by Livia Balaban

Rated PG = VA
Spoilers: Post-Requiem
Summary: "Trust your instinct to the end, though you can render no reason" - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Don't roll over. She's so small, so tiny, so helpless. Put your arm over her; protect her. But don't roll over.

Don't sleep. Her strength no longer relies on yours. You don't have to eat if you're not hungry. Get angry if you want; you don't have to worry about your blood pressure anymore.

You don't have to sleep. Before, you had to sleep for her well-being. Now you mustn't sleep, for the same reason. Don't sleep. She'll be gone when you wake.

They'll try again.

You can run, you can take her with you, but they will find you. They will never rest. They want her.

If he was here, you could finally put her in a crib where she belongs, while he could watch and you could sleep. You could take shifts, holding vigil against them. No matter you'd never see each other. She'd be safe. And he'd be here. You'd have the scent of him on the sheets and the heavy warmth of him beside you.

But he'll never be here again. Don't sleep.

Neutrogena's new foundation is perfect for your skin. It replaces the moisture stolen by grief, and conceals the signs of self-neglect. A few slick droplets on your fingertip, a swipe below your eyes, and a dab of powder to set. No one knows. You're strong. You can keep them away from her.

The first time they tried, you were heavy and close. She was making her presence known hourly. She was ready, so ready to come. They could have cut her from you and she would have lived. Despite the two hands around your slender neck, you kept your wits and drew your weapon. One dead.

The second time, she was two weeks old. Two of them crept up to your windows. Skinner was there, alert and nervous still. With seemingly practiced precision, he took out one while you took out the other. Both of his hands held his weapon, but you could only work one-handed. You held the baby in the other. When they'd fallen and the police had been called, you checked the baby for powder burns while Skinner attended to the dead guard agents outside. She didn't cry, and you feared for percussive hearing damage.

You refused to sleep.

You found comfort in watching her chest rise and fall, in the soft *O* of her little baby lips, the curling and uncurling of her tiny fingers. You didn't need to sleep. She was beautiful and she was safe.

The third time, just five days ago, the day she turned fourteen weeks, they tried again. You'd dropped your guard, they must have assumed. So weary and hopeless after Mulder's funeral, so alone and drained, so weak from grief, they assumed you'd lose her without noticing. You'd collapse from the strain and then they'd strike.

"Genetically important," the first one had said. But you were unimportant. They knew the loss, one heaped upon the other, would break you. You knew they were comfortable with that. You knew they didn't care.

You removed your black suit and went to bed five days ago, snuggled up next to your little girl, dry-eyed and disbelieving. You should have asked to see the body, not just the face. You never checked for identifying marks. You only saw the face, that beautiful and careworn face, soft lips pale and stiff, forehead uncrumpled by concentrated thought, marred only by the single gunshot wound. Cradling your daughter in security and innocence, you couldn't look further, expose her to the horror of the world so soon. You turned and left.

He'd been returned to earth, safe, then executed on the road in Oregon. The complexity of the tragedy left you numb.

You didn't sleep. You watched her, committed to the understanding that you'd never be safe, and that you'd do anything to protect her. There was a piece of him in her, and you were waiting; waiting to see her grown, smirking playfully like him, challenging you like him, making light of hardship like him, loving you, needing you, trusting you like him.

It was a way to have him still.

Then they came, three of them. You heard them, so boldly entering through the front door, doing nothing to disguise their footfalls, approaching the bedroom. All was nearly done. They would have her and you...you didn't matter. They'd taken him, and they wanted her. You reached for your weapon, disengaged the safety, and sat up. Your vision was clear, unclouded by tears and focused from acclimation to the dark. Your hand was steady, your child covered by the comforter. If they took you out, you'd fall backward onto the empty bed, not forward onto her. You were ready.

You didn't warn them. You merely fired three times, one bullet for each, then fired again, dishing out seconds. You covered your nose and mouth, prepared for toxic fumes, but there were none. Human. You'd never spoken a word, never heard a word from their mouths. You put down your weapon, unwrapped the baby, and held her. No need to call the police - your neighbors would, without question, the moment they peeked out into the hallway and saw two more dead bodyguards. You lay in bed in and held the only piece of your world that was worth anything.

And still she didn't cry. You knew that sleep would never come.

You would leave. You would change your name and find a place to hide. He left you more money than you'd known he'd had, enough for a fresh start in a new city. You would hide. They would still come, still search, but you'd have a fighting chance. No more need to wait. He wasn't coming back. He had no need to find you. He was never coming back.

By now you've packed only a few things, ready to run at nightfall. Your friends have given you all you need to start over: names, identification, history, credentials. You want to stay and fight, but she is more important. You must discover why. You cannot let them have her. You must protect the only remaining spark of his life. You're so tired.

You lie in bed with her this late afternoon, gently stroking her cheek, tracing her faint eyebrows, pressing your lips to her forehead crumpled with baby thoughts, her tiny little nose. You wonder if it will grow large like his, and if she will take it as a sign of character or if she will curse it and loathe her face. You will love it, and maybe some of that adoration will spill over into her. She will learn to love herself through you.

You lie in bed with her, permitting her tiny fist to grasp your finger, and the symbolism isn't lost on you. You smile faintly, knowing that tonight you give your child her life. Tonight your lives begin.

Then the door jostles, you hear it from the bedroom. You wondered if they would come when you sent away your new guards, refusing to add to the body count. You hear the footsteps now. You will not hesitate to shoot again; it is your home, your child, your life. No court will convict you. They didn't the first three times.

A single set of footsteps approach, and you wonder if he is clinically stupid. You took out three last time, and now they send only one. Unless he has a fully automatic weapon or a flame thrower, he's already dead. You have decided how to keep her safe, and nothing will divert you now. You cover the child again.

The shadow approaches, and as you raise your weapon, you hear a voice - the first time they've spoken since the first. That time, it was a single, growled, "It's genetically important. You can't protect it." But this time, the voice is softer, afraid.

"Scully, don't shoot."

The voice hurts you, not merely for its nearly forgotten cadence, but also because you understand what is coming. You have no stiletto. If you shoot it, the fumes will kill you, and it will still live, taking your child from you, leaving your corpse to rot in this bed.

You speak to the thing in the hallway, the first time you have deigned to use your voice to any of them since all this began. "Don't come any closer. I know how to kill you," you bluff. "Don't make me do it."

"It's me," it says insidiously. "Please, Scully, I'm sorry. It wasn't me you saw...it wasn't me."

You want to believe it. You want to dwell on your doubts and concerns over your cursory identification of the body. You want to believe this beautiful lie. You want that thing to be him. He could watch the baby while you sleep.

"Get out," you spit. "I'll kill you, you know I will." It doesn't deserve to wear his face. Your hand is shaking, and you think it probably sees that.

It approaches. "Scully, it's me. You buried a clone. The rebels made it. They thought I should disappear for a while." It continues to approach, slowly. "They thought I might be able to work better if nobody knew I was alive. They told me to find you and take you somewhere safe." It moves to the edge of the bed and looks down at you with tenderness and fear. It sits. "They said we were genetically important. Please, Scully, put the gun down. It's me."

You want to believe, but you've already decided on a course of action. Nothing will sway you. You must protect your child.

"I don't believe you. I buried him. It's over." You pour conviction into your voice as you continue to aim your weapon at its chest. "Get out." You draw down the comforter, pick up the child, and hold her to you with your other arm. You've become skilled at this maneuver in recent weeks.

Its face turns to the child. The expression opens, falls, then sets firm in apparent resignation. It reaches into its pocket. It opens a small folding knife, and offers it to you, holding it by the blade. "It's me," it says.

You put down your gun, useless you know against the acid-blooded, and take the blade. You want to believe, but if it's true, you'll be vulnerable again. It's been nearly a year; you've learned how to be without him.

"Scully, please. If it's the only way to prove to you that I'm me..."

You gouge the blade into its palm and drag. If it's acid, the thing will kill you anyway. If it's real...

It grimaces in pain, but it bleeds red. You drop the knife and take the hand, tracing the wound, the trickle of blood from the cut, the familiar lines of the palm. You inhale, and the scent is familiar. You know him. You're afraid to meet his eyes.

He's one step ahead of you. With his unmarred hand, he tilts your chin upward and his eyes meet yours. There is joy and sadness in his expression, one you know as well as the voice of your own mind. This face, these feelings, are all you have ever known. You nearly forget the squirming bundle in your left arm.

He doesn't. His eyes are wide. "What...how?"

But it's too simple to be believed. Time apart has made you more inclined toward skepticism again. "How do I know you're not the clone?"

He shakes his head and sighs. "Ask me something."

You fire questions at him as quickly as they occur to you. "How did Tooms die? And Pinker Rawls? Did I eat that cricket? What were you thinking about when you dragged me onto the roof during that mudslide in Cedar Rapids?"

He smiles. "Escalator, windshield impact, no, and there was no mudslide. Nice trick question, Scully."

He is alive, and he is home. For the first time in months, you smile without reservation. "She's ours."

He kisses you, careful not to crush you or the baby. "We have to go, Scully. It's not safe here."

You laugh. He has no idea. "Her bags are packed." You stop for a moment, stunned by the implication of your words in one swift rush. Yes, tonight you will sleep.

You rise, and he rises with you. You hand the baby to him, and go to the closet to retrieve her pre-packed things. He looks down at the child with wonder and a little panic. He is beautiful, even as his red blood seeps into the baby blanket.

"She's..."

You smile. "Yes. I wasn't sick, Mulder." You are looking at him and using his name.

He smiles. It makes sense now.

You hand him the bags and walk him to the door. He looks over his shoulder at you in concern. "Where are your things?" he asks innocently.

You shake your head. "They've tried three times already. They said *she's* genetically important." You know that they will never stop looking if you disappear.

He shakes his head, and you can see he is afraid and angry. "No. All three of us."

You look up into his sweet eyes with firmness. "No." He's dead, and no one will look for him. "You know what you have to do." To punctuate your point, you knock over a lamp and listen to it crash onto the floor. You go to the mantle and clear it with one sweep of your arm. The frames and glass shatter on the floor. You turn to him so he can see the seriousness of your intent. He looks on in horror. You don't stop.

You overturn a table, pull a bookcase over to the floor. You retrieve your weapon from the bedroom and fire three rounds into the kitchen cupboards. You drop your gun and walk toward him.

You wrap your arms around him, and press a kiss to his cheek. You slip down and kiss the baby, as you pull his weapon from the holster under his arm. You hand it to him, barrel-first.

He shakes his head, refuses to take it. He looks down at the baby as if her presence could convince you that guns and children don't belong in the same space. You understand, in this world they do. By now you are not surprised that she isn't crying; she was made for this. This child and this weapon, both held by this man, belong together.

"There's no time, Mulder," you tell him. "The police are probably already on the way."

He shakes his head. "I can't...do this."

"Do it, Mulder. Now." You soften your voice, shocked by the strength of it. "For us."

He raises his hand, slowly, and takes the barrel of the weapon. He leans his head forward past the baby's, and kisses your lips, your cheeks, trembling. He whispers into your ear, "When it's safe..."

"No," you tell him, drawing back. "Make it convincing." Knowing he will look back on this moment and question himself, you smirk intentionally. In time, your dark humor will remind him that this was what you wanted. "Try for unconsciousness rather than brain damage, okay?"

He must know the sinking anticipation is the worst part, because in the next few moments, all you feel is the swift shock of the blow to your temple, the ground swirling and dropping beneath your feet, and the chill of the floor against your bare legs.

And you hear him. As darkness falls, you hear a building sob somewhere near. "Scully...oh God, Scully...what's her name?"

She is safe, and your future is unwritten. But it's finally safe to sleep.

=====
End.

"The greatest loss of time is delay and expectation, which depend upon the future. We let go the present, which we have in our power, and look forward to that which depends upon chance, and so relinquish a certainty for an uncertainty." - Seneca

Thanks to: M. Sebasky, Piglet and cofax for the beta; Tara and SnarkyPup for the green light;  Apologies to Magdeleine for being unclear initially, and to Kelly for beating her to the punch. GMTA, darlin'.

livia@stoodjood.com