. "I can't explain it," she said. "I always said he was a gift from God," Mrs. Van de Kamp whispered. "How did you know?" She addressed the question to her son. "How did you know?" Will shook his head, still looking bewildered. "I don't know," he said. "I just knew." He stepped forward towards Mulder's bed. "Mr. Mulder?" he said tentatively. "Are you going to be okay?" Mulder motioned Will closer. "Will," he said in a husky voice, "how would you like to go to Disney World?" * * * Two days later, Skinner watched in astonishment as Mulder, with Scully's arm and gentle directions guiding him, made his way carefully through crowds of people in the Magic Kingdom. The day before, Skinner had come across Mulder and Scully speaking in low, urgent tones in the kitchen under the pretense of fixing lunch. "Have you had any more...visitors?" Scully was asking. Mulder shook his head. "No," he said. "Not even a 'congratulations on cheating death yet again' ghost-o- gram from my father." He paused. "You know, after the fifth time, you win a free set of steak knives." Skinner could make out the sound of Scully whapping Mulder lightly on the arm, but he could tell she was smiling. "Don't you want to know," she said after a moment, her voice sobering, "how -- " Mulder shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I can't explain it and I don't want to explain it. No more questions, Scully. If the Van de Kamps can accept that their son worked a miracle, why can't we?" Skinner made the mistake of stepping on a creaking floorboard, and Scully's head snapped up. "I'm sorry," Skinner said hastily. "I didn't mean to intrude." Mulder shook his head and then swallowed. "Don't be," he said. He paused. "You were right," he said finally. "Both of you were right. Thank you." "First you refuse to question a miracle, then you admit to being wrong?" Scully asked dryly. "You really did have a near-death experience." Mulder shook his head. "We saved the world, Scully," he said, grinning. "And now? We're going to Disney World." The next day, Skinner still couldn't quite believe his eyes as the Van de Kamps walked alongside Mulder and Scully while Maya and William ran excitedly ahead. "He's beautiful, Mulder," Scully murmured in Mulder's ear. "He has your eyes." "Not my nose, I hope," Mulder interjected in mock horror. Scully smiled. "No, not your nose," she said. "I wish I could see him," Mulder said wistfully. Scully squeezed his hand. "You will," she said. "The technology involving eye surgery is incredibly advanced. We'll look into it, Mulder, I promise." Up ahead of them, Mulder could hear William and Maya shouting with excitement. "This is that ride where they play that song and you get to see all the countries in the world!" Maya was saying. "Go on it with me, Will, go on it with me!" Skinner met Scully's eyes and smiled. The world *was* smaller now, he thought -- safer, more intimate. Perhaps, he thought as he watched the two families walk through Fantasyland together, even happier. Mr. Van de Kamp stepped forward and put a hand on each of his children's shoulders. "We can all go on it together," he said, glancing back over his shoulder and giving Mulder and Scully a tentative smile. "I don't know," Mulder said softly to Scully as they stepped forward, "I think I'm seeing pretty clearly right now." Scully looked at him, surprised. "What?" she said. He stopped and bent to kiss her on the lips, ignoring William's catcall of "All *right*!" "Happiest place on earth," he whispered in her ear. * * * END 5/5. * * * EPILOGUE: I don't do sequels, but I envision Mulder and Scully's future going something like this: Mulder has surgery and afterwards must wear glasses, in which he looks extraordinarily attractive, of course. William visits them over every school holiday. Mulder and Scully adopt a child, to whom the Lone Gunmen are very odd, doting uncles. Scully works in a clinic somewhere and Mulder writes articles for various sci-fi magazines and psychology journals. Sometimes he jets off in pursuit of paranormal phenomena, but he always makes sure to check in with Scully and make it home by dinnertime. And every so often, Skinner visits and the whole clan goes on Space Mountain together. Because where else could our heroes find perfect happiness but in the happiest place on earth? * * * ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story began with a variation on that old joke: "Mulder and Scully, you've just saved the world. What are you going to do now?!" The idea that Mulder and Scully would, in 2012, save the world just like that and then jet off to Disney World made me laugh, as did the idea of Skinner alone in the Magic Kingdom trying to gather clues from the Lone Gunmen. But then, obviously, it became much deeper. I wanted to probe at least a little bit into the idea that saving the world doesn't mean you'll automatically get all the recognition and happiness you deserve. Yet, in the end, I did end up springing for the over- the-top, cheesily happy ending. Why? Because when you've been a fan of The X-Files for as long as I have, you start to see Mulder and Scully as real people who deserve that chance at perfect happiness. Originally, the story was headed in a very different direction. Would this be a better fanfic if I had opted for a more realistic outcome, or, for that matter, if I had delved into the details of what exactly Mulder and Scully did to save the world? Possibly. But hey -- this is fanfic, not rocket science. I have read very few fanfics that feature the Van de Kamps, but I wanted to portray them as basically decent, kind people who want what's best for their son...and if that means recognizing him as some kind of miracle worker, so be it. Lastly, this is the first story I have ever written that has overt references to MSR (you don't know how odd it was for a former die-hard NoRomo to write that one line about Mulder and Scully making love). It is also the first story I have ever written with an openly happy ending. Make of those two facts what you will. * * * ABOUT THE AUTHOR: RAE LYNN used to write reams of fanfic under a different name, which she doesn't want anybody to know about because she was in junior high school then and most of her stories were rollickingly bad. Now about to enter graduate school, she is living proof that a longstanding obsession with The X-Files and fanfic cannot be cured. In her spare time, Rae enjoys reading non-fiction (oh, all right, and fanfic), distance running, and savoring chocolate and feedback, which she invites at rae_lynn05Atyahoo.com.