A/N: This AU is a mixture of prompts from fanficy-prompts/moonwasours on Tumblr. MSR, but mainly angst. Involves an adopted child, Scully's ex, and a Witness Program. Of course, there are ALIENS. I'm bad at these things.


Dana Scully hadn't gotten a proper night's rest in nearly a year. Her mind was plagued with the marred face of a girl whose fate she'd had a huge hand in. She regretted what she'd done. She regretted who she'd done it for.

She used to cry at night, imagine the little girl and who she might've become had Scully not been a complete and utter idiot five months ago. And then the tears dried up and she spent her evenings dawdling about the manor instead. She couldn't sleep. Her feet would patter against the carpeted stairs, down to the kitchen, where she'd try to eat something of substance and, instead, wind up eating junk food snacks that didn't belong to her: graham crackers, miniature cookies, popcorn. She would linger in the living room and probably fall asleep there, unless she heard him—his feet on the welcome mat, his distinct three raps on the oak front door. She raced, she always raced, up to the bedroom that was three doors down from hers, the bedroom where a 5-year old was always sleeping soundly, unless his head was buried in a book of some kind that she would pretend not to see before she promptly turned around and confined herself to her bedroom. There, she paced and sulked and sulked and paced. At some point or another, she'd collapse in a heap on the floor and somehow wake in time the next morning—or later that morning—to avoid her son discovering her in such a pitiful position.

Tonight was very much the same. Her eyelids drooping, Scully munched on cereal that tasted more like spherical doses of pure sugar. It was revolting, and she mentally cursed herself for allowing TJ to poison himself with it every morning before school. Not that she was outraged enough to throw out the box itself. The stuff was keeping her awake, and, quite frankly, it was the only reason that she could stomach the sap that was The Notebook. It was the best thing on television at such a late hour, which wasn't surprising because her other options consisted of the news and advertising channels. She was halfway unconscious, and blissfully so, with the minimal noises of the iconic street scene acting as her lullaby when it happened. The knocking at the door rattled her upright, and her eyes flung open; they were wide, wide like a balloon in the sense that they'd pop if she stressed them anymore.

It didn't sound like him. She panicked and leapt up anyhow. Cereal and milk splattered onto the sofa, and she instinctively scurried to the staircase.

They'll stop soon. They stop. It stops.

Except this time it didn't. She froze at the foot of the steps, cradling herself in her cardigan as the sounds of a fist against her front door and feet scampering across the lone hall of the second floor pounded in her head. For the first time in a long time, she found herself wishing that the tears would come back. She felt trapped. Her breathing became labored, her vision pixelated. And then, simultaneously, she heard:

"Dana Scully." A gruff, male voice that certainly wasn't his, and

"Mama?" The only voice she wanted to hear.

She breathed a sigh of relief and clutched her stomach, trying to calm herself down and tune out whoever it was she'd crafted in her mind.

"Hm?" was all she could muster.

"Mama, who's that?"

Her head snapped up, and she furrowed her brows. The dark-skinned boy was cradling his stuffed puppy with one hand and rubbing the sleep-haze from his eye with the other. His hair was curly and fluffy and big, just the way he liked it. The sight almost sobered her. Almost. "You hear it, too, honey?" This would be a first. He was a light sleeper; that was how she knew when she was just having an episode—seeing him rest, unperturbed.

But he'd heard it, too. He nodded.

"Stay right there, T." She gave him a supportive half-smile and then ran off to silence the incessant shouting of her name, doing her best not to care about the fact that she was less than presentable, in her worn, torn pajamas. She was hoping that there was no reason to care.

There wasn't. Sort of.

A man was standing outside of the door, one she'd never seen before. Even so, she knew who he was. She knew what he'd come for. He didn't even have to introduce himself, yet he did, anyways.

"Travers Lane, U.S. Marshal. I'm here to—."

Scully turned away from him and hollered in the other direction, "TJ, honey, go and grab your suitcase." She faced the Marshal again. The ghost of surprise was evident in his features for perhaps a split second. It vanished as quickly as she'd noticed it.

"Would that be Thaddeus?"

"Thaddeus Jamie O'Malley." She recited, the last bit coming out in a tone that deserved an eye roll. It had nothing to do with Travers Lane, and he was well aware. Quietly, he watched her gather a small tote bag from beside the couch. "He's adopted."

Lane nodded dutifully and checked his wrist for the time. He did it a second time. Five minutes hadn't expired when TJ came barrelling down the stairs, a look of determination and a loud, mini suitcase in tow. It was fashioned in the style of a cartoon character that was difficult to identify in the dark. Scully watched her son sadly, smiling all the same. TJ gladly took the hand she offered him.

Scully hurried TJ over to Lane, who introduced himself again. His features seemed to have softened, but Scully was convinced that she'd only imagined it. As of late, she'd been imagining a lot of things.

Lane wasted no time escorting Scully and TJ to his government-issued van. Surprisingly, TJ didn't complain about not getting shotgun. Something told Scully that she would've gladly given it to him if he had. Sitting beside a stoic and quiet Travers Lane was not the most comforting way to be shuttled away from her house. House, because it wasn't a home. She didn't even spare it a glance as they sped off from the driveway.

No. She watched her son, through the overhead mirror.

TJ was timidly glancing about the spick-and-span vehicle, his fingers digging into his stuffed animal deep enough that he would likely leave marks. He'd been a good sport about this, better than she could've ever hoped for, even after months of preparation for this very moment. There was a time when she thought they'd never come like they'd told her they would. She'd been anticipating their arrival for five months. She hadn't slept in five months.

She thought they would ease her mind. She thought she'd be able to sleep.

She couldn't see it happening now, not in her situation.

Not when she saw plainly what she was doing to her son, what he'd never tell her.

At 5 years old, how could he even register his own emotions? He was smart, she knew, but not that smart.

She saw his worry. She saw his fear, his fear of not seeing his father ever again, as well as his fear of seeing his father within the next five minutes. She saw his anxious curiosity that questioned what his life was about to become and whether or not his Mommy was telling the truth about what was going to happen to them. She saw his pain, acute and yet so expertly hidden, as if he didn't even know it was there (and, honestly, he probably didn't).

She saw him. She noticed him in ways that he couldn't. She spotted things that went over his head, literally and figuratively, and she hated what she found, hated what she'd done to put it there.

Numbly, she leaned back in the leather seat and said nothing as Lane took them into the night, watching her son, like she always did.

She saw the erosion of his innocence.


On the opposite coast, some weeks afterwards, a rejuvenated Fox Mulder was having his enthusiasm tapered by none other than his boss, Walter Skinner. Mulder had recently been informed of a possible X-File, one that was different from those taking up space in his basement because they were dormant and this one, if it turned out to be an X-File, was active.

He had been prepared to leave immediately upon learning of the case, gathering all of his essentials and heading out to his car. Ultimately, it was there that he realized he hadn't been given the location of any potential witnesses. It was with a moderately downtrodden spirit that he'd made a beeline for his boss' office. And that was how he'd wound up getting a lecture, whilst he tried very hard not to move around too much in Skinner's new swivel chair.

Most of the disclaimers went over Mulder's head. To be fair, they were meant to remind him of the slim chance that this was going to turn out to be what he wanted it to be. He had no preferences, really. He just wanted a reward of some kind for believing all this time. What was better than bearing witness to a live alien or monster or whatever it was? The file was vague, for security purposes, so he had no idea what to expect.

Maybe it was better that way.

"Remember, I'm going to need you to be on your best behavior. No almost getting a barrel poked in your back in the woods because you're looking for an alien mutant patient."

Mulder groaned. "The guy was hiding something. I figured it out, whether you want to believe it or not."

"Yeah, well, you don't bring in any results and evidence from a case soon, and you're getting shut down."

Mulder clasped his hand over his heart. "Why do you love to go there? I'm joking."

Skinner narrowed his eyes. "Go."

"Touchy." Mulder held up his hands in mock surrender. He rose and gathered the sheet of paper with an address written on it from Skinner's desk. This time, his hand wasn't promptly slapped away.

He made a clean break. And then he popped his head into the office again, to see an exasperated Skinner. "Hi." He grinned, sheepishly. "You wouldn't happen to know their names, would you?"

"Laura and Richard Petrie," Skinner supplied, as he massaged his temples.

"Right. Don't worry, boss. It's just a kid who thinks he saw an alien. What kind of threat does that pose to our peace of mind?"

A very viable one, he hoped.


I stole "Laura Petrie" from the Arcadia episode. The name Richard came from the Dick Van Dyke show, as well. I hope this was remotely interesting, truthfully!