From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Tue, 20 Feb 2001 05:13:26 -0600 Subject: Scully\'s Proposition (1/1) NC-17 by aka "Jake" by aka "Jake" Source: direct Reply To: nejake@tds.net NEW: SCULLY'S PROPOSITION 1/1 TITLE: SCULLY'S PROPOSITION AUTHOR: aka "Jake" E-MAIL ADDRESS: nejake@tds.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 aka "Jake" - - - - - - 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 nejake@tds.net. Visit my other fanfic at http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/aka "Jake".html, maintained by the stupendous bluefroggie. 16