As always, you know these characters don't belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter, Fox Television, Ten Thirteen Productions and various and sundry others with attorneys. Definitely not to me. OK? Understood? Are we on semi-legal ground now? This story takes liberty upon Mulder's past, using the episode "Talitha Cumi" as a starting point. Actually, it uses just the first part of the episode, beginning just after Mulder first visits his Mom following the stroke . I'm not attempting to guess what happens in the first part of Season Four. I did, however, give poor Mom Mulder a first name. If the time should come we ever learn her name, I'll change the story appropriately. Other than the show, inspiration for this goes to Richard Thompson's song "Burns Supper" from the CD "You? Me? Us?" Any comments are welcome. ----------------------------- "What a new-found friend is honesty "To see ourselves as others see. "To see the shy boy inside the man. "Is that all I am "Just starved of loving? "When I close my eyes. "Close my eyes, "To the cold flame of the northern lights. "I close my eyes. "Close my eyes. "I see you still in the shuttered night." Richard Thompson "Burns Supper' SHUTTERED NIGHT by Rhoda Miel / ZeusStorag Summer 1996 Mulder was on the phone. Again. Scully tried to concentrate on the road ahead, looking straight out the windshield. But her hands tapped across the steering wheel. She flicked the windshield wiper on. Then turned it off. Then on again. Not bothering with the intermittent wiper system built into the car to fight the mist on the glass. Preferring the repetitive motion to the metronome of technology. It gave her something to do. Something else to think about. Something else to be concerned with. She didn't need to look at Mulder in the passenger seat of the car to read his body language. Half slouched, but running his free hand through his hair, then sliding his thumb along the seam of his trousers. Nodding and gesturing as if the man on the other end of the connection could see him. "I know," he was saying. "I know. I tried that, but a TV news crew isn't about to give up its unedited footage just because 'The Law' says it's important. Got to protect the First Amendment. You know the argument. "Yeah, I tried that too, but federal judges aren't very excited about approving search warrants merely on a hunch when someone wakes them up at 2 a.m." For a moment, all Scully could hear was the drone of the engine and the squeak of the wipers as Mulder paused to listen to the man on the other end of the line. "Because you don't sleep like a normal person, Langley. When was the last time you saw Katie Couric, huh?" Another pause. "Well most people view it as a wake-up show, not a nightcap. Never mind. Listen, I just need to see if you can get your hands on the tape. Yeah. All the unedited footage from WZCO. If anyone's got pictures of our guy, they're it." Scully rubbed a hand across her eyes. Too many hours awake. Too many hours in the car. She reached for the foam cup nestled between the seats. Took a sip. The coffee had gone cold, but its thick bitterness still shook her tired frame. "I'll worry about 'official' protocol when I need to," Mulder was saying. "I don't even know if there's anything on that tape we can use, never mind if we'll ever build any kind of a case on it. "Yeah. Just see what you can do, OK? Thanks." Mulder lowered the phone from his ear, pushed the antenna into place. He said nothing for as long as 30 second. Stared ahead into the dark. He fingered the phone again. Stared at it, then pulled the antenna back out. He pushed the power button, started dialing. "Mulder, stop," Scully reached a hand out across the seats, placed it over his hands and the phone. His face was in shadows, reflecting the pale green light from the dashboard as he stared at her. Mulder said nothing, but he made no further movement to dial. "Just stop. Calm down. Take a break," she squeezed the hand beneath hers. "Stop running in place." Scully gave him a brief smile: "You're making me tired," she said. "Sorry. I ... I, um, I don't like waiting," Mulder shrugged. "I've noticed." Mulder dropped into silence. It'd be another hour on the road yet before they arrived back in D.C. Scully wished he'd try to sleep -- at least close his eyes -- but knew he never would. <<"And would you, Dana Katherine, if it was your mother?">> she thought to herself. <<"Did you when it was your Dad?">> If it was Mom, Scully wondered, would she have left her behind? Left her to pursue some meaningless case? Left her alone? <<"Stop it,">> she chided herself. <<"Mulder isn't you. What you'd do doesn't matter.">> She wouldn't question him further on his insistence they continue the search for Jeremiah Smith. Not now, at least. If he wanted to talk, they'd talk. If he wanted to sit and say nothing, they'd say nothing. If he wanted to search for a missing "miracle" man, Scully would provide her support for as long as he'd need it. Scully had cursed him before for his willingness to jump at every crazy hunch and expect her to follow him blindly. But she knew his hunches -- crazy or not -- too often proved right. And Mulder's instincts often left them both in danger. She'd follow him again. She'd back him up. He'd back her up. Together, they'd pick up the pieces after everyone else was gone. "You probably think I'm crazy," Mulder's voice was quiet. "I seem to recall telling you that on several occasions," Scully replied, grateful to hear the soft sound from the other side of the car, a sort of a half-chuckle. "I can't help it, Scully. I can't help but think something else is going on. Something beyond the obvious. There's got to be." "Why, Mulder? A stroke is mysterious, but it's not unusual. I know it's difficult for you to believe, but theses are the normal disasters that happen in every family every day." "Not in mine," he mumbled the words, staring out the side window, tracing the pattern of the drizzle on the glass. "Normal isn't what we Mulders do." Scully didn't reply. She eased the car over to the left lane, passed a semi-truck with reflectorized paint and markings spelling out the name of a moving company. She heard Mulder shift in his seat as he eased out of his trench coat. "My mother was sick sometimes when I was a kid," he said and moved to toss the coat into the back seat. He halted in mid-motion. The coat and his hand both hanging over the seat back. "Sick. That was the polite way to say it. The society way. It's what my father always said. 'Your mother's sick, Fox.You're a man. Take care of her.'" He finished the toss, flipping an errant sleeve out of the way before turning forward again. "Clinical depression," Mulder said. "That's what we call it now. It's a disease for the '90s, Scully. Get depressed, pop a Prozac and like the song says, 'The sun will come out tomorrow.'" There was an edge to his voice Scully rarely heard. The rage he hid until he butted heads with bureaucracy or the shadows who stopped him from the truth. She said nothing. This was Mulder's story to tell. He would tell as much or as little as he wanted. She'd bear witness to whatever small part of himself he gave away. Mulder closed his eyes. He didn't want to see anything. Didn't want the memories there in his head. Didn't know how to get rid of them. He wasn't certain why he was telling Scully. Maybe he told her because it felt so good, after so many years, to have someone he could tell them to. Someone real. Someone he didn't have to impress or hide from. A partner. A friend. "The first time. The first time, I was scared." ***** Fox had come home from school in the dark. Winter had settled hard over the Vineyard. The wind drove sand up against the snow fences along the beach and tore down the roads. A storm was coming in. The temperature had dropped 20 degrees since noon and thick clouds covered the small amount of light twilight could give. There was no light on in the house. Nothing to welcome him home. Samantha had disappeared a little more than a year ago. Dad had packed up and moved out during the summer -- first taking over the cottage in Rhode Island, then buying a house in West Tisbury. Mom had gotten quiet over the weeks and months. It was a slow drifting away. Fox wasn't certain when it had started. The day after Samantha disappeared, she'd sat in a corner of the living room, holding a doll his sister had abandoned next to the couch. She stroked its hair, smoothed its dress. She spoke only when spoken to. Then there were the shouts, in the middle of the night when Fox lay awake in bed, trying to remember the sound of Samantha's laugh. Arguments. Curses. Accusations. After Dad moved out, she rarely mentioned his name again. Only grudgingly gave Fox up to visit his father for a few hours. She demanded to know his every movement. Cried the one time he'd defied her strict rules and snuck out of the house. "You don't know,' she'd sobbed. "You don't realize." But that day, there were no tears. Fox called out to her that he was home. Grabbed a Coke from the refrigerator. There was no reply. He called again: "Mom?" No one in the kitchen. The family room and living room empty. "Mom?" He shouted down the stairs, flicked on the basement light and looked into the corners, the musty air and cobwebs making him sneeze. "Mom!" Maybe she was gone. Maybe she'd gone like Samantha. Maybe she wasn't coming back. "Mom!" Fox took the stairs two at a time. Slapped at the lights in the bathroom, Dad's study, the living room, family room. Nowhere. Nothing. No one. Upstairs. Two at a time. Hit the light switch in her room. The light glared off the mirror. Bounced back from the dark windows. The walk-in closet empty except for her clothes and the lingering odor of Dad's aftershave and leather shoes. "Mom!" He ran through the bathroom, back out into the hall. Stacks of books on the desk, windowsill and floor in his room. The basketball where he'd left it beside the nightstand. The bed had been stripped in the guest room, awaiting the next person able to handle the despair in the house. Fox could hear the wind in the trees, the bare limbs scratching at the window. The storm outside trying to break in. He stood in the hall. Stared at the only door left. The door no one opened any more. Samantha's room. He tried to catch his breath. Tried to control his body. It seemed the only thing he had power over any more. It wouldn't obey. He heard the sound of his breath echoing through the quiet hallway. He reached forward. The door already was cracked open and he gave it a slight push. It squeaked on its hinges, protesting the intrusion. "Mom?" Fox could barely hear his own voice. A gasp. Light from the hallway spilled into the room, cutting a groove in the darkness. "Mom?" A whispered prayer. She didn't move. Didn't answer. Didn't respond. Fox's legs felt unsteady. They didn't belong to him. He took one step, then another. She sat on the old rocking chair Mom and Dad had first placed in Samantha's room to rock her to sleep with a bottle. Then they used it to rock her to sleep during a bad dream. Finally, Samantha used it for her stuffed animals, moving them from her bed to the chair each night. Mom sat staring at the bed. Her face half in light, half in shadow. "Mom, why didn't you answer?" Fox stood next to his mother, looking down on the hair that was turning gray. The face that had shifted into a wrinkled landscape. She said nothing. "Mom?" She didn't answer. Fox knelt down beside her. Placed his hand on the arm of the chair beside her. "Mom, are you OK?" She blinked once, but didn't turn toward him. Fox moved his hand onto her arm, then slipped it onto her upturned palm. "Mom, it's me. It's Fox. What's wrong Mom?" The tree branches scraped against the window. Dad had said he was going to prune the limbs. The noise had frightened Samantha and during storms, Fox would wake to find her lying next to him. Fox could feel the rough texture of the carpet beneath his knees. "Mom, answer me. Please? Please Mom?" He lifted his hands to her face, turned her toward him. Her eyes were empty. "Mom?" He took his hands away and she turned back toward the empty bed. He begged, pleaded, teased. Finally he left the room. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe, if he just turned around, walked back in, it would have never happened. He pulled the door shut behind him, heard the mechanism click into place. Fox's legs gave way underneath him and he slipped down onto the carpet, sat with his back to the wall, his knees hugged up to his chest, staring at the door. The storm was raging now. He could hear the waves pounding against the shore a few hundred yards away. Heard the whistle and the whine of the wind at the cracks in the molding. The lights flickered, dimmed, then returned to full strength for a brief moment before the power went out. Fox didn't know what he was waiting for. Didn't know why he jumped. Why the darkness scared him. He didn't know how long he'd sat there before he inched his way back up. He flinched as the lights came back on. He turned the knob. Pushed the door open. "Mom?" She didn't move. Didn't answer. Didn't respond. The phone rang three times, four, five. Fox didn't recognize the voice at the other end of the line. A man's voice. Deep. "Is Bill Mulder there?" he asked. Heard someone take a drag on a cigarette before the man asked who was calling. "His son." He could hear the man set down the receiver, walk away. Mumbled voices in the background. Finally footsteps returning. "He's busy. Can it wait? Fox didn't know how to answer. Didn't know whether he could wait. If Mom could wait. "Tell him something's wrong with Mom. Maybe he can call later," Fox sat on the edge of Mom's bed where he could use the telephone and still keep an eye on Samantha's door. "I think maybe she needs to talk to him." He could hear the man's breath. "I'll tell him," the man said. Fox heard the click of the line disconnecting and slowly hung up the phone. He wanted to lay down, rest against the soft pillows, hear his mother's voice, feel her hand caress his cheek. He walked to the dark room, knelt beside her, covered her hand with his own. "Mom?" Fox jerked as he sensed the door closing downstairs. Had he fallen asleep? He couldn't remember. Nothing had changed. There was no clock in the room. It was too dark to read the time on his watch. Fox's hand felt numb where it sat on his mother lap. He clenched it into a fist, relaxed it again, trying to get some feeling back into his fingers. He shivered and wondered if the house had suddenly turned cold or whether it was merely his imagination. His joints cracked as he pushed himself from the carpet, forced himself across the floor. Fox blinked in the glare of the hallway light, frozen in his tracks for a moment as his eyes adjusted. The extra blankets were where they'd always been, third shelf of the hallway closet. Somehow, Fox thought maybe they'd been moved. Maybe that had changed, too. He took one down, gathered it under his arm. He could hear the footsteps on the stairway behind him , smell the cigarette smoke that clung to Dad's clothing. "Where is she?" Fox nodded his head toward Samantha's room. "So why aren't you with her?" "She was cold," Fox looked up at his father's face, then turned back toward the carpet, tried not to flinch at the flame he saw flare in the eyes. Bill Mulder swept past his son, flicking the overhead light on, sending the shadows hiding into the corners of the room. He walked to his wife's side. Stared down at her. Lit a cigarette. "I thought I could trust you to look after your mother, boy," he said. "I'm sorry," Fox was ashamed at the sound of his voice. Quiet. Young. "I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry." Fox still stood at the doorway, still holding the blanket. His father crushed the cigarette out on the windowsill, crouched before his wife -- ex-wife, Fox reminded himself. He started when he saw his father's hand reach out to Mom's face. Too often, the hand snaked out in anger. But this time, Bill Mulder surprised his son. He caressed her face, called her name. "Caroline?" he pulled her face toward his own, forced him to look into his eyes. Her gaze flickered. "Caroline, talk to me." Fox saw her lips move, couldn't make out the words. Dad pulled back, turned away from her. He walked to the door, pushed Fox out. "Pack some of her things," he said. "I'll take her somewhere they can help her." Fox heard the lock click into place as Dad closed the door between them. Dad wouldn't take Fox with him as he bundled Mom into the car. He'd only say he'd be back after school tomorrow. Fox should pack a few things of his own. "I suppose you'll have to stay with me," he said. Fox stood in the driveway, watching as Dad's car backed out the driveway. He could see Mom's pale face for a moment in the passenger side of the car before the street light bounced off the glass. He waited, arms crossed against his chest to try and block the cold wind blowing off the water, cutting through his shirt sleeves. He waited until the car's tail lights disappeared into the dark. Waited for Dad to turn the car around. Waited for the family he no longer had. Waited until the shivers shook him so badly he could wait no longer. Lights blazed on in the kitchen, living room, Dad's library, the bathroom. Fox wanted to smash the lights, break the bulbs. It was too bright. Too clear. Too artificial. He ran through the house, flicking off the switches he'd been in such a hurry to turn on before. He wanted it dark. Darkness was natural. The light only made shadows. Fox stopped at the stairway. There was nothing upstairs he wanted. No one there to comfort him. No one for him to comfort. His father's voice still rang in his ears: "I thought I could trust you, boy." He sank down on the family room couch, waited in the darkness for morning. Dad wouldn't tell Fox where he'd taken Mom. Just said it was a private clinic. He wouldn't deliver the letters Fox wrote, saying the doctors wanted her to have complete rest, no stress. Fox didn't bother asking if he was part of that stress. The nightmares followed him. Fox woke that first night at the house in West Tisbury, holding in the scream he'd felt building in his sleep, the images fading, but the fright still holding him tight. He couldn't remember where he was. The walls were bare. The sheets starchy and new. Fox wanted to call out. Wanted to hear someone answer. Feared there was no one there to answer. Fox wanted to quiet the pounding in his ears, the sound of his own heart racing, strained for any other noise. When it came, it was barely a noise at all. Fox wasn't certain he'd heard it. He slipped from the bed, tiptoed across the unfamiliar room and pushed open the door. A crack, a muffled sound. Fox sat next to the door and listened to his father cracking open sunflower seeds from his study across the hall. He listened to the sound, to the noise of another soul within his world. When he woke the next morning, he was lying on the floor next to the door. The house was empty. A coffee mug sat on the counter, next to the still-warm pot. There was a short note on the table along with a $5 bill. "Back late," it said. "Buy dinner in town." Some days, Fox never saw his father. He'd wake in the quiet house, catch the ride Bill had arranged with a neighbor to school, saying as little as possible in response to the old man's questions. He did his assignments, did the work expected of him. If the teachers noticed Fox's lapses into silence, they didn't mention it to him. Since Samantha's disappearance, most had treated him as if he were either fragile or contagious. They didn't mention his failure to participate in classroom discussions, just marked the tests with the usual high grades. "Keep up the good work Fox" one teacher wrote in bright red ink, putting a smiling face next to the grade. Fox caught the ride home Dad had arranged each day, picked up a burger in town before heading back to the empty house. Even when Dad was there, the house felt vacant. Father and son moved in separate silent worlds. Fox had learned early not to interrupt his father. Dad would cut off unwanted conversations with a glare, or worse. Fox had tasted his own blood often enough to have learned that lesson. "Children should be seen and not heard," his father would say. "Don't speak until you're spoken to." So he kept his silence. Spoke when spoken to. Handed Dad his report card for approval. "Have you seen Mom?" he'd venture on rare occasions when Dad would acknowledge his presence. "The doctors tell me she's doing quite well," Dad would answer. "She's getting the care she needs now." In the school library, , Fox snuck a look at the medical reference book when no one else was around, ran his finger over the index until one phrase stood out from the rest: "Mental Illness." The section was at the back of the book. Fox wanted to turn the pages, but was afraid of what he'd see. He closed his eyes, slid his fingers over the pages toward the back. "Something I can help you with Fox?" the librarian stood behind him. He slammed the book shut. "No. No. I'm fine, thanks." "How's your Mom doing? I didn't see her at the last advisory council meeting," the woman still stood next to him, looking over Fox's shoulder, toward the book he was shoving back into the bookcase. "She's been sick," Fox replied, using the practiced phrase. "But she's getting better." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," the librarian said. "You tell her that if she needs anything, just ask, OK? Lord knows your mother has had her share of troubles lately." "Yeah," he agreed. "She'll be fine. She just needs some rest." Fox gathered up his books, heading out into the rush of students passing by the door. "I'll tell her you said hello, Mrs. Sweet." Most nights, Fox didn't remember his dreams. He'd wake in the dark, the sheets and blankets tugged loose from beneath the mattress, wrapped around his legs. He'd find himself struggling to catch his breath. A sense of unease -- a knowledge that something wasn't right -- hung at the edge of his mind. He woke in the dark early one morning, knowing sleep wouldn't return. Fox surrendered to the dream, turned on the light to chase the darkness away. He'd tried to ignore the dream, to close his eyes and go back to sleep. It hadn't worked. He'd tried to daydream about the good times, drawing up the images in his mind from before Samantha's departure. It hadn't worked. He'd tried reading. It hadn't worked. Each time, Fox would either lay awake, or pace the bedroom. It took ten steps from the door to the window. Eight from one side to the other. He'd counted the planks in the hardwood floor. One hundred twelve. Fox pushed himself off the bed. Dad wouldn't like it. He wouldn't like someone wandering through his house in the middle of the night. Fox knew that. But he couldn't stay still any longer. He eased the door open, shut it softly behind him. The stairs were covered with a thick carpet and his toes sank into the thick cream-colored nylon. The door to Dad's bedroom was shut tight. Maybe it was locked. Fox had tried to turn the handle once when Dad was gone. It wouldn't yield. Fox relaxed in the kitchen. It was on the far side of the house from Dad's room. Easy to make an excuse for being in there. He made a peanut butter sandwich. Poured a glass of milk. Listened to the steady ticks of the grandfather clock while he ate, careful to pick up any crumbs. He washed the knife, dried it, put it back in the cupboard, left no sign he'd been there. The bed seemed no more inviting than when Fox had left the room. He didn't want to return to that quiet place, but he knew of nowhere else to go. At home, he'd switch on the the desk lamp and play a game under the narrow ring of dim light. Countless games of solitaire. Scrabble. Risk -- working two or three sides of the board -- dividing the prospect for world conquest into three diverse plans and seeing which would win. He'd play Monopoly until the sun rose, or until his head would drop to the board in exhaustion. Fox didn't touch the Stratego box. No good for just one. There were no games at Dad's house. But a television sat in the family room. Dad wouldn't like it. He barely tolerated the set during the day. It would help though, and Dad was asleep. Fox could keep the volume turned all the way down and lay next to the set. Fox snapped off the kitchen light and waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark before padding softly back down the hall. He passed the stairs, began the walk past Dad's room toward the family room. There was a creak in the floorboard and a footfall from somewhere on the other side of the door. Fox shuddered, then moved two steps, three steps, back toward the stairs, away from the door. The hallway light flashed on just as the door opened. Fox froze, waiting for the angry voice, the arm that'd grab him from behind. "Well, hello." But it was a woman's voice, a familiar voice. Fox turned back toward the light, hoping to see Mom standing there, unable to believe she would be. But this woman was young. She was tall, with dark hair. Her eyes were green. She wore only a long dress shirt and Fox could see her rounded frame through the white cotton. She was a dream. A vision. A photograph come to life from the magazines John Trumble would snitch from his father and pass around the locker room. Fox could only stare as she walked toward him. "You're Bill's son, right?" He nodded. "And what's your name again?" She was standing in front of him now, casting a shadow across the living room. "Um, Fox. Fox Mulder," he cursed himself for the words. Of course she knew his last name was Mulder. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. "Well your Daddy named you right," she tousled his hair, then glanced behind her. "The way you talk about him, Bill, I'd never have expected such a charmer." She turned and Fox could see his father standing near the bedroom door, barechested and his pants unbelted, hanging from his hips. . A chill ran up his back as he looked from his father to the woman and back. "Sometimes his charms escape me," There was a smile on Dad's face as he said the words, but Fox took another half-step back toward the stairs. The woman turned toward Dad and pointed back down the hall. "The powder room's back over there?" "Same place as always," Dad replied. "Be right back," she said, kissing Dad on the cheek as she passed him. He smiled and Fox turned back toward the stairs, hoping Dad would forget about him as he slipped away. But then his back was up against the wall, an arm against his shoulders holding him there. "You keep your mouth shut, boy," Dad's voice was a whisper in his ear. Fox could smell whiskey on his father's breath. "I didn't say anything," he said and gasped as the arm pushed him tighter against the wall, slid up onto his throat. "And don't give me that look. A man has needs, boy. Even you should know that. What the hell are you doing down here?" Fox grabbed the molding on the wall behind himself, pushed up slightly to ease the pressure on his windpipe. "I was thirsty," he said. "There's water in the bathroom upstairs." "I wanted milk," he fibbed. Dad stared at him in the dim light for a moment, then pushed back harder. Fox's fingers slipped from the molding. He closed his eyes. Heard his breath squeak through the narrow opening. Fox heard the toilet flush and the sound of water running through the old pipes. Dad's cheek was pressed next to his. His lips brushing against Fox's ear. "Keep the hell out of my way," he said. Then the pressure was gone. Fox coughed, took a long, deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw Dad and the woman walking together into the bedroom. He could hear her laugh as he climbed the stairs. As the light flicked off, he remembered her voice. The efficient voice on the other side of the extension when he'd telephone Dad's office. Fox closed the bedroom door tight behind him. Cocked the chair under the knob to hold it shut. Lay down in the bed to wait for morning. Mom came home four days later. There was a note waiting for Fox in the morning before he left for school telling him to go home -- his home -- after classes. The house was empty when Fox got there. He changed the sheet's on Mom's bed. Put up fresh towels. Threw out the vegetables, milk and eggs that'd spoiled in the refrigerator. Mom walked in the house just after 6 o'clock. Dad followed with her suitcase and another small bag. Fox hugged her tight, not wanting to let go. "Hello dear, how was your day," she said. Mom gave him a quick pat on the back, then slid out from his grasp. Her eyes seemed a shade duller than they'd been before. She was focused on something far away. "It was fine, Mom," Fox said, helping her with her coat. "Hmmm?" "My day, Mom," he said. "It was fine." "Oh. That's nice, dear." She stood in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes sliding from one object to the next. Fox hung her coat in the closet. Dad had made no move to shed his dark brown trench coat. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest, Caroline," Dad said. "I'm sure Fox will let you know when dinner's ready." She nodded and left the room. There were cans of soup in the cupboard and bread in the freezer. Fox knew he could get by for a day or two on what was in the kitchen now. Dad left the suitcase on the floor near the door. The black bag he set on the table. He zipped open the top. There were six prescription bottles inside. "She takes some of these with meals," Dad said. "Others are for bedtime or the morning. The instructions are in the bag. You can handle that much, can't you, boy?" Fox nodded, but his stomach twisted and rolled as he reached inside the bag. "All right. I'll leave her in your care." Dad had one hand on the doorknob when he turned back toward Fox. "Try not to screw up this time," he said and was gone. ***** "I kept track of her medications, made sure she got to her appointments," Mulder was saying. "It wasn't bad, though. She was fine. "Most of the time." Scully had pulled off the freeway, onto the side streets leading to Mulder's apartment. Mulder was quiet now. He'd told most of his story in fragments. A sentence or two at a time. Scully knew he'd told her only a shadow of what he'd been seeing in his memories. "I'm sorry," she said, breaking the silence. Mulder shrugged. "For what?" he asked. "It wasn't your fault." "It wasn't yours either," Scully said. Mulder didn't reply. He looked out the window as they passed residential blocks filled with dark houses. "When I was a kid," Scully explained; "I used to wish my life was different. Exciting. Unique. But we were just like every other military family out there. We were normal. "Normality bored me." "I guess that isn't a problem any more," Mulder said. there was no trace of humor in his voice. "I'm sor..." "No," Scully interrupted him. "Don't apologize. Not everything in this world is your fault, Mulder." She reached over to place a hand on his arm even as she brought the car to a stop in front of his apartment building. "I just meant that I'm sorry I couldn't share some of that normality with you, Mulder. I'm sorry that you've had troubles you didn't deserve. Troubles nobody deserved," Scully gave his arm a squeeze and he turned to face her. His eyes were dark, reflecting back the light from the street lamps. Mulder placed a hand over hers. "I know," he said. "Thank you. Some things in this world we can't change, though." "Like fate?" Scully gave him a slight smile and was pleased to see him return a ghost of it. "Yeah. And history." Scully nodded, then glanced toward the building's door. "You want some company tonight?" He shook his head. "You sure?" "Yeah. I'll be fine. Don't worry," Mulder gave her hand a squeeze, before opening the door to slide out. Cool air seeped into the car. "Thanks." "No problem. Get some sleep, OK?" Scully tried to stifle a yawn even as she said it. Mulder smiled, the first real smile Scully had seen from him since that afternoon. "I'll see you later," he said, closing the door behind him. She watched him walk up the sidewalk. Watched as he walked through the door. Waited until she saw a light flick on in his apartment. "Sweet dreams," Scully turned the ignition and pulled out into the night. end.