TITLE: Eclipse
AUTHORS: Diana Battis and alanna
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em.  Never have, never will, damn it.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, MSR
RATING: NC-17
ARCHIVAL: OK for Gossamer.  Please feel free to link to the story on our
websites, and drop us a line so we'll know where to visit!
SPOILERS: Seasons seven and eight through Per Manum
SUMMARY:  The subtext of shadows.
FEEDBACK: alanna -- alanna@alanna.net
          Diana Battis -- all4Mulder@aol.com

Authors' notes at the end.

ECLIPSE
by Diana Battis and alanna

++++++
Club Sambuca
Washington, D.C.
December 22, 1999


"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Mulder slides across the leather bench, a drink already in hand, and smiles
into startled blue eyes.  Though it's barely six, Sambuca is already teeming
with happy hour patrons.  The air is alive with muted voices and the clink
of ice; pin stripes and dark gabardines blending into a choppy sea of
monotony that belies the club's exotic name.

He expects his comment to be greeted with a raised eyebrow and a half-amused
snort.  Instead Scully looks away, her expression pensive.  "I was just
about to leave."  Her voice is barely audible over the opening notes of
"Mood Indigo."

Meeting here had been Scully's idea.  He assumed she wanted to have a
holiday drink before she left for San Diego.  He leans forward, stealing a
quick look at his watch.  "I had a last minute call from Skinner," he
murmurs in explanation, "but I'm all yours now."

Scully nods, and the faintest bit of pink seeps into her face.  "I...what
are you drinking?"

Mulder gestures at his glass, ice swirling in the amber liquid.
"Twelve-year-old scotch, since you're paying.  You are paying?" he teases,
but his eyes narrow as he notes the way her lower lip trembles.  He reaches
for the glass, clenching it in a knuckle-whitening grip as he awaits her
reply.

Scully stills the quiver with a weak grin.  "Of course," she says, a
chagrined shake of her head fanning her hair against her flushed cheeks.

He forces a smile and raises his glass in a toast.  "Since I won't be seeing
you, Merry Christmas, Scully," he intones, then takes a gulp of his scotch.
The smoky warmth glides down easy, its malty tang almost enough to cover up
the bitter taste of loneliness.

She lifts the goblet by the bowl.  "Happy holidays," she offers, staring at
the pale liquid.  There is a nuance to her simple delivery that taints the
greeting.  Like an uncharted sea, it is full of hidden undercurrents that
scare the shit out of him.

After one small sip, her glass is again on the table, her fingers dancing
along the length of the stem to trace abstract patterns in the goblet's
condensation.  She purses her lips; tiny furrows wrinkling the corners of
her eyes as she studies the swirls and drops with intensity usually reserved
for the pathology lab.

"So..."  He sighs, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips.  "You all packed
and ready for the big trip?"  He rubs two fingers across his brow, trying to
ease the tiny frisson of pain that now pulses behind his eyes.

She jumps at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide in her newly-pale face.
Nodding, she looks away, setting down her glass to reach for a cocktail
napkin.  She scrubs her damp fingers repeatedly until the "Season's
Greetings" message lies in an alphabet soup of shredded paper.  Tossing it
aside, she sits up straight and squares her shoulders, her chin thrust
forward.  "Mulder...there's something I need to ask you."

Her tone is brisk to the point of curtness, and Mulder finds himself holding
his breath as he waits for her to continue.

"How much do you know about in vitro fertilization?"  She slides a finger
around the lip of her wine goblet.

The question is not what he expects.  "Well, as far back as the third
century AD, Jewish thinkers debated the possibility.  In England, Robert
Dickinson carried out secret experiments in the 1890s, but by the end of
World War II the Archbishop of Canterbury recommended that artificial
insemination be made a criminal offense.  All that was moot by 1978 when
Louise Brown was born, the first of the so-called test-tube babies."  Mulder
watches her, a slight frown creasing his forehead.  She is no longer
fidgeting with her glass, but her impatience is still palpable.  "I take it
that was really more of a rhetorical question," he finishes lamely.

Leaning forward, she tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, her
lips curling in a weak smile that never quite reaches her eyes.  "I've been
consulting a new doctor about...about my fertility options."  The last few
words are expelled in a rush of breath.  She pauses, her eyes now wary, but
at his nod she continues.  "It's possible I may be able to conceive, with
help."

"I see," he replies in a cautious tone, giving no hint of the myriad of
questions crowding into his mind.

A nervous chuff of laughter greets his response, and her eyes flicker to his
face before her lashes drop, concealing her expression.  "No, I don't think
you do."

The fragile wall between reason and fear crumbles at her words.  His stomach
roils, fueled by the volatile mixture of scotch and panic filling his gut.
Christ, spill it, he wants to shout, clenching his jaw to hold back the
words.  Instead, he nods encouragement and leans back, draping an arm across
the top of the seat.  Only his fingers, curled like talons as they dig into
the cool black leather, signal his reaction.

She takes another sip of her wine before answering.  "My doctor feels I have
a better chance of successful implantation if we begin immediately."

"How soon?" he asks, fighting the dread that surges through him.

"I...that all depends on you."

He chews on his lip for a moment, mulling over her words.  "I can go it
alone for a few weeks," he says finally, struggling to calm the thunderous
beating of his heart with slow, even breaths.

She glances up, startled.  "That's not exactly what I mean.  I..."  She
hesitates, her tongue flicking at the corner of her mouth.  "I would like
you to be the baby's father."

Father.  The word seems to hang in the air, mixing with the soft music and
even softer bits of conversation seeping into his consciousness.
"Scully..."  He is like a drowning man, sucking in shaky breaths between the
waves of shock that rob him of words.

"This isn't the way I wanted to ask you."  She gestures toward the now-smoky
room.  "Miss Manners' book of advice doesn't seem to cover this situation."
Shrugging, her lips curve in a smile that's a fraction short of genuine.

"I don't know what to say," he murmurs, reaching for his nearly empty glass.
He is lying.  He wants to say yes, to replace her mockery of a smile with a
real one.  But it's too soon.  In the space of five minutes he has gone from
being a co-worker and friend to something much more, something he has barely
allowed himself to think about.  The question is too important to be
answered in a jazz club while Billie Holliday wails "Strange Fruit" in the
background.  He swallows the remains of his watery scotch in one gulp and
sets the glass on the table.

"I didn't mean to put you on the spot."  Her face is now grave and
pinched, all the joy that should accompany talk of babies missing.  "I
couldn't figure out how to work up to the subject."  She looks away,
focusing on her half finished glass of wine.  "I can think of at least a
dozen reasons for you to say 'no,' and only one for yes.  And it's not a
very logical reason."  A huge sigh escapes her.  "Guess I'd make a lousy
salesperson," she muses, tapping a fingernail on the base of the glass.

"Why don't you tell me your one reason?" he asks, his voice husky with 
suppressed emotion.

Her glance skitters to his face, then back to the wine.  "There is no one
I'd rather go through this with," she says softly.  "I know it's not a
simple request.  I...I certainly don't expect your answer now.  You'll want
time to think about this."

"When?"  He leans forward to whisper the word, pushing a nerveless hand
through his hair.  The dull throbbing in his head is kicked up a notch by
the anxiety coursing through him.

"I was hoping for your answer when I get home on the thirtieth.  I realize
that's not much time.  And it's selfish of me to expect an answer by then.
It's just..."  Her teeth worry her lower lip for a few seconds.  "I couldn't 
figure out how to ask you."

Sighing, he looks at his empty glass, longing for another drink.  "Have you
weighed all the possible ramifications?" he asks in a less than steady
voice.

"I've done nothing but think about them since Dr. Parenti first advised me
of the possibility."  Picking up her wine, she drains the remaining liquid
in one long swallow before setting the glass back on the table.  "I know
it's asking a lot, but there isn't anyone else I'd trust."  She reaches over
to touch his hand.

He feels the weight of this responsibility, contained within the small cold
hand that covers his.  The lie of omission that manifested itself in a vial
of ova has never seemed more painfully obvious than now.  A very small part
of himself is amazed that she would want him, but he quells that inner voice
of doubt.  "You flatter and honor me with the request," he manages, inwardly
cringing at the stilted words.

The first hint of a real smile crosses her lips.  "I need to be going.  My
flight is very early and I still have a few things to do tonight."

"Let me walk you to your car."

"Not necessary.  Valet parking is a wonderful thing," she says lightly.  She
gives his hand a final squeeze.  "Please, Mulder, just think about it."
With those final words, she slides out of the booth and heads for the door,
the cadence of her heels a frenetic counter-rhythm to the soft music filling
the club.

Mulder stares straight ahead, unblinking, until the sound of her footsteps
is lost in the roar of blood rushing in his ears.  His vision blurs, and he
blinks away the wetness stinging his eyes.  It's the smoke, he tells
himself, watching the feathery blue haze drifting through the air.  And it's
been a long day.  A good night's sleep, that's what he needs...

He turns, waving to capture the attention of a passing waiter.  "Glenlivet,"
he murmurs, pushing his empty glass across the table.  "Make it a double."


++++++
Burnside Memorial Hospital
Rice County, MD
January 1, 2000


"Where did you park?"  Mulder stands beside her, impatience coloring his
voice.  His jacket is thrown over his shoulders, the empty sleeves flapping
wildly in the wintry gusts of air.  Though the temperature has dropped
dramatically, he seems oblivious to the cold wind ruffling through the downy
hair on his uninjured arm.

Scully eyes him with care, noting the faint lines of pain etched in his
brow.  "Why don't you wait inside and let me get the car?" she counters,
stepping off the curb without waiting for an answer.

"No."  His hand comes down on her shoulder, the touch gentle but firm.
"I've had enough of hospitals."

Shrugging, she tilts her head upward and breathes in, savoring the crispness
of the air.  It does feel good to be outside.  After decaying flesh,
gunpowder, and the cloying antiseptic of the hospital, she needs this.  They
both do.  Nodding, she moves forward, unsurprised when his hand slips down
to rest at the small of her back.

They walk in silence, his stride shortened to match hers.  It's colder here
in the open, away from the building's brick and glass protection.  The wind
is strong, its needle-like bursts biting into her flesh without remorse.
Another sharp gust swirls past, playing tag with a crumpled sheet of
newspaper.  Shivering, she watches as it dips and soars in front of them
like a strange, exotic bird.  She doesn't see the large crack in the asphalt
until her ankle turns and she begins to fall forward.

"Easy, Scully."  His arm tightens, hauling her against him.  "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing."  Embarrassment makes her voice sharper than she's intended.
She pulls away from him and walks a few steps.  "I'm fine."  The petulant
child in her is refrained from adding, 'I can take care of myself,' but her
meaning is clear.

His lips purse, but he says nothing.  Instead, his arm encircles her waist,
supporting her as they resume walking.  Though she accepts this gesture, the
weight is an added responsibility.

She is used to responsibility.  All her life, she's been aware of her duty
and what others expect from her.  At home, in school, as an agent.  Her
purpose in life has always been clearly delineated.  Now those roles are
tenebrous.  For the first time she is confused; unsure of how to act or
feel.

She has never been one for spontaneity.  Her life is well-ordered,
controlled -- she prefers things that way.  But fate in the guise of a kiss
has knocked her for a loop.  Pandora's Box is open, and she fears the hope
that remains inside.

They walk in silence, his arm heavy where it curls around her waist.  I can
handle this, she thinks, feeling his warmth soak through the layers of wool
and silk until her skin burns at the contact.  She must, if they are to
continue as before.

His hand starts to move over her, tracing a small circle on her back.  She
knows it is supposed to comfort her.  It's a courtly sort of gesture --
Mulder is nothing if not polite.  But tonight she can't seem to view it in
the same light.

She sees the car and pulls away from his too-confining touch, breaking into
a jog.  Keys jangle from her clumsy fingers, filling the stillness with
their jittery music.  The darkness is swallowing her, and an irrational fear
courses through her body with each pulse of blood, stealing away her breath.
Reaching the car and fumbling to unlock the door, she wishes things could be
as they were.

Once inside, she allows herself to breathe again, the rapid puffs of air
fogging up the windshield.  It was foolish to think they could contemplate
parenthood and still have things remain the same.  Already their
relationship is changing.  Though he hasn't told her his decision, she
already knows what his answer will be.  Mulder's proprietary air is more
pronounced.  She should have expected that.

Turning her head, she watches him approach the car, the loose-limbed stride
betraying none of the fatigue and pain he must be feeling.  He wears
disappointment well, she thinks, reaching over to open the door for him.
But then, he's had more practice.

"Thanks," he murmurs, sliding with care into the passenger seat and dropping
his jacket on the console separating them.  Wincing, he pulls the door shut
and begins fumbling with the seatbelt.

"Let me."  Scully reaches across him, pulling at the strap with care.
"You'll have to lean forward for a second."  She tucks the shoulder section
behind him, and fastens the belt around his waist, tugging the strap to make
sure it is secure.  "Okay?"

He nods, leaning against the headrest and closing his eyes with a weary
sigh.  "I'm getting old, Scully."

She touches his free hand, stroking over the hair-roughened skin.  "You're
just tired."  Reaching down, she picks up his jacket and drapes it over him,
tucking the sleeves beneath his back.  "Try to get some rest.  We'll be home
before you know it."

Within minutes of reaching the main highway Mulder is asleep, his chest
rising and falling in a measured rhythm under the black leather.  She steals
a quick sidelong glance at him.  His face is relaxed, the lines of pain
nearly invisible.  Her hand leaves the wheel for a second to rest against a
stubbled cheek, his skin cool to the touch.  The painkillers and antibiotics
administered at the hospital seem to be doing their job, she notes with
satisfaction.  He should remain asleep for the rest of the journey.

The road ahead is deserted and the shadowy blacktop seems to stretch into
empty infinity.  She cracks her window slightly, the cold air chasing the
inertia she feels.  With Mulder sleeping, the long drive leaves her with too
much time alone to think.  She doesn't want to think about this past week,
about last night, about Mulder.  Especially about Mulder.

She counts the mile markers that flash past, careful to keep her speed stead
y.  The tires hum on the road, their sound melding with the soft music of
Mulder's snore.  One mile closer to home, she thinks, her chest shuddering
with a sigh.  Home.

They pass through several small towns, the houses dark and quiet.  She
imagines families, asleep in their beds.  Normal people leading normal
lives.  "Normal."  She says the word aloud, trying to taste it on her tongue
and lips.  What does normal taste like?

Normal isn't zombies.  Or conspiracies.  Or having your reproductive rights
stolen.  Is it?

She knows the answer to that question.

Twenty minutes later she is pulling into a spot on Mulder's street, only a
few yards from his front walk.  She turns off the engine and leans back,
closing her eyes as she flexes and stretches her cramped limbs.  Rolling her
head against the seat, a soft groan escapes her as the deep scratches in her
shoulder and neck begin to throb.

"You okay, Scully?"

She turns her head to find Mulder awake, his eyes blinking sleepily.  "Just
a little stiff," she replies, shooting him a small smile.

"Want coffee or something?"  With his good arm, he pushes the jacket to his
lap and gropes for the buckle of his seatbelt, grimacing as he struggles
with the catch.

"No, thanks anyway.  I...I need to get home."  She straightens up, replacing
his hands with hers and unlatching the clasp with ease.

"Thanks, 'Mom,'" he says with a laugh.

Her body stiffens, and she pulls away from him with a jerky movement.  She
stares straight ahead, her face tight.  "Can you manage the rest?" she asks,
her voice cool.

He swears softly.  "I'm sorry, Scully, I didn't mean..."  His voice trails
away.

Shivering, she closes her eyes for a moment.  "Good night, Mulder."
Blinking, she tilts her head sideways, studying him with feigned detachment.
"Get some rest.  We'll talk on Monday."

He clambers out of the car, his awkwardness failing to stir her sympathy.
"Night," he mumbles, pushing the door shut with his foot.

A nod is her only reply.  Her face stiff, she watches him lope up the walk
and open the door.  He turns, giving her a wave and a half-hearted smile
before disappearing into the building.

She waits a few seconds, watching as the door swings shut, then switches on
the ignition.  Tires squealing in protest, she pulls away, white-knuckled
fingers glued to the steering wheel.  If she's lucky, she will make it home
before the tears start to fall.


++++++

Chapter Two.

++++++
Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, VA
January 13, 2000


Anger and frustration simmer in his gut.  He is tempted to drink a glass of
club soda, to create his own anxiety cocktail.

The treatments were supposed to stay within the realm of their personal
lives.  The knowledge of what they were about to do certainly consumes his
thoughts.  One reason he has kept himself from getting romantically involved
with her over the years is because he knew that once they bound their
personal lives together, it would take over his psyche.  They could lose
their professional focus and everything -- love, work, life -- would fall
apart.  He knows deep down that such reservations are ridiculous, but they
have been a very real worry for so many years.

If she would give him a sign that she felt the same fears and desires, he
just might have the guts to take that final step.  Even if she doesn't want
him as a lover, he is determined to be an active father to this child, the
thought of whom awes him.  He is scared and excited.  No matter what happens
between Scully and himself, they are going to create a child together.

But she says nothing.

This frustrates him and is driving a transparent wedge through their
professional partnership. They carry on, investigating teens moving at the
speed of light in Virginia and driving home in the same car.  Preparations
for the in-vitro treatments exist on the periphery of their time together,
referenced only in the making of appointments in their day-planners or a
weighted sidelong glance.  The issue stands between them all the same.  He
can barely contain his own emotions, so how can she do so with such ease?

They returned from Virginia yesterday.  Scully has been cagey all day,
answering his case-related questions with perfunctory replies.  They barely
spoke to one another as they completed the report for the Pittsfield case.
He noticed that she made every effort to be out of the office as much as
possible.  Then, with an, "I'll see you tomorrow," she left for home at ten
minutes before five.

Since they left the initial planning consultation at the New Chances Clinic
six days ago, they have reached the point of no return.  She has no right to
be so guarded with him while their potential children are being created in a
lab.  Resentment slowly gives way to anger.  Tonight he will call her and
demand the information she is withholding.  He deserves no less.

After pacing the office for a few minutes, feeling her aura still filling
the room, he finally grabs his briefcase and storms out.  Tight control
keeps him from reckless driving, and he winces as he enters his chilly
apartment.

Mulder changes into casual clothes and starts a pot of coffee, hoping the
caffeine will quell his anxiety.  As he picks up his phone to call for pizza
delivery, he hears the staccato tone of the voice mail alert.  He
speed-dials the message service and freezes as the message begins to play.

"Mr. Mulder, this is Rebecca Finter at New Chances," a businesslike voice
says.  "We've already contacted Ms. Scully, but we wanted to personally let
you know that the incubation was successful and that we look forward to
seeing the two of you tomorrow at nine.  Since she will need to have a full
stomach and bladder, we recommend you have breakfast beforehand.  If you
have any questions, call me at the clinic before five today, or you can
visit our website for more detailed instructions.  Again, this is Rebecca
Finter, and we will see you tomorrow morning at nine."

Blood freezes in his veins.

Still standing, he disconnects then hits the first speed-dial button on his
phone.  Two rings later, he hears Scully's at-home greeting of, "Hello?"

"So, Scully," he snaps, "be sure to give me your address when you move into
that cute three-bedroom house with a big yard, so I can send my son or
daughter a gift every year on their birthday."

"Excuse me?"

He does not respond.  She remains quiet and he knows she realizes his
meaning.

A full minute stretches between them.

She finally says, "I'm sorry."

He does not accept this.  "When were you going to tell me?  After the
pregnancy test came back positive, or would I have to wait until the baby
shower?"

"No..."

"'No', what?  No, you weren't going to tell me, or no, you made a wrong
decision?"

He hears her sniff, and wonders if she has been crying.  Mulder realizes
that he doesn't want to know.  His anger can't handle the added dimension of
her tears right now.

"I'm sorry," she repeats.  "It's just --  what if it didn't work?  I didn't
want to put you through that."

Mulder feels her sincerity and tries to tamp his anger.  "Scully, you began
to put me through all this when you first asked me to father your child."

"I know." Her voice is tenuous.  "I've just had difficulties figuring out
our roles in the process.  I thought I'd had everything planned out to the
last degree, but this is raising more issues than I'd imagined.  This is
something new to me."

He sinks to his desk chair and stares through the blinds to the twilight
beyond.  "I have a question for you, and I want you to think carefully about
your answer."

"Yes?" she quickly replies, fear creeping into her tenuous voice.

"When I gave you my answer, you said you wanted me to be completely involved
in this, to be a part of this child's life.  What exactly did you mean?"

She thinks carefully for a long moment, then says, "I meant exactly what you
just said."

"Am I going to be a weekend daddy, with my name on the birth certificate but
little more than a guy the kid sees ever so often and donates a kidney if
something goes horribly wrong?  Or am I going to be there every step of the
way?"

He hears her slow, even breaths over the telephone line.  Mulder wishes he
had waited to have this conversation, and gone over to her apartment so they
could discuss this face-to-face.  But he also knows that his initial anger
was too great for a physical confrontation.  Perhaps they are speaking
honestly now because of the distance, or because they cannot see each
other's faces.

"Every step of the way, Mulder.  This is your child too."

"This is OUR child," he corrects her.  "If you truly do mean what you're
saying, then those steps begin now.  You can't just wait until you're
confident of the success."  Mulder softens his voice.  He doesn't want to
lecture her, not when they're both so emotionally tense.  "If it's not
successful, please let me be a part of that too."

"I know," she repeats, then pauses for a long moment.  "Will you come
tomorrow?"  Her voice is tentative, guarded.

"Yes," he immediately replies.

"Thank you," she says, and pauses.  "And thank you for helping me with
this."

Her words once again provoke his irritation.  "Scully, when you thank me you
distance me from the process," he says, slipping into psychologist mode and
catching himself before he begins to lecture again.  "I'm not just doing you
a favor.  WE are creating a child's life.  OUR child."

"Half you, half me," she whispers.

His voice too drops to a whisper.  "Hopefully the better half of each."

Mulder hears her soft laugh, tears clearly evident in the sough of breath.
They remain silent for a minute, weighing the moment.

Finally, he says, "The nurse who left me the voicemail said that you need to
have a full meal before the procedure.  Do you want to meet me for breakfast
beforehand?"

"I'd like that, yes."  She pauses.  "And after the procedure I'll have to
stay off my feet for at least twenty-four hours.  Tomorrow is Friday, so
I'll have that plus the weekend.  Would you here stay with me and help me
out?"

He allows himself to smile.  "Of course, Scully."

"Good.  Then I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow?"

"I'll be here," he replies, then after a pause he disconnects the call.

If they are to become parents together, they have a mountain of issues to
work through first.  But the mountain is not insurmountable, as their seven
years together have proven.

His call for pizza forgotten, Mulder settles on his sofa and begins to
imagine the next forty years for him, her, and the child that may begin to
grow inside her tomorrow morning.

If they live that long.

They will have to make some serious changes to their lives if she becomes
pregnant.  They can minimize risk, but Scully's cancer may return.  The
conspirators may come after them again.  Any number of accidents could fell
them.  But if they live their lives expecting disaster, they can never be
truly alive.

Perhaps the key to finding happiness it to seize it when the opportunity
presents itself.  Anything can happen, yes, but he doesn't want to look back
on this experience and think, "I could have had so much if only I had let
myself take the chance."


++++++
New Chances Clinic
Gaithersburg, MD
January 14, 2000


Somewhere in a petri dish in the lab across the hall is a mixture of her and
Mulder's genetic material.  Micro-manipulation techniques, the doctor is
saying, but she isn't listening.  She knows she should be paying close
attention, but her mind is focused on those potential children.

Pulling her mind away from the dish, she focuses instead on the man across
the desk, who is looking at Scully with a question on his face.  "I'm sorry,
could you repeat that?"

"I just asked if you'd followed the pre-procedural checklist," Dr. Parenti
says.

She knows Mulder has glanced over at her because she can feel the warmth of
his gaze on her shoulder.  "Yes, I had a glass of water, so my bladder
should be half-full for the ultrasound.  I also took some cold medication so
I won't cough."

"Right, Dana.  Coughing causes uterine contractions which could cause
problems."  He glances down at the paperwork on the table.  "Mr. Mulder,
Dana will have to remain here for an hour after implantation.  Will you be
staying here with her?"

"Yes," he immediately replies, and Scully turns to look at him.  His face is
calm and interested, but she sees his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles
white and tendons taut.  She wonders what is on his mind; he doesn't seem as
hopeful as she would have expected him to be.

"Okay, then," Dr. Parenti says, cheerfully.  He passes a set of papers
across his desk, and Scully takes them.  "Since the embryos are ready to go,
we need to discuss your options where they're concerned."

'Options' is such a loaded word, implying choice.  Scully is here because
she has only one option.  The IVF is all-or-nothing.  This must work.

As he glances down at the papers, Dr. Parenti continues, "Based on our
discussion before Christmas, we were able to create eleven embryos in the
lab.  For a woman your age, we recommend implantation of no more than four
at one time.  If you choose to implant fewer than four, the chances of
viable pregnancy significantly decrease, particularly since the ova are in a
fragile state.  As it stands, having four implanted would give you an
approximately 10-20% chance of success."

"And you would freeze the remaining seven, right?" Mulder asks.

"Right.  If this attempt is unsuccessful, we can begin again after Dana's
next menstrual cycle.  We would have two more opportunities, provided the
embryos thaw properly."  He turns back to Scully.  "How does that sound?"

Scully looks at her partner, searching his face for any last-minute doubts.
It is blank, but calm.  He gives her a small, somber smile which helps to
reassure her.  She nods.

The process of signing paperwork and delineating the specifics of the
procedure takes another ten minutes, then Dr. Parenti leads them out of his
office and down the hall to the exam room.  As they walk by the lab, Scully
casts a glance inside, wondering where the petri dishes are now.

A mixture of her and Mulder, visible only through a microscope, waiting to
find a home within her womb.

Their eleven children.

The preparation, reminiscent of a routine pelvic exam, is quickly
accomplished.  Blood slowly flows toward her head as she settles back on the
table, her abdomen slightly elevated.  She feels vibrantly awake, conscious
of every cell in her body.  The gown is soft from repeated washings, but it
scrapes against her skin.

As the physician's assistant busies herself preparing the ultrasound
equipment, Scully watches Mulder shift on his feet, his body tense.  She
seldom gets to see only the lower half of his body, and the new perspective
seems fitting for such an unusual situation.  The way he rubs his watchband
fascinates her.  Her eyes strain as she tries to see his face.  His eyes
flicker back and forth around the exam room, like an erratic slide
projector.

He notices the extra chair in the corner just as she's about to point it out
to him.  Scully watches him fold his long legs under it, his upper body
yawing back and forth against the bland upholstery.

"Mulder?" she murmurs.

He catches her eye and she holds out her hand, too nervous to keep it from
hanging limply off the side of the table.  A few scruffs of the leg coasters
against tile, then his hand is in hers.  She gasps at the pressure and he
loosens his grip, apology on his face.  Scully's smile of forgiveness does
not reach her eyes, and at the sound of the door opening she bites away the
smile.

"Are you ready, Dana?" Dr. Parenti says by way of greeting.  An overlapping
set of footsteps accompanies him as the lab technician wheels in the cart
carrying the embryos and equipment.

Words refuse to form in her dry throat.  Mulder answers, "Yes," and squeezes
her hand.  She closes her eyes.

The sounds of jostling and gesturing fill her ears, then she feels warm
breath on the side of her neck.  She would know the texture of Mulder's warm
lips anywhere, even if all her senses were smudged away.  Once near the
corner of her eye, again at the curve of her cheekbone, then his smooth
early-morning cheek rests in the crook of her neck.  Another moment of fear,
another rare moment of intimacy.

She wants to watch the process, but cannot.  Dr. Parenti's repetition of her
name finally furrows her fear, and she opens her eyes to see a phalanx of
equipment, Mulder's chestnut hair framing the lower corner.

The procedure fulfills its promise of being like a pap smear, as Dr. Parenti
recites each step while the PA traces an image on a sonogram screen, her
finger as precise as a referee examining an instant replay clip.  The
scenario's absurdity hits Scully full-force, and she wants to laugh but
doesn't, lest her abdominal muscles contract and ruin the procedure.

So she lies on the padded table, hips elevated above her head, and strains
to watch the fluid image of the Wallace catheter in the café au lait of her
uterus displayed on the video monitor.

Implantation takes barely forty-five seconds.  She measures the time by the
double-speed heartbeat thrumming in her eardrums.

A wince as the catheter is drawn out of her body, then Dr. Parenti
cheerfully says, "All done, Dana."  Scully feels a sudden panic that the
doctor might rub her belly like a well-loved cat, but instead the man turns
to the lab tech.  He rearranges some equipment and says, "We're going to
take the catheter into the lab and make sure all the embryos were implanted.
It'll take about ten to fifteen minutes, Dana.  You need to stay completely
still while we wait, okay?"

She closes her eyes in assent, listening to the sounds of the medical
personnel leaving the room.  Scully doesn't feel any different than before
the procedure; she shouldn't expect this to change her cellular makeup, but
this stasis feels strange.

Mulder's face remains pressed in the curve of her neck, her skin now damp
from either sweat or tears.  She wonders why this man -- who has seen the
world and then some -- cannot watch.

And then she feels the fear rising off them in waves, like vapor hovering
above asphalt on a fecund summer day.  Fertile and electric, the energies
they have always tried to repress when it came to one another.

Their strength at this moment is not directed toward an unseen enemy: it is
focused on the embryos swimming inside her uterus, looking for a home.


+++++

Chapter Three

+++++
Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
January 28, 2000


The embryos are gone forever, explanted and lost.

There are times in one's life when words simply refuse to do justice to
emotion.  He holds her tightly as they stand together in her apartment,
muscles so tense that his quadriceps scream in pain.  Mulder has not spoken
since he told her not to give up hope for a miracle.  He scripts
conversations in his head, but none can force themselves through his lips,
which still rest on the crown of Scully's hair.

Her fingernails begin to trace the length of his spine.  He shivers.  She
pulls away from him, her gaze a stone skittering over the surface of a pond.
It moves from his chest to rest at his lips and remain there.  He doesn't
know whether she is sussing him out or letting her eyes ask what words do
not.

He wants to kiss her.  He does not.

Instead, he curves his hand around from between her shoulder blades, tracing
the outline of her bra, then down the concave curve of her side to where he
meets the new outline of her waistband.  She is all lines and borders.
Although he has seen her flesh before, he fancies that if he were to peel
away her shirt he would find the faint dotted lines of a grid delineating
her into a graph of soft peach flesh.

His hand moves to the front of her belly as her eyes still stare at his
lips.  Cupping his hand over the soft, barely there mound of her lower
abdomen is difficult, given their position, but his life's work is
adaptation.  He presses on it and she gasps.

Mulder should be touching her like this in six months, his hand resting on
firm skin covering a child within.  Instead, her flesh is elastic and gives
under the weight of his hand, too ordinary in the common female biological
trappings of spongy tissue and just the slightest bit of water gain.
Estrogen's natural cycles compensate for the child that should be slowly
growing in her uterus, if the fates had allowed.

They stand together, just so, for a long moment.  His tired muscles threaten
to give way under the strain of standing for too long, or perhaps his
weakness comes from the intimacy of the position.  His hand on her belly,
her gaze on his mouth.  Humans are designed to eat, drink and procreate.
Somewhere along the line, the latter has become lost to them.

They will sleep together tonight.  He knows this now.

He fears this, for all the right -- and wrong -- reasons.

Her muted but warm sexuality scares him.  He could so easily lose himself in
her body.  She wants him, has wanted him for so long.  He has always known
this, but sublimated it out of some ridiculous need for nobility and
self-denial.  Loving her is easy; having her is not.

They still have two chances left.  If they are to become parents -- or at
least try to be -- then this gives him license to let roving hands go, yes?
He couches his rationalization in expediency; after all, their potential
child cannot exist solely because of science.  But her beloved scientific
process cannot apply to this situation.  It is much more simple than the
path from hypothesis to conclusion.

He wants her.

He wants to taste every inch of her, more than gods or monsters can ever
know.

Perhaps this is the miracle they should be seeking.  It is a sure thing.  It
can only bring them happiness, or at least as much as they will ever allow
themselves.

Just as he completes the task of working up the nerve to kiss her, Scully's
arms clench him close and her nails press half-moons into his back as she
pulls him down to a kiss.

Kiss her.

Kisssssss...oh.  Preliminaries evaporate as their tongues quickly meet.   He
maps each of her taste buds, coloring sweet and bitter and sour and salty
shades of Valentine red.  The tip of her tongue is candy-apple crimson,
sweetened by a twinge of the lipstick she licked away as she moved in for
the kiss.  Though she has always kept her outward appearance austere, he
sees the full spectrum of color in her mouth.

So this is what an out-of-body experience feels like, Scully, he tells her,
but she is too busy kissing away his lucidity to hear his telepathy.

They break away to breathe, then are back together, their lips parted and
touching.  Carbon dioxide is harmful to inhale, but hers is sweet, tasting
of pheromones and starlight, with a pinch of sadness.

Then, as if a door has slipped off its hinges, the mood abruptly shifts.
Kisses become bites and touches become white-knuckled grasps.  She clenches
his arms and pulls him, half-stumbling, toward her bedroom.  As he turns his
head to stare at her, his gaze catches on the overhead light, its electric
glow searing his retinas and making phosphorescent sparks fly over her face.
Their energy is no longer muted; he imagines the sleeves of his shirt are
the only thing keeping her hands from giving him static shocks.

His prophecy is soon fulfilled as they move to the chill of her bedroom and
she strips bare.  He stares at her, in awe of the flush of her skin, so
different from her pallor in the clinic ten days ago.  As she moves, the
muscles of her stomach and legs flex into the lightning bolts he had only
sensed from her earlier.  Mulder swiftly steps over and pushes her onto the
bed, crushing her body beneath his.  They kiss again, and she polishes his
back, the sweater abrasive through the barrier of his cotton t-shirt.  She
frames his face with her hands and the electric shock bleaches her red hair
white.

Blood racing, he alights from the bed and strips his own body bare, his
clothes discarded on top of her own.  When he returns to lie on top of her,
he feels smaller somehow, his body boneless with lust atop her compact
power.

Although he may be in the dominant position, she is the convection engine
driving them forward.  He lets her roll them over until she straddles his
hips, her body rising above his like a mermaid on the bow of a ship.  Her
breasts sway and her shoulders hunch forward, fingernails digging into the
crinkly hair of his chest.  He reaches up to touch her hair, and the static
charge passes through to her, sending her hair flying like a pulsar in a
reddish glass globe.

She reaches for his cock and grasps him tightly, shivering and solid.  One
stroke, then two, and he is left panting for God, for mercy he doesn't want.
Save me and send me under, he thinks.  Keep doing this forever.

He reaches down to cover her hands with his and they begin to stroke
together.  Two weeks ago he sat in the clinic, jerking himself off to
produce a sample.  But whereas then he was simply imagining what she would
look like if they ever made love, right now he knows.  The love is mixed
with arousal and bone-crushing need.

Inside me.  Now.  Let's do what twenty clinicians couldn't accomplish.

The words slither through his brain.  He doesn't know if she said them or if
they were his own synapses ordering him to fulfill what his body covets.

Hips shift in tandem and she guides -- pushes -- him inside her.

With other women years ago, he would have procured protection before this
moment.  He didn't want children, certainly not with those women.  He'd
played the field and had certainly had more than ample opportunity to be a
father, should he have chosen that path.  But then he found the woman who
made his life complete, and protection was unnecessary.  Futile.

He was fertile, but had not thought he wanted children until she asked him
to father hers a month ago.  She cannot give them to him.  This devastates
him, as the sudden need for children fills his mind.  He wonders if this
need is for a baby of his own, or simply for a child with her.  But he
cannot make logical deductions when she is around him, staring down at him
with such craving.

Scully braces her hands on his chest and begins to move atop him.  In and
out, clench and relax.  He wants desperately to touch her breasts, so
beautiful and ripe as they sway above him, but her arms are in the way.  He
instead cups her face in his hands, and she turns her head to pull his thumb
inside her mouth, sucking hard.

Mulder cannot kiss her in this position, so he purses his lips and blows in
her direction.  Her answering smile is closer to a grimace, eyes fluttering
closed as he moves his other hand down to thumb her clitoris.  She shivers,
and he marvels at the symbiosis of sex, the give and take turning sensation
into its own circular logic.  He rubs her hot clit and she shivers.  She
clenches her vagina around him and he moans, impulse making him rub harder.
Current flows around the circuit, sending currents of electricity through
every cell of his body.

He continues to rub and her body suddenly freezes above and around him, her
heat still searing his skin despite the gooseflesh he sees on her belly.
Mulder stops thrusting and lets her ride out her climax, watching as she
throws her head back and closes her eyes.  Her tongue traces her upper lip
and he sees all the shades of red he had only sensed as they'd kissed.

She finally softens around him, her blurred beauty gazing upon his face.
Moving his hands to his chest, he laces their fingers and she lowers herself
down on him, their bodies pressed together.  His fingernails are against her
soft nipples and his knuckles dig into his pectoral muscles.  She slowly
begins to move again and he thrusts in counterpoint, more gently this time
but still grinding his teeth with his rising passion.

Then suddenly he is on the edge of climax.  He blinks.  She looks down on
him with wonder.

In a perfect world, this would be It -- the beginning of conception.  Lovers
everywhere create children this way, by accident or by intention.  He and
Scully have the intent, but cannot make it happen.

He comes, breaking the circuit and letting his energy spill inside her.  The
thread snaps and he lies, boneless and spent, matching her pliancy.  Tilting
her head, she kisses him.  Mulder marvels at the shift of emotion from
delirious need to sated softness.

"Are you still hoping for a miracle, Mulder?" she whispers after a kiss.

He traces the curve of her jaw and thinks that maybe this is the one he was
looking for.

He says nothing, and kisses her again, warmth and life flowing everywhere in
their bodies except where they crave it the most.


++++++
New Chances Clinic
Washington, D.C.
February 3, 2000


The room is cold.  Scully shivers, folding her arms around the flimsy cotton
gown she wears.  Her skin is a crazy quilt of scratches and bruises, the
colors vibrant even in the weak light filtering through the half-opened
blinds.  Closing her eyes, she forces herself to take slow, deep breaths,
but the air is tainted by the smell of antiseptic and failure.

The last time she was here life had been planted in her womb.

She swallows the taste of tears, salty and viscous in her throat.  She's
tried to remain optimistic, to keep her spirits up and her thoughts
positive.  But defeat covers her with its oppressive cloak, weighing her
down in mind and body.

Her feet swing free, hanging over the side of the examining table like a
child's.  The bandage on her right ankle is stark against the bruises that
bloom like exotic flowers on her leg.  A reminder of another failure.
Shuddering from more than the chilled temperature of the room, she tightens
her arms' hold and tries to squeeze Pfaster's face from her memory.

Mulder hadn't wanted her to work on the case, treating her with a kid-glove
kindness he usually reserved for the victims they encountered during an
investigation.  She couldn't allow him to take charge; she needed to be in
control of some portion of her life.  Work was all she had to keep her
grounded, to keep things normal and help forget the pain of disappointment.
Now she deals with those consequences as well, that failure stirring in an
additional measure of stress to her pressure cooker existence.

A thin trickle of tears cut a pathway across her cheek, warm against her icy
skin.  She wipes them away with her fist, scrubbing hard to eradicate the
telltale sign of her weakness.  Mulder is waiting for her, just a few doors
away.  If she starts crying now, Scully fears she will never stop, and if
she is to make it through the next few weeks she must remain strong.  For
Mulder, for herself, but most of all, for the life they hope to create
together.

"Hello again, Dana."  Dr. Parenti enters the room, closing the door behind
him with a decisive click, and walks over to the examining table.  "I'm
sorry to keep you waiting.  I had an overanxious father to contend with."

Scully forces her face into a parody of a smile.  "I understand.  I presume
you're satisfied with my physical condition and we are ready to schedule the
second implant procedure."

The doctor fans through the papers in the folder he is holding.  "I've been
studying the hospital report, Dana."  He drops the file onto to the table
and reaches for Scully's arm, examining the contusions with care.  "I was
under the impression that you'd made arrangements to cut back on your duties
in light of these fertility procedures."  His tone, though gentle, is
tainted by censure, and Scully squirms under his piercing eyes.

"That was...*is* my intent.  This was an unusual case.  It...I don't plan on
taking any chances in the future."  She wets her lips, choosing her next
words carefully.  "I know how important it is to follow procedures.  I can
assure you, if I had been pregnant I would not have been working in the
field on this particular case."

"I see."  He lifts Scully's leg, taking note of the livid bruises and myriad
of scratches marring the skin.  "Are you taking any medication for pain?"

Scully shakes her head.  "Nothing, not even over-the-counter pain
relievers."

Dr. Parenti nods.  "Your tests results are all within the accepted
parameters.  Heart, blood pressure normal.  Have you resumed working?"

"I'm on a leave of absence at the moment."  There is a slight hesitation
before Scully speaks again.  "When...when can we schedule the next
procedure?"  She winces, hearing the anxious quiver in her voice.

Picking up the folder, the doctor makes a few notes.  "Why don't you get
dressed?  We can talk in my office."

In the dressing room, Scully stares at herself in the mirror.  She feels
vulnerable in the rough cotton gown; unprotected.  Clothes are her armor.
The tailored navy blue pantsuit and white blouse are chosen to project the
image of a cool, business-like woman, a player not to be taken lightly.

But once re-girded in the wool and silk, she feels nothing like the woman
she wants to be.  Instead, the somber colors and straight lines of her
clothes highlight the fragility she is so determined to cover.  Seated in
Dr. Parenti's office, renewed anxiety sweeps through her, and she folds her
hands in her lap, willing away the trembling that wracks her frame.

"Now, Dana."  Dr. Parenti looks up, his expression sober.  "There are a few
things we need to talk about."

A cold feeling of dread settles in the pit of Scully's stomach, and she
suddenly wishes she'd asked Mulder to be present for this part of the
consultation instead of leaving him to thumb through outdated magazines in
the clinic's waiting room.  "Is anything wrong?  Has something happened that
I need to be aware of?"  Visions of destroyed ova flash through her mind,
and she swallows hard against the bile rising in her throat.

As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Parenti shoots her a small, reassuring
smile.  "No, nothing like that," he says with obvious gentleness.  "I'm just
a bit concerned about you, especially after that work-related...incident."
He pauses, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk.  Without them,
his brown eyes seem larger, and Scully can see the concern reflected in
their depths.  "I'm not sure you fully understand what a beating like that
can do to your body, specifically in light of your fertility issues.  Your
reproductive system is already compromised, and there are signs that your
body is in a periomenopausal stage.  I'm not saying you won't be able to
conceive using the in vitro fertilization procedure.  But you will need to
be extremely careful, if you want to succeed."

Scully nods, her mind processing the doctor's words.  She had only three
chances to conceive, and one has already failed.  There is no way she will
risk further disappointment.  "I will see to it that I'm not put in this
position again.  I promise you that."

"Mr. Mulder...does he understand all this?  Perhaps you would like to set up
a meeting with him to discuss the matter?"  Though the question seems
probing, it is delivered without curiosity and Scully tamps down the fear
that causes her heart to race.

"I will be sure to relay the information to him," she states, moving to
perch on the edge of her seat.

Dr. Parenti nods.  "Good.  Someone will call you within the next forty-eight
hours to set up the appointment.  Meanwhile, continue to get plenty of
rest."  He stands, extending his hand to Scully.  "We'll get through this
together, Dana."

Scully rises and takes the offered hand.  "Thank you, doctor."

In the waiting room, Mulder slouches in the corner, staring out the window
to the parking lot below.  She watches him, noting with surprise how pale
his face seems.  The shadow of his impending beard seems darker, almost
sinister until he spies her and a smile lights up his face.  He jumps to his
feet and grabs their coats, striding over to meet her with ill-concealed
relief.  "Ready?" he asks, holding out her coat.

"Yes," she replies, slipping her arms into the proffered garment.

Grinning, he leans down to whisper, "Did the doc let you know when we get to
do it again?"

His smile is contagious; she finds her lips curving in a matching one.
"Someone will call to set it up, probably in a day or so," she assures him,
pulling the belt tight around her still-small waist.

He takes her arm, matching his steps to hers as they walk to the door.  "So,
how about grabbing something to eat?  Thai, Italian, Mexican, Chinese.  Take
your pick.  After reading six issues of Gourmet, I'm starved."

She looks at him through lowered lashes.  "I have some boneless chicken
breasts in the freezer, plus the makings for a salad.  Why don't we have
that instead?  It's healthier.  Besides, we need to talk," she adds, almost
as an afterthought.

He looks at her, his smile fading.  "Whatever you want, Scully.  Count me
in."  He pushes at the door with his elbow and gestures for her to go
through.  "I'm with you, every step of the way."


+++++

Chapter Four

+++++
Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
February 11, 2000


He is amazed that the creation of life makes him immeasurably sad.

He should be exhilarated by the IVF attempts, but life has inured him to
pain and he has learned the hard way never to get his hopes too high.
Instead of feeling anticipation and hope, he has come away from the second
attempt depressed, fatalistic.

Opening the door with a nudge of his hand, he watches Scully as she slowly
enters her apartment.  Each movement is careful, her body tense but her
hands limp at her side.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks as he walks toward her kitchen.

He hears the soft squeak of her rubber-soled boots against the wood floor.
"A glass of water would be great, thanks."  The next sound is the rustling
of fabric, and he guesses she is now sitting on the sofa.  He draws the tap
into a chilly glass then takes the water to her.

Following the direction of her gaze, Mulder tries to decipher what holds her
attention, then he looks at her face.  Her eyes have glazed over.  She is
retreating into herself.  He knows he should pull her out of this, but feels
a selfish consolation that she is silent and unobservant.  Right now he just
can't manage a conversation.

Scully is fiercely protective of her furniture, even after the abuse it has
handled over the years, so he procures a coaster for the water glass.  The
thud of contact seems to startle her out of her reverie and she glances up
at him, murmuring, "Thank you."

He nods his reply.  After a pause, he murmurs, "You should be lying down,
Scully.   Let me get you a pillow for your hips."  She mirrors his nod and
he retreats to her bedroom, grateful to be out of the room so he can gather
his thoughts.

When he turns on the overhead light, the waxy reddish smudge on the paint
above the headboard is visible -- a permanent memento of the night last week
when they'd made love for the second time.  They'd been naked within thirty
seconds of entering her apartment.  As she rode him, her smooth belly
stretching as her back arched, he'd lifted a finger to her lips and rubbed
the red waxy lipstick away.  A few moments later, he braced his hands
against her wall as she climaxed, her power nearly lifting him off the bed.
The wall now bears a blood red scar from his hands grasping for purchase,
the skin of his palms threatening to tear with the strain.

In the dim light, he glances down at his palms, examining their lines,
jagged like broken glass.  Lines for heart, head, life and fate.  This is
all he knows about palmistry, and he thinks he might like to explore it
further.  Maybe it could reveal his future, or the secrets she keeps from
him.

She is secretive today, her body tense and barricaded in the living room.
The bedroom is too full of memories, so he grabs the pillow and retreats
without a second glance at the smudge above her bed.

When he returns to the living room, he finds Scully half-sitting on the
sofa, eyes closed and body draped akimbo along the back like a Titian
portrait.  He stands next to the couch for nearly a minute before she
appears to register his presence, then she tries to smile when she opens her
eyes.  It is mirthless, resembling a grimace.

She reaches for the pillow and stands, then unbuttons her pants to ease the
restrictive binding.  "Should I get you some pajamas?" he asks, but she
shakes her head.  Were she to speak, he knows she would just parrot, 'I'm
fine.'

As she leans forward to smooth her clothing, her half-unbuttoned shirt gapes
open, revealing the curve of a breast.  It is opaque milk; the strawberry
blister he'd left there last week has faded.

He has to turn away, and does not know if she has noticed what he saw.
Blood-red desire floods him, throwing his cells into an uproar of chaos.
The doctor told them an hour ago, just as he did last month, that they
should refrain from sexual activity for at least twenty-four hours until the
embryos have an opportunity to adhere to her uterus.  Mulder thinks he
should leave, because he can't possibly make it through the next day here
without wanting to devour her skin.  He clenches his fists, nails etching
new lines onto his palms, and wills away his arousal.  Seven years of
working alongside her have given him a doctorate in suppressed desire.

Another rustle of movement, then he knows she is back on the sofa, her hips
elevated as Dr. Parenti has instructed.  Once all his blood has returned to
normal flow patterns, he turns back to face her and finds his predictions
are met.  The pose is strange: her belly tilts upward, the quilt over it
giving the impression of the latter months of pregnancy.  Yet with her eyes
closed and face slack, she resembles a corpse.

"Scully," he says, alarm creeping into his voice.

She opens her eyes and looks at him, startled, her eyebrows raised and deep
wrinkles on her forehead.  He shifts on his feet, unsettled.  She raises
herself on one elbow and says, "Mulder," her tone asking him to come there.

He takes a deep breath.  He knows what she wants.

Ten seconds later, he is sitting on the sofa, her head in his lap.  The
position seems to relax her, but he wonders if she can feel his tense thigh
muscles or hear his hitched breath.

"It's okay, Mulder.  I won't break," she whispers.  The crescent shape of
her lashes flutter but her eyes remained closed.  She is always so strong,
so vital, and to see her face pale and weary frightens him more than he
cares to admit.  What if this fails? he wonders, brushing a trembling hand
through the cascade of red hair spilled across his denim-clad thighs.  How
will they deal with it?

In a few minutes her chest is rising and falling in even intervals, her body
at rest.  He studies her face, mentally mapping the new lines that seem to
have appeared overnight.  Having a child is supposed to be a joyous
occasion, a way of celebrating love by creating new life.  Somehow, they've
managed to do it backwards, and he can't help the feeling of regret that
burns like acid in his chest.

Scully sighs in her sleep, the soft sound hovering in the air like a
melancholy note.  His mouth set in a firm line, he touches her too-pale
skin, his fingertips kissing the random freckles that dot her nose.  He will
do whatever it takes to make this work.  For her, for himself.

"I promise," he whispers, laying his head against the back of the couch and
closing his eyes.  "I promise."


++++++
Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
February 26, 2000


She remembers the day Grandma Scully died.  Her father, his face wet with
tears, speaking to her mother in hushed, urgent tones.  At eight, she
thought Ahab was the strongest man in the world, and to see him weep
frightened her.  She ran upstairs and climbed into the window seat, pulling
the faded green drapes closed behind her.  Her secret place, where
everything was still right with the world and grown men didn't cry.

How she longs for that sanctuary now.

Too many blows have been dealt in the past few weeks.  Mrs. Mulder's
suicide, the truth about Samantha.  When she heard from Dr. Parenti that the
second attempt had failed, she was more resigned than surprised.  Deaths are
rumored to come in threes.

Four days have gone by since that news.  Four days of pretense and generic
conversations.  Mulder passed the time with a pale, blank face, his presence
almost ghostlike.  Only his eyes were alive, dark with the pain he kept to
himself.

Her own emotions laid closer to the surface.  She was afraid to speak to
him, fearful of unleashing something she's incapable of dealing with.  It
won't take more than a scratchy-voiced Mulder to break through her fragile
shield, and she is more than grateful when the weekend arrives.

On Saturday morning she decides to turn out her closets.  Piles of discarded
clothes, sorted by season, litter her bedroom floor, awaiting transport to
St. John's.  Several cartons sit on her dining room table, rescued from the
dusty oblivion of the top shelf in her hall closet.  If the third procedure
is successful, she will not be climbing ladders or lifting cartons from high
shelves.

If.

So much of her future depends on a two letter word.

By seven that evening she is nearly finished.  Only one carton remains, and
she wipes away the filmy gray coating the corrugated top before opening it.
Inside, a splash of tissue-wrapped scarlet encased in plastic greets her
eyes, and she smiles for the first time in days as she lifts it out of the
box.  Carrying it over to the couch, she settles herself among the cushions
before unsealing the plastic.

The kimono is still in perfect condition.  Even after thirty years the rich,
vibrant color hasn't faded.  She touches one of the tiny gold butterflies
that dance across the silk, remembering the look on her father's face when
he gave it to her.  'There isn't another one like it in all the world.  This
is special, Dana, like you.'  Smiling, she sets it aside and reaches back
into the bag.

This time she removes a gold obi and a small wooden box which contains a
pair of butterfly hair ornaments.  She fingers the sash, remembering the
first time she wore it.  She had felt so grown up.  So beautiful.  It had
been a sad day when she'd no longer been able to wear the kimono and her
mother packed it away.  'You mustn't be selfish.  One day you'll have a
little girl.  Think how much she'll love wearing this.'

Was that a promise, Mom?

Blowing out a shaky breath, she carefully refolds the outfit, wrapping the
items in tissue before replacing them in the plastic and setting the package
on the coffee table.  It will go back into the carton, closed away in the
upper recesses of her hall closet.  Waiting...

A tentative tapping startles her.  Blinking back her almost-tears, she walks
to the door and peers through the peephole, somehow unsurprised to see
Mulder there.  She pushes back the bolt and opens the door, dread mixing
with delight as she prepares to greet him.

"Hey."  He rocks back on his heels, hands thrust into the pockets of his
unfastened leather jacket.  "Is this a bad time?" he asks, his smile
tentative.

"Bad time?"  She forces herself to keep her hands by her side, tamping down
the urge to check her face for stray tears.

Mulder reaches out a finger and touches her cheek.  "New makeup?"  He
examines his fingertip, eyeing the film coating the skin with narrowed eyes.
"It seems to be composed of minute fibers, dander, and...pollen."  He casts
her a questioning look.  "Am I close?"

The breath whooshes out of her, and she raises an eyebrow at the spurious
cheer in his tone.  "It's dust," she confirms laconically.  She moves back
to allow him to enter and bolts the door behind him.  Turning, she leans
back against the wood and watches as he shrugs out of the jacket and drapes
it over the back of a chair.  His movements are jerky, awkward, almost
fumbling.  Without the cover of his glib tongue he reminds her of a teenager
on a blind date.  It would be almost amusing under different circumstances.
But not now.

His eyes dart around the room, looking at the opened carton, the bags of
clothing by the door, everywhere but at her.  "I'm sorry.  Probably should
have called first, but I needed to talk to you," he mutters at last, the
words so low she barely hears them.

She frowns, her throat suddenly dry.  "Are...are you okay, Mulder?"  Only
the tiny break in her voice betrays the anxiety she feels.

He nods, his lips pursed.  "It was too quiet and I started thinking...about
the past, my life."  He finally lifts his head to look at her, his eyes dark
and troubled.  "You."

"Sit down, Mulder," she says gently, relieved when he complies.

Pushing away from the door, she is aware of how she must look, and tugs at
the baggy sweatshirt she is wearing.  Damp hair lays like streaks of rust
against her forehead, and she pushes it away from her brow, smoothing it
back with a nervous hand.  Slipping past him, she takes a seat on the couch
and tucks her legs beneath her.  Heart pounding, she waits for him to speak,
unsure if she wants to hear what he has to say.

He stares straight ahead, his profile almost grim, and the silence grows
more uncomfortable as each passing second is marked by the anniversary clock
sitting on the mantel.  It seems absurd to act like this, she thinks,
chewing on her lower lip.  As if they were strangers instead of friends
and...lovers.  Eager for an excuse to break the ice, she remembers the
kimono, and on impulse leans forward to pick it up.

"My father gave this to me," she murmurs, pulling at the seal on the bag.

He turns to look at her.  "It's certainly red," he notes, his face a mixture
of curiosity and relief.

"Definitely red."  Smiling, she pulls it out of the bag for the second time
and hands the garment to him.  "I was six when I received this.  We had just
moved again."  She sighs, glancing at him through half-closed eyes.
"Definitely not a happy time in my life."

"A little Scully-geisha," he muses, examining the unfolded kimono.  "You
probably drove all the little sailors crazy."

She snorts.  "Not exactly."  She hesitates, then reaches out to stroke the
silky fabric.  "But it made me feel beautiful."

He swivels around to face her, his eyes bright with curiosity.  "Go on," he
encourages, covering her hand with his much warmer one.

She flashes him a startled look then turns her head, shielding her face with
a curtain of hair.  "I wore it to school that first day.  It gave me
courage."  Her lips curve in a rueful smile.  "But it wasn't a success.
When it came time for recess I refused to play outside with the others.
Beautiful little geishas didn't do anything as prosaic as skipping rope or
playing tag," she adds, feeling the color rush into her cheeks.  "The others
laughed at me."

His thumb traces over her wrist, warming her flesh with random patterns.
"So, did a handsome samurai warrior come to the rescue?"

"No, but a certain naval officer did."  She trembles with awareness as his
hand slips under the cuff of her sweatshirt, tickling her skin until the
tiny hairs on her arm stand on end.  "It took my dad to make me see that how
I looked wasn't as important as who I was inside."

His hand leaves her arm to cup her chin, tugging until she turns and meets
his eyes.  "Your father was a special man, Scully.  I wish I'd had a chance
to meet him."

"So do I," she replies, her voice husky with emotion.

His lips curl in soft smile, and he presses a quick kiss on her cheek before
releasing her.  Turning away, he replaces the kimono on the discarded tissue
lying on the coffee table.  "Your story reminds me of why I came here
tonight."  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a yellowed piece of paper
and unfolds it with care.  "I was going through some of my mother's papers
and found this," he explains, handing it to her.

It is a list of questions.  Nine in all.  The writing sprawls across the
paper, the letters large and ungainly, the questions both simplistic and
poignant.  'What makes the ocean look blue?'  'Where do clouds come from?'
'Why is it okay for some people to lie?'  She steals a quick look at his
face.  She imagines she can see him, young, intense, lonely, composing his
list after thoughtful consideration.

"That was the way I communicated with my father," he explains in a voice
devoid of emotion.  "If I had a question, he encouraged me to write it down.
We would discuss it when he had more time."  He laughs, the sound almost
chilling in its lack of humor.  "Trouble was, he never did have time, and
all I ever had to show for the relationship were a lot of lists like the one
you're holding."

She swallows with difficulty, tasting the bitter and salt of tears clogging
her throat.  "I'm sure he was trying to do his best for his family."  Though
she has tried to infuse her words with comfort, they sound hollow and
lacking in conviction.

Mulder shifts restlessly, throwing his arm along the back of the couch.  "I
don't want my relationship with our child to be remembered as a series of
questions scribbled on notepaper."  He touches the back of her neck, his
hand warm as it slides across her nape.  "I want to be there for him,
Scully.  And for you."  He faces her, his eyes suspiciously bright.  "In
every way, no matter what it takes."

She slides across the few inches separating them to nestle close to him,
resting her cheek against his chest.  "You will.  I'd expect nothing less
from you."

He pulls her closer, wrapping her in a tight embrace.  "I will," he echoes,
his words fierce.  He presses a kiss into her hair.  "You have my word on
it."  She is content, for the moment.  They won't fail -- they can't.
Together, they are invincible.  Closing her eyes, she lets the beat of his
heart lull her to sleep.


++++++

Chapter Five

++++++
New Chances Clinic
Gaithersburg, MD
March 15, 2000


Cold reality is beginning to make him bitter.

They have had so many chances to conceive over the past three months.
Making love has become second nature to them; it fits him and Scully like
hand in glove.  He has come inside her so many times, filling her womb with
sperm and this new, physical brand of love.  They have become good at making
love, but they have to rely on a speculum and catheter to make a baby.

A few minutes ago, Dr. Parenti led them into the exam room, after telling
them that this was it.  Oh, his words were much more professional and
sympathetic, but Mulder heard the truth behind them:  if this doesn't work,
you'll have to give up hope of a child of your flesh and blood.

Scully hands him her blouse and pants, which he carefully hangs on the wall
hook.  When he turns around, she has already donned her gown and fumbles
with the ties with trembling hands.  Using the stepping stool as a foothold,
she climbs up onto the table, her legs dangling from the edge.

"Have you thought about the other options Dr. Parenti mentioned?" he asks as
he moves to stand before her.

She wrings her manicured hands.  "Egg donation?"  He nods.  Without looking
up, she murmurs, "It wouldn't be my child."

"It would be our child," he stresses.  "Even if it were my sperm and someone
else's ovum, the child would still be ours.  You would carry and give birth
to it."

She cuts him off.  "My body doesn't seem to want to accept an embryo."

"Scully." His voice rises. "If you've already decided that in-vitro won't
work, then why are we even here?  The doctor said many couples go through
this procedure five or six times before it works."

"But this is our last chance."

"I know it is.  If it doesn't work and you decide you still want a child,
we'll take a break and explore our other options.  Donor eggs.  Surrogates.
Adoption.  This doesn't mean we won't have a child.  It just means that we
won't do it in the traditional way."  He reaches for her limp hand.  "But if
you have this fatalistic attitude, then you're only setting yourself up for
failure.  I know you, Scully, and you are not a quitter."

He doesn't expect her to reply, given the defeated expression on her face.
She looks away.  "And if it doesn't work?  Where does that leave us?"

"You and me?"  She nods.  Ire begins to churn in his gut as he realizes just
what she is asking.  "You think I'm going to just give up on our
relationship if you don't get pregnant?  God, Scully." He bites his lip to
keep from yelling.  "Don't you have any idea how much I love you?"

The words seem to startle her.  He has told her before, but she brushed him
off.  Perhaps this time she realizes that he means it.

"I'm in this for the long haul," he continues.  "I would have made the same
commitment to you even if you hadn't asked me to father this child, though
it might have taken me a lot longer to tell you."

She reaches up to place a hand on his shoulder, then draws him close.  Her
warm, lush scent overcomes antiseptic.  For the first time, she whispers, "I
love you too," then presses a kiss to his mouth, their lips brushing and
tripping over each other.

He feels alive, joyful, as if he might burst out of his skin.  She loves
him.  He has known this for some time, but saying the words makes it real.

As they kiss, her breath tickling his upper lip, the door opens and Dr.
Parenti chuckles.  "Getting in the mood, are we?"

They break apart and Scully sits up straight, smoothing her gown.  Mulder
can tell she is uncomfortable at being caught in the act, so to speak,
though kissing seems quite appropriate for two people who are about to try
again to conceive a child.

While the doctor and his assistants prepare Scully for the procedure, he
pulls over a chair so he can sit next to her.

The conversation will have to wait, as Dr. Parenti says, "Are we ready?"

"Yes," Scully replies, then catches Mulder's gaze.  Her voice conveys
confidence, but he sees familiar fear in her eyes.

She settles back and he gives her a soft smile as the procedure begins.


++++++
Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, VA
April 2, 2000


Darkness is a great equalizer.  It can hide, or comfort, or protect.  For
Mulder, it serves all three purposes.

There is something consoling about being wrapped in its plush black velvet,
safe from the pain that lurks in the light.  Maybe that's why he is so
comfortable with it.  Or maybe it's easier to protect yourself from reality
when you can't see the things that hurt you.

How different the circumstances were a few weeks ago.  A milestone reached
and whole-heartedly embraced.  A future together.  A family, something that
seemed to be out of the realm of possibilities just six months earlier.  And
love.  He made a fatal mistake that morning, clutching her cold hand in an
iron grip.  He allowed himself to hope.

Now he lays in the dark, the muted light from the outside halogen lamps the
only concession to the night.  The rough fabric of his sofa pillow is damp
with sweat and tears, abrasive even against an unshaven cheek.  This cracked
leather couch has been his asylum for the past two days, and he dreads the
coming of tomorrow morning and work.  He dreads seeing Scully.

Most of all seeing Scully.

Their final chance has failed, lost in a fatalistic swirl of blood and
tears.  His grief has surprised him with its intensity, hitting like sucker
punch to the gut that leaves him winded and aching.

She has proved to be more stoic about it, her initial tears giving way to
calm acceptance.  The knowledge should comfort him; she has gone through so
much that she deserves some measure of solace.  Instead, it rankles, and he
holds that additional misery inside, letting it mix and ferment until he
fears he will explode.

Maybe her way is healthier, to put up a brave front, to tolerate the
limitations, to accept the hand life has dealt you and just move on.  Maybe
it makes her happier in the long run, keeps her sane, lets her open her eyes
again each morning.

Or maybe she's just a better loser than he is.

He throws a forearm across his face, as though to press back the tears
stinging his eyes.  It's amazing, he thinks, how easy it is to analyze
others' feelings and motives, but so much harder to do the same with your
own.

"Mulder...?"  Keys clank restlessly as soft footsteps cross the floor,
tentative and almost wary in the cool darkness.

"In here," he sighs, peeling his body from the sticky leather to sit
upright.  Fingers scrub at the final traces of wetness before dropping to
splay on the faded denim covering his thighs.

"I was worried."  There is no censure in the words uttered from where she
stands, framed in the doorway.  The street lamp spills its light across the
floor, illuminating the new lines and shadows imprinted on her face.  "I
tried calling you, but you didn't answer."

He shrugs, hauling himself to his feet and crossing to look out the window
to the empty street below.  "Sorry.  I guess I didn't hear it," he manages
to choke out.

"Or didn't want to answer."  Somehow, she is already beside him, her body
braced against him and her cheek pressed to his back.

She knows me well, he thinks, locking his knees against the trembling that
threatens to topple them both to the floor.  He remains silent in her
embrace, watching as a lone car passes; the beams from its headlights sweep
across the blacktop like twin beacons.  A small black cat is caught in the
moving shafts of light, its eyes glowing pinpoints of gold.  For a few
seconds it is frozen in place, and he ceases to breathe until it turns and
scampers off into the shadows and safety.

"Come on.  Sit down."  She catches his hand, curling her fingers around his.
Hers are surprisingly warm, and he automatically returns the firm pressure,
feeling some of the tension leave his body as he allows her to pull him back
to the couch. "Everything will be all right," she whispers gently, pushing
back the few strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

Her gentleness is his final undoing and a new rush of wetness spills down
his cheeks like heated rain, dripping off the point of his chin to the
threadbare tee-shirt covering his chest.  "I'm sorry," he repeats to the
floor, the words thick and full of remorse.  He isn't sure if he is
apologizing for his weakness, or her worry, or the events which have so
inextricably bound them together.

She says nothing, but pulls him to her, coaxing his body to fold itself over
hers.  Cradling his head against her warmth, she rocks him in slow tandem
with the heartbeats that thump under his cheek.  He can feel her fingers
against his scalp, stroking through his hair as she murmurs soothing
nonsense that blends with the musical creak of leather and springs; a litany
of empathy that finally stills his tears.

Drained, he breathes in shuddering gasps that are muffled against her.  The
front of her blouse is wet, clinging to her milky white flesh like a second
skin.  He pushes his face into the vee of her neckline, nuzzling the hollow
that smells of almond soap and tears.  His hand moves to fumble with a
button, pulling one free, then another, until the blouse lays open.  He
lifts his head to look at her, letting her see the emotions that he's fought
so hard to hide.

She meets his gaze.  "We're okay, Mulder," she murmurs, her eyes dark and
intense.  One slender hand rasps through the pumice of his beard, curling
around his neck to ruffle the fine hairs at his nape.  "This isn't
finished," she promises.  And then she kisses him.

If she tasted of red before, now she is golden hope and redemption.  Her
mouth is thick honey, warm caramel.  Like cafe au lait, hot and sweet.
Tongues touching, renewing, reaffirming; recoloring his perceptions in a
kaleidoscope of sensations.

He feels her scrabbling for the hem of his t-shirt, hands skittering along
the skin at his waist until she clutches fistfuls of thin cotton.  A sharp
tug, and the worn material gives, exposing his back to the cool air and
heated frenzy of her hands.  Nails scrape along his spine, and over his
ribs, painting scratches on his skin.  She is marking him, staking her claim
with the welts blooming in her fingers' wake, and he revels in it.

Claim me as I will claim you.

They twist on the slippery leather, discarding clothes with unconcealed
impatience.  Soon she is whispering to him, words that make no sense over
the blood rushing in his ears.  He tugs at the pebbled crown of her breast,
the flesh like bronze-tipped ivory in the faint glow from the windows.  He
feels her humid gasp, hot as it rushes through the strands of hair she grips
so tightly.

They kiss again; darker, bittersweet kisses that melt like chocolate in the
heat.  Frenzied kisses, teeth nipping, scraping, biting.  He maps her
collarbone, tickles her skin with goose bumps as he sucks at the fragile
hollow of her throat.  Staking his own claim with every wet stroke of his
tongue.

Poised over her, his cock heavy and engorged with blood, he stares at her.
Her head is thrown back, her hair a dark coppery spray against the muted
colors of the pillow.  Eyes closed, kiss-swollen lips parted as she keens
the word 'yes' over and over in a voice clamorous with need.  He wants to
keep this moment, to indelibly imprint her image in his memory so that he
will never forget.  Visceral, primordial, more real to him than anything
else he has ever experienced.

This is love.

He rocks into her, slowly, slowly, sweat dripping from his face like tears.
The tight channel of her body is as accepting of him as her heart is.  He
feels the clench of her muscles, holding and releasing, pulling at his penis
with its every thrust and retreat.  Her body wraps around him, swallowing
him, her arms and legs anchoring them together as they move in perfect
symmetry, attuned in every way.

The movement of her hips becomes more urgent, and she drops a hand to where
they are joined, slipping fingers into her folds.  He feels them brush
against his cock with every thrust until her body stiffens in climax, the
tiny contractions becoming stronger with every thrust of his body.  She was
always beautiful to him, but never more so than now, her breath little more
than heated gasps, her mouth slack and wet and wanton.

This, too, is love.

When he comes, his whole body is alive with sensation, all feelings centered
on the seed spilling into her.  They may never create a new life together,
but what they have is real and life-affirming.  His cheeks once again wet
with tears, he feels the words erupt from him, forceful and true.  "I love
you, Scully.  Always."

And he begins to heal.


+++++

Chapter Six

+++++
Bernhardt's Piano Bar
Washington, D.C.
April 21, 2000


"Do you want anything?  Something to eat, maybe?" he asks as the bartender
walks toward them.

She shakes her head and he waves away the woman.  The piano bar is just
hitting its stride, even at the late hour.  People mill around them, having
a last drink on a warm springtime Saturday night.  Mulder's eyes are far too
focused and alert after a couple of glasses of Merlot.  The dim light of the
bar doesn't mute the faint flush of his face or the sparkle in his eyes.

He looks lovely.

Such a strange adjective to use for a man, but it suits him.  His beauty is
in the little things, like his long pianist's fingers and the way the
midnight shadow of his beard melts into his collar.  His features are
nothing like those chiseled by the ancient Romans, but his beauty is
classical.

And he is a classic man.  Old-fashioned.  She'd chuckled and been a bit
taken aback when he said he wanted to take her on a traditional date.

She accepted his offer, but didn't quite know what to make of it.  Deep
down, she had feared that this new intimacy existed only because of the
circumstances of the IVF treatments -- that their emotional closeness was an
effect, not a cause.  Yet as she stares at him across the table from her,
his thumb tracing the back of her hand, she realizes they could never have
embarked on the treatments without the intimacy they have always shared.

No, she amends her thought, without the love they have always shared.

She still feels odd thinking of him as a lover, but the beauty of his face
right now makes the new appellation come more freely to mind.  He is her
lover now -- not in the old, sordid way as a euphemism for sexual partner,
but as one who gives her love and to whom she tries her best to return love.

"We can continue like this, Mulder," she murmurs over the soft sounds of the
singer.  Wine and new realizations make her bolder than she has been in the
past.  If he is to be her lover, they need to learn to talk to each other
this way, without reservations.

"Hmm?"  He doesn't seem to have read her motivations on her face.

"I realized tonight that we didn't become lovers out of need or because of
the intimacy of the treatments.  We became lovers because we want each
other.  I want you in my life, Mulder.  Forever."

"Was there ever a doubt?" he immediately replies, then furrows his brow.
"Wait, that sounded wrong.  I understand what you mean, Scully, but I never
had to come to any realization."  He pauses, and turns his palm to grasp her
hand.

"I made love to you that first night because I wanted you -- have wanted you
for as long as I can remember.  Maybe the situation gave us the impetus we
needed, but it would have happened eventually anyway.  I've always been
absolutely sure that we will be together forever."

He takes a deep breath and squeezes her hand.  She shivers.

"Maybe we'll have a child someday.  Maybe not.  Maybe we'll live forever, or
maybe we'll die tomorrow.  But whatever I may imagine about my future, you
are in it."

As her eyes fill with tears, she knows they are not caused by fears for
their future, because she no longer has any.  No, the tears are for love of
his man.  This lovely man whose warm hand in hers makes her feel strong and
sure.

She leans over and kisses him lightly, the bar stool swiveling with the
motion.  She loves the strange intimacy of the scene.

"Mulder," she murmurs, her low voice carrying above the music, "if we ever
do have children, I want them to be just like you."

He chuckles, but she can see the warm glow of flattery in his cheeks.  "I
could say the same."

"Well, they can be a combination of both of us, biologically or just
emotionally."

He purses his lips, then spreads them into a smile.  "I like your sense of
compromise."

After a few moments of drinking in his beauty, the light catches the
near-empty wine glasses on the bar, and she lets go of his hand and refills
their goblets.  "Thank you," he says, then takes a sip.

"You have impeccable manners, lover," she says with a laugh, the wine and
conversation making her bold enough to give him the unusual pet name.  She
thrills in the red of his blush.  "Did your mother teach you how to be a
gentleman?"

"Etiquette classes and many a night playing host at my parents' cocktail
parties.  I was saved from the reputation-destroying sissiness of it all by
the fact that every other boy on the Vineyard had to do the same thing."
His face breaks into the smile of the boy he had once been.

She takes a sip of her wine.  "That would explain tonight."

"Oh?"

"Dinner by candlelight, the theater, then this bar?  I'm surprised you
didn't take me dancing too."

Ever quick with a quip, he retorts, "I couldn't find a ballroom open this
late.  The senior citizens of D.C. have early bedtimes."

"When we're old, Mulder, will we go to bed early?"

"Only if you're naked in that bed."

She reaches for his hand again, her entire body buzzing with a potent
mixture of alcohol, love, and wild, growing lust.

"Take me to bed, Mulder."

In one fluid motion, he withdraws his wallet and tosses a fifty onto the bar
to cover the bottle of expensive wine and tip.  "Anything for the old lady."

Before she can raise a teasing eyebrow, he amends, "Anything for my lover."

Much better.

So much better.

She slips on her jacket and grabs her purse.  Laughing, lets him take her by
the hand and hastily lead them out of the club to her home.  Together.
Taking her lover to bed.

The past few months have been a test of their strength and commitment.  But
despite the failure of the treatments, they have passed the true test, and
now they can begin the rest of their lives together.


+++++


"Did you know that when you're tipsy, your skin gets this adorable flush to
it?"

"Oh?"  She wobbles a bit more than she should as she steps out of the skirt
pooled at her ankles.

He reaches for her shoulder and steadies her.  "Yeah.  And you lose a bit of
muscle control."

She lightly shrugs away his hand so she can pull off her shirt.  "You've
never seen me drunk before.  How do you know it's that and not lust?"

Mulder takes her shirt and begins to fold it, the action rather
inappropriate for the situation, but he knows it will make her happy.
"While I'd like to believe it's lust, Scully," he gives her breast a
gratuitous grope before reaching behind her to begin the arduous task of
unfastening her bra, "I know inebriation when I see it.  You nearly finished
off that bottle of wine on your own.  You're the one who insisted I drive us
home, remember?"

Damned bra won't cooperate.  As he moves to stand behind her, her head lolls
back on her neck, fine red hair brushing his fingers as he struggles with
the hooks.  Perhaps lust has made her close her eyes, but the lolling is all
alcohol.  It charms him, and he has a sneaky suspicion she loses a bit of
inhibition with a '91 vintage in her bloodstream.

This should be fun.

"Mmm... Mulder?"  She slurs his name, but recovers with, "You're still
dressed, you know."

"Are you sure about that?  Maybe I got naked faster than a speeding bullet."

"Bullet or not." She presses back into his body.  "I can feel the buttons of
your shirt against my spine."

Busted.  He doesn't regret it one bit.  "You want to take my clothes off?"

"No."  Her head lolls some more; her hair tickles his collarbone.  "I'm not
in full possession of my faculties."

"So you admit that you're drunk?"  Mulder needs to step away so he can
unbutton his shirt, but this feels too damn good.  Pressing his hips against
the small of her back, his erection doesn't quite fit perfectly into the
curve just above her ass, but he doesn't care.

"I admit nothing."

"Lust, then?"

"Of course."

He finally puts his hands on her shoulders and stands her upright, propping
her long enough to make sure she has regained her balance, and then he
quickly sheds his clothes.

"There is one advantage to all of this, though."  She pivots to face him,
but keeps her eyes closed.  "If I were pregnant, I couldn't have had that
marvelous bottle of wine."

Thank God her eyes are still closed, so that she can't see him freeze in
panic.  Steady voice, now, he cautions himself.  "True."

Her face is calm, though.  A slight smile curves her lips.   Perhaps this
fuzziness presents the best opportunity to take advantage of the situation
and say something that has long been on his mind.

"Why don't we try anyway?"

Blue eyes bolt open.  "Try to get pregnant?"

He nods.

"I can't."  The words should be sad or bitter, but she seems more intrigued
than angry.

"Maybe not, but we can certainly have fun trying."

After a long stare, full of dilated pupils and a just-barely creased brow,
she lets a slow smile spread over her face.  "Let's try."

Blessed instinct comes through again.  "I love you, Scully," he murmurs.

"Me too," she whispers through her smile.  A quick flinch of surprise, then,
"I love you too."

As she advances on him in a now-steady gait, he marvels at the predatory
gleam in her eyes, mixing with a new playfulness.  On first thought it
doesn't seem "her," but he realizes that they are trying on new roles.  The
previous times they made love were a mixture of heartbreak and comfort and
need.  They have never been together like this just from the joy of being
together.

Tonight it is just them, in love and as close to sheer happiness as they
have ever been.  If they are to make good on those small steps toward
permanent commitment tonight, they need this.  Badly.

As she slowly licks his shoulder, he half-groans, "Do you know how many
babies are conceived during drunken sex?"

"Mulder, do you know how many of those people don't even know each other's
names?"  she asks his pectoral muscle.

Seven years of intense observation have seared her face into his memory; it
is as familiar to him as his own.  "I know your name, Scully."  Mood drops
from a tease to a whisper.  "It's the first thing on my mind when I wake up
every morning."

She looks up at him and blinks.  He adds this expression to his portrait
gallery of Scully beauty.

He wants this to be as good for her as he knows it will be for him.   To
create something tonight, be it a miracle child or a seal on a commitment.

I am yours and I am you and you are mine and me.

But he almost doesn't want to become her; he wouldn't be able to look at her
the way he does now.  Loving one's self is narcissism.  Loving another is
divine.

Stepping back, she nods in the direction of the Queen Anne chair in the
corner of her bedroom.  A glance at her reveals only the quirk of lips and
brow, but he reads her signals.  She clasps her hands behind his neck, and
whispers, "Ready?"  With that, he lifts her, gripping her hips tightly as
she locks her heels on the back of his thighs.  A few straggling steps
later, he is seated with her on his lap.  The chair isn't quite big enough
for the both of them, but they manage.

"After this, I don't think I'll be able to pass this heirloom down to our
kids." Her voice is a low, throaty chuckle as she gets her balance.

"Heirloom?"

"My grandmother's."  She runs her fingers through his hair.  "I don't think
this is what it was designed for."

He raises his hand to mimic her, red hair falling fluid through his
fingertips.  "Maybe generations of your family were conceived in this
chair."

"Per--" she begins, then the word trails away in a puff of air as he cups
her breast in his hand and rolls the nipple with his fingertips.  He thinks
she says, "Oh, goodness," but the words are barely more than a long stream
of breath.

When he enters her, she sighs again, her breath tickling the curve of his
jaw.  Once she is balanced around him, he pulls her back so he can look at
her face.

We can spend the rest of our lives together and be happy, he thinks.  We
will make it work.  We are a family, whether or not children enter our
lives.

With his hands on her hips, he cannot touch her clit, so she does the
honors, her knuckles brushing against his cock with every ring.  As he
watches her climb toward her climax, he stills his lifts of her body, so he
can give her this climax before his own.  Impulse tilts his chin up to meet
her lips, and he steals a quick kiss before she comes.  Her body swirls like
a twister, then she stiffens and melts into his body, boneless and sated.

"I love you," she whispers to him.  "Come for me, Mulder."

He regains his balance just enough to begin lifting her up and down on his
cock.  A few long slides then he is coming inside her, long and breathless
and electric.

Minutes pass and he stays inside her, as if he could hold his semen inside
and conceive their child.  Afterglow makes him truly believe this could
happen.  In the late hours after dinner, theater, and wine, the world is
his.  Anything is possible.

"Be mine," she whispers, a Valentine's endearment two months too late.

He opens his eyes and stares at her dear, familiar face.

"I am."


+++++

Chapter Seven and Epilogue

+++++
Interstate 5
Between Los Angeles and Sacramento, CA
May 16, 2000


As they sat in the theater, Scully was intermittently distracted by the
whispering of a woman speaking on a telephone.  She found some strange
poetic justice in a cell phone disrupting this ridiculous movie supposedly
based on their lives.  After the fourth call,  she turned around and glared
at the phone user, but the woman shrugged and whispered, "New baby at home."
Manners were at a premium, it appeared, but then this was Hollywood, after
all.

And they were mannered people.  Both she and Mulder kept their hands to
themselves throughout the film, but after the baby comment, he reached over
and squeezed her hand.  Later, in the darkened soundstage, she returns his
touch.  Two months ago, such movements would have had their genesis in pain.
But they have grown so much since then, and they can touch one another out
of love and the new measure of happiness they are beginning to find
together.

"Let's get out of here," he murmured as they left the soundstage.

She nudges his arm with her shoulder.  "Want to get something to eat?"

"No."  He stopped and turned to face her.  "I mean let's get out of town.
I'm sick of this city."

Scully replied with a tentative, drawn-out, "Okay."  As they neared the car,
he asked her where she wanted to go.  "Surprise me."  She trusted his
instincts.  After the methodical progress of the IVF and their relationship,
she needed to be surprised, to be swept off her feet for once.

The first surprise was their arrival back at the hotel, rather than the
great unknown.  "Pack up all your things, Scully.  I'll meet you down here
and we'll check out."

She willed herself not to look at him skeptically.   After packing, she
returned to the lobby, wearing jeans and a lightweight sweater and carrying
her suitcase.  Comfortable clothes, he'd instructed before they parted on
the elevator.  The lobby was still busy, even at an hour past midnight;
Scully wondered if L.A. was really the city that never slept.

Now, five hours later, they are on the road to Lake Tahoe.  If she had
remembered how long the drive was, she would have said no when he suggested
it, but now she is enjoying this time with Mulder.  They have seldom had the
opportunity to simply drive like this, without having to focus on an
investigation.  She realizes just how much she enjoys being with him.  She
never wants it to end.

"Tell me about the first time you went out there, Scully," he asks as the
night sky slowly begins to segue into dawn.

"Tahoe?"

"Yeah."

She closes her eyes and tries to remember the trip itself, but all she can
recall is the scenery and the overwhelming feeling of grandeur and freedom.
"My dad was transferred back to San Diego when I was in eleventh grade.  My
high school senior trip was to Tahoe."

He interrupts, "You didn't go to the beach, Scully?  I thought that was the
required destination for senior trips."

"Mulder, we lived barely five miles from the beach.  Anyway, we rented a
couple of coaches for the trip, which took forever."  She chuckles.  "Jimmy
Watson kept trying to get his hands up my shirt."

"Oh, really?"  He sounds quite amused.  "And you shot him down?"

"Who says I did?"

"Lucky him," he says with a laugh.

She decides to play coy for once.  "Are you jealous?"

"Why should I be?  You're mine now."  He reaches for her hand, and she takes
it.

The next few miles pass with a smile, then she continues, "I don't remember
much else about the trip itself -- just that I loved the mountains and
wanted to live up there someday.  Hasn't happened, though."

"When my mother's house is sold, I'll have enough money to buy us a condo up
in the mountains.  Would you like that, Scully?"

She is caught by his words -- to buy them a condo.  It speaks of a
permanence to their new relationship as lovers.  Fear had made her worry
that he only meant for them to be together as parents, but now that scenario
has become moot.  He simply means forever.

She realizes that she wants this very much.

"Yes," she murmurs.  "I'd like that."

He is quiet, perhaps realizing just what has taken place between them.

She wants to ask him something, but cannot make herself say the words.
Instead, she says, "Back then, I always knew I'd be a doctor.  I never
expected to join the Bureau, but you know that already."  He nods.  "I think
I knew even back then, though, that I'd have someone like you in my life."

He replies,  "I didn't realize it until much later, but I think I knew the
same thing the day we first met, Scully."

Although the sun has not yet risen, the eastern sky begins to fill with
pinkish light, matching the glow his words have infused in her.

A plan begins to form in her mind.

Later, on the other side of Sacramento, Scully sees a road sign telling her
that they are about an hour away from Lake Tahoe.  Mulder pulls off the
freeway at an exit ramp and she stretches her legs as he fills the gas tank.
He sets the latch for auto-pump and glances over at the foothills of the
Sierras in the far distance.  Wind ruffles his short hair and he squints in
the early morning sunlight.  She thinks her heart might burst for love of
this beautiful man.

Nervousness nearly derails her plan as she enters the well-appointed gas
station and looks around for what she needs.  Nostalgia draws her toward the
pink Sno-Balls on a display, but she passes them by on her way to the candy
aisle.  She sighs with relief as she finds what she has sought, then goes to
the register.

"Sweet tooth?" the clerk asks.

She chuckles and hands him the money as she unwraps the cellophane on her
purchase.  "I guess so."

When she steps back outside, Mulder is leaning against the passenger side of
the car.  He looks delicious, and she feels delectable in his hungry gaze.
The promise of very satisfying things to come gives her the last bit of
courage she needs.

Sidling up to him, she presses her body to his and kisses him long and hard.
Although they have not eaten since a fast food stop hours ago, his mouth is
candy sweet.  She wants to wrap her arms around him, but her hand is closed
tight around the prize behind her back.

When she draws away, he raises his brows in a question.

"Mulder," she begins.


"Yes?"  He sounds amused by her flirtiness, but she hears a note of
confusion in his voice.

Taking her hand from behind her back, she takes his own and places the candy
ring pop on the end of his middle finger.

"Marry me."

He freezes, shock on his face.

She has never felt more sure of anything in her life, but her confidence
begins to melt as he stares at her, processing her words.  Reassuring
herself as much as him, she continues, "I want to be with you.  Wanting a
child brought us together, but now I've realized that it doesn't matter as
much as waking up next to you every day for the rest of my life.  I want us
to grow old together."

The corners of his mouth twitch, and his hand trembles in hers.  "Will you
marry me, Mulder?" she repeats, desperate to hear him say something,
anything, even if it is a politely-worded rejection.

His chest rises and falls with a deep breath, then he says with surety,
"Yes."

So this is true happiness, she thinks as her heart fills with joy and
wonder.   Another car pulls into the gas station, but the world exists
solely for the two of them as he pulls her up for another long kiss.

"Yes," he murmurs against her lips.

"Yes," she repeats.

"Aren't I supposed to buy you the ring?" he asks as he stares at the
plastic-and-sugar ring on his finger.

She laughs.  "When have we ever been conventional, Mulder?"

"True."  He joins her laughter.

'Unconventional' certainly suits the situation.  Many women dream of their
lover proposing on bended knee in a fancy restaurant, with a diamond
solitaire sparkling in the candlelight.   But she and Mulder are leaning
against a rental car at a gas station in the middle of northern California,
and the ring she has given him is a 99-cent piece of candy.

This is perfect.  She wouldn't want it any other way.

"You're going to be my wife." He looks down at her, blinding love in his
eyes.

"And you're going to be my husband."  She loves the way that sounds.

He laces their fingers together.  "We'll be a family."

She stills, eyes wide despite the early morning sun.

"I didn't mean..." his voice trails away.  "The treatments might not have
worked, but we have other options, remember?  I just want you as my wife and
the mother of my children, however they might come."

The shock begins to fade, and she gives him a reassuring half-smile.  "It's
okay.  I know what you meant.  But I don't want to talk about that now."

Mulder nods, then leans over and kisses her, his lips warm and beautifully
familiar.  "Let's get out of here," he whispers against her mouth.

As they merge back onto the interstate, she remembers something in her
pocket.  "We never did use the Bureau credit card, Mulder."

He chuckles as he glances over his shoulder to check his blind spot.  "Think
Skinner would mind if I used it to buy you a huge diamond ring?"

"Probably wouldn't be a good idea, no."

A few miles pass as she thinks about this incredible thing that has happened
to them.  Five months ago they were simply partners, in love but too afraid
to admit it to each other.  Since then they have become lovers, tried to
conceive a child together, and now this has happened.

As if he can read her mind, Mulder murmurs, "Life has a funny way of
throwing curveballs, doesn't it?"  Perhaps he can read her mind; it would
only be fitting.

"I'll step up to the plate with you any day, Mulder."

He laughs, full and throaty, the car swerving a bit with its force.

The peaks of the Sierras begin to peek out from behind the foothills.  They
are strong and permanent, like Mulder and herself.  Behind them, the sun
inches up in the sky, beginning a new day.  'Today is the first day of the
rest of our lives,' pops into her mind, and she doesn't mind the cliché.
She has waited all her life to have this kind of symbiosis with a man.

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"Let's do it," she says, her voice strong and sure.

"Do what?"  Before she can answer, he says, "Oh, the wedding?  Of course
we'll do it.  Do you want to set a date?"

"Today."

"Today?" he parrots.  "Now?  Don't you want--"

"I want *you*."  She smiles.  "If we wait, we may never do it.  How long did
it take us just to kiss each other?  I don't want you to wear that candy
engagement ring for another seven years."  This spontaneity is new, but it
feels so good.

"I want you too, Scully, but I know how important weddings are to women.
Hell, they're important to me too."

She hopes he will not bring up his first wedding ten years ago.  She has
already accepted it and has no hard feelings, but doesn't want it to intrude
on this moment.   Fortunately, he doesn't mention it, and she says, "I'm not
like other women, Mulder.  Weddings are just a ceremony and a party.  I'm
more interested in the marriage."

"True."  He pauses, and she waits for him to continue.  "Well, both
California and Nevada don't require waiting periods or a blood test.  We
could get married immediately.  Does that sound good to you?  It does to
me."

She loves how his voice alone can sound like making love.

"Lake Tahoe is beautiful.  I can't think of a more perfect place."  And she
can't.  Any place is perfect as long as he is with her.

"You don't have a dress, Scully," he reminds her.

She glances down at her light sweater and jeans.  "I don't need one.  That's
not me.  Though, if we wanted something more appropriate for our
relationship, I might as well pull out one of my suits."

He laughs.  "Don't do that.  You look beautiful just the way you are."

"You do too."  She reaches over and places her hand over his.  He takes it
off the steering wheel and once again laces their fingers together.  The
candy ring perches on his other hand, shining in the dawn light.


+++++
Mountain Shore Lodge
South Lake Tahoe, CA
May 18, 2000


At a quarter after seven on Thursday morning, Scully and Mulder stand on the
banks of Lake Tahoe as the county justice of the peace pronounces them
husband and wife.

He feels lighter than air, exhilarated and amazed that this is happening.
That they have overcome fear and failure and misunderstandings to stand here
together, committing their lives to one another.  He has finally found pure,
honest happiness in this chaotic world in which they live, and she is the
one who has given it to him.  She is the only one who can ever make him feel
this way.

The civil servant smiles as Mulder kisses his bride.  He and Scully are both
barefoot on the beach, and he pulls her up slightly to meet his mouth.
Although she is nearly a head shorter than him as they stand, barefoot in
the sand, she feels larger than life.  The scenery is magnificent but it
melts away with the touch of her tongue against his.

Yesterday was a blur of preparations.  As they stood in the county clerk's
office and waited for the paperwork to be filed, she browsed through the
dozens of wedding chapel brochures, most of them too tacky to contemplate.
He laughed as she showed him a pamphlet touting western-themed weddings at
"The Authentic Ponderosa Ranch."   Rolling his eyes, he murmured, "Well, we
all know what happens to a Cartwright bride."

Scully laughed and said, "I think we already have all the risk we need in
our lives."

A few minutes later, she paused and handed him one offering ceremonies on
the lake shore.  She didn't need to say a word.  It was perfect.

They had to pay double the usual fee to get the owners to agree on such
short notice, but now the manager and his wife serve as their witnesses as
the sun rises over the Sierra Nevadas.  The Barclays have recommended a
wonderful local restaurant for a romantic breakfast, which will serve as the
reception while Scully calls her mother with the news; she hadn't wanted to
call Margaret earlier, lest her mother try to talk them into a more formal
ceremony back in D.C.  This is what he and Scully want, and it is perfect.

Her back is warm in the early morning sun as he continues to kiss her,
tracing the strength of her spine.  Though they are barefoot, he wears a
gray suit and she is in a simple white slip dress she found at a boutique in
town, a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the dawn chill.  It is
perhaps less traditionally romantic than tulle and satin, but it fits her
body and spirit like a glove.  Their only concessions to tradition are his
boutonniere and the mountain lilies pinned in her hair, and the gold bands
now on their fingers.

Simple people, simple wedding.  They don't need pomp and a bevy of
spectators to validate their marriage; having her here with him is truth
enough.

"You are my everything, Mulder," she whispers, her words filling his mouth
like honey.  He has always known she has the soul of a poet, deep down
beneath the pragmatism and calm.

And she is his everything.  She is his wife.


+++++
EPILOGUE

Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
August 3, 2000


Scully slips off her shoes and settles into the century-old Queen Anne
chair.

The creation of mahogany and cornflower upholstery has been passed to three
generations since her great-grandmother bought it for her first home in
America.  Although it is not very comfortable, Scully needs its history and
stability now.  It has survived ages.  She needs to be reminded that she
will too.

A hand on her slightly-curved stomach reminds her of the generations to
come.

Though she can never be certain, she now believes their child was conceived
on the night she and Mulder made love in this chair.  They had made a
commitment to one another over a bottle of wine, then came home and made a
baby together.

That moment will carry her through the days, months, years to come.
Memories of touching his skin, seeing his smile, sliding a ring on his
finger.

Today she wears widow's black for the funeral, but nobody knows the true
significance behind it but herself and her mother.  Margaret Scully mourns
Mulder just as deeply as a son-in-law as she has as a dear friend.  Perhaps
someday she will share the story of that morning at Lake Tahoe with the
world, but not yet.  It is her and Mulder's beautiful secret.  The world
knows too much of their lives; the most perfect moment of her life is
something she wants to keep to herself.

Scully pulls the green candy and plastic ring out of her pocket.  Although
Mulder had been unclothed when they discovered him, she found the ring on
the forest floor next to him.  Of all the things for his abductors to
return, they would choose the one that appeared to have the least
significance, but which she would guard and treasure the rest of her life.

Glancing over at her bedside table, she sees the framed photograph of their
wedding.  Displaying it is her boldest move, but then nobody has entered her
bedroom since Mulder.  Through squinting eyes she sees two people in love,
smiling at each other against a backdrop of mountains and a cool spring
morning.

She rubs her stomach with her free hand, and thinks of the child who will
never know her or his father.  Eight years of dear memories to share in bits
and pieces with their child, whispered over cups of morning juice or a
bedtime story.

Perhaps the first memory she will share is of the precious few days when she
and Mulder were truly happy.

+++++

END

all4mulder@aol.com
alanna@alanna.net

Authors' Notes:
We owe beta thanks to a lot of people.  To Blackwood and Narida Law for
squeezing us into their busy schedules.  To Jintian, Kristy, and Mish for
sticking with us through the whole saga.  And to Musea, for keeping it real. 

    Source: geocities.com/dbattis.geo