II.
The drive back from work felt especially arduous that night, though traffic was light because rush hour had long passed. The weight of the case bore down on her, and on top of that remained the burning question that she still did not know the answer to.
She gripped the steering wheel tight, her shoulders hunched and her arms tense. When she noticed this, she told herself to relax, but was only able to do so for a few minutes before finding herself back in the same position.
Doggett hadn't commented on what she had told the subject earlier, about having a son. It was possible that he had chalked it up to her spinning a story in order to get closer to the woman. But Monica felt that he knew she had been referring to William. And that he hadn't pressed her on it not because he wasn't curious, but because John was being polite. He wasn't one to pry.
The crisp November air bit at her as she locked her car and made her way inside her destination. It was later in the evening than she had expected to arrive. The X-Files was not exactly a 9-to-5 job, but they had received a promising lead yesterday that had given her hopes of tying things up early today.
So much for that. Monica loved her work, and usually would not feel so negatively towards the late hours, even when it interfered with her personal life. But today was different.
She was accustomed to being in tune with herself and with the world around her. Whether it was through astute observation and empathy, or through more abstract energies, she usually had a good sense of what was going on. She could sense what people were feeling, and when something was out of place.
Currently, however, she found herself confused over what her place was, and this was deeply uncomfortable. It was as if a rug had been pulled out from underneath her, and she did not know if she was falling, or floating, or flying. Or, perhaps, it was all an illusion and there was never even a rug to begin with.
Her legs felt heavy as she trudged out of the elevator and down the warmly lit hall of the apartment building. The dark wood floors seemed to stretch on for miles before she reached the door she was looking for. The effort of digging around her chaotically-organized bag for her keys was almost too much. She even tried the wrong key at first, cursing under her breath upon the realization. It was a small error, but she was already frustrated with herself, and tired from thinking in circles.
But then she opened the door and stepped inside, and all the effort of getting through the day became worth it as soon as she crossed the threshold. Because once she did, she had come back to a warm home smelling deliciously of fresh spaghetti sauce, and her ears were almost immediately filled with the sounds of a four-year-old boy as he ran out from the kitchen towards her, arms wide open.
It was none other than Silly Willy.
"Moni, Moni!" he exclaimed, reaching her and wrapping his arms around her legs before she even got a chance to take her coat off. She melted into him instantly, bending down and swooping him up into her arms, giving him a wet kiss on the cheek.
"Well hello, you!" The stress that had plagued her moments ago relented, now overpowered by the warmth of affection and excitement from seeing the boy.
Moni. That was what he called her. It had, until now, obviously been just an abbreviation of her name. Moni-ca. With the thoughts of today, however, Monica realized it also sounded like a variation of 'Mommy,' which was already designated to someone else in the household.
The aforementioned someone else made an appearance then, by way of her red head poking out from the kitchen.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey." Monica kicked off her shoes and padded to the kitchen, William still clung onto her like a koala with his arms around her neck. He stayed put as Monica made her way over towards the stove and to Dana, who she greeted with a similar kiss on the cheek.
"You're home late," Dana said dryly, raising her sharp eyebrows. "I had to make dinner by myself."
If Monica hadn't known her so well, she wouldn't have been able to tell that she was just teasing, and not cross.
Fortunately, she did know her well. "What do you mean, 'by yourself?'" she said, her grin contrasting Dana's deadpan. "You have this guy over here, put him to work!" She turned her face towards William and tousled his sandy hair, eliciting giggles.
"I'm too short," he said. "I can't see anything."
"He's got a point." This time Dana laughed, too. His tiny head reached nowhere near the level of the countertop.
Monica put little William down to finally take her coat off. She then did her part by setting the table for dinner and putting away some of the leftover ingredients.
"You should change," Dana said, glancing at Monica's tan blouse. "It is spaghetti."
She herself had already done so, now donned in a big black T-shirt that reached the length of her mid-thighs. It had been years, and Monica still couldn't shake the feeling of seeing Dana in casual clothing. It was such a contrast to her sharp worktime attire that it gave Monica almost a vicarious feeling of relief.
"Yeah," William concurred. "Spaghetti is gonna be MESSY." He said the last word with dramatic, gurgling emphasis, making her laugh once again as she retreated to the bedroom.
There, she slipped out of her blouse, bra, and slacks, replacing them with a gray sweatshirt and some heathered pajama pants. Dana may be able to thrive in a T-shirt, but she still had Southwestern desert blood in her and it did not handle the cold well, even after years of living in New York and now D.C.
Monica tossed the day's clothes into the bathroom laundry basket, though she knew that Dana would insist on taking the blouse with her on her next visit to the dry cleaners. In the bathroom, she also splashed her face with water before returning to the bedroom to take off her jewelry and lay it on top of the dresser.
She stared at herself in the mirror, noticing her own under-eye circles with dismay. The silence and isolation of the room allowed her earlier thoughts to return, and they were even louder now that she was in the vicinity of the people in question.
In the interrogation room today, she had admitted to having a child. She hadn't mentioned a name, or age, or anything. It could have been anyone. But she knew that she had genuinely meant William, and now she was angry at herself for claiming him. She felt that she had lied not one, or two, but three times in that room. Children, yes. One. A son.
Who was she to say that he was her son?
The lines of interrogation that she had imposed upon herself throughout the day returned.
Had she conceived him? No. Had she given birth to him? No. Not directly, anyways. Was her name on his birth certificate? Well, yes, actually—as a witness to the birth, but not as a parent... Had she legally adopted him? No.
There was no denying that she played a big role in his life, right from the start. Since his birth she had spent time caring for him, watching over him, protecting him. She was obviously important to him. But his mother? Could she really call herself that? Come on, Monica.
The thing was, she wanted to. Now that it was in question, she realized that she did want to be an actual mother to him. Mother was actually a pretty damn good way to sum up how she felt towards him.
But he already had a mother, and despite the years of knowing her and loving her and deciphering her, Monica could not tell whether Dana already considered her a parent. And if she didn't, whether she would object to it.
Would Dana be angry? Offended? It was certainly possible. Dana was fiercely defensive over her son. Monica could easily see her being repulsed at the thought of someone else claiming William as their child.
But—she wasn't just someone else. She was Monica. And she needed to know where she stood in all of this.
Monica had a high tolerance for uncertainty, stemming not just from her work on the X-Files but also from her own natural openness to the world. She usually fared well with a lack of clarity to burning questions. But for once, she needed a concrete answer.
So I guess now is the time to talk about it.
There was a little knock on the door then. "Moniii, spaaaghetti tiiime," called William.
Okay, well not right, right now. Right now, it's time for spaghetti.
She was already awake when she heard his cry.
At the first sound of it, she sprung up immediately and slinked swiftly through the darkness. Shadows followed her as she made her way around the sofa, past the kitchen, and through to the nursery where she found a flailing, crying baby in his crib.
He continued to writhe as she reached in to collect him, bringing him into her arms to soothe him. The warm contact quelled him for a mere few moments, and then he was back to wailing.
She turned her head towards the door, noticing that she had left it open in her rush to him. She moved to close it then. The walls of the apartment were thin, but hopefully with the door shut he wouldn't wake anyone up.
"Oh," she cooed at him. "Now, what's the matter? Bad dreams?"
She gently rocked him back and forth, walking around the room as she did so. Moonlight streamed in from the window, illuminating the sides of his crib and the face of the teddy bear resting on the corner shelf nearby.
"Shh. Shh. It's okay." He was crying still, albeit less violently than before. She was making progress.
Monica began to hum softly, singing to him a random tune from no one song in particular. After some time, he relaxed in her arms and ceased his wailing. But, from the look on his face, he was far from content.
William was not yet a year old, but he seemed to already know how to speak through his eyes. Once he stopped grimacing, Monica was able to get a good look at the big blue discs.
"Oh," she said. "Okay."
She added a lighthearted, "Well, why didn't you just say so?" as she grabbed a small blanket and whisked him towards the door.
Tip-toeing through the apartment wasn't possible with a fifteen-pound bundle in her arms. Instead, she moved slowly, gradually shifting the weight from one foot to the other so that her steps weren't as sudden or as loud. Baby William behaved as she did so, remaining quietly wrapped in his blanket.
Still, she whispered to him as she entered the kitchen. "Now, don't go yelling again, you. We don't want to wake your mommy up."
Ten minutes later, Monica was back at the living room sofa as she was before. Only now, she had company. William lay patiently in her arms as she settled down into the cushions and draped a blanket over her own crossed legs. When she looked down at him, she saw that his arms were outstretched in anticipation. But, he made no efforts to grab at her or move closer to her chest. Smart boy. She guessed he had learned to recognize her scent from Scully's. When Monica held him, he knew to expect the bottle and not the breast.
She grabbed the warmed milk bottle from the side table and placed it into his little hands. He latched onto the rubber nipple and sucked eagerly, commencing his late-night snack.
As William fed, Monica felt her own eyes become heavy with sleepiness. Still, she willed herself to stay awake. One because she needed to tend to William, and two because she knew it was dangerous to fall asleep with an infant in your arms. She had seen Scully doing this occasionally, which worried her, but she wasn't going to admonish the baby's mother. Especially given the fact that she was a doctor.
Monica herself knew that the risk of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, SIDS, was quite low. According to the book she had borrowed from the library, the probability of it was lower than getting struck by lightning. But the probability of being born as a superhuman baby sought out by super soldiers was also very, very low, and yet. Clearly, the usual probabilities did not apply to William.
What's more, if Spender's story about the magnetite had any truth to it—if anything about this whole situation had any truth to it, really—then William was now just as susceptible as any other baby to SIDS. Low or not, Monica didn't want to take any chances.
Doggett had teased her about the parenting books. The first time she had brought one to a stakeout, he had asked her if she was planning on having a child.
"That kid's gotten to ya, huh? Now you want one too?"
She had brushed it off with similar lightness. No, she didn't want a baby. She just wanted to help Agent Scully take care of hers.
John had gone on to rag on the books, insisting, "Those are full of crap. It's just a bunch of hoity-toity BS, if you ask me. A book can't tell ya how to take care of a kid. It's all about the parental instinct. You just gotta use your instinct."
"Well, what if I don't have any?" she had countered.
"Nonsense. Everyone has it. Doesn't matta if it's your kid or not—you'll know what to do."
Monica had taken his comments in stride—she knew John meant well. Still, she had kept reading anyway.
After all, it was the books that had made her aware of the dangers of thirdhand smoke to a baby. She had been horrified to learn of it. At the time, she had already helped take care of William twice. She had felt like such an idiot for not realizing it before—even though she changed her clothes and never smoked inside, she still carried it in her hair.
She had showered immediately after getting home that night, and then in her bathrobe she had gone around her apartment collecting cigarette boxes from various places, tossing them all in the garbage. It turned out that quitting smoking wasn't so difficult when she had a good reason to do so.
William released the bottle from his mouth, staring at it. Monica saw that it was nearly empty. She waited a few minutes to see if he would get back to finish it. When he didn't, she took the bottle from his hands and placed it back on the side table, and he made no protest.
"Full, huh?" She wiped a stray drop of milk from his cheek and he stared at her with his big eyes. She had been hoping the meal would satisfy him enough for sleep, but at the moment he still looked very much awake.
She slid her hands under his arms and pulled him to an upright position, turning him around so that his chin rested on her shoulder. Gently, she patted his back.
Feeling herself tempted toward sleep again, Monica stood up and walked around with him. She trailed around the living room, circling the sofa and then back and forth between the windows and the door.
Her repetitive steps around the room traced the paths she had taken just a few weeks ago. They had been more frantic then, more haphazard. She had followed Agent Scully through the apartment as the woman rushed around, tossing things into various bags. First she had filled the diaper bag, then the backpack, then the suitcase. All the while with Monica on her tail, in as much distress as she was.
"Dana, stop! Stop!" She had said this over and over before she had gotten a response.
"I have to do this, Monica. It's the only way."
"It's not! Dana, you don't have to do this."
"But I do. Move out of my way."
She had continued to chase Scully around the apartment, feeling powerless as she watched the woman consolidate all of her baby's belongings to be packed up. Monica had known that she didn't have the right to judge Scully, but she couldn't help feeling like she was about to make a grave mistake.
Still, she had resigned to supporting Scully in her decision that day. She had spent the evening helping her sort out the rest of William's belongings. Dana had wanted everything to go with him. She hadn't wanted to keep anything, not even the smallest trace of him. It was as if she wanted to erase his existence entirely from her mind. Monica knew that wouldn't be possible, and she had convinced her to at least keep one of his teddy bears.
Back in present time, Monica felt William go limp in her arms, and his small heartbeat slowed down. He had finally fallen asleep. Relieved, she took him back to the nursery and set him down gently in his crib, bidding him good night again.
Once she washed the milk bottle, she was free to finally get her own sleep. She trekked back to the living room sofa and climbed in, pulling the blanket up over her body. She was eager to sleep, but before she could do so, her mind moved to finish her memory of that fateful day.
Though she had initially accepted that it was not her place to decide what would become of the baby, Monica couldn't hold onto this. That next day, as Agent Scully stood in the living room calling the adoption agency, she had marched over to snatch the cell phone out of her hands, pressing the top red button to end the call.
"Monica! What the hell?"
They had argued all that morning. Not about Monica hanging up the phone, but about what would be best for William. About how he could be protected. Dana had insisted on sending him away, anonymously. Insisted that he would only be safe if he was sent far, far away from this supernatural, extraterrestrial, Godforsaken mess of a life. Monica had moved fast to expose the holes in her reasoning.
They had found them in Georgia, she had reminded Scully. She had driven them hours and hours away, and they had hidden out in the middle of nowhere, and yet they had still been found in a mere day. It would be impossible to truly hide William, so the best protection would be to defend him.
"I don't think a random anonymous family will be the best means of defense if they decide to come after him again. He needs you, Dana."
"I can't do it. I can't. I've already failed."
"But you haven't. You won't."
"I can't do it. Mulder is gone. I can't do this alone."
"But Dana," she had said. "You're not alone."
By the end of that day, she had managed to convince Scully to give it another week before she made a decision.
And that one week had changed everything.