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Title: Every Night
Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)
Rating: R (language)
Category: MSR,A
Spoilers: Three Words  (I caved and wrote a season 8 
fic. Forgive me. I am weak)
Archive: Sure
Summary: The night becomes a playground for dark 
thoughts.
Disclaimer: The X-files and its lovely characters belong 
to CC and 1013. They are also the ones responsible for 
season eight. Read into that what you will.
As always: An Easter basket of thanks to Christina for 
beta-ing this baby at 3 AM! Above and beyond.  A million 
pounds of chocolate to you.



Every night since I was released from the hospital, we 
play the same game.

Her bed or mine. It doesn't matter. We both dress for 
sleep and she positions herself carefully on the left 
side of the bed. She lies on her right side, pillow 
between her pajama-clad legs, facing me. I get in, 
mumble "sweet dreams," and turn in the opposite 
direction. Back to Scully. Back to Scully's baby. 

In my more rational moments, I tell myself the child is 
mine. We tried to make a baby the high-tech way and, 
without that specific goal in mind, put a fair amount of 
effort doing things the old fashioned way, as well. All 
very logical. Too bad my thought processes don't stop at 
that point. 

The fact is, when last I saw her, the stick had not 
turned pink or blue or whatever the hell it was supposed 
to turn. She had cried over her very last chance and 
looked wistfully at another woman's baby knowing she'd 
never have one that was biologically hers. No more ova. 
A junior high school student in health ed could think 
this one through to its proper conclusion. 

Okay. Two further explanations present themselves. 
First, there is the miracle theory. I suppose I could 
hardly scoff at that one anymore, considering how I 
spent my winter vacation. Besides, I was the one who 
promised her a miracle in the first place. I guess talk 
isn't always cheap. The other was something we had never 
discussed. We both knew it was the next logical step but 
feelings had been too raw over the recently failed in-
vitro attempts and we certainly didn't simplify things 
by attempting to have a personal life. Together. I 
thought we'd get around to talking about it when we were 
a bit more settled. Donor eggs with my sperm.

Scully is seven months pregnant. The last in-vitro 
attempt was eight months ago. I've been gone for six and 
a half months. My memory isn't quite as sharp as it was 
before my abduction but I think I would have clearly 
recalled a second donation. Which would appear to mean 
that while I was in her bed, she took the next logical 
step--leaving me out of the equation. Well, as a 
biological parent, anyway.

Of course, I could just ask. I could turn over right now 
and say, "Scully--ease my mind about something, sweetie-
pie. That is my child you're lugging around--right, 
precious?" At which point she'd puke over the 
endearments and shatter my shattered world with--well, 
probably with whatever answer she gave me. 

What is it with us? We haven't left each other for more 
than an hour since my. . .whatever you want to call it. 
. .and yet, we still leave so much unsaid. She stood up 
from that bed when I woke up and I just stared. She 
looked back and smiled and I managed, somehow--to return 
the smile, choked out a "when is it due?" and she gave 
me the date. Whoop dee fucking do.

Too much negativity in this bed. Stressed-out pregnant 
lady and baby on board. Time for the source of 
negativity to  move to Scully's living room to ruminate 
on thoughts equally cheerless.

She knows I leave her after she falls asleep. She's 
always been highly respectful. That's probably why she's 
not telling me about the baby until I ask. Give me time 
to decide for myself when I'd like to hear--and face--
whatever she has to tell me. 

Unless she believes I already know. Which would make the 
baby mine. Which would make me an insensitive jackass. 
So what else is new? I'm fucked up. I need things 
spelled out. I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry.

I sit by her dining room table and stare out into the 
dark. I've always been a couch person. I'm not sure why 
the sudden switch. There's something reassuring about 
the cold, hard, wooden chair. Kind of honest. Like 
sitting on the Rock of Gibraltar rather than being 
lulled by the false sense of comfort that a sofa 
provides.

The thoughts--flashbacks, really--came into my mind, 
unbidden, right from the start. Now, I force myself to 
replay those I've already had, hoping to stimulate some 
new ones. All in an effort to make sense of something 
that seems so random and senseless. Seems. But isn't. I 
know that much. 

I take each memory and try to clinically dissect each 
one. Replacing the jarring feelings with calm 
acceptance. The psychologist in me thinks this is an 
awful way of dealing with trauma. The psychologist in me 
can take a flying fuck for himself.

The blade. I think that is the worst one. The huge, 
circular blade that looked just like the ones in the 
Dudley Do-Right cartoons I watched as a child. Or was 
that the Perils of Pauline? Whatever. Focus. Focus on 
the pain. Work through it. The searing white hot pain. 
Breathe. Breathe. You aren't there. You're here and 
you're safe.

It's strange how the body resists certain things. My 
mind doesn't want to focus on any of this. My mind 
wanders. It's gone from cartoon remembrances to the 
realization that I'm no longer alone. Her eyes are on 
me. I don't want to look. Those beautiful blue eyes full 
of life and light. I can only give her death and 
darkness in return. 

I turn to see her leaning in the open doorway of her 
dining area.

"I'm sorry," I say automatically.

"Why?"

"I woke you up."

"Not exactly. First, nature called and second--well, 
it's mambo night in Babyville."

She returns my half-smile tenfold.

"Is this what you do every night when you leave the 
bed?" she asks.

"Every night," I echo.

She walks into the room and stands before me. There it 
is. 

"Scully--I should--go back to living alone, I think."

"No!" I think the word is out before she even realizes 
she's opened her mouth. "Please. . .no."

"Your world right now should consist of pink and blue 
ducklings and baby powder--not some maniac either 
screaming in his sleep or staring out into space."

"I can't. I can't be without you now. Please. I need to 
be able to see you whenever I want to. I need to know 
that I lived through the last few months and made it--
that I've got you back. Don't--please don't take that 
away from me."

She's never even remotely said anything like it before. 
I take it inside where I store all the important stuff 
that I'll have to revisit when--if--I'm allowed to feel, 
instead of just hear, words.

"I'll stay, Scully."

I can't cause her any more pain. I trust her more than I 
trust myself. If she wants me here, that's where I'll 
stay.  Besides, I don't want to leave. I didn't do well 
in my apartment. Even with her there. I need a place 
that is bright--even if I choose to turn off the lights 
and sit in the dark. 

I feel her hands on my face--caressing both scarred and 
unscarred flesh.

"Don't," I pull her hand away and see the pain flash 
across her face. I attempt a smile. "Not until I'm my 
usual pretty self. Should be any day now."

She lifts her hand and touches the evidence of my 
healing wounds again.

"You're perfect right now."

Liar. Sweet, gorgeous liar.

That belly is huge. She's so tiny and she's all stomach. 
My mind is very focused now and it's all centered on 
that huge expanse in front of me. I don't look into her 
eyes for answers I'm too afraid to find. I put my hands 
out and rest each one on either side of her waist and 
lean forward to rest my head lightly against her.
 


One hand is on my shoulder and the other is in my hair. 
Both are gently pulling me closer. Towards her. Towards 
the baby. I haven't touched her since she stood up in 
the hospital room that night. Since I realized she was 
pregnant. I've never touched a pregnant woman before. 

I close my eyes thinking about--trying to think about--
life. New life--possibilities--hope. I feel nothing. 
It's a sin. A goddamned sin. I feel just the very 
beginnings of a burning sensation as my tear ducts 
release a bit of moisture to soothe my dry eyes. And 
then--all thought stops as I receive a quick punch 
squarely in the nose.

I yelp and move back.

"What the fuck?"

"Shhh. . .Mulder. You don't want to teach your offspring 
that word until he or she is at least four years of 
age."

Offspring. My. Offspring. My offspring. Mine. My baby. 
Our baby.

Okay. I get it. It's in my mind. And it makes a 
difference. What a shit I am. It makes a big difference. 
Not because of the biology but because it proves she 
didn't shut me out of her life. Trust no one? I think 
this time I carried it too far. No wonder  my child 
decided our first communication should be a violent one.  

A bubble of laughter reaches my throat and bursts forth 
in near hysterical laughter. Scully joins in--sounding 
no more sane than I. Poor kid will probably stay in the 
womb for at least a couple of years. It's probably too 
scared to face its creators.

The laughter subsides only when the tears quietly fall.

Psychologist Mulder sits back like old Sigmund himself 
and praises Repressed Lunatic Mulder for the 
breakthrough. RL Mulder tells P Mulder that he aint seen 
nothing yet. This is not even the tip of the 
breakthrough iceberg.  If it happens, I'm sure P Mulder 
can write a book about it.

All it is, is a start.

She holds me and she and the baby manage to provide a 
surprisingly firm place for me to burrow my face  as I 
weep for everything in general, and nothing in specific. 
The child--our child--has a good heart. He/she doesn't 
kick his/her old man when he's really down. 

I look up at Scully.

"I wasn't sure."

"I had this horrible feeling you weren't. I just didn't 
know how to tell you without getting you more worried 
about--well, everything I've been worried about all this 
time. You just don't need that right now."

She's right. The baby--our baby--is a complication at 
this point. I won't even allow my mind to wander to just 
how much of a complication or any of the seemingly 
countless implications.  Not tonight. Tonight--it's a 
miracle. It appears we've cornered the market on all the 
really weird ones. 



I smile. Just a little one. But I feel this one. 
Somewhere, I feel it.

She steps away from me and brushes her hand against my 
face. She then walks into the bedroom.

I soon follow. This time, I choose to sleep on my back. 
I quietly reach for and find her hand. I place our 
intertwined fingers over the huge healing wound on my 
chest. It begins to itch.

A sign of healing.



The End