Title: "Inklings"
Author: Angela W.
Category: MSR
Rating: R
Timespan/Spoilers: While most of the story takes
place during Seasons 6 and 7, there is a definite
spoiler for "Per Mannum", a Season 8 episode.
Summary: Mulder reflects on the changing nature of his relationship with Scully. Told in first person,
Mulder's POV. This story jumps around a bit in time.
It begins with an event that presumably took place
late in season 6, although we didn't find out about it 'til midway through Season 8, then leaps to late in season 7.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They
belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.
Archive: Feel free to archive anywhere.
Feedback: If it's nice or contains *CONSTRUCTIVE*
criticism, feedback is valued.

What are you supposed to say when the woman you love
more than life itself tells you she wants you to be
the father of her baby? On the face of it, the answer
seems obvious. "Hell, yes!" springs to mind.

But it's not that simple with me and Scully. Of
course not. Nothing has ever been simple about our
relationship. What's she's proposed is not the
traditional, "let's get married and bonk each other's
brains out" style of baby-making. It's more scientific and  a lot less fun.

Partially, of course, this is unavoidable. Due to
circumstances beyond our control, Scully's ova are no
longer ensconed safely within her body. They currently reside in a test tube. The good news is, they may still be viable. I'm not totally opposed to
medically-assisted conception, if it's the only option available. It's just that I'd rather do things in the more normal order. I'd like us to get married first and at least *TRY* to conceive a child naturally. If, after a year or so, she's not pregnant then . . .okay. We try in vitro, or test tube, or whatever the specific method the doctor has in mind is called. And, if it doesn't work and becoming a mother is truly that important to her, we begin the complicated, difficult process of trying to adopt.

The problem is, Scully doesn't want that sort of
relationship with me. Almost a year ago, I asked her
to marry me. She didn't take me seriously. Six months
ago, I tried again, telling her "I love you", while
recovering from yet another near-death experience.
Again, she didn't take me seriously. Or maybe she just pretended not to take me seriously, in order to avoid embarrassing me and ruining our friendship. It's not that Scully doesn't love me. I know she does. It's just that's she's not *IN* love with me, the way I am with her. Her love for me is strictly of a platonic nature.

In many ways, I'm a selfish bastard. Now, however,
I'm being offered a rare chance to do something for
someone else - someone I love - even if it's not
exactly what *I* would like from our relationship.
Guess the answer is obvious after all.

When I go over to Scully's the next evening, I begin
without preamble. "Scully, about what you asked me to
do. I'm flattered. It's just. . .there's something I
need to make sure we're clear on."

"Mulder, if you don't want to, it's okay. It was
probably incredibly presumptious of me to ask you.
It's just that," I place my hand over her mouth to
stem the flow of babble.

"Scully," I say slowly and clearly, "I want to do it.
To be the father of your baby. That's not the problem. There are just a couple of issues I feel like we need to get straight, okay?"

She nods.

"Scully, I'm not saying I'd be a great father; I
didn't exactly have the world's best role model
growing up. But I can't. . .I couldn't live with
myself if I didn't at least have some level of
involvement with my own child. That's what I need to
know. Need your assurance on. That I can see him
- her, whatever - occasionally. That you're not going
to shut me out, take the kid and move to California
without leaving a forwarding address or something like that."

I remove my hand so she can talk. "You mean you'd
want some sort of. . .joint custody arrangement?"

"Nothing that elaborate; and nothing that has to be
spelled out or put in writing. I trust you, Scully.
You know that. You can have custody. I'm not going to
argue with you on every issue; raise the kid Catholic, make him eat tofutti and yogurt instead of ice cream, whatever you want. I just want to be able to visit once in a while. Take the kid to the beach or a ballgame. I want my child to know who I am, that's all."

She smiles sweetly and sighs softly. "Of course,
Mulder. I'll let you see the baby as often as you

"There's one more thing," I say slowly. "It's kind of
a difficult subject to broach, but I feel like we
ought to get it out in the open."


"I want you to let me help out financially," I say,
and do the hand-to-mouth thing again before she can
start objecting, "maybe not on day-to-day stuff, but
on the big items. If there are unexpected medical
expenses or for college. Stuff like that."

She smiles again and shakes her head softly. "Fine,
Mulder. Go start a college fund for our not only
unborn but as yet unconceived child if it makes you

I sit in Scully's darkened apartment, waiting for her
to come back. I offered to accompany her, and she
thanked me, but said she'd rather go by herself. It's
been six weeks since she asked me to provide a
"donation" so that she could fulfill her dreams of
motherhood. A month since the procedure actually took

That day in the doctor's office wasn't nearly as
embarrassing or uncomfortable as I'd thought it would
be. The doctor said that, while the majority of his
cases involved either married couples or single women
availing themselves of sperm bank donations, we were
hardly the first couple in which the woman had chosen
a trusted but platonic male friend to be her donor.
That "platonic" bit stung a bit, but I let it slide.
This was for Scully.

The doctor assured me that the room in which I'd be
asked to make my contribution to the procedure was
soundproof. He gave me a vial, instructed me to catch
as much of my semen in it as I could, and to place the vial immediately inside a panel. As soon as I shut the door on my side of the panel, a bulb would light up on the opposite side and my  sperm would be mixed with Scully's ovum, then injected into her an hour or so later.

The doctor told me I'd find magazines and videos in
the room and should feel free to use whatever
fantasies usually worked for me. Just outside the
door, after the doctor had stepped away, Scully
stopped me with a hand on my arm. "Mulder," she said
quietly, "I know, in the past, I've kind of teased you about your, um, video collection and stuff."

"You mean those videos that aren't mine?" I asked
with a small smile.

"Yeah," she admitted, blushing a little. "But today,
I want you to know. . .I mean, I want you to feel free to fantasize about whoever you want and use whatever, er, materials help. I appreciate what you're doing for me and I just want you to know I won't ever tease you about it or anything."

"You mean that?" I replied. "It's okay to fantasize
about whoever I want?"

She looked slightly puzzled. "Of course, Mulder." She
stood on tiptoe to kiss me softly on the cheek. "Thank you."

So I entered the room and didn't even bother to pick
up a magazine or turn on the VCR. I just concentrated
on the sound of Scully's voice, the look in her eyes,
and the feel of her fingers on my forearm and her lips on my face a few minutes earlier. I'd let other images dance through my mind, as well. The times I'd seen her naked; once in Antarctica and once, just a couple of months earlier, in a detox shower we were sharing. It was hardly the first time I'd fantasized about Scully, but before I'd always felt vaguely guilty about it afterwards - as if I were violating her privacy. This time, however, she'd given me her permission.

Now I pace the floor of her living room, feeling like
the father-to-be in a hospital corridor in one those
old 1950s movies. Except, in my case, I'm not waiting
to find out what the baby is, but *IF* the baby is.

Scully walks in and catches sight of me. The slump of
her shoulders has already alerted me, but she looks me in the face and her eyes fill up with tears as she
shakes her head. "It didn't work, Mulder. The
procedure was a failure. I'm not. . ." then she begins to sob in earnest. I move quickly across the room and take her in my arms.

Scully clutches and claws at me and I finally manage
to move us to the couch, where I sit with her in my
lap. I don't know what to say, so I don't say
anything, just stroke her hair and make wordless
noises. I know her heart is breaking. Mine is, too.

Finally, when her tears have been reduced to an
occasional hiccupping sob, she looks up at me. "Thank
you," she whispers, "for everything."

"Dana, let me stay with you tonight. Please?"

She nods slowly.

We move into the bedroom and crawl under the covers,
both of us still fully clothed. Her tears begin again
and she eventually cries herself to sleep in my arms.
I lay awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering it
this means the end for us. I'm a psychologist, after
all, and I've been doing a lot reading lately about
the emotional aftermath of infertility. Frequently,
the inability to have children leads to divorce for
what was once a happily-married couple. I couldn't
find any statistics for the breakup rates of couples
who were only best friends or partners before they
tried - and failed - to conceive a child together, but I can't imagine they'd be pleasant.


As Scully leaves my apartment after telling me of
Diane Fowley's death, I find my thoughts returning to
the boy on the beach. In a way, all the crap that has
happened recently -  my own trip to the psych ward and near death, Scully's trip to Africa, Fowley's death - has served a beneficial purpose. It's distracted Scully from her fertility problems.

I wonder if the choice I made means my chance for
fatherhood is gone for good? If it is, then so be it.
I remember the images in my dream of Diane pregnant
with my child and shudder. It was just. . .wrong.
Totally unlike the images I had a few months ago, of
my beloved Scully's belly swollen with our baby.


I stretch in bed and nuzzle my face into Scully's
pillow. Even though she's gone into work, it still
bears a trace of her scent. I try to breathe in more
deeply and end up gasping for breath.

Damned tobacco bug! It put me in the hospital for
almost a week and has netted me another week's
recovery at home. Despite that fact, I'm happier than
I've ever been before in my life.

Almost a month ago, Scully and I became lovers. We'd
only spent a handful of nights together before first
work, then illness, put a temporary halt to our sexual activities. Still, this illness has been beneficial in bringing our relationship more or less out in the open. For all practical purposes, Scully has moved in with me. The official line - the one we gave Skinner, Maggie and the guys - is that she's just sleeping here to take care of me until I recover; since she's a medical doctor and all. I don't think anybody bought it, but they all pretended to.

Skinner seems to be pursuing a "don't ask, don't
tell" policy toward the personal relationship between
me and Scully. Technically speaking, it's against
bureau regulations for agents in the same division to
be involved in an intimate relationship with each
other and if their supervisor knows about such a
relationship he is to reassign one or both agents.
Skinner's attitude seems to be that he doesn't *KNOW*
anything and that, unless we prove his suspicions
correct by doing the naked pretzel right there at
headquarters, he'll continue not to.

Maggie, also, has obviously mixed feelings about this
arrangement. She loves me almost as much as she loves
her daughter and has wanted us to "get together" for
years now. However, as a devout Catholic, she can't
totally sanction the idea of sex outside of marriage.
So she, too, takes the line that she doesn't *KNOW*
what's going on in my bedroom and we don't enlighten

The Gunmen barely even make an attempt to pretend
they think Scully and I still have a platonic
relationship. Byers rolled his eyes when I explained
how she was sleeping over at my place for medical
reasons, but none of them actually called us out on

Later that night - after Scully has been home for a
couple of hours and we've eaten dinner - we climb into bed. I try to persuade her to do more than just cuddle tonight.

"Mul-der" she murmurs, "you're supposed to be
resting. You just got out of the hospital."

"I'd rest a lot better after we made love, Scully," I
point out. "It would get me all. . relaxed. Besides,
I'd let you do all the work. You could be on top and

Scully gives a little whimper. She loves to be on
top. Not that she isn't willing to try other
positions, but that one seems to be her favorite. I
like it, too. Since my verbal seduction seems to be
working, I decide to let my fingers do the talking
next. I slide my hand up her leg and gently stroke the silky skin of her inner thigh. Then I lean in for a kiss. Soft, slow, gradually getting deeper as I let my tongue explore the recesses of her mouth.

I watch as "Doctor" Scully wars with

"I-wanna-get-laid" Scully. Finally, she whispers,
"Okay, but if I decide it's getting to be too much and we need to stop, then we stop. No arguments."

"Scully, I would always stop if you asked me to," I
say, completely serious.

"I know, Mulder," she murmurs, then she pushes me
back against the pillows and begins to feel her way
down my body. First she strokes my neck, then twines
her fingers into the cloud of hair on my chest. My
chest seems to hold a great deal of fascination for

When she reaches the waistband of my boxer-briefs,
she helps me slide them off then gazes in open
appreciation at my erection. She tugs off her own
sleep shirt and  straddles me, sliding my shaft into
her hot, creamy depths.

"I love you," I whisper, brushing her hair out of her

"I love you, too, Mulder," she replies. I grin. As
responses go, it sure beats the hell out of "Oh,

One of the things I enjoy most about making love to
Scully is that she's willing to give me suggestions
and encouragment without turning them into orders.
Other than a few one-night stands, my only two
previous sexual relationships were with Phoebe and
Fowley. Phoebe had a habit of just lying there, never
telling me whether she was enjoying what I was doing
or not. If I'd been older and more experienced, I
might have been able to figure it out, but it was my
first. Fowley was, if anything, worse. She had a habit of barking orders like a drill sergeant. She'd tell me exactly what she wanted and God forbid if I detoured from her explicit instructions in the slightest detail! Scully, on the other hand, allows me to improvise but also tells me - enthusiastically - when I'm doing something that she especially enjoys.

Now I lie still and allow Scully to take the lead.
She rubs her breasts against my chest and moves her
hips in little circles while, at the same time, riding up and down on my shaft. This is one very turned-on woman. I realize, for the first time, that sharing the same bed while refraining from sex for the past few nights must have been every bit as frustrating for her as it was for me.

I feel Scully's internal muscles begin to twitch and
then she spasms around me with a grip that's almost
painful and a soft moan of my name. She collapses
against me and nibbles lightly at my earlobe.

"Um, Scully, I know I said I'd let you take charge
tonight, but. . ."

She leans up and kisses me. "I realize we're not
finished yet, Mulder. I'm just catching my breath.
What do you want me to do now?"

"Lean up more,"  I murmur. "So that your more sitting
on me instead of lying."

Scully complies, leaning back to brace her weight on
her hands. I guide her hips up and down on my erection until I come. Then we spoon together and fall asleep.


The movie ends and Scully gives me a soft smile.
We're both just the tiniest bit drunk. I bought a
six-pack and we've finished it off. She drank two
beers and took about two sips of a third. I drank
three of my own and finished off the rest of her
third. Given our respective body weights, I'd say we
have equal levels of intoxication. We're not falling
down drunk, but if we had to leave this apartment for
any reason in the next few hours, we'd have to call a

In other words, I'm just tipsy enough to have the
courage to say it. We've been partners for almost
seven years and I've loved her for at least six of
those years. We once tried to conceive a child
together. We've been lovers for close to three months
now, we're practically living together. . .I can do

"Ready for bed?" she murmurs.

"In a minute," I reply. "There's something I want to
ask you first. You have to promise to listen, but not
to answer tonight. Just sleep on it and tell me what
you think about it in the morning, okay?"

Scully nods. Obeying some instinct undoubtedly borne
of watching too many Elvis movies as a kid, I drop to
one knee in front of her and stammer out, "Will you
marry me?"

"Mulder," she begins, but I stop her with a forceful

When we finally come up for air, I say, "No more
talking. You can answer in the morning."

I then stand up and - in amazing feat of dexterity
considering I am less than completly sober - swing
Scully into my arms and stride into the bedroom. One
thing that has surprised me about Scully is that, as
long as I don't try it too often, this "Me man, you
woman" routine goes over amazingly well with her.
There are times when she likes me to be the one in
control. I'm not talking bondage and domination, or
anything like that; just a chance for her leave the
driving up to me, so to speak.

So I drop her on the bed and move in on top of her.
Kissing, stroking, squeezing. In between kisses and
caresses, I manage to get both of us completely
undressed. Then I start kissing my way down her body.
After sucking on both breasts 'til her nipples are
taunt, glistening peaks, I go lower. Burying my nose
inside her curls, I lap gently at her  then begin
flicking in and out with my tongue. She's murmuring my name in a kind of desperation, and I definitely hear the words "Get up here" mentioned, but not yet. Not tonight. I want her to come like this for me and
eventually she does, clawing at the sheets and
thrusting her hips wildly against my face.

As soon as she stops undulating, I lift my face and
dive into her. I'm not normally a huge fan of the
missionary position, but it's what I'm in the mood for tonight. I thrust in and out of her repeatedly while she urges me to give her more, for me to do it harder, faster. Eventually, I come with a harsh groan of her name and the combination of good beer and great sex puts me to sleep almost immediately afterwards.

"Mulder, wake up."

I open one eye and peer at the clock. It's not even
six a.m. yet. My brain may be a bit fuzzy, but I
distinctly remember that this is Saturday. Why is
Scully - the one who's usually the sleepyhead in our
relationship - waking me up at such an ungodly hour?

"Scully, is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just want to give you an answer."

"What?" I ask. My brain is not functioning on all
cylinders yet and I don't quite know what she's
talking about.

"Yes," Scully says simply.

"Yes, what?" I inquire, still befuddled.

"Yes, Fox," she stops to kiss me quickly on the lips
after speaking my first name, "William," another quick kiss, "Mulder," one more, "I will marry you."

I give a great whoop of delight and roll Scully under
me for a deeper kiss.


I lay with Scully spooned against me on the motel bed
in Oregon. I think about the words I've just said.
Yes, it's time for us to quit. We both realize that.
We each saw the symbolism in letting this case, which
is so similar to the first one we worked on together,
be the last one we investigated for the X-Files.

I wonder, though, about the truth of the other part
of my statement. Granted, seeing that baby today hit
both of us pretty hard. Certainly, it wouldn't be easy for us, but maybe it's not impossible. The in vitro process we attempted last year didn't work, but
there's no reason we can't try again; I know from my
reading on the subject that it often takes more than
one attempt to result in a succesful pregnancy.

I know, too, that the psychological state of the
woman can have an enormous effect on whether or not
conception occurs. Despite her avowed desire for
single motherhood, it's possible that Scully had some
subconscious misgivings about that path. She's
Catholic, after all, and has been raised in a
tradition that stresses the importance of family and
the sanctity of marriage. This time around, it would
be different. We'd be a married couple seeking a cure
for our fertility problems.

Shortly after I agreed to be the father of Scully's
baby last year, I did a lot of reading on artificial
insemination and in vitro fertilization; not just the
mechanics of it, but the psychological ramifications
and the moral position taken on it by various
religious leaders. Technically speaking, the Catholic
church prohibits all forms of medically assisted
conception, just as it prohibits all forms artificial
contraception. However, the Pope himself is on record
as saying that in vitro procedures involving only the
husband's sperm and the wife's ova aren't quite as bad as the ones that involve donations from anonymous men or even from the woman's loving but unmarried partner; it's the difference between a mortal sin and a venial one, I suppose.

As Scully and I step out into the corridor, the
suspicion that has been nagging at the back of my mind crystalizes into a single, sharp idea. Maybe she's pregnant. It's the one scenario that would explain all the symptoms she's had in the past few days. There's also the fact that in the three months we've been lovers she's only had one period and that was at least six weeks ago. She's told me that, ever since her abduction, her cycles have been irregular, but still. . .

I shake my head. It's impossible. Or is it? Once,
years ago, Scully asked how I could believe in the
dark side of the paranormal and the supernatural, but
refuse to accept a miracle when one was occurring
right before my eyes. She's the believer, not me, but
I'm familiar enough with the Bible to be aware that
stories of supposedly barren women conceiving children are among the most well-known miracles. It happened for us once before, when her cancer went into spontaneous remission. There's also the medical side of it; sexual intercourse is a much more effective method of achieving conception than artificial insemination. I don't want to voice my suspicions to her. Not yet. But when I come back, I'll try to figure out a way to bring it up without causing her undue pain if I happen to be wrong.

"I can't risk losing you," I say simply.

She nods and embraces me. "I won't let you go alone,"
she whispers.