A/N – I started working on this premise long before the revival aired, and then while watching Founder's Mutation, I suddenly came up with a frame story to match. It picks up right where the episode leaves off, but from Scully's POV. I own nothing – not the characters or various titles I used throughout, or Dr. Seuss. Reviews are much appreciated xoxo

Miss Lonely

All Alone!

Whether you like it or not,

Alone will be something

you'll do quite a lot.

Oh, the Places You'll Go, Dr. Seuss

Several days after she and Mulder have the briefest of conversations about William, she is constantly distracted still. Her mind is filled with Mulder's words as well as her own. She is unable to shake off the image of the boy she has created in her mind over the years, but this image is now tainted by the gruesome details of their most recent case, which brings forth new concerns regarding her son. Is it at all possible that her miracle child was no miracle after all, but someone's grotesque experiment? She may never know; she isn't even sure she wants to. Her fingers shake as she reaches once more for his baby picture. It is hopelessly creased now after years in her possession. She stares at it for what feels like hours, almost as if she is trying to summon him to her through it, as though she doesn't know any better. Whenever she stuffs the picture back in the drawer, she hopes her heart could close off just as swiftly.

It's well after midnight when she wanders into her living room, dressed in a nightshirt (one of Mulder's tee shirt she's stolen) and carrying a glass of red wine. Her sock-clad feet make no sound against the dark hardwood floor. She looks around her in dismay. She's moved in months ago, and yet it's still strange to think of this apartment as her home. She's too taken by her past, by memories of her old Georgetown apartment and the dingy farmhouse she and Mulder have shared. This place is half the size of her old apartment, but she doesn't mind it. Between her demanding job at the hospital and her current reassignment to the bureau, she's hardly home as it is. Plus, the diminutive size of her apartment makes her loneliness somewhat less striking. Her eyes travel across the room, and she smiles almost despite herself at the sight of the bookcase. This is by far her favorite feature, particularly the three busy shelves in its very center.

She has told Mulder that she missed every year of their son's life, but in a way that isn't true. She has filled those years with books. Placing her wine glass on a half empty shelf, she runs a loving finger along their spines and wonders how many of those exist on his own shelves, wherever he is. In her mind William is a curious boy, an avid reader. She wants to believe that in that respect, at the very least, he takes after her. The books are her only solace when his image becomes too vague, her imagination too bleak to bear. With her books – his books – she's happy, not as lonely. It is almost like having some part of him in her life, some say in the person he will grow up to be.

It all started by chance, as those things had so often done. She discovered the little second hand bookshop in her neighborhood while changing her jogging route. William was gone for about a month by then, and anything to keep her mind off his burning absence – as small a thing as a different route – was a blessed distraction. It was something she remembered her mother do as well following the loss of her father. She didn't know what drew her eye to the opposite sidewalk, but there it was, a tiny shop nestled between a hair salon and an overpriced boutique she had only entered once since moving into Georgetown. She all but halted at the sight of it, so old and out of place in an otherwise chic location. She crossed the street and walked in, heart still racing from her run, and was welcome by the scent of wood, black tea and old paper. There was something mysterious about it. It reminded her of her father, who liked to collect first editions he had found in the course of his many travels. Her mother was still keeping his vast collection at the study.

There was a young woman behind a counter piled high with books, reading from a paperback, who acknowledged her entrance with a smile and told her to just ask if she needed anything. It made her like the place instantly. She liked sellers who didn't fuss, especially in bookshops. She preferred doing her own private browsing. Having a stranger to hover nearby had always taken out of the magic of simply looking around, as far as she was concerned.

The external appearance of the shop was quite misleading – it was bigger than it seemed, a proper Aladdin cave. It was well organized as well; by genres and then alphabetically. So much more convenient than the clutter one would usually associate with second hand bookshops. The old hardwood floor was dotted with worn out beanbags in various colors and sizes, and there were a few people sitting around, engrossed in reading. If she had to describe the atmosphere in one word, quaint would be it.

She liked wandering into shops like that with no sense of purpose, because she found it took away from the experience if you knew exactly what you were looking for. She wandered towards the historical fiction section and eyed the endless rows of books with longing. She had always enjoyed reading, and usually kept a paperback or two in her overnight bag while away on a case, but in recent years she had sadly found she was having less and less time to devote to it. Working on the X Files, Mulder's disappearance, William's arrival; when she did attempt reading these days, she had usually begun to doze off after barely a paragraph. It was pitiful.

She had a pile of books in her bedroom, waiting for her to tackle it, but it had never prevented her from adding on to the already massive stack. And one could always count on historical fiction to be the cause of its growth. Anything from Tudor England to the hidden secrets of the Vatican to New York at the turn of the century, those were right down her alley, as far away from her everyday occupation as possible. She pulled a few paperbacks out to skim over their back, but nothing really sparked her interest at the moment. Just wandering between the shelves was enough, though, almost therapeutic, and so she gave up an actual search and just looked around.

How she found herself in the children section was another fact unknown, but there she was. It was deserted, which was good, because she didn't want anyone to witness her tormented expression at the sight of all those colorful covers. The enormity of what she had done – be the motive as it may – was still devastating. She could still hear her baby's cries at night, disrupting her fitful slumber. Struggling to keep herself together, she moved closer to one of the shelves and pulled out a book at random. A broken sound escaped her before she managed to hold it back. Her eyes flew around her, but she was still by herself. Slowly composing herself, she lowered her eyes to the book she now held with trembling hands, a first edition of Oh, the Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss.

She had worked on the X Files long enough to know that her choosing that book was far from a coincidence. Clearly it was meant for her. During his recovery, Mulder showed up at her place one day with a copy of that same book wrapped in a shiny paper, and she laughed at how he was bringing her more gifts these days than during their entire seven year partnership, birthdays included. He read it to her that evening as she nestled into the crook of his arm, addressing the swell of her belly. In the weeks left to her pregnancy that was how they spent most of their evenings until they both had the book memorized. She let her finger trace the title, and her lips curled in a sad smile. He managed to read it to William only once before they were forced apart.

On the morning of Mulder's departure, she stuffed the book in one of his suitcases while he was in the shower. Promises and soft words were one thing, but she wanted him to have something physical to remember them by, the fleeting moments of happiness the three of them shared. She knew that if she gave him the book outright he would have refused to take it, saying he wanted her to keep reading to William from it, but she had done so anyway without it. By that point she had known it inside out and recited it to William with an almost religious zeal, hoping to preserve his first memories of the father he didn't get the chance to know. Ever since she lost him, as well, she had often found herself reciting the same lines to herself in bed, but the rhymes were slowly forgotten, the words leaving her brain one by one.

That was the first book she bought. Since then she found herself gravitating towards the bookshop whenever she was feeling down or lonely, and she always ended up in the children's section. Pretty soon she had become a regular there and exchanged pleasantries with the two employees, but they never attempted to pry or ask too many questions. She left with one book on each visit, telling herself it was a silly whim as it was and there was no point overdoing it. She bought The Giving Tree, Peter Pan, a children-friendly version of Moby Dick. She hid the books in an overnight bag she hadn't used since her FBI training, and gave it to her mother for safekeeping when she and Mulder fled. Years later, as they settled at the farmhouse, she retrieved it, stashing it at the bottom of her closet.

In the meantime she had more to add to the bag, books she had bought in random bookshops she and Mulder encountered in their frantic travels. Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Wizard of Oz and Harry Potter; a few Enid Blyton books that reminded her of her childhood. While Melissa read their mother's tattered copies of Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, she stole Bill's detective books and devoured the adventures of The Famous Five and The Secret Seven despite her older brother's protest. She bought Lottie and Lisa because it was her favorite book growing up, and Wuthering Heights because it was Melissa's, because it saddened her that William would never know his aunt just as much as it hurt her he would never know his mother.

Through the years, the books continued to accumulate in the bag, her most well-kept secret. Her mother didn't know what the bag contained. She didn't even tell Mulder about it. She wasn't sure exactly why. Perhaps she feared he wouldn't get it, that he would find it vain or silly. Perhaps she simply wanted to have a link to William that was truly, solely her own. Besides, a girl needed to have a secret or two. When she left the farmhouse the previous year, the bag was the first thing she put in the car, in the middle of the night so that Mulder wouldn't see. Now they fit nicely on the bookcase in an apartment she had yet perceived as her own, nearly sixty of them, an odd collection for a child she would never know.

Her cell phone buzzes. It's still set to "vibrate", and the noise it makes against the wooden coffee table echoes loudly in the small space, startling her. For a second she considers ignoring whoever it is calling so late, but then she catches sight of the caller ID, and she can't bring herself to do so. They may be leading their separate lives now, but she has never screened his calls, as sparse as those are. She knows he's trying his best to respect her wish to put some distance between them, especially now that they're back to working together, and so he only calls when the going gets tough, and she appreciates his efforts. In a way, she feels somewhat guilty for her desertion, and so she feels she owes him her availability. If she's completely honest with herself, it serves her personal interests as well. Speaking to him keeps her grounded.

She picks up her wine glass and sits on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her. Taking a deep breath, she accepts his call. "Hi."

"Hey."

She closes her eyes, letting his voice fill her. Even across the line, with all those months apart and their personal relationship hanging by a thread, he still has such impact on her.

"Sorry I woke you."

"You didn't. I wasn't sleeping."

"I thought we agreed insomnia should be my thing," he quips, and it throws her years back, to countless of nightly conversations, starting the first time the X Files were shut down. She can hardly believe how long it's been. She feels a hundred years old. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, knowing he'll immediately pick up on the lie. "Nothing, I just can't sleep."

"Yeah, me neither." They're both silent for a moment, but that's not unusual in their conversations, something she remembers from way back then, too. Sometimes listening to him breathe on the other end is comfort enough. She takes a sip of her wine, then places the glass on the coffee table. She's just leaning her head against the back of the sofa as he clears his throat. "Do you think he knows? That we did it to protect him?"

The sudden inquiry catches her off guard. Suddenly she's chilled to the bone, and not because she is so scantily dressed. It appears that the same thing has kept them both awake. She composes herself, and replies. "I don't know," she tells him, shaking her head even though he can't see her. "But I want to believe that he does."

He laughs softly, and she knows it's because of the words she has deliberately chosen, so often associated with his own quest. "I think of him often, you know."

This time she can't quite hold back a gasp of surprise at this confession, coming so soon after his admittance of wanting to leave the past in the past, a statement she has both envied and resented. She could barely look at him as he said it. It infuriated her that he had let the mystery surrounding his sister haunt him his entire life – even after he received confirmation of her death – and yet he was willing to shut out his son with barely a blink. That happened only a few days ago – and now this.

As if he can hear all that in her gasp, he chuckles bitterly, sending another chill down her spine. "Wanting to forget about something and actually being able to do so are two completely different things."

"That's true." She struggles to keep her voice steady, but she can sense the cracks forming in her own façade. There's no mistaking in the moistness against her cheeks. She wipes some stray tears angrily with the back of her hand.

"I often think of how it would be like if you... if he was with us." She notices how he refrains from laying the blame on her, but she knows he must be blaming her for the loss of their son, to an extent. There are all these unacknowledged sentiments between them; she can't help but wonder if all these repressed emotions have not been the very reason of their undoing.

But instead of provoking him, trying to make him speak out his fury, she finds herself say, "I do, too. It never ends well."

He mumbles to himself as if in agreement. Then he sniggers. "Fifteen years old, huh? Maybe it's best he's not with us. He would have started to resent us just about now, anyway." She's too distracted to think of a proper backfire for his bitter joke, too busy holding back a sob that's been building up inside her chest. There's another pause, after which he asks, hesitantly, but with obvious concern, "Are you alright, Scully?"

"Fine," she says way too quickly. "I'll be fine," she corrects herself, knowing she will at least try to put the pressing questions their most recent case has left in its trail out of her mind.

"Well... How did that line go? You're on your own, and you know what you know. And you are the girl who'll decide where to go."

The familiar words trigger an array of memories, stirring emotions that have never been buried all the way. She knows she shouldn't be astounded that he remembers, even though they have never mentioned the book upon their reunion. She doesn't even know if he still has that copy she's stuffed into his suitcase all those years ago.

"Better than therapy, this book is. And cheaper. Lucky me, I just thought it was a fun read when I picked it out for you way back then."

"You still have it."

It isn't a question, and she doesn't really expect an answer. But he replies anyway. "Of course I do." There's a smile in his voice as he half says, half asks, "You're surprised?"

"It's just that you never... I mean, when you were back..." Her voice trails uncertainly.

"Well, a guy needs to have a secret or two."

She laughs darkly and nods, glancing at the bookcase over her shoulder. If only he's known. It's not really shocking to her that the only things they seem to be hiding from one another have to do with William, but it is somewhat staggering to realize that so many years later, the wound has not yet healed. Something has been broken when she's given up their son; they are still picking up the pieces.

"Dana?"

Her first name shakes her out of her reverie. She wipes some more tears from her eyes, keeping her voice steady as she replies. "Yes?"

"Come over."

He doesn't say anything else, and he doesn't have to. They have mastered the art of silent communication for two decades, after all. What he wants is evident in those two simple words, in the way he has uttered her name. She knows she should tell him to stop it, that her decision has been final and that spending the night together won't solve a damn thing. She should be assertive, talk some sense into him. As much as she needs him too, they're both vulnerable at the moment. Nothing good can come of it, and she should tell him as much. She is the rational one, after all.

But as she tells herself all that, she also remembers the line he has just recited to her. You are the girl who'll decide where to go. It's up to her to make the choice. It reminds her of a rainy night at his place in Arlington; the details of that conversation turn vague with the passage of time, but she remembers the path that night has put her on. One she does not regret, in spite of everything.

She's the one who decides where to go. And the truth of the matter is that she's sick and tired of being the rational one, just as much as she's weary of being Miss Lonely. And she does need him; more than she cares to admit.

Another memory flashes; something she has told someone a lifetime ago. Loneliness is a choice.

"I'm on my way."