"This story touches all our hearts. We've seen
Now for the first time what it is to be
Well-born, yet in distress. Nobility
Can suffer, and through no fault of its own."

Euripides, "The Heracleidae," Lines 232-235. Translation by Ralph Gladstone. Used without permission.
 

FROHIKE:

Martha will be here tonight. Thank God. One night without her and I thought I would go insane. I ended up spending the night rubbing the boy's back just to keep myself from thinking about how miserable it would be to get in bed without her.

I don't think she'll be pleased with me when she finds out; she insists I don't rest enough.

My ass I don't rest enough. Hell, I feel like that's all I do lately.

I was glad the boy was home last night. It felt like old times, if you consider old times to be about a year ago. Something was normal and comforting about having to take care of him.

And that time will grow more limited. I dread it. He's already begun to rely more on Kelly for such matters than upon me. For a while, I was his primary source of emotional as well as physical support, but that has shifted, at least in the emotional arena.

I'm so grateful to have Martha at this time in my life. I think I would truly be at loose ends without her. Michael still needs me, but one by one, he breaks the threads, and someday he'll just bust loose into full adulthood.

And I pray to God or whoever or whatever that she'll be here.

I'd settle for her just being here now. It's nearly 8:30, and while it's not unusual for her shift to run slightly over, I find I'm impatient for her arrival.

For one thing, I've cooked dinner for us, and I'm trying to keep it from spoiling. Nothing elaborate, mind you, but she's made so many meals for me recently, and she's the one that's been slaving away at work all day, not me.

I tell myself, this will be the last day I spend in the house. Tomorrow, we've been invited to post-Yom Kippur dinner at the Langly household, and I also intend to get into the offices and do some real work.

I'm hoping this will help distract me from Martha and Michael's absences during the day, and with Michael, most evenings now.

I feel my heart skip a beat, and no, it's not due to having another infarction, it's the sound of keys in the door, and no footsteps to accompany them. I know then that it's her. (Were it Michael, I'd have heard those tiny feet clomping away as though he was ten feet tall and wore size 20 shoes).

This is the best part of the day-the moment I get to wrap her up in my arms and pull her in close to me, putting my mouth to hers, getting a taste of her life and breath to mingle with mine.

"That was almost worth getting held over for," she smiles gently as we break the kiss.

"Come on time, you'll get the same treatment."

"I wish. God, I'm tired of this." She sets her purse and backpack down. "Thank God tomorrow's my last day, and then Saturday night I go back on graveyard. And as soon as we can get some more people hired, I'm going back to three days a week, period. I'm getting too old for this shit."

I laugh. She's 13 years my junior.

"You do have next Thursday night off, don't you?"

It's her birthday that night.

"I work Wednesday graveyard, then I'm off till Sunday night."

This is good news; Byers's wedding is next Saturday, and I was worried she might have to leave early in order to get to work. Fortunately, Gizzie, her charge nurse, is her friend-and is also an invited guest.

I wonder if she knows that I know it's her birthday.

"So are you going to be able to help us roast Mulder on Saturday night?"

"I'm afraid not. I had to agree to work all this weekend in order to get the following one off." She sighs. "I need a 9 to 5 job."

"You don't want one, believe me."

"I probably don't, but it can't be any worse than doing shift work. It's one of the worst aspects of medicine. We never close."

"That, and 7-11."

"7-11 would go broke without our patronage." There's one right across from the hospital. "The caf closes at 3 a.m., and you do get tired of the vending machines. Not that 7-11's pickings are much better."

"See if you like this any better." I set a bowl of turkey noodle soup-my own recipe-in front of her, some melon, and some sourdough bread, which is warm from the oven.

"Oh my. Mel, you shouldn't have."

"I did."

"I noticed. You trying to get me to never go home?"

"Something like that."

Her face turns momentarily serious. "Mel, I think...for now it'd be better if we kept our own places."

She's right, of course. The idea of her moving in with us both delights and terrifies me.

Much as I'd like to be, I don't think I'm ready for that.

"I got my house listed." She's smiling.

"You're really going to sell it."

"Hell, yes. And I got an apartment in Georgetown. It's tiny but pleasant."

"Tiny is all you get in Georgetown unless you have wealth to rival the Sultan of Brunei."

She laughs. "You're not kidding. I hadn't been apartment shopping since Daniel and I were back in North Carolina what seems like about a thousand years back, and I confess I suffered some sticker shock. But it's perfect, Mel. I can walk to work, there's a Coffee Bean and Tea leaf on one corner and Starbucks on the other, the Safeway is down the block, and it's quiet." She smiles between bites of soup. "And it's close to you."

My heart sings.

"So why don't you can come up and see me sometime," she mimics Mae West, and I almost spill the soup kettle. She does a very convincing Mae West.

"Any time you want," I assure her.

"It's only a studio. I told you it was tiny."

Well, hopefully, she won't have to be there all that much.

Unless I'm there with her.

At which point, I doubt that size will matter very much.
 

"So what's your pleasure?" I ask her, opening the cabinet to the movies. (And I'm not referring to my private collection).

"Hmm...how about something different?"

"Such as?"

"Something sappy."

"We always do sappy, dear." And we do. We're so consistent it's amusing.

"Yes, but with a good plot line."

"You must be thinking of 'Casablanca.'"

"Actually, I was." There's a look of genuine pleasurable surprise on her face. "How did you know?"

"Just a lucky guy," I say in my best Humphrey Bogart imitation.

We're about to pop in the adventures of Rick and Ilsa and Victor and the usual gang when we're interrupted by the phone. I hope my son's car didn't break down. It's a bit early for him to be coming home on Tuesday-he claims that he and Kelly 'study' until about 11 (my ass), though.

"Frohike?" I recognize the voice as that of Byers. A little shaky, but then, he's about to be a bridegroom in less than two weeks. I remember my nerves being a little less than steady about that time. And it's only been a year and a half since we had Langly shaking in his boots before the wedding. (Literally. He was wearing his Docs, thanks to the antics of my very drunk and errant son).

"Byers, what's up, buddy? Having an attack of nerves?"

"Of sorts." The voice is hesitant.

"So tell me all about it."

"It's not what you think, Frohike."

"Byers. Been there, done that, been through it with Langly, hell, been through it with you before, for that matter!"

"No, not that...Frohike, somebody shot out our bedroom window tonight."

"What?"

"A bullet went through our bedroom window. And thank God Juliet hadn't gotten up, which she was about to do, or she'd-"

"Okay, okay, calm down." He's cool, but you can tell he's been viciously shaken, not just gently stirred.

And in the process, shaking me up a little bit.

Be cool, Frohike. The kids need you.

"Did you call the police?"

"Uh...I think in view of my...recent experiences..."

I didn't think he would, but with Byers, you never know.

"And you're both okay?"

"We're fine...just waiting for the glass people to come."

"Did you handle it?"

"Yes."

"Byers, you're an idiot, you know?"

"I know, I know...I wasn't thinking-"

"Don't sweat it, buddy." No point in reaming him now. "What's it look like?"

"Huge."

I was hoping for something a little more specific, but then again, Byers's specialty in our world is large-scale weapons systems, not hand-held artillery. That's more my speed.

And Martha's. She'd be able to probably tell just from looking at it where it came from.

"Want us to come over?" I ask him, looking at Martha and trying to get her assurance that it's all right with her. She nods in assent.

"I'd...appreciate that...Martha is with you?"

"She is. And Martha, as you know, knows quite a bit about guns."

"Thanks."

"We'll be there in a little while. Stay cool."

I click off the phone and turn to Martha. "So much for our quiet romantic evening, eh?"

She laughs a little. "Mel, I have a feeling that with you, life is rarely ever quiet."

She doesn't know the half of it.
 

I let Martha have the opportunity to change out of her scrubs and into some leggings and a long sweater. Not only so that she'll feel more comfortable, which she insists she will be, but to give me the opportunity to watch her take her clothes off.

I'm sorry we told Byers we'd get there quickly.

It took every ounce of self-restraint I possess not to rush over and start running my hands over her creamy, delicious flesh. Made all the more alluring by the matched bra and panties she was wearing of ruby red satin.

Later on tonight, I'll take care of those. They look lovely on her, but they'll look even better beside the bed.
 

I've only been to Byers's house one time-during much of the process of moving and settling in, I've been incapacitated. It's jarringly suburban. I always figured Byers was a suburban boy, but this is just so quintessential...

They greet us at the door in their sweats, unusual attire for them to receive company in.

Then again, I'm hardly company.

Martha passes a look to me, silent but knowing, and I nod.

They were in their bedroom...they're in their sweats...

We know exactly what they were up to.

These kids have no restraint whatsoever.

I can tell she wants to burst out giggling, and I'm fighting the impulse myself, but in view of their current situation, it would hardly be appropriate.

"How're you feeling, Juliet?" Martha asks her, and I'm sure the question is as much medical as emotional in this case.

"A bit rattled, but okay."

"You've been feeling all right with your pregnancy?"

"Fact is, I feel great. I've got a ton of energy. And an enormous appetite."

"You sound like you're doing well. Who's your obstetrician?"

"Well...actually, John and I are thinking that we'd like to have this baby at home."

"With a CNM?"

"That's what I'd like."

"I think if you're healthy and you have the right attitude, it's a marvelous option," Martha tells her.

Byers, on the other hand, doesn't look too happy about this kind of support. And I sympathize.

What can I say? We're men, and we're chickenshit.

But if you're smart, you're always chickenshit about bullets.

Which is what we're headed to look at now.

There's a large pile of glass shards on the floor, and some fragments glare out from the quilt in the overhead light. I see Byers go to gather them up.

"Be careful," I tell him without even thinking.

They're like kids. It just gets ingrained. I'm so bad, one time about nine years ago, the three of us took a trip to Atlantic Beach...and before we left the house, I asked if anyone had to use the restroom.

You would not believe the looks I got. Then again, maybe you would.

What's worse, I repeated the same thing on Michael and Kelly when I took them to the shore. And got about the response you would expect.

I look at the mess. "Where's the slug?" I ask him.

"Here." He hands me something wrapped in a handkerchief from the top of the bureau. Linen. I think Byers is the last man on earth to have linen handkerchiefs, with the exception of myself. They were my father's, and I keep them tucked away in the same drawer I keep my photographs in.

It's a bullet, and he wasn't exaggerating. It's huge. Probably a .350, but I'm going to get independent confirmation from an expert.
 

MARTHA:

I've decided I like this woman very much. Juliet has always treated me warmly since my entrée into this small, tight circle. Ally is kind to me, but she's harder to get to know. Juliet's openness is an interesting counterpoint to the reserve that most of them possess to one degree or another.

She's obviously unnerved by what has transpired, but not so much that basic courtesies-and then some-are forgotten. I'm offered something to drink, which I really don't need right now, do I want something to eat, make myself at home.

They have a warm, lovely and comfortable home filled with soft furniture in pleasant neutrals and lots of blonde wood. It's immaculate in appearance-I'm wondering how that's done.

I confess to not being the world's most outstanding housekeeper. I don't think Mel is aware of this fact yet. I've been able to keep their small dwelling clean and manageable, but this home is something out of Architectural Digest. It screams upper middle class professional people live here, but in a nice way.

I've noticed she's walking better, and I comment on it.

"Physical therapy. Another name for medieval torture." She laughs. "I'm not going anymore, but I still do the exercises."

"That's the important part." And it is.

"Well, there's no way I'm going to hobble down the aisle. And believe me, I'm not about to miss a dance, either. You're going to be there, aren't you?"

"I have the entire weekend off. I wouldn't miss it."

If they do weddings anything like they do interior decorating, I'm bound to be in awe.

"Do you have your dress yet?"

"Being let out. I'm sure you know by now that John and I are expecting. News travels fast around here. Unless you tell Ally." She laughs. "I told Ally when I was suspicious of the fact, and as far as I know, her lips were sealed tight. Either that, or everyone was damn good at feigning surprise."

She settles into the sofa, bringing the knees of her very long legs-of which I am insanely jealous-up to her chin. "I'm just babbling here. Fact is, that threw me for a loop."

She's referring to the shooting of their window.

"Might have been kids."

She looks all of a sudden very young and vulnerable. I know that she has to be at least ten years younger than I am. "I hope so. I know that sounds terrible, but I'd hate to think...I don't think my car accident was in fact an accident. I'm still researching the firm where I'd just finished a field job when this happened."

"What kind of firm?"

"Pharmaceutical firm, northern New Jersey."

"What kind of work do you do, Juliet?"

"You can call me Jules or Julie, I don't mind. My main field of interest is computer security systems. I used to be a professor of CS at the University of Michigan before I moved here."

"Midwestern girl?"

"All the way. Ohio, Minnesota, Michigan. I haven't been here all that long."

"What brought you here?"

She smiles, a wide, tender smile. "What do you think?"

I could have guessed that.

Pleasant conversation is interrupted by the reappearance of the men we love, both looking none too happy.

"Martha, you mind taking a look?" Mel hands me a small bundle in a handkerchief.

I open it carefully.

Jesus Christ. .350 Magnum.

Whoever shot this was not fucking around. This is a big, heavy gun, and it's not for novices. It's a serious weapon, not something you'd fire to scare someone. I'm good at handling a number of guns, including pump-action shotguns and some semi-automatic pistols, but there is no way I could handle the kick from this baby. I'd probably fall down trying to shoot it.

I'm thinking, someone out there doesn't like you guys.

"Where are you staying tonight?" I ask them.

"Here, of course," Juliet looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "This is our home."

"If this was an act of intimidation, then I think our best strategy is to fight back and not let them get to us," Byers adds calmly. He seems much more collected than when we first arrived. Perhaps that is due to Mel's presence. I've noticed that both he and Langly are much calmer when Mel is with them.

I wish I could say the converse is true. I think sometimes those two have made something of a contribution to the present state of his health, which is still poor. But Mel loves them as one does an errant son, especially his own errant son.

I do have to confess that Michael has grown on me. I did not care for him at first. But there is a quality about him that makes him completely irresistible, a sort of combination of innocence and intensity, bravado and insecurity, that makes him so appealing.

He's not so different from his father. And his father, well...

I'm starting to need that man like I do air and water. I find that when I'm at work, I crave his touch so much that I focus on him to get a body memory of sorts.

But it's always so much better when I'm being reminded.

I'm trying not to concentrate on the projectile in my hand. "So what do you want to do?"

"I think we should try and figure out where it came from," Byers says softly.

"You're not going to be able to figure that out without turning it into the police," I point out.

The three of them look at me for a moment, their faces neutral.

It's Juliet who breaks the silence. "I don't think that's going to be necessary."
 

Mel is fretting, which I consider to be unhealthy. He does not want them to stay in their home tonight, but they're adamant. About the time we're ready to leave, the glass cutters arrive.

I notice that they ordered bulletproof glass for the replacement pane...and they ask the contractor for an estimate on doing the entire house.

I shudder at this.

What truly unnerves me, though, is the calmness with which they make this instruction. As if they're accustomed to such things.

It occurs to me I know very little about these people.

Including Mel. Especially Mel.

I agree with Mel that they should probably stay elsewhere, but at the same time, I understand their wanting to stay where they are. Their unwillingness to surrender.

And it's not as if we have any room at the inn, the inn being Mel's apartment.

"They should at least get out for tonight," he grumbles as we return in his aging Thunderbird-which is surprisingly comfortable.

"Mel, I'm not sure they're doing the right thing, but they have a point."

"Well, I guess it's not the first time we've been threatened."

This is a curious comment to me.

"Mel...I'm not trying to be nosy-okay, I am-but to tell the truth, I don't know what you do for a living. I've slept with you, but I don't know where you work."

He's quiet. I find myself growing slightly uneasy. Most men tell you what they do before they tell you their birthday.

Which is something else I don't know.

Nothing like asking him point blank. "Mel, when's your birthday?"

"Don't celebrate," he grumbles.

I'm trying to think back to his medical chart-DOB is always in there, but I can't remember for the life of me what it was.

He doesn't ask me when mine is, either.

Interesting.

I like my birthday. I may have to come out and tell him that it's next week...

Wait a minute. He asked if I had next Thursday night off.

Next Thursday night is my birthday.

And he was quite specific about the request; in fact, he'd mentioned to me earlier this week that I should make sure I had the night of the 15th off.

How did he know?

What have I gotten myself into?

We arrive at Mel's apartment and walk in, his arm around my shoulder, mine around his waist, like two kids coming back from a movie, instead of two worried adults having just visited with friends who had their house shot at.

"So Mel? You didn't answer my question." I lean my head against his shoulder as he pulls his keys from his pocket.

I notice that a tall, dark, familiar-looking figure is at the door.

He gives me a rueful smile. "Long story. And it's all his fault."

"I don't follow."

"You will. C'mon in, Mulder."

END OF PART 66