Title: THE WIDOW AND THE ORPHAN Authors: aka "Jake" Rating: PG-13 Classification: S Spoilers: Up through "This Is Not Happening." Summary: ReturnFic, DivergentPlotFic, You'llNeverSeeThisFromCCFic, call it what you want. The gist is this: Mulder returns. Danger follows. He needs a place to hide. We learn lots of stuff CC has neglected to mention. Disclaimer: Are these characters really the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. Author's notes: This story contains absolutely no hanky-panky or inappropriate feelings between a certain g-man and the mother of his love-interest. Thought I should make that categorically, undeniably and irrefutably clear before we begin. This is not *that* kind of story. THE WIDOW AND THE ORPHAN By aka "Jake" St. John's Catholic Church Alexandria, Virginia Day After Thanksgiving "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession." Margaret Scully leveled her shoulders and tried to still her nervous hands. Usually she felt at peace in the confessional. Her sins tended to be run- of-the-mill things, acts that weren't likely to anger God even on his strictest days. "You have a sin to confess?" "I do, Father. I-I stole something." "What did you steal?" She gnawed at her lip. "A coat. And a boxed lunch." - - - - - - - Margaret Scully Residence Two Days Earlier 11:57 PM If Maggie had been watching TV rather than reading, she would have missed the fragile knock on her door. The sound was almost no sound at all. It was more delicate than the frost that dusted her driveway, more hesitant than the leaves seesawing through the autumn dark. The knock whispered, "I am here." "Who in the world...?" Sliding a marker into her book, she rose from her favorite chair to cross the room and answer the door. She wasn't expecting a visitor. The family wasn't due to arrive until tomorrow afternoon for their Thanksgiving dinner. Unprepared for company at this hour, she was wearing her bathrobe and slippers, and was planning to go to bed as soon as she finished her chapter. She flicked on the hall light. The late night caller worried her. Not so much because she was a woman living alone, but because she had spent far too many years as a military wife and mother, dreading an unwelcome knock on her door. She'd been one of the lucky ones, losing neither her husband nor her sons to war, but dread proved a relentless habit to conquer. With the world at relative peace, her fears turned from her sons to her only surviving daughter. And to her daughter's unborn child, still almost two months away from his expected birth date. Ridiculous. Dana would have phoned first if there were a problem. She wouldn't just show up on the doorstep in the middle of the night. But then who...? Maggie drew aside the curtain on the window beside the door to peek out onto the step. Lit from behind by a distant streetlight, the stranger was unrecognizable, his face obscured by his own shadow. He shifted from foot to foot, shivered in the cold, wobbled as if drunk. The streetlamp glowed around his bowed head like a divine halo. "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares," she reminded herself, quoting McCue's Sunday sermon. The streetlight gilded the man's slumped shoulders, his twitchy hands, his downy flanks-- For goodness sakes! He was nude! A naked man was standing outside her door at midnight. Maggie was about to step back, phone the local PD when the stranger turned his head and she recognized his profile. Great Father in Heaven. It was Fox Mulder. But it couldn't be. Could it? She had attended his funeral weeks ago, saw his coffin lowered into the ground. Afterwards, she held Dana in her arms and they both had cried at his grave. Unlatching the door, Maggie prayed this man who looked like Fox wouldn't turn out to be a ghost and disappear in the scant time it took her to let him in. Fox, stay Fox, please Fox, stay. She swung open the door. Cold air sifted into the hall around her ankles. The chill pierced the fabric of her bathrobe. Goosebumps ruffled her arms. A fog of breath chuffed from Fox Mulder's blue lips; relief threatened to collapse him at her feet. "Fox, is it really you?" She tugged at his icy arm. He staggered two steps, three, enough for her to shut and lock the door behind him. "You're freezing. You're..." Now in the light of her hall, she saw he was hurt. Bloodied and bruised, his scarred limbs trembled with fatigue. His chest heaved from recent exertion. She could see the pulse of his heart beating in the veins of his neck. His eyes carried nothing but exhaustion as he stared at his filthy feet, avoiding her shocked expression. Where in heaven had he come from? Back from the grave like Lazarus? Or maybe he'd never been dead in the first place. No. No, Dana would not have made a mistake like that. She's a forensic pathologist, for goodness sake. Not to mention this man's partner, friend, lover. She would know if the corpse in the coffin had not been Fox. It simply wasn't possible she could have been fooled. But then, who in God's name was this man? "Come in." She propelled him toward her livingroom. He passed the sofa, stiff-limbed and reticent, and she lifted an afghan to his bare shoulders. She hovered around him, tucking the blanket's edges into his hands. "Sit down. Sit down." He continued to stand. Had he gone deaf? Or was he undecided about staying? She seized his elbow, steered him to the couch and prodded him to sit. Hugging the afghan to his chest, he dropped onto the cushions. His eyelids fluttered shut. Two uneasy tears escaped his lashes, drifted slowly down his cheeks and plummeted from his unshaved jaw. He drew in a great, rattling breath of air, yet said nothing at all. "Fox, how...how did you get here?" Exhaling slowly, he kept his eyes squeezed shut. "Fox, can you hear me?" His chin dipped toward his chest. "I'm calling an ambulance." She stepped backward, hand reaching for the phone. His eyes snapped open and he pinned her with a pleading stare. His panic took her breath away. "No." The word puffed from dry lips. "No hospitals." "You're bleeding. You need medical attention." She indicated the dark streaks of blood that circled his wrists, oozing from puncture wounds in his arms. He followed the line of her accusing finger and almost smiled. Almost. "*You*...help me." "You need more than my help. You need a doctor." He nodded. Again a smile teased his lips. "Know a good one?" Evidently unable to hold himself upright, he eased onto his side and curled up on the couch. "Call Skinner," he said, eyelids drooping. "Have him pick up Scully...bring her here. Don't explain. Too...dangerous..." Before he could say more, he was swallowed by sleep. * * * "Mr. Skinner? This is Margaret Scully, Dana's mother." Maggie spoke into the portable; she paced in front of the couch, keeping her gaze fastened on the man who slept there. "Mrs. Scully? Is everything all right?" Skinner's voice sounded tight and impatient. Clearly she'd woken him up. "I need your help. I need you to bring Dana here." "What's wrong?" "I...I can't explain. But it's very important for the two of you come." "Where are you?" "I'm at home. Please. And hurry. I wouldn't ask if--" "I'll get dressed." * * * Crystal City to Georgetown, then out toward Baltimore. Traffic would be light, but even at this time of night it would take Skinner and Dana at least half an hour to cross town. Fox continued to sleep, a faint snore rolling from his chest. Maggie dressed upstairs in her bedroom. Hurrying, so as not to leave Fox alone for too long, she yanked a turtleneck over her head. Static electricity plagued her hair and she tried to tame it with a swipe of her hand. She selected a warm sweater from her bureau drawer -- a pretty lambs wool, a gift from her late husband -- and slid her arms into the sleeves. The sweater made her feel closer to Bill. After eight years, her heart still ached to see him. Imagine Dana's relief when she finally saw Fox. Where had he been all this time and how had he managed to escape? Maggie tugged on a pair of socks and slipped into her shoes. Why had he come here rather than go straight to Dana's? "Too dangerous" he had said. Somebody must still be after him. His pursuers would probably expect him to go to Dana's or his office or even his own apartment. But not here. Who were they, these people who had captured him and hidden him from the FBI for six months? When Fox disappeared last May, the Bureau had launched a full-scale manhunt. The search had ended when Fox was discovered in the woods...dead. Dana's heart all but broke in two, burying the father of her unborn child. Maggie knew Fox loved her daughter, had loved her for years. His feelings had been crystal clear, you only had to look at the two of them together to see it. Never once did Maggie suspect Fox had run off, abandoning Dana and his child. He must have been taken against his will. "Mrs. Scully?" The voice startled her. Fox stood at the threshold of her room, shivering beneath the afghan. How had he managed to climb the stairs? "Could I...I need to use your bathroom. Please." "Of course. This way." She led him along the hall to the next room and turned on the light for him. He seemed uncertain what to do next. Everything in the small room glistened and he squinted against its brightness. The glare spotlighted terrible wounds on his face, his hands and legs. Unhealed injuries peeked from beneath the hem of the afghan, drawing Maggie's eyes to the tattered skin of his ankles and calves. A cipher of scars pocked his dirty skin. This man had suffered unimaginable harm. His captors had drilled holes into his flesh and his spirit. He was every inch vulnerable. "Let me find something for you to wear." Surely there must be *something* in the house to cover his nudity and mistreatment. Hadn't she discovered a pair of sweats in the drier, left behind by Bill Jr. during his last visit? Where had she put those? No shoes, certainly. No socks either. Or underwear. She'd donated all her husband's clothes to Goodwill the month after he had passed away. There might be a T-shirt in the ragbag. "Will you be all right?" She worried he would stumble or faint, knocking himself out on the counter or the tub. "I-I think so." His fingers caressed the faucet. She guessed he hadn't bathed in weeks. The realization brought tears to her eyes. Father of her grandchild. Love of her daughter's life. Under better circumstances, he would be her son-in-law. "I'll be right back," she assured him and went searching for the sweat pants. Dana could heal him. Outside and in, if only she would hurry. * * * Fox returned to Maggie and the livingroom wearing Bill Jr.'s sweats and the wrinkled T-shirt she had left for him outside the bathroom door. He had washed his hands but nothing else; evidently he hadn't the strength to attempt a more thorough scrubbing. The afghan still draped his shoulders. "How is she?" The question wheezed from his lungs. Adjusting the afghan, he lay down on the couch again, drew his knees to his chest and closed his eyes. Sitting across from him in her chair, Maggie knew without asking who he meant by "she." Dana was the only woman in Fox Mulder's life. The only person who mattered to him at all. He didn't know yet about his baby, she realized. "We thought you were dead, Fox." "I'm not dead." "We buried you." "Wasn't...me." Again sleep snared him; her questions would have to wait. * * * A loud knock launched Maggie from her chair and startled Fox from his sleep. "Too soon," he warned. Maggie checked her watch. Fewer than twenty minutes had passed since she had phoned Skinner. Was it possible the AD could have driven to Dana's and then on to Baltimore so quickly? Another knock shook the door, more insistent this time. "Don't turn on the light, Mrs. Scully." Fox's suspicion prickled the back of her neck. She tiptoed the length of her dark hall and stopped at the door. Who could possibly be on the other side but Skinner and Dana? BANG! BANG! BANG! Bypassing the curtained window, she put an eye to the peephole. Oh God. It wasn't Walter Skinner. Or Dana. It was Fox! But it couldn't be. Could it? What in God's name was going on? Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, the man who looked like Fox raised his knuckles to the door again. "Mrs. Scully?" he yelled. "We have to go," Fox whispered from the opposite end of the hall. "But...?" "He isn't me." The man outside called to her again. He sounded like Fox. He also sounded concerned. Nothing made any sense here. "How can I know for sure?" she asked. "You were dead and now you're not. A man who looks just like you is standing on my front step. Prove you're who you say you are." "There isn't time. Please, Mrs. Scully, we have to go." He reached out a hand. "Mrs. Scully!" shouted the man outside. Trapped between these implausible twins, she shook her head, uncertain what to do. What was the truth here? "Mrs. Scully..." Fox stepped toward her, causing her to grab the doorknob. "Wait!" Holding up a hand, he appeared to struggle for his next words. "Uh...John I, chapter five, verse seven. Do you remember it?" *The Spirit is the Truth* -- Dana's premature epitaph. "I went with you that day," he continued, keeping his voice low. "You told me a story about a snake and we stood over her gravestone. I told you it was too soon to give up. Would anyone else know that?" "No." No they wouldn't. This really was Fox. It had to be. She released her grip on the doorknob. "Do you have a car, Mrs. Scully?" "In the garage. We can go out the back." She snatched her purse from the hall table and towed Fox by the hand toward the kitchen. She worried about his bare feet and the fresh blood that was dripping from his arms. He would collapse soon. Where could she take him? How far would they get? - - - - - - - Maryland-Delaware State Border 2:05 AM Fox was slumped in the passenger seat, his head propped against the window. Maggie wasn't sure if he slept or if he had passed out. His skin was so pale she was reminded of the spotless starched white uniforms her husband wore when he was still alive. Dana must be at the house by now, she worried. What would she find there? God, please keep her safe. Pulling up beside an ATM, Maggie rolled down her window. Fox groaned in his sleep but didn't move. With a shaky hand, she shoved her debit card into the slot and punched in her code. This was the third machine she'd visited since they'd left Fox's double staring after them in her driveway. Damn the withdrawal limit. She gathered three hundred dollars in twenties and pushed them into her overstuffed purse. Shifting the car into drive, she headed for the next ATM. She could see a branch of Cradock Marine just down the street and she planned to empty her checking account at the next stop. "You've done this before. Run from something," Fox said, eyes still closed. His voice rumbled through the car's dark interior and the sound reminded Maggie of the far away Iowa storms of her childhood. "Yes." "When?" "Years ago. I never told the children. I was nineteen at the time." "What were you running from?" He looked at her now, obviously surprised by her confession. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago." Releasing the steering wheel, she patted his hand. "The important thing is I learned a thing or two." "Such as...?" "Number one: take plenty of money." She nodded at her purse. "Number two: if you don't want to be found, don't leave a trail. Back then I didn't have credit cards. Nobody did. It was 1962. I didn't have to worry about computers tracking my every purchase, phone call or withdrawal. It's different today so as soon as I make one last stop, we'll be using cash." She had a realistic picture of their predicament. He nodded. "The car--" "We'll ditch it." God, she was sounding like a gangster's moll. "Skinner, Scully--" "I'll call Dana from a payphone. I want to get you somewhere safe first. You need sleep. And those wounds need cleaning. Were you shot?" She scowled at the punctures in his arms. "No." He tucked his hands into his armpits to hide the injuries. "I was crucified...on a Barcalounger." She didn't understand what he meant. "Are you cold?" she asked, groping for the car's temperature controls. His thin T-shirt worried her. He needed a jacket. And shoes. "I'm fine. Where...where did you go -- the last time you were 'on the lam'?" "I hitchhiked from Fontanelle -- that's in Iowa -- to Omaha, where I caught a train to Norfolk." "What happened when you got to Norfolk?" "I was rescued by Sister Katherine of St. Clement Catholic Church. Up until that time, I'd been a Methodist. Here's the ATM." She slowed the car. "This withdrawal will empty my account." "I'm sorry--" "Don't apologize, Fox. This isn't your fault." - - - - - - - Elsmere Motor Inn Wilmington, Delaware "I'd like a room, please." Maggie clutched her purse and forced a smile at the flabby, red-eyed clerk behind the counter. He flicked a drooping ash from his cigarette and stared back at her. She waved off his smoke. "Non-smoking," she added, "and away from the street." He dawdled through the obligatory paperwork and finally slid the clipboard across the cracked counter for her signature. "Number 37, 'round back. That'll be forty-two dollars." "For half a night?" The cost was more than she wanted to pay, especially for a seedy rattrap like this. It was robbery. The lobby carpet stuck to her shoes. The air smelled like a roach bomb. The only thing the place had going for it was the all- night convenience store across the street and the payphone out front. "Not my fault the night's half over, ma'am. Take it or leave it. Checkout's at eleven." She picked up the clerk's pen and signed the sheet: Mrs. Katherine St. Clement. Pocketing the room key, she returned to the car. Fox looked worse, as if he might throw up at any minute. His skin had changed from white to gray and he was shivering badly. She was certain he had a fever. Lord only knew how hungry he must be, although he had refused her offer to stop for a hamburger, claiming he didn't want anything. Even so, she suspected he hadn't eaten in a very long time. Sliding behind the wheel, she woke him with the touch of a finger to his arm. "We're here. I'm going to pull around back, as near to the door as I can get. Can you walk?" "Yeah, I think so." She steered the car around the long, low building and into a space that faced door number 37. The lot was only half full. Every window was dark. "I'll come around and help you." She pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped from the car. He fumbled with his seat belt, his fingers missing the release. She rescued him by opening the passenger door and reaching across his lap. The belt undone, she hooked his arm around her neck and pulled him from the car. He leaned heavily on her shoulder, threatening to topple them both with his unsteady gait. A sleety rain began to fall as they hobbled from the car to the room. God, his feet must be frozen. "Hang on, Fox, we're almost there." She waited for him to balance himself between her and the doorframe before she slid the key into the lock. "Home, sweet, home," Fox murmured when she swung the door inward to reveal a musty room with a king-sized bed and a pair of mismatched dressers. A garish spread covered the bed with a kaleidoscope of faded colors. A bolt protruded from one wall, suggesting the room at one time included a television set. "Come on. You need to lie down." Maggie wrestled him across the room to the bed. "I feel..." -- his knees buckled and he dropped onto the mattress with a moan -- "...like crap." "I know. You go ahead and rest." She went to the far side of the bed and folded the comforter over him. "I'll be right back." "Where are you--?" He tried to grab her arm and missed. "There's a payphone out front. I want to call Dana." "Don't--" "Fox, you need help." "Not safe. You'll put her in danger." She leaned over the bed and traced her thumb across the strange scar that dotted his cheek. "Shhhhh. I'll just be a minute." "That man...who looked like me..." "It's okay, Fox. Everything's going to be okay." She stroked his face to calm him. She waited for his eyes to flutter shut and his breathing to slow before she left the room, locking the door behind her. * * * "Dana? It's Mom." Maggie hunkered close to the phone, wishing phone booths were still booths and not these half-sized things. Sleet pinged against the glass and every word plumed from her chapped lips. "Mom, where are you?" "I-I can't say. Are you all right, sweetie?" "Yes, I'm fine. But what about you? Why did you call Skinner? Why aren't you at home?" "We couldn't stay. We had to leave." "We? Who are you talking about? Who is with you?" "Honey, Fox showed up tonight...at my house." Her breath rose and vanished in the cold. "M-Mulder...came to your house?" "Yes. He's with me now." "That's impossible." "Maybe so, but he is here." "May I...may I speak with him?" "Well, he's not right *here.* Honey, someone is after him. A man who looks just like him." "Mom, listen to me, listen to me. That man is very dangerous. You...you have to tell me where you are." "I-I can't do that. Fox says it's too risky." "Mom--" "Honey, I have to go. I'll call you when I can." "Mom--" "Bye-bye, sweetheart. I love you." Maggie hung up the phone. Tears swamped her eyes, making the lights of the convenience store across the street appear to shimmer and sway. She swiped at her cheeks and lurched toward the late night market. Pull yourself together, Maggie. You can do this. You have to. She hurried across the road. The falling sleet melted as soon as it hit the pavement. She tracked muddy water from the street into the store. Grabbing a shopping basket, she followed a previous customer's gray footprints down an aisle. Peroxide. Bandages. Tylenol. She tossed them into her basket. Turning down the next aisle, she scanned the shelves. How long would she and Fox need to run? Toothbrushes. Paste. Bath soap. Wouldn't it be best to let Dana know where they were? Juice boxes. Two breakfast bars. Who was the mysterious man who hunted Fox and looked just like him? How was such a thing possible? Carrying her purchases to the counter, she paused at a summer clearance bin. Buried in the jumble of sunscreen, flyswatters and charcoal lighter fluid, were a pair of red flip-flops, size large. Not the best footwear for November, but better than nothing. She added them to her basket. * * * "Fox?" Back the room, Maggie blinked at an empty bed. "Fox?" "In here," he groaned from the bathroom, just before he vomited. She listened to him retch and when it seemed as if his stomach would never empty, she went to him, carrying her bag of supplies. "Fox..." On his knees, he panted over the toilet. Sweat streaked his face in zigzagging lines from his hairline to his neck. His skin looked as gray as the sleet outside. "Mrs. Scully..." He gulped, working to hold down a wave of nausea. "I...sorry..." "Fox, I've had four children. I've seen vomit before." She deposited the bag on the counter and reached to flush the toilet. The bowl was splattered crimson. "You're vomiting blood." He nodded, looking as if he might throw up again. She placed her palm against his forehead. "You're burning up. Is the blood something new?" She snatched a washcloth from the towel rack and ran it under cold water. "No. Couple of weeks." He sat on the floor and leaned back against the tub. Mildew darkened the tile beneath his legs. Dust clung to the pants he wore. Maggie crouched beside him and washed his face with the cool cloth. "Weeks?" The idea made her scrub harder, as if she could scour the neglect off him the way a mother wipes strained peas from her baby's food-stained lips. "No wonder you're so pale." She stood to pick through her shopping bag. Withdrawing the Tylenol, she uncapped the bottle and shook three pills into his palm. "Take those." She filled a glass with water and handed it to him. While he swallowed the pills, she ripped the soap free from its wrapper and uncapped the peroxide. His ill- treatment ticked her off. What kind of inhuman monsters would do such a thing? "Let me see your wrists." He held out his arms. Circular scabs marked each side of his arms. The wounds were pink with infection and they wept a gory mix of pus and blood. She soaped the washcloth under scalding water, working up a generous lather. "This will probably sting." "No doubt." He grimaced when she blotted the first wound with her cloth. She took her time, gently swabbing him clean. When she was satisfied that she had removed as much dirt as possible, she doused the injury with peroxide, causing him to wince from the pain. "Sorry." She opened the package of bandages and covered the wound. "One down, three to go." He sat silent while she repeated the procedure on his other wrist and then on each ankle. "You really could use a bath." She patted the final bandage into place. "But this will have to do for now. You okay?" He nodded and she clutched his elbow to help him stand. "What happened to you, Fox?" Wobbling to his feet, he gripped her for support. "Believe me, you don't want to know." "I do." She shouldered his weight and together they staggered to the bed. "Tell me." "Nnnnnno." He sank onto the mattress. "How 'bout you tell me a story instead." "Me?" She eased him onto his back and drew the bedspread up to his chin. Sitting on the bed next to him, she tucked the spread around his shoulders and arms, hoping to prevent the heat of his body from leaching away. His eyes closed, so sunken and tired his lashes all but disappeared into the reddened crease of his lids. "Tell me why you were on the run in '62," he said. "Nnnnnno," she mimicked his own answer. "How about a cheerier story?" A tiny laugh huffed from his lungs and he peeked at her through one eye. "Okay, Ma. Wouldn't wanna give anyone nightmares." "Did you ever hear the story about the day Dana was born?" This opened both of his eyes. "No. Tell me." Settling more comfortably beside him, she smiled. "Dana was born two weeks late, did you know that? I was as big as a house. With Bill at sea and two small children demanding every minute of my attention, I was anxious for Dana to arrive. For months she'd been kicking and rolling and dancing the Twist inside my stomach; I couldn't believe it when her due date came and she decided to stay put. Her pummeling stopped, worrying the life out of me. Of course, knowing her as I do now, I realize she was simply weighing the pros and cons before making her move." A crooked smile nudged Fox's cheek. "As early as that?" "Mmmm. Just after midnight on February 23, 1964, the labor pains started. My bag was packed. I called the kids' Uncle Dan." "The amateur magician." "Yes. How did you know that?" "Everyone's uncle is an amateur magician. Aren't they?" "I don't know. Are they?" "Scully told me about him," Fox admitted. "More or less. To explain why she ate the bug." "Dana ate a bug?" "Not really. We were investigating a circus sideshow serial killer--" "What?" "The details aren't important. What is important is that I thought Scully ate a bug, but it was a trick, a sleight of hand. She never actually ate the bug. She said her uncle taught her stuff like that." "Really? I'll have to ask her Uncle Dan about that. Anyway, Dan drove over, packed the kids into the car with enough gear to last them a week while I was in the hospital. Then he packed me into the car, too -- not an easy task considering my size. By the way, are you hungry, Fox? I bought juice and breakfast bars." "No thanks." He patted his stomach. "I don't think I could manage it right now. What happened next?" "We started for the hospital." "Started?" "That's right. We never made it. Dana decided to come into the world right then and there, in the front seat of her Uncle Dan's brand new Chevrolet." "Yikes." "Dana was born at 10:23 a.m. Her older brother and sister were horrified. Dan, too. As for Dana...Dana blinked at us with the most startled expression I've ever seen, as if she couldn't believe she'd been so off the mark with her pro versus con deliberations. I don't think we were at all what she was expecting." "I've seen that look." "I'm sure you have. As for me, I fell head over heels in love with my new daughter. She was everything I'd hoped for and more." "That's a nice story, Mrs. Scully." Fox rolled onto his side. His cheek sunk into the pillow, burying one eye beneath the bedding's not-so-snowy surface. "Was Dana named for Uncle Dan?" "Yes, she was." Maggie patted Fox's arm. "Get some sleep, Fox. We'll need to leave early." She rose from the bed and snapped off the nearest lamp. "Goodnight." Slipping into the bathroom to wash up, she closed the door behind her and wondered how she was going to keep him safe. * * * Maggie checked the clock on the nightstand again. Five- sixteen. One minute later than the last time she'd looked. She lay on the bed, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. An arm's length away, Fox slept curled in a ball, cocooned within the twisted blankets with his back to her. She'd barely slept a wink in the last three hours, arguing with herself about what to do next. Before Fox's look-alike had appeared on her doorstep, he'd wanted her to call Skinner and Dana. Afterwards, he became adamant that calling Dana would place her in grave danger. Dana was a trained FBI agent, but she was also seven months pregnant. The same as Maggie had been in '62 when-- The situations were not the same. In 1962 an ordinary man had chased her from Fontanelle to Norfolk. A monster was chasing Fox Mulder. Poor Fox. His injuries were serious. The fever, the blood, those terrible holes in his arms and legs. She had to get him to a safe place...soon. She rose from the bed. Dipping into her purse, she dug out enough change for another phone call. * * * "I'd like a taxi, please." Maggie spoke into the phone and drummed her fingers on the Wilmington Yellow Pages. A cab would be harder to tail than her own car. She shivered as she watched the sky lighten in the east over the convenience store. "Your location, ma'am?" "Elsmere Motor Inn." "Destination?" Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Airport? Bus Station? Amtrak? No, Fox was in no shape to travel any distance. "I haven't decided yet, but there will be two fares." "All right, ma'am. A cab will be around in ten minutes." Maggie thanked the dispatcher and hung up the phone. The sleet had stopped, but it was colder this morning than it had been last night. She hugged her sweater across her chest and watched her breath disappear like a ghost above her head. Across the street at the convenience store, a beer-bellied man with a heavy beard stepped from a pickup. Before going into the store, he removed his wool coat and tossed it onto his front seat. The coat would fit Fox. Taking the coat would be stealing, of course. Fox needed a coat...more than the bearded man needed one. Maggie crossed the street. It wasn't as if she hadn't done this type of thing before. Keeping her eye on the store, she went straight to the truck, opened the door as if she owned it and grabbed the jacket. Act natural and no one will question you, she told herself in an effort to stay calm. She draped the coat over one arm and walked boldly back across the street to the motel. Following the sidewalk around the building, she stopped short at the corner when she saw a man peering into her car. Oh, God, it was Fox. Or rather, it was the man who looked like Fox. He wore the same jeans and leather jacket he wore last night. Circling her car, he eyeballed room 37. She ducked behind the corner and wondered what to do. Damn it! Fox was trapped inside the room. Should she go to him? Or run for help? Waiting on the sidewalk certainly wasn't going to do any good. She decided to return to the room and fight with Fox, even if it meant they'd both be killed. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the open. "Mrs. Scully." The words hissed in the distance behind her. Spinning on her heel, she saw Fox -- the real Fox -- standing beside the payphone, waving her back. How the hell had he gotten out of the room? "Hey!" Fox's double shouted from the opposite direction. He'd spotted her. She broke into a run, heading away from the imposter and toward the real Fox. Praise be to God, their taxi turned into the motel entrance just as she reached him. She grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the cab. "Get in!" she yelled, yanking open the door and shoving him. He collapsed into the back seat while she tumbled in after him. Slamming the door behind them, she yelled at the cabdriver, "Go! Head north!" "Where to?" "Just north! Do it!" "Yes, ma'am." The cabbie took off and Maggie spun in her seat to watch Fox's double out the rear window. She hoped to throw him off track, fool him into thinking they would continue traveling north when actually they would double back and head south. That was the most logical thing to do, wasn't it? The thing he'd least suspect? He chased them as far as the payphone before turning around, presumably to get his car. "That was damn impressive, Mrs. Scully." Fox nodded in appreciation from the far end of the bench seat. "Here. This is for you." She tossed him the wool coat. "Did you...?" He stared at the coat and mouthed the words "steal this." "Put it on, Fox. It's cold outside." He plunged his arm into a sleeve. "She thinks she's my mother," he explained to the cabby. "Lucky you." "Head north on 141," she ordered the driver in a tone that wiped the smirk from his face. "When you hit the Concord Pike, take a right. Get on I-95 at exit 8, southbound." "How far?" "I'll let you know." She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her seat. "She thinks she's everyone's mother," Fox told the cabby. He was pleased with the coat. Zipping it up, he offered Maggie a tired smile. "Mrs. Scully, why are we going south?" "It's the most logical thing to do." "It is?" "Fox, who in their right mind would believe we'd drive half the night to Wilmington only to turn around and head right back to Baltimore?" "Not me." "You see? It's a diversionary tactic." "Where did you learn about diversionary tactics?" Twisting to check the rear window again, Maggie scanned the road for Fox's twin. She tried to recall if a car had been parked next to hers back at the Elsmere Motor Inn. A Crown Victoria? Dark blue? Maybe black. "Who is he, Fox?" She turned to face him. "How is it possible he looks exactly like you?" Fox glanced at the driver before lowering his voice. "He's not what you think, Mrs. Scully. He's not...a man." What in the world was Fox talking about? "He's a woman?" "No. He's..." Fox lowered his voice even further. "He's an alien." "I hope you're talking about immigration and green cards--" "No, Mrs. Scully, I'm not. I'm talking about..." He took a deep breath. "I'm talking about an on-going government plot to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials. I'm talking about a global conspiracy, with key players in the highest levels of power, reaching down into the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet. I'm talking about alien invasion--" "You're talking nonsense." She placed her palm over his forehead, checking his temperature. "Your fever feels worse. Were you able to grab the Tylenol before you left the room?" "No." He shrugged out from under her hand and gave the cabdriver an embarrassed look. "How did you get out of the room anyway?" "When you left, I went for ice. Thanks for the flip-flops, by the way." He waggled a toe at her. "You're very welcome." "The ice machine was at the far end of the building, a fact I didn't appreciate at first. I saw him...me...whatever, get out of his car -- which is *not* following us, by the way, so you can stop looking over your shoulder. I hid at the end of the building so he wouldn't see me. While he was nosing around your car, I went around front looking for you." "So you don't have my purse?" "No." "Or the food I bought last night?" "No. Shit." "Exactly." They had nothing to eat and no money to buy a meal. Or pay the cabdriver. "So what next, Mrs. Scully?" "I told you, I've been in situations like this before. We'll be fine." "Sister Katherine isn't here to rescue us this time." No, she wasn't. Dear Sister Katherine had died more than thirty-five years ago, not long after Maggie first met her. "Tell me about her, Mrs. Scully. We have some time to kill." She had never told anyone her story. Not even Bill knew all of it. She glanced at the driver and then at Fox. It was time to tell the truth. "Bill was my second husband." She could see this news surprised him. He nodded, eyebrows rising toward his hairline while she continued. "I married a man, a boy actually, named John Parker when I was seventeen. I married him because I was pregnant. Don't look so shocked, Fox. Unmarried girls get caught all the time." "I'm not judging." She leveled a glare at him. You better not be, young man. You've got a little surprise of your own waiting back at home. "He was a handsome boy. Smart. Passionate. Determined to make something of himself." "So what happened to him?" "Eventually he became a lawyer for the Morley Tobacco Company. But it was on the day of our wedding that I realized I'd made a terrible mistake. Have you ever heard of BWS?" "Battered Wife Syndrome." "Yes. Our relationship was like that. My mother told me I had to make the best of it. Like many women without a whole lot of options, I hoped John would change after the baby was born. He didn't." "I'm sorry." "Me, too. When our son was about a year and a half old, John smacked the boy so hard, he broke the baby's arm." "Jesus. Is that when you ran away?" "Yes, I packed my son and all the money I could scrape together -- enough for train fare and not much else -- and headed for California." "I thought you said you went to Norfolk." "I did. I accidentally boarded the wrong train. Looking back on it, I realize God was watching out for me. I think He set me on a path to Sister Katherine on purpose. You see, I was seven months pregnant with my second child at the time." Maggie could see Fox doing the math in his head. "That's right. Melissa and Bill Jr. are Dana's half-siblings. Bill Jr.'s name wasn't Bill back then." "They, uh...they've never suspected?" "Bill and Melissa? No. Although, I'm surprised Dana hasn't figured it out. At her father's funeral, I accidentally let it slip that Bill proposed to me when he returned from the Cuban Blockade." "October of '62. Dana was born in early '64." "That's right. Dana must have been distracted by her grief -- or by her fears about her father's perceived disappointment in her. She didn't put two and two together." Maggie plucked a piece of lint from her sweater. "Four years ago Dana sent for Melissa's DNA records." "To compare them with Emily's." "The PCR tests. When the results weren't conclusive, Dana ordered a more comprehensive test, a...a..." "RFLP." "Yes. I was worried sick she would learn the truth. But when the results of the second test came back claiming Emily was Dana's daughter and not Missy's, well...Dana never thought to compare her own DNA to Melissa's. She was interested in proving Emily's heritage, not her own, or Missy's. I'm ashamed to admit this, Fox; it's so selfish. At first I was relieved Dana believed Emily was her daughter. Emily distracted her from digging any deeper into my family secret." "Mrs. Scully, would it have been so terrible for her to find out the truth?" "Oh, Fox, how could I tell my children I had lied to them all their lives? How could I tell Bill and Melissa their father was a wife-beater, a *child*-beater?" Maggie gazed out the window at the passing traffic. Low clouds threatened to let loose another shower of freezing rain. "Fox, every time Bill Jr. loses his temper, I'm reminded of John. I keep my secret because I don't want my son to become like his father. Thank God, he hasn't. He's so good with Matthew. So loving to Tara." Tears rippled the landscape beyond the window and Maggie's hands trembled in her lap. "Where did Sister Katherine come in?" Maggie wiped at her cheeks as tears overflowed her eyes. "I arrived in Norfolk with nothing. No money, no food, no place to stay. I'm ashamed to say Sister Katherine caught me stealing." "Stealing?" Maggie turned to tug at Fox's wool coat. "The beginning of my life of crime. She caught me stealing a boxed lunch left unattended on a park bench. I wanted the food for Bill." "What did she do?" "She took us back to St. Clement's and fed us. Oh, God, that food tasted good. While we ate, I was frightened to death Sister Katherine would call the police, or even worse, contact John and have him come get us. But she didn't." Maggie reached across the seat and squeezed Fox's hand. "Fox, she was a Catholic nun, but she ignored the Church's views on marriage and did what she could to help me escape my husband. She understood my desperation." The cabbie cleared his throat, interrupting them for the first time. "Ma'am? We, uh...we're about to cross the Susquehanna. You wanna keep goin' or should I turn off at Havre de Grace?" "What's your name?" she asked the cabby. "Um...Harold Peterson, ma'am." "Keep driving, Harold." She patted the cab driver's shoulder and smiled through her tears. "You're doing fine." The cabby reached across the front seat and dug through the contents of the glove compartment. "Here." He passed Maggie a clean paper napkin. "For your..." He waved a hand at her runny nose. "Thank you." Maggie took the napkin and gave her nose a good, strong blow. She sniffed a couple of times before continuing her story. "Fox, Sister Katherine watched over me. After Melissa was born, Katherine found me a job. She introduced me to Bill Scully. I owe her for all the happiest moments of my life." Pocketing her tissue, Maggie tugged at the neck of her blouse. From beneath the turtleneck she withdrew a shiny pendant. Not a cross like Dana wore, but a small anchor dangling from a fine gold chain. "Do you know what this is, Fox?" He shook his head. "It's the anchor of St. Clement." "I don't know the story." "Clement succeeded St. Peter as Bishop of Rome not long after the death of Christ. A sedition arose against the Christians and Clement was arrested. He was condemned by the Emperor to work in the marble quarries. Clement found many Christians among his fellow convicts, and he comforted and encouraged them as they hauled drinking water each day from the only spring, six miles away. One day while they fetched water, Clement saw a lamb scraping a hoof at the soil. He took it as a sign, so he dug and found a spring. His discovery went a long way toward converting many pagans to Christianity. Clement's popularity, however, displeased the Prefect who ordered him to be drowned at sea with an anchor attached to his neck. Clement became a martyr after his death and he's often represented in art by an anchor." She twirled the tiny symbol in her fingers. "My marriage to John was like an anchor around my neck. It would have drowned me -- and my children -- sooner or later. Sister Katherine gave me this, not to weigh me down, but to lift me up. St. Clement's anchor lightened my load, thanks in large part to her kindness." She tucked the dainty necklace back into her collar. "Two years after she gave me that necklace, Katherine died and I christened Dana with her name." A determined look settled across Maggie's watery features. "Stop at the next exit," she told the driver. "I need to make a phone call." - - - - - - - St. John's Catholic Church Alexandria, Virginia "Maggie! Here, let me help you." Father McCue nudged her out from beneath Fox's arm. Putting his shoulder to the task, he and the cabby escorted Fox down the wide aisle of St. John's Church. Maggie trotted after them, her head swiveling left and right, checking to make sure they weren't followed. "This way," Father McCue directed, leading them along a row of cherry-wood pews and past the crucifix. Christ drooped on the cross the same way Fox hung with arms outstretched between Father McCue and the cabby. Jesus appeared to watch them through half-closed lids as they passed beneath his bleeding feet. "I don't know how to thank you, Father. I don't know where else I would have turned." "You came to the right place, Maggie. 'God gives the desolate a home to dwell in,'" the Priest quoted Psalms 68. Psalms 68. Yes. God in His holy habitation. Protector of widows. Father of orphans. The Priest guided the group into his library, a small room in the transept beyond the nave. The refuge was crowded with a large wooden desk and a couple of chairs. Several hundred books lined the walls on shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. An oversized window depicting Mary at the foot of the Cross reflected a rainbow of colors onto the hardwood floor. Father McCue helped the cabdriver lower Fox into a chair beside the desk. "I called Dana, just as you asked. She should be here soon with the FBI's Assistant Director. They're bringing reinforcements to keep Mr. Mulder safe." "Thank you, Father." "Maggie, you know I'm always here to help." She gave him an uncertain smile. "I'm glad to hear you say that. I'm hoping you could do me one more favor." "Anything. Name it." "I've lost my purse. Could you...could you perhaps pay Harold for the taxi ride?" "No, no, no, ma'am." Harold Peterson argued, throwing up his hands. "I won't take a penny." "But--" "Nope. Consider it a gift." Harold backed up, ready to be on his way. "You've been through enough, ma'am." Maggie stopped him before he could escape out the door. "Thank you, Harold." She went to him and rose on tiptoe to place a soft kiss on his unshaved cheek. "You're a very nice man." "Aaww, ma'am, it's...it's nothing." Cheeks blazing crimson, the cabby stumbled across the threshold. His disappearing footfalls were lost in the clatter of approaching heels. Fox held his breath and Maggie's eyes widened. "That must be Dana," Father McCue guessed. "I'll check, just to make sure. Excuse me." Left alone, Maggie went to Fox and brushed a fallen lock of dirty hair from his forehead. "Are you doing all right?" "Yeah. Kinda tired. Do you think...do you think she'll run away screaming when she sees me?" He ran his fingers down his scarred cheek. "No, Fox. I think she'll be very glad to have you home. As a matter of fact--" A gasp at the door drew Fox's attention from her next words. Dana stood at the doorway, as big as a house and as shocked as Maggie had ever seen her -- with the possible exception of the day she was born. Fox looked equally surprised by Dana's enormous belly. Maggie felt as hopeful as she had on the day Sister Katherine slipped St. Clement's anchor over her head. This was her family: a pregnant, unwed daughter and the man who claimed to be abducted by aliens. The rest -- her two sons, their wives and children -- waited with ghosts at her house in Baltimore for Thanksgiving dinner. She would go home soon, tell them how much she loved them, and then explain the truth about a stolen boxed lunch. Then she would ask their forgiveness for her lies. Tomorrow, she would go to confession and ask God to forgive her for stealing a coat. THE END Author's notes: IMHO, Margaret Scully is underutilized by CC. A compelling character, we know virtually nothing about her. What little we've been given, however, doesn't quite add up to the picture-perfect family life we might hope for her. Check out the evidence: During Bill Scully Sr.'s funeral in the episode "Beyond the Sea," Maggie tells Dana the song "Beyond the Sea" was playing when Bill's ship returned from the Cuban Blockade. "He marched right off, up to me...and he proposed." Oddly, this didn't raise any red flags for Dana. Perhaps she was lost in her own grief and regrets. If she had been in full investigative mode, she would have realized that the Cuban Blockade took place between October 18 and 29, 1962. We know Dana was born on February 23, 1964. We also know her older sister Melissa was shot to death in April of 1995 by Luis Cardinal, as seen in the episode "The Blessing Way." In "Apocrypha," Scully and Mulder visit Melissa's grave and her tombstone reads "Melissa Scully, beloved sister and daughter, 1962-1995." 1962? Uh, oh. Now, we are all aware that CC is not very good at math or continuity (After all, Scully has been pregnant for nearly a year, but has yet to show the slightest swell) and nobody likes a math geek, but from the dates we're given, Melissa was born, or was about to be born, just around the time that William Scully popped the question to Maggie. And then there's Bill, Jr., the oldest. How does he fit in? "The Widow and the Orphan" is merely speculation about Maggie's unknown past, based on the meager clues gleaned from CC's gappy, sometimes inconsistent timeline. By the way, my husband accuses me of too many unhappy endings in my stories. This is a concession to his desire for "they all lived happily ever after."