FROHIKE:

Allison appears physically all right; how she is mentally remains to be seen. From what I know of her, she will be sharply anguished at first, then resigned, and then she will accept what has happened.

The same will occur with Langly; the main difference between the two of them will be in the amount of time it takes to heal. I fear that Allison will be way ahead of him on the curve.

Miranda looks worn, far too old and too young simultaneously for a young lady of 15. I suspect there is more than a little guilt lurking about in her psyche right now.

I give Langly a quick hug as I leave; I cannot stay right now, but I want him to be aware that I am-and will be-there for him, as I have always tried to be.

I think the time for tears for him has arrived. Miranda offers him a quick embrace, her gentle words, and we're off.

I would not have left Byers save that his future in-laws arrived a short time ago in Baltimore. I think making that call to them was the most difficult thing he ever did, but even in the horrific state he was in, he insisted upon doing it himself. I would have done it. He knows that.

But he was adamant, and I have to say I was pleased that he did so; not only from the point of view of not having to perform an unappetizing task, but that he felt it was his place to do it, which, of course, it was.

And he is truly fortunate. His in-laws are not into assigning superfluous blame for release. Their concern for him is as great as it is for their own, much-loved daughter, which they evidenced as soon as they arrived on the scene. They were firm with the nursing staff that he have total access to Juliet in intensive care, and they thanked me profusely for being there for both their daughter and their future son-in-law.

I was permitted to see Juliet for a few moments before I left. I confess that I barely was able to see the woman, let alone recognize her.

This is going to be a great and terrible challenge for all of them.
 

As I pull in to the driveway that belongs to the offices and Allison and Langly's home, I notice that Michael and Kelly are doing the same; they must have been off feeding Byers's and Juliet's cat.

And judging from the glow on their faces, perhaps checking out the furnishings in certain areas of the house.

I can't believe it. I should smack both of them.

But they ask me if I'm all right, how are Byers and Juliet, are Langly and Allison okay. And Kelly places an arm around Miranda's shoulder, and Michael refrains from taunting her. Which is unusual-normally, Michael and Miranda, upon seeing one another, immediately invoke the rules of engagement, which for the two of them means that verbally, anything goes.

I'm shocked when Michael asks if he can do anything for Miranda.

Maybe that boy will grow up after all.
 

BYERS:

I'm stuck in some kind of horrible continuum here, and I can't escape.

I think I'm sleeping, and when I am conscious again, I will be shaken and sweating, but the dream will be over...and all will be well.

Were this the case, my future mother- and father-in-law would not be sitting with me, offering their arms in comfort, gazing upon their brutally injured daughter.

My fiancee. My future wife. My love.

The mind plays tricks when one is under severe stress. There seems to be an unwillingness, perhaps inability, to acknowledge what has truly occurred, what the real impact of the situation is.

I keep imagining that all I would need to do is climb into that bed with her, put my breath into hers, and she would be fine...her bandages would fall away, her bones would heal, her skin would clear.

Oh God. I fall in love with a woman, and what becomes of her?

It would seem that I am a curse to the women I love.

Were I to say this to Caroline and Jeffrey, they would probably laugh at me gently, tell me that bad luck isn't selective, and attempt to assure me-and themselves-that things will work themselves out in the end. They are warm, relaxed, optimistic, and open.

All the things I am not, and so want to be.

Caroline-Juliet's parents insist I use their names, not their titles-just as well, since they're both Drs. Parker-is speaking gently to her daughter, assuring her that we are all there with her, she will be all right, that we all love her.

Words I never heard from my own parents.

My father does not even know I am engaged. I have not informed him. Not that he would care, but I do feel derelict in not making the attempt. Why, I'll never know. He has made it clear that he wishes nothing to do with me.

Or has he? He did come last year.

When I was growing up, it never occurred to me that parents could be warm and loving and affectionate. It wasn't even a consideration in my universe of boarding school and holiday visits and formal training. Most of the parents of my school friends were much the same as mine, and I accepted this as the norm.

Now I have seen-and experienced-otherwise.

And my reaction shocks me.

I am furious.

I have been fathered emotionally more by Frohike than by all of the adult men who ever graced my youthful life. I have watched him with his own son, the son denied him for so long, and seen how he has reawakened and fostered an obvious love and caring with the boy.

Oh screw it. Michael's not a boy anymore. That much is becoming obvious.

I've seen him emotionally resuscitate a psychically starved Langly, and nurture him into the adult he is today. And he is one. Granted, he will never lose his childlike streaks, but that's part of his charm, and watching him integrate it with his new-found maturity is a pleasure. Just as the gray streaks in his hair mingle with the blonde, so the adult Langly will be a lively blend with the juvenile mischief that lives on in him.

Caroline and Jeffrey, in the short period of Juliet's and my life together, have shown me more tenderness and acceptance than my own father has in my entire 37 years.

I've said it before, I'll say it again. One thing we all have in common is that we are all somebody's children.

But sometimes the parents we are born of are not the parents that have made us.
 

Caroline asks if I wish to go home and sleep. She strokes my hair gently. This simple gesture is so kind and comforting, my eyes are wet again.

I was fairly together when they arrived on scene; I'd like to not be disintegrating at this point.

It would be pointless for me to go home; there is no way I would sleep.

It may be a long time before I sleep again.

I can't determine if the deep weariness I feel is due to lack of sleep, the exhaustion that comes from extreme stress, or both. It doesn't matter. About the only thing that would make me sleep now is a heavy dose of morphine.

I watch dully as the clear liquids drip into her intravenous line. I pray that she is getting some sort of relief from that.

Through our numerous travails with Mulder, we have all had some experience in reading medical records and electronic monitors. This is the first time I've looked up at Juliet's.

I wish I hadn't.

She has to still be in critical condition, based on the numeric values being displayed.

I want to take her hand, but one is casted, the other is inhibited by the needles and plastic tubing of her IV lines.

I take my first hard look at her.

Her face is purple and swollen. Her lovely lips are split and cut, and near her hairline is a huge, vicious gash.

And then, blackness...
 

I must have fainted. When I come to, Caroline and Jeffrey have turned their attention from their daughter to me. There are a few medical personnel hanging over me as well.

The recommendation is something to eat and a prescription for Valium. In that order.

I am terribly ashamed. Juliet is clinging to basic functions; I merely overreact, and I have their attention. It shouldn't be this way.

I apologize weakly to Caroline and Jeffrey, and they just smile, say it's understood, and that Jeffrey is taking me home now.

I don't want to go home. I am terrified at the thought of entering our home by myself.

Because when Juliet isn't there, it isn't home.
 

FROHIKE:

It's been a long night and an equally long morning.

I could use some sleep, but I need to spend some time with my daughter more.

It's quiet when I enter the apartment. I'm aware that Michael is still with Kelly; he says he'll be along soon.

Perhaps Leslie and Pam went to breakfast or shopping...

There's a note attached to my computer.

It's short, terse, and blunt.

Rather like the author of the note.

"Daddy-my place on your list of priorities is obvious-the bottom. Goodbye. L."

Oh God no.

They left. Really left.

I thought I explained to her that it was not that she was not important, but the situations impinging upon us required immediate attention.

There is a difference.

Being a veteran, I tend to sort things via the triage method. While it isn't a method guaranteed to win me popularity points, it has, thus far in my life, been effective.

I am utterly exhausted.

I sink into my chair, feeling both numb and leaden at the same time.

I look at the clock. 12:02.

It's past noon.

And I could really use a J&B.
 

LANGLY:

She's awake. I can hear her whisper out my name.

I must've dozed off, 'cause it takes me a minute to get it together here.

I push a strand of that pretty hair off her face. Her eyes are big and sad.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the tears start to tumble down her white face.

Her lips are dry, she needs lip balm. Must be something about redheads, they dry out easy.

I dig her purse out of the cupboard and then begin the excavation for lip balm. I can find everything but.

I even find a lighter down there-no cigarettes, but she kept her lighter.

Finally, success. Lip balm. Well, that's what the tube says.

She says thank you, and the tears keep falling, as I smudge a little on her mouth. I do a lousy job, but she doesn't seem to care about that.

"You thirsty?" I ask her, and she nods like, yeah.

Get her some water.

She chokes a bit on the water, she's not sitting up and she's still crying.

She leans her head into my shoulder and buries her face there.

And then sobbing gives way to shuddering and heaving. I've never seen her cry this hard.

I think I hear something like 'our baby' in there somewhere.

It's all I need to hear...and I break like a tsunami.
 

We just hold on to each other like crazy for a long time, one shaking mass of salt water and misery.

We don't let go long after we're dry and empty.

This sucks. But for at least a few minutes, we're something we haven't been in a long time.

One.
 

"What're we gonna do, Ally?"

She looks at me gently with those big blue eyes. "What do you mean, babe?"

"I mean...we got what, four more tries left-"

She starts to cry again. "No, Langly." Voice is like a whisper, but it's clear.

"No what?"

She's not saying she doesn't want to give it another shot.

Is she?

Knock on the door, soft, hesitates. "May I come in?"

Dr. Shalad's voice.

She's in weekend clothes, not her scrubbies, not her lab coat. Just a blue jean skirt like Ally wears and a red T-shirt.

"Uh-huh." We both say it at once, it's kind of funny.

She sits down in the 'less' comfortable chair. "I'm sorry, Mr. And Mrs. Langly."

She looks sad.

Well, why not? It's not like it's a lot of credit for her if a couple doesn't have a baby.

"I need to talk to both of you."

I hate those words, especially from women-you should always treat it like a hotel fire. Stay low, don't use the elevators, and get the fuck out ASAP.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Langly?"

"'Kay," Ally says softly, rubbing her eyes.

"You should be all right in about a week," she assures Ally.

Then she looks at me, and at Ally.

I don't like the look on her face.

"You do realize that this is the end of the line," she says, as gently as possible.

Doesn't matter. If she's saying what I think she did, then I just got a major kick in the guts.

"Meaning?" I wanna make sure I'm hearing this right.

And I hope I'm not.

"I cannot...continue to see you as patients in my program."

I think that means...

We don't get to be parents.

"It's possible that you could find another program to accept you...but not one I could recommend, in good conscience."

"But there are..." I'm grappling, I know it, I can't help it.

"Mr. Langly, let me put it to you two this way: if you and your wife would like to have children, I suggest you consider adoption."

The voice is kind...but I'm having a hard time swallowing this.

I barely hear her as she leaves the room, says she's sorry.
 

"Ally?" I can barely believe it's me talking. Voice comes out like this squeak.

"Yeah?" She's still clutching on my hand, almost crushing the bones.

"Um...d'ya wanna check out and see if maybe-"

"No, sweetheart." Eyes are sad. "I'm sorry, but I agree with Dr. Shalad...this is it, Langly babe."

"You don't wanna have another go at it."

"Sweetheart, I CAN'T have another go at it! Don't you get it, babe? I can't do it!"

She's crying, hard.

"Langly, I can't have kids. That's the cold, ugly truth."

I didn't expect her to put it so naked...

Then again, I do have this reputation for being a little slow on the uptake sometimes.

"Langly...look. You want kids, you need to be married to somebody else."

She said WHAT?!

Tears are just streaming out of her now. "Langly, I asked you when we decided to do this...would you still love me if it didn't work."

"Yeah?"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Langly, do you still love me?"

How can she even ask? Doesn't she...

Trust me?

"Ally, that's insane! You know I love you, it's always you!" Now I'm crying, and I don't give a fuck who sees it. "Jesus fuck, Ally. I never even much thought about kids before I met you! I mean, I thought about it a little, but not like...not like having 'em with somebody...it was you. Dammit, it was always you, Ally! It's always gonna be you!"

"Well, Langly, I need you right now, really bad, please don't go-"

"Jesus, Ally, stop it, you make me sound like some kind of asshole-"

"Langly. I. Need. You. NOW." She's holding her arms out to me, her face is all red from crying...she can just about choke the words out.

I feel like dying...

Am I gonna be a man about this?

Yeah. It's about fucking time.

I hold her for a long, long time.

I don't ever want her to ask me again if I love her.

Don't want her to ever feel like she has to.

Not ever.
 

I think she's cried herself out. She's real still and quiet in my arms, and she's holding me and murmuring to me, like it's her turn.

Her ob/gyn, whose name I can never remember, comes in-least the dude could do is knock. She's got her hands under my shirt, running her little fingers over my back, and she doesn't even stop when we got company.

Some of the genetic tests on the 'fetal material' have come back.

Guess maybe we were lucky. Abnormalities on chromosome 5-cri du chat. Which, he explains, means the baby would either be born dead or would die soon after.

Which might be even worse.

Yeah, it would be.

Just one thing. It's sick and sorta morbid, but I got to ask.

"D'you know if it was a boy or girl?" I ask while I hold Ally in my arms.

"The testing indicated...it was a male fetus."

It was a boy. Was going to be.

Will never be.

We've still got tears left.

END OF PART 33