From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org

Date: Tue, 20 Feb 2001 05:13:26 -0600

Subject: Scully\'s Proposition (1/1) NC-17 by CindyET by CindyET

Source: direct

Reply To: cindyet@tdstelme.net

NEW: SCULLY'S PROPOSITION 1/1

TITLE: SCULLY'S PROPOSITION

AUTHOR: CindyET

E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net 

DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine -- I write 'em for you to read 'em. 

SPOILER WARNING: Per Manum 

RATING: NC-17 (Language, Adult Subject Matter) 

CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR, Post-Ep 

SUMMARY: What happened during those missing scenes in Per Manum 

and what was Mulder's perspective on Scully's proposition?

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 

FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 

intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. 

Author's notes: As is often the case, CC teased me with an 

appetizer, but neglected to serve up the main course. I was 

left mighty hungry after Per Manum. "Scully's Proposition" is 

an attempt to stuff my face and fully sate my appetite. If I 

help feed you, too, I am doubly satisfied.

SCULLY'S PROPOSITION (1/1)

By CindyET

- - - - - -

FBI Headquarters

Sometime Last Year

As a detective, I look for red herrings. As a man, red flags. 

As a man in love, red hair. I'm one for three when I catch up 

with Scully in the elevator. Guess I left my macho detective 

persona in my other pants. Faced with my favorite redhead, 

today I'm just a man in love -- caught completely off guard.

"There you are. I've been looking for you." I step into the 

elevator with Scully.  

"I'm sorry. I had a doctor's appointment...and...um, I don't 

know, I guess time just got away from me." 

Having a hard time looking me in the eye, Scully? She 

seems...did she say "doctor's appointment"?

Oh, shit. Like a boogeyman, her Cancer rears its ugly head. My 

blood pressure starts to rise, along with my lunch. This is my 

greatest fear: she's out of remission. I can barely speak. The 

elevator doors close and claustrophobia sets in.

"Is anything the matter?" 

"Nothing, no...uh, I just went for a walk."

Look at me, Scully. In the eyes. Don't leave me dangling in the 

wind here.

"Good. Um...what's wrong?"

With a sigh that tells me she'd prefer not to say anything 

more, she grants me one tiny glimpse of her baby blues.

"Um...I'm sorry I haven't told you. I don't know why I haven't. 

I mean you were always there for me during my illness...but, 

um..."

Illness? Please, no. My teeth clench. Words crawl from my 

throat. "Don't make me guess." 

"I was left unable to conceive with whatever tests that they 

did on me."

Oh, that. Not cancer, but... I could add something here, I 

*should* add something here...

"And I am not ready to accept that I will never have children."

The elevator dings, announcing my floor. When the doors slide 

open presenting my escape route, I almost say, "saved by the 

bell." Stepping into the corridor, I realize I could go on my 

merry way, never mention the humungo secret I've been keeping 

locked in my private Vault of Deceit since 1997. I could. I 

could. I cooouuullld...aw, fuck, I'm turning around, facing her 

and the proverbial music. Probably a good thing we're in a 

public place.

"Scully, um, there's, uh, something I haven't told you either 

and I hope you forgive me and understand why I would have kept 

it from you." My back is drenched in sweat. My neck is on fire. 

"What?"

"During my investigation into your illness," -- that sounds 

professional, doesn't it? -- "I found out the reason why you 

were left barren..." I'd give anything, *anything* not to be 

standing here telling you this, Scully. And it's not so much 

that I'm a coward, although I am, it's just that it's so damn 

unfair to always be handing you bad news. Maybe if I say this 

fast, but not too fast, and keep my voice reeeeal steady... 

"Your ova were taken from you and stored in a government lab." 

"What?" She can't believe it. My news shocks her. Of course it 

shocks her. But what is it that shocks her most? The truth 

about what happened to her or the fact that I've neglected to 

mention it all this time? "You found them?"

"I took them directly to a specialist who would tell me if they 

were okay." Now it's my turn to avoid eye contact. 

"I don't believe this."

She's definitely mad -- at me, not the government, not the men 

who did this to her. Me. The guy who never wants to hurt her 

but has an inexplicable knack for doing just that. "Scully, you 

were deathly ill and I couldn't bear to give you another piece 

of bad news." 

"Is that what it was? It was bad news?"

"Well, the doctor said that the ova weren't viable."

She nods, but she doesn't accept my version of the truth. Par 

for the course. Mulder spouts theory; Scully refutes theory. 

"I want a second opinion."

The elevator doors start to close and I stop them, hold them 

open, although I don't really know why. There's nothing more to 

say, is there? Except I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept this from 

you. I'm sorry you had cancer. I'm sorry you were left barren. 

I'm sorry I dragged you into this whole fucking mess. Most of 

all, I'm sorry for being so goddamn selfish, putting me before 

you, my need to have you with me over your safety. I should 

have sent you far, far away years ago, Scully, but I didn't, I 

couldn't. I'm sorry I'm the man I am. A better man would have 

let you go. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

She gives me a frown that says, "Let me go." So I do -- years 

too late.

- - - - - -

FBI Headquarters

X-Files Department

A Few Days Later

Scully took her ova -- the eggs I'd recovered from the Lombard 

lab more than three years ago -- to her doctor for a second 

opinion. Trust no one, eh, Scully? I guess she's been listening 

to me after all. 

Dr. Parenti and his colleagues have been checking out the eggs, 

doing whatever tests they do to prove or disprove viability. 

After a phone call this morning, Scully went to meet with her 

doctor and hear whether it's thumbs up or thumbs down on future 

progeny. 

I'm afraid she's in for a disappointment no matter what the doc 

tells her. Let's say for argument's sake that the ova are 

viable and in vitro fertilization is successful. Then let's 

suppose she manages to carry her child to term. This isn't 

exactly an ideal time to be bringing a child into the world. 

With EBEs poised to take over the planet and wipe out the 

entire human race at any minute, how the hell do you keep a 

child safe? Fevers or diaper rash are one thing; alien invaders 

fall into a whole other category.

That said, how do I ask her to give up hope for the one thing 

she wants most of all when she's already given up so much? I'm 

not sure I can. I'm not sure I should.    

Scully arrives so I shut off the Internet, hiding the fact that 

I've been researching the success and failure rates of 

infertility treatments. She hangs up her coat. Powers up her 

computer. Her face is unreadable.

"Come on, Scully. What's the word?"

She crosses the room and settles one hip against the side of my 

desk. Smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt, she 

chooses her words with care. "Dr. Parenti feels, with the 

proper approach, there's a good chance for me to become 

pregnant." She flushes the prettiest shade of pink and allows 

herself one tiny smile. Hope opens her heart just a little. 

"That's...that's good, Scully. That's great."

"He suggested I start soon."

"Oh?"

"Right away, as a matter of fact."

"I-I see."

She fumbles with the pencils lined up at the edge of my desk, 

missiles waiting to be launched at the ceiling. "He said he 

could...um, help me with genetic counseling if I wanted, 

to...to find an anonymous donor..." -- another glance my way, 

followed by a quick Mona Lisa smile -- "for...for the baby's 

father."

"Right. Is that, um, is that what you plan to do?"

"Well, there are other options. I could...I could ask someone I 

know." She releases the pencils and they roll across the desk 

like pick-up sticks.

"I hear David Crosby's available."

"Yeah, well, I was thinking more along the lines of someone 

with a reliable health record. Someone whose semen wouldn't 

require the mandatory six-month quarantine period." Her eyes 

stop searching the room and target me. "I was thinking of you."

Me? "Me?" With all my shortcomings? I may be free of STDs but 

for Christ's sake, I'm a genetic freak of phobias, failings and 

psychoses. A double helix of doubt. A mental Mutato. I'm an 

idiot right down to the cellular level. Why would she want to 

pass on my defects to her offspring? I chase aliens, for God's 

sake. I'm a laughing stock, a joke to my peers, an annoyance to 

my superiors. Any kid of mine is doomed to a lifetime in a 

padded cell. 

Yet, she's looking at me as if I'm a t-bone and she's a 

junkyard dog. 

"Yeah, Mulder. I can't, I can't think of anyone, anyone I'd 

rather, um...have..." This woman needs to get out more, see 

other men. Her sense of reality is skewed after seven years 

with me. "I-I wouldn't expect anything from you, Mulder, 

beyond...this. I mean, the baby would be my responsibility. I 

wouldn't need money and you wouldn't have to be involved 

in...you wouldn't need to--"

"Scully..."

"You don't...you don't have to answer now. Think about it. I-I 

want you to think about it."

"Scully--"

"Come over. Later. I'll be home. You can let me know then." She 

stares me down, her face full of worry and hope. "Consider it. 

Please, Mulder."

Her hopefulness is too much for me. I nod. "Fine, Scully. I'll 

think about it."

With one more transitory smile, she flees from the room before 

I change my mind and say no.

- - - - - -

Ssssssooooooo, what-the-heck do I do? Another pencil sails 

ceiling-ward and lodges in the tile.  

Scully wants me to be the father of her child and although her 

request is flattering, it's absurdly misguided. What could she 

possibly see in me that'd be worth passing on to future 

generations? Emotional baggage aside, I'm no prize. 

Nearsighted, colorblind, predisposed to alien encounters -- not 

the traits a woman usually looks for in a mate. Then there's my 

tendency toward stupidity. How many times have I put my foot in 

my mouth? My head up my ass? You can count my good qualities on 

one hand of a bad shop teacher. My nickname should be Sorry-

Son-of-a-Bitch, not Spooky.

Spooky Mulder.

Hi, kid. I'm your father, Spooky Mulder. I've had holes drilled 

in my head to trigger memories of my sister's abduction by 

extraterrestrials. 

Right.

To be honest, I've never wanted children. It's not that I don't 

like them, it's just that I don't feel prepared to protect 

them, not after what happened to Sam. And certainly not with 

Armageddon looming on the horizon. I have neither the skill nor 

the fortitude to raise a child.

Samantha's cries for help still haunt me. "I'm afraid, Fox. 

I'm afraid." I can see the terror on her face even after all 

these years.

She begged for my help.

I couldn't save her.

I can't save anybody. I get paid to watch Scully's back, but 

look what's happened there. I'm not father material. Having a 

kid...it would be a huge mistake.

But...but *if* the universe were a normal place and *if* I were 

to have children, I'd want to do it with Scully. Only with 

Scully. Because she'd be a great mom. She'd make up for my 

inadequacies and ineptitude tenfold. 

Her kids would be beautiful. And loyal. And intelligent. They'd 

inherit her integrity, her skill. 

There's no doubt Scully would love her children thoroughly and 

unconditionally.

Like Emily. She loved that little girl enough to let her go 

rather than let her suffer. Putting her own feelings aside, 

Scully did what was right for her child.

I've never done anything so unselfish. I've never done anything 

unselfish at all.

When Scully was taken by Duane Barry, when she was abducted, I 

asked Skinner, "What if I knew the potential consequences but 

I never told her?"

As usual, he cut right to the chase. He bulls-eyed my 

complicity. "Then you're as much to blame for her condition as 

'The Cancer Man.'"

Skinner was right. I'm every bit as responsible for Scully's 

abduction, her infertility, and her cancer as Old Smokey is. 

She carries a chip in her neck because of her association with 

me and the X-Files. She lost her sister. And Emily. Her 

abduction was orchestrated to end my search for the truth. 

When I was called in to help with Duane Barry's hostage 

situation, the reasons had nothing to do with my knowledge of 

alien abductees. Duane Barry was just the first step in an 

elaborate plan, the biggest set-up of all time. Skyland 

Mountain, Krycek, Cancer Man -- everything was premeditated, 

designed to take Scully away from me and shut me down.

Now, Scully is offering me an opportunity to make up for my 

role in her terrible past. I know I can never give her back 

all that's she's lost, but I may be able to atone for some of 

it by giving her this chance to live an almost normal life, 

have a family, become a mother.

Thing is, she'd be better off starting her family without me. 

A guy picked at random from a donor list would be a safer bet. 

If I were to father Scully's child, we'd have to keep it a 

secret. For her sake. For the baby's sake. Forever. Any 

association with me would put them both at risk.

Could I walk away from Scully and our child? Pretend our baby 

isn't mine in order to keep it safe?

I doubt it. Abandoning Scully to raise our child alone would 

make me no better than my own dad. I wouldn't do it. I 

couldn't.

Shit.

Why did she have to ask me to do this?

I love her. I love her more than anyone or anything. For her 

own safety, for her baby's safety, I should say no. 

Unfortunately, I can't. I can *not* bring myself to disappoint 

her. Not again.  

As wrong as I know it is, my answer is going to be yes.

- - - - - -

Scully's Apartment

Later That Day

It took me forever to lift my knuckles to Scully's door and 

knock. I'm kinda nervous. Scully left me hours ago to mull over 

her proposition and, at first, I was dead set against becoming 

a father. I had all my arguments ready. Alien invaders. Enemies 

around every corner. DNA chockablock full of flaws, faults and 

failings. Then I realized I'd hafta present these arguments to 

Scully. It soon became obvious I couldn't deny her this chance 

at happiness. So that's when I began warming up to the idea. A 

lot. Half her and half me -- our child wouldn't be half bad. 

Now my gut tells me this is the right thing to do. It is. I 

think. No, I *know.* Sorta. Anyway, I'm a tad uncomfortable. 

Happy, but uncomfortable. There's just no way to get relaxed 

about this thing. I mean, this is serious. A big decision. 

Momentous. We're talking about creating a life here. Well, not 

*here.* We're still at the discussion stage. And one of the 

things we'll be discussing is whether or not I'm willing to 

jerk off into a Dixie cup while Scully knows I'm jerking off 

into a Dixie cup. Hence, my discomfort. Yes, she's a doctor, 

clinical detachment, yada, yada. But let's be honest, we're 

partners, friends even, but...we're not lovers. We're... I 

don't know what we are. All I know is we both know I'm gonna be 

milking the ol' snake into a cup, trying my best to-- 

Scully opens her door. "Hi."

"Hi." Is it hot in here or is it just me? My tie felt like a 

hangmen's noose on the way over so I loosened it in the car. 

Now I wish I'd thought to straighten it again. This should be a 

stylin' moment. As awkward as the situation is, my announcement 

deserves a little respect. I mean, I'm about to tell Scully I 

plan to be the father of her child. This falls outside the 

realm of our usual office banter.

"Uh, come on in."

"Thanks." 

"Can I take your coat?"

"No, I can't stay. I have to get back to the office for a 

while, um..." Man that sounds so lame. The fact that it's true 

doesn't help. The fact that Scully is actually wringing her 

hands doesn't help either. Christ, I should have practiced 

something in the car. Take the lead here, Scully, will ya? 

Before I blurt out something stupid like...like...shit, I can't 

even think of something stupid. I've lost my God-given ability 

to make an ass of myself. Why the hell would she pick a buffoon 

like me to be the father of her child?

"Obviously you've had some time to think about my request."

Yep. Yep. "I'm...it's...it's not something I get asked to do 

every day. Um. But I'm..." -- what the Christ do I say? The 

only thing that pops into my head is the "I'm flattered" 

cliche, which sounds like something from a soap opera, not that 

I watch soap operas, but maybe I should watch them because they 

might have prepared me for a moment like this when -- "I'm 

absolutely flattered" -- oh, Jesus, I went with the "I'm 

flattered" thing! Dope! Okay, just move on and try to make it 

sound sincere -- "No, honestly!" 

"Look, if you're...if you're politely trying to say no, it's 

okay, I-I understand."

I *am* trying to be polite, but more than that I want to phrase 

this just right so that twenty years from now when we're both 

reminiscing, we'll be laughing at how wonderful the moment was 

and not how really weird it sounded. "See, as weird as this 

sounds, and it sounds really weird I know," -- ugh! -- "but I-I 

just wouldn't want this to come between us." 

Oh Lord, I must be obsessing about the cup thing. Or maybe I'm 

thinking about Baby Mulder graduating from high school, unable 

to decide between my alma mater and Scully's and we wind up 

having a big, blow out over...or maybe I'm just certain I'll 

fuck everything up by over-thinking it--

Scully looks crestfallen. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I understand. I 

do."

Yikes, she thinks I'm going to say *no.*

"Oh, but...the, the answer is yes."

Man, oh, man, her crestfallen look morphs into a wonderful, 

beautiful, wonderful smile! And I put it there! Me! 

Uh-oh, she looks like she's gonna cry now. 

And smile, too! And hug me! She wraps her arms around my neck 

and she feels so warm and good and I wish...I wish... Ah, hell, 

alien invasion be damned -- we'll cross that bridge when we 

come to it. Right now I plan to enjoy our nanosecond of bliss. 

Nothing else matters except for the fact that *finally* I'm not 

responsible for taking something away from Scully. I'm able to 

give her this one thing. 

She readjusts her hold on me. I hear her breath stutter in my 

ear and I think I'm about as happy as I've ever been in my 

whole life.

Unfortunately our celebratory embrace ends all too soon and she 

pulls back, releases me. Still smilin' though...with tears. 

"Um, well, I'll call Dr. Parenti and uh, I assume that he'll 

want to meet with you and, and go through the...the donor 

procedure."

"Oh, at that part, I'm a pro." 

Jesus! I can't believe I just said that. I'm such an idiot.

- - - - - -

Dr. Parenti's Office

The Next Day

"Mr. Mulder, come in." Dr. Parenti welcomes me into his office 

with an outstretched hand. My medical records adorn his desk, 

including the encyclopedic tome I filled out in the waiting 

room under the watchful eyes of the receptionist and several 

hopeful parents-to-be. "Have a seat. I received your history 

this morning. Dana has kept quite a thorough medical file on 

you." He flips through a page or two. "No HIV, Hepatitis B or 

C, HTLV, Syphilis, Chlamydia, or Gonorrhea."

"The FBI is pretty strict about wearing latex." I sit across 

from him, try to make myself comfortable.

"Your most recent tests are three months old. If you've had 

sexual relations since that time, you'll need to be retested."

Sexual relations? Not in any widely understood definition of 

the term. "That won't be an issue."

"No exposure to bodily fluids? No intravenous drug use?"

"No."

"Have you ejaculated within the last twenty-four hours?" He 

peers at me over his eyeglasses.

"No. I'm pretty sure I'd remember."

"Hot tub, steam bath, sauna?"

"No."

"Briefs or boxers?"

Jesus. "Boxers. Um, my boys are footloose and fancy free."

"Our questions are intrusive, Mr. Mulder, but we do wish to 

maximize our success. Dana's opportunities are limited. With 

only five viable eggs, we have very little room for error 

here. As it is, you fall outside our preferred age range of 18 

to 34."

"Then maybe we'd better get started before I grow any more 

decrepit."

"The donation process is simple, at least from your 

perspective. You'll need to fill this." He nudges a sterile 

container my way.

"Sex-say." 

"Yes, well. You'll have plenty of privacy and we do provide an 

assortment of reading material you may find stimulating if you 

need it. And if all else fails, you're welcome to call on 

Nurse Ratchet to help."

"Who?"

"Just a little sperm bank humor, Mr. Mulder." 

Oh, funny. "Heh."

"Drop your sample at the desk. You'll get a phone call from me 

after we've had an opportunity to evaluate your specimen for 

cell count, motility, and morphology. If all is as it should 

be, your sperm will be introduced to Dana's ova for 

fertilization."

Introduced? **Oh, hello, Mr. Sperm. What a pleasure to meet 

you.** **No, no, no, Ms. Ova, the pleasure is all mine. Shall 

we swim a few laps around the petri dish or do you wanna get 

it on right now?**

"Don't be discouraged, Mr. Mulder, if your semen fails to meet 

our criteria. Only five percent of all male applicants who 

apply to be sperm donors make the grade in our anonymous donor 

program. With direct donors such as yourself, requirements are 

a bit less strict. But even so, anywhere from fifty to sixty 

percent of all applicants are rejected because of a deficiency 

in one or more of the critical areas." He shuffles my 

paperwork and smiles at me. "Any questions?"

"Which way to the Poconos?"

"Second door on the right."

I snag my hot date and head for Lover's Lane. 

- - - - - - 

The room is small, but immaculate. It contains a sink for 

clean up. A chair. Written instructions, complete with line 

drawings, are taped to the wall, making the process appear 

simple. Step 1: wash hands. Step 2: masturbate into sterile 

container. Step 3: cap container and leave at front desk. Hmm. 

They skipped the "tips on how to get a hard on in the least 

arousing environment on Earth," as well as the "witty things 

to say to the nurse when you hand her your Special Sauce on 

the way out." 

Nothing's happening downstairs. 

Playboy, Celebrity Skin, a few other magazines tempt me. Any 

redheads? Whaddaya know -- an article on VCR maintenance. I 

should read that. 

Maybe not right now. It's time to get busy. Do the deed. This 

is no time to beat around the bush, ha, ha. God, that was as 

pathetic as Dr. Henny Youngman's "Nurse Ratchet" line. 

I take off my coat, roll up my sleeves, wash my hands and get 

comfy, more or less. Should I use the chair or do this 

standing up?

Still no sign of life below decks, so I give myself an 

encouraging squeeze through my pants. 

Lordy, this has got to be one of the weirdest things I've ever 

done. Kinky, but in a very unsatisfying way. Brings 

performance anxiety to a whole new level.

Come on, Muldick, get it on. Drain the lizard. Spank the 

monkey. Boot up the ol' hard drive. At least unzip your pants.

Do you suppose they have any hidden cameras in this place? For 

whatever reason -- and I have no intention of analyzing it -- 

this notion helps summon the genie, so to speak. Kojak perks 

up. I start stroking.

And stroking...

And stroking...

Shit. One step forward, two steps back. My love pump needs 

more priming.

Maybe if I think about Scully. Not about how her hopes and 

dreams hinge on my success here, but as a woman. A sexy woman. 

A sexy woman who wants me.

Yeah, that's it.

Nnnnnnope, that's not it.

Okay, what is she wearing? 

A thong. Nothing else. And we're...we're in my apartment. No, 

we're in her apartment -- her place smells better. She's 

standing...no, she's sitting...no she's lying on the bed...the 

couch...the kitchen table. Maybe we're in the office and she's 

bent over my desk.

Christ. 

Should I switch hands? Maybe this isn't my lucky palm.

I'm not sure what this says about me, but to be honest I find 

Scully incredibly sexy when she's standing in the pouring 

rain. Not wearing a skin-tight, wet T-shirt without a bra 

necessarily, although that would be nice, but fully dressed, 

like on our first case together when we went to the Bellefleur 

Cemetery in Oregon. I was babbling on and on about lost time 

and alien abductions while she stood at the edge of two empty 

graves in the pouring rain. She started laughing. Not because 

she didn't believe my farfetched theories but because she 

*did* believe them, despite how fucking ludicrous they 

sounded. Water streamed over her, plastered her hair to her 

head, drenched her clothes. And real laughter bubbled out of 

her pretty little throat and she looked so young and sexy. Our 

conversation, her smile, her soaked clothes and wet hair -- it 

was a huge turn on.

**"Peggy O'Dell's watch stopped a couple of minutes after 

nine, Mulder. I made a note of it when I saw the body."**

**"That's the reason the kids come to the forest, because the 

forest controls them and summons them there. And, and, and the 

marks are from, from some kind of test that's being done on 

them. And, and that may be causing some kind of genetic 

mutation which would explain the body that we dug up."**

**"And the force summoned Theresa Nemman's body into the woods 

tonight."**

**"Yes, but it was Billy Miles who took her there, summoned by 

some alien impulse. That's it!"**

That *is* it! The memory has jumpstarted my jets. Hallelujah! 

Now if I can manage to focus on Scully and not miss the cup, 

I'll be golden.    

- - - - - -

Mulder's Apartment

The Following Week

Scully underwent embryo implantation this morning. Twelve days 

from now, a pregnancy test will tell us if any of the embryos 

took.

Her ova and my sperm produced three viable embryos. Dr. Parenti 

implanted all three at once with the hope that Scully will 

carry at least one to term. Talk about putting all your eggs in 

one basket. After this, there are no more. Her doctor claims 

this is her one and only opportunity to bear her own child.

We received the good news that fertilization had been 

successful four days ago. Male and female cells converged, 

sparked to life, formed a new nucleus. Like magic. The 

blastospheres split, divided again, followed an ancient set of 

instructions and created something altogether new. Three 

teeny-tiny specs of humanity waited ninety-six hours to join 

with their mother -- today. 

Pumped full of potions to synchronize the growth of her 

uterine lining with the development of the embryos, Scully's 

endometrium was ready to receive the itty-bitty bambinos. How 

do I know this? Not from Scully. She is more reticent than 

usual. Maybe she's afraid she'll jinx the pregnancy by talking 

about it. Or maybe she just doesn't consider it any of my damn 

business.

So I looked up IVF on the Internet.  

I volunteered to go with Scully this morning to take the edge 

off, lend a little moral support. "I'm fine, Mulder," was her 

familiar response. Guess she didn't feel comfortable having me 

hanging out while she welcomed our future child into her womb. 

Honestly, I'd like to be more a part of things, but I don't 

want to push. It's not as if she's my wife. I don't have any 

rights here. She only asked me to donate sperm. She's never 

hinted she'd like more from me than that. And it doesn't really 

matter what I want -- this is for her. This has always been for 

her at my own behest...no matter how much I wish it were for me 

now, too.

It's pretty clear she took me at my word when I said, "I just 

wouldn't want this to come between us." God, I can be such a 

fucking dolt. I was so afraid of messing up what we already 

had, losing her, I didn't consider that a change in our status 

quo might be for the better. I also missed the fact that she 

was never mine to lose in the first place.

I wanna call her. Ask her if she's okay. Hold her. Tell her I 

love her and let her know I am forever connected to her whether 

our babies survive or not. 

The phone rings and when I lift the receiver, I hear Scully's 

voice on the other end of the line. "Hey," she says.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine." She sounds like she means it this time. "Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you." 

- - - - - -

Scully's Apartment

Fourteen Days Later

Today's the day Scully finds out she's pregnant...or not. She's 

with Parenti right now while I wait at her apartment. 

I had come here thinking I might drive her to her appointment 

and we could receive her doctor's proclamation together. As 

usual, she insisted on going it alone. She says if Parenti's 

news is good, she wants me to hear it from her lips and not 

his. 

"And if it's bad?"

"Then I'll need some time alone."

Alone. At what point in her life did Scully decide she has to 

face tragedy in isolation? She clings to stoicism, wearing it 

like a badge of honor, proof that she's made it in the FBI's 

Boys Club. She hides her emotions from everyone who might 

compare her to the macho Bureau standard and judge her as soft. 

"I'm fine" is her mantra. "I'd like to be alone" is her 

dismissal to those who might think any less of her should they 

catch a glimpse of a crack in her dented suit of armor. She 

has included me among the masses who must be kept at arm's 

length. Only on the rarest occasions does she allow me to 

share her show of emotions. To her, such moments betray a 

weakness. She doesn't view sorrow as a normal human condition, 

but a fault. She categorizes mourning as a virulent contagion, 

treatable only by quarantine.         

I guess I fell asleep while waiting for her, because the next 

thing I know, I hear the door and the rattle of her keys.

"Scully?" A little fuzzy-headed, I rise from her couch, turn to 

face her. "I musta dozed off. I was waiting for you to get 

back."

She pins me with a sad stare, crawls inside my head and 

delivers God's news without uttering a single word. She doesn't 

need to speak. The disquiet of her shattered heart tells me 

she's lost her last hope. She steps close, grief glossing her 

eyes. 

"It didn't take, did it?" I ask without needing to. The answer 

is as crystal clear as the tears slipping over her lashes.

"I guess it was too much to hope for." Her voice collapses. She 

fights a losing battle with her tears and suddenly everything 

pisses me off: her retreat from hope, the unfairness of this 

news, God's perpetual blind spot. I don't understand why He 

abandons her. She is forever faithful to Him, but He turns His 

back on her time and again. If He loved her the way I do, He 

wouldn't hurt her like this. 

I drag Scully into my arms, shaking my head at her words, at 

God. Clinging to my neck, she quakes with vulnerability and 

despair.

"That was my last chance."

Her heart breaks, disintegrating in the halo of my embrace. The 

implosion shudders my chest, too, and I tighten my hold on her 

in a futile effort to keep her faith whole. She is right here 

in my arms but she is lost. Damn it, damn it. 

I hate God. 

He owes her. 

We both owe her.

I wrap her in my sympathy.

Scully draws back, unable to accept my meager consolation. 

There is no succor for disappointment of this magnitude. Yet I 

refuse to give up. Unlike God, I have no intention of turning 

my back on Scully. Kissing her brow, I crave to remove the 

anguish that swirls there. Then I press my head to hers, 

trapping my kiss between us, praying it will become a conduit 

that allows the strength of my beliefs to flood from me into 

her. Know my thoughts, Scully. Know my heart. Know with 

certainty that I believe we are destined to find God's 

blessing. Together. 

"Never give up on a miracle."

A tiny shake of her head threatens to dismiss me. Science has 

sealed her fate, declared motherhood off limits. Her beliefs 

hang themselves on the combined failures of science and God. 

She has nowhere to turn for hope. 

Except to me. 

And I am changed; we are both changed. I find myself 

inexplicably aligned with Providence while she surrenders to my 

uncharacteristic optimism, shedding her desolation. Maybe my 

words are what she wants to hear. Or maybe she believes me. In 

either case, she returns my kiss and my embrace.

We stand together for a long time, buttressing one another 

until her tears dry.

Life returns to near normal. We let go. She makes tea. We sit 

side by side in the quiet until our untouched drinks cool. 

Evening shrinks the room to nothing but the white flag of her 

face. She is exhausted.

"I should go." I clasp her hand and give her fingers a gentle 

squeeze.

"No, Mulder," she says, curling her fingers around mine, 

confirming her next words. "You should stay."        

THE END

Author's notes: Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or 

any of my stories. Send comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net. 

Visit my other fanfic at 

http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/cindyet.html, maintained 

by the stupendous bluefroggie.