From: xphileangel@gmail.com   
      
   This is a repost....I will be reposting the story as I make final   
   revisions over the next few days.   
      
   Title: S.N.A.F.U. Part 1 Chapters 1-6   
   Author: Emily Sim   
   Rating: Mature Adults only   
   Category: M/O S/O (brief/past) MSR Angst/Mythology AU   
   Spoilers: Seasons 2 - 6   
   Disclaimer: Still don't own them, no money changed   
   hands, I always put them back when I'm done.   
   Thanks to: xdks, Tali, Jake, and Taffy - without these gals this   
   would not be readable and to Siggy and Toate for providing   
   valuable insight.   
      
   Feedback to: xf_emily_sim@yahoo.ca   
      
   Summary: What if Kristen Kilar wasn't dead, at least not in the   
   traditionally understood definition of dead.   
      
   ***********   
      
   Chapter 1   
      
   In the end, he remembered, the blood had made him   
   sick. Throw-up puke his guts out sick. But the sex had   
   been incredible. It had pulled him back, put him in   
   touch with life. It redeemed and validated him,   
   breathed life into his tenuous existence. No matter   
   how much he'd felt it was a betrayal, how sick he felt   
   afterwards, it had served a purpose. Then Scully came   
   back from wherever she had been and things had become   
   almost normal. As normal as it could be working in the   
   basement, chasing nefarious men who refused to put   
   flesh to the idea of who and what they were. Life   
   began to slowly move forward. Black and white with   
   shades of grey slowly gained definition, color, and   
   his heart began beating again.   
      
   There were other occasions when his heart had reason   
   to stop, but each time there had been an eleventh hour   
   solution which was more or less satisfactory, and   
   Scully was safe once again. Not without damage, nor   
   consequences, but he didn't let himself dwell there.   
   She had reminded him far too often that it was her   
   choice as well, and he'd taken it to heart. He had no   
   other option, to do otherwise would be crippling; the   
   guilt would crush him, weaken his resolve, and he   
   needed to stay focused. Sometimes his focus was all   
   that kept him going, kept his heart pumping blood,   
   keeping him alive, if somewhat less sane each day.   
   Sanity was flexible, changeable; it came and went in   
   degrees according to the situation. Even the guilt was   
   useful, and he had enough of that to keep him going   
   for years. Scully had gotten a cure -- it wasn't a   
   perfect fix, but she was alive. Pfaster was in the   
   past, though he was positive his face visited her   
   during an occasional nightmare. Sometimes the walls   
   were too thin, the television too quiet. Despite it   
   all, or in spite of it, things were moving forward for   
   them. Slowly, of course -- it wouldn't do to break   
   with six years of snail-paced movement. Things weren't   
   great right now, they had gotten a little tense with each   
   negative result from the IVF, but they were okay, and now this.   
      
   _This_ was not okay.   
      
   The woman in front of him was dead. Or used to be dead   
   -- or formerly dead -- or 'only very nearly dead', Max   
   supplied in his perfect Jewish Bronx accent -- fuck if   
   he knew how to classify it. The child's hand she held   
   was a surprise - shit - surprise was too feeble a   
   word. Shock was better, disaster perhaps even more   
   appropriate. Surprises were mostly nice things, like   
   getting a bike for your birthday, or a timid, gentle   
   kiss good morning when you'd all but give up hope of   
   it ever happening. This was not the kind of surprise   
   one wished for on an ordinary Monday morning. Or on   
   any morning, the small voice inside supplied - no   
   Jewish accent to provide comic relief this time. That   
   was somewhat of an understatement. It was a fucking   
   catastrophe. That the child was his was unquestionable. From the   
   willowy shape of her long limbs to her hazel eyes and curly brown   
   hair -- and the woman whose hand she held, who was dead but   
   wasn't, was expecting something.  He just wasn't quite sure what.   
   The child spoke first.   
      
   "Are you my daddy?"   
      
   Mulder groped for the chair behind him, falling   
   heavily into it. He had no answer for her question and   
   could only watch as the woman shushed her and   
   addressed him.   
      
   "Mulder."   
      
   "Kristen?"   
      
   ********   
      
   Chapter 2   
      
   The only thing he found remotely positive in the   
   scenario before him was his partner's absence. He   
   blessed whatever gods had seen to it that Quantico had   
   needed her for the next few days. He felt for the bag   
   of sunflower seeds in his pocket, needing to do   
   something to fill the silence, gain control of his   
   thudding heart, and busy his hands - and perhaps keep   
   his mouth occupied until he figured out what he should   
   or shouldn't say. He needn't have worried too much;   
   where the two adults facing each other were hesitant,   
   the child was not. It was further confirmation, he   
   noted wryly, of at least one half of her parentage.   
      
   "Why do you work way down here?" One arm swung out to   
   indicate his office. "It smells funny."   
      
   Mulder's mouth opened and closed, a small squeak the   
   only indication that he had at least attempted an   
   answer.   
      
   "I know this must be a bit of a shock to you. I tried   
   to call, once or twice, when I first found out, but   
   didn't know what I was going to say when you answered,   
   so I hung up. I realize this isn't the best way to   
   tell you, but -" She seemed at a loss for words, or   
   perhaps had used up all the ones she could think of   
   that applied to the situation.   
      
   "So you thought, what, just show up and give me   
   empirical evidence?" He took a deep breath, and   
   mindful of the young girl whose hand she held,   
   softened his voice.  "I'm sorry, that was uncalled   
   for. I thought you were - dead." They both winced at   
   the word.   
      
   "I can't talk about it right now," -- her head dipped to the   
   child -- "but I will explain it later."   
   "What's your name?" Mulder moved off his chair and   
   kneeled down in front of the girl.   
      
   "Hannah." She raised her hand to shake his.   
      
   "Nice to meet you, Hannah." He took her small hand in   
   his.   
      
   "I have your picture."   
      
   Mulder felt his stomach heave just a little at her   
   admission. "Oh." It was all he could manage.   
      
   Kristen pulled Hannah back against her. "I think we've   
   been here long enough, for now." She reached into her   
   pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "This is the   
   address and the number where you can reach me. We'll be   
   home all evening. Can you come by?"   
      
   Mulder took the paper offered him, putting it in his   
   pocket without looking. "I guess I'd better do that."   
      
   "Is seven okay?" She acknowledged Mulder's nod with   
   one of her own. "Call me if you can't make it."   
      
   He watched as they turned and left. Returning to his   
   desk he pulled the center drawer out as far as he   
   could, wiggling it from side to side until the entire   
   thing was free. He reached into the cavity created to   
   pull the one file that had never made it into the   
   black cabinets that lined the back wall. Pulling at   
   the silver duct tape, he managed to free the file with   
   only a small tear to the plastic sleeve that held it.   
   He had some work to do before seven o'clock tonight.   
      
   *******   
      
   Chapter 3   
      
   Skinner put the phone down just as the door opened, a   
   plume of smoke preceding the man who entered. In five   
   years of dealing with him, Skinner had never managed   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)