TITLE: SCULLY'S PROPOSITION
           AUTHOR: CindyET
           E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net 
           DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine -- I write 'em for you to read 
           'em. 
           SPOILER WARNING: Per Manum 
           RATING: NC-17 (Language, Adult Situations) 
           CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR, Post-Ep 
           
           SUMMARY: What happened during those missing flashbacks in Per 
           Manum and what was Mulder's perspective on Scully's proposition?
             
           Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 
           FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 
           intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. 
           
           Author's notes: As is often the case, CC teased me with an 
           appetizer, but neglected to serve up the main course. I was 
           left mighty hungry after Per Manum. "Scully's Proposition" is 
           an attempt to stuff my face and fully sate my appetite. If I 
           help feed you, too, I am doubly satisfied.
           
           
           SCULLY'S PROPOSITION (1/1)
           By CindyET
           
           ----------
           
           FBI Headquarters
           Sometime Last Year
           
           As a detective, I look for red herrings. As a man, red flags. 
           As a man in love, red hair. I'm one for three when I catch up 
           with Scully in the elevator. Guess I left my macho detective 
           persona in my other pants. Faced with my favorite redhead, 
           today I'm just a man in love -- caught completely off guard.
           
           "There you are. I've been looking for you." I step into the 
           elevator with Scully.  
           
           "I'm sorry. I had a doctor's appointment...and...um, I don't 
           know, I guess time just got away from me." 
           
           Having a hard time looking me in the eye, Scully? She 
           seems...did she say "doctor's appointment"?
           
           Oh, shit. Like a boogeyman, her Cancer rears its ugly head. My 
           blood pressure starts to rise, along with my lunch. This is my 
           greatest fear: she's out of remission. I can barely speak. The 
           elevator doors close and claustrophobia sets in.
           
           "Is anything the matter?" 
           
           "Nothing, no...uh, I just went for a walk."
           
           Look at me, Scully. In the eyes. Don't leave me dangling in the 
           wind here.
           
           "Good. Um...what's wrong?"
           
           With a sigh that tells me she'd prefer not to say any 
           more, she grants me one tiny glimpse of her baby blues.
           
           "Um...I'm sorry I haven't told you. I don't know why I haven't. 
           I mean you were always there for me during my illness...but, 
           um..."
           
           Illness? Please, no. My teeth clench. Words crawl from my 
           throat. "Don't make me guess." 
           
           "I was left unable to conceive with whatever tests that they 
           did on me."
           
           Oh, that. Not cancer, but-- I could add something here, I 
           *should* add something here--
           
           "And I am not ready to accept that I will never have children."
           
           The elevator dings, announcing my floor. When the doors slide 
           open presenting my escape, I almost say, "saved by the 
           bell." Stepping into the corridor, I realize I could go on my 
           merry way, never mention the humungo secret I've been keeping 
           locked in my private Vault of Deceit since 1997. I could. I 
           could. I cooouuullld...aw, fuck, I'm turning around, facing her 
           and the proverbial music. Probably a good thing we're in a 
           public place.
           
           "Scully, um, there's, uh, something I haven't told you either 
           and I hope you forgive me and understand why I would have kept 
           it from you." My back is drenched in sweat. My neck is on fire. 
           
           "What?"
           
           "During my investigation into your illness," -- that sounds 
           professional, doesn't it? -- "I found out the reason why you 
           were left barren..." I'd give anything, *anything* not to be 
           standing here telling you this, Scully. And it's not so much 
           that I'm a coward, although I am, it's just that it's so damn 
           unfair to always be handing you bad news. Maybe if I say this 
           fast, but not too fast, and keep my voice reeeeal steady-- 
           "Your ova were taken from you and stored in a government lab." 
           
           "What?" She can't believe it. My news shocks her. Of course it 
           shocks her. But what is it that shocks her most? The truth 
           about what happened to her or the fact that I've neglected to 
           mention it all this time? "You found them?"
           
           "I took them directly to a specialist who would tell me if they 
           were okay." Now it's my turn to avoid eye contact. 
           
           "I don't believe this."
           
           She's definitely mad -- at me. Not the government. Not the men 
           who did this to her. Me. The guy who never wants to hurt her 
           but has an inexplicable knack for doing just that. "Scully, you 
           were deathly ill and I couldn't bear to give you another piece 
           of bad news." 
           
           "Is that what it was? It was bad news?"
           
           "Well, the doctor said that the ova weren't viable."
           
           She nods, but she doesn't accept my version of the truth. Par 
           for the course. Mulder spouts theory; Scully refutes theory. 
           
           "I want a second opinion."
           
           The elevator doors start to close and I stop them, hold them 
           open, although I don't really know why. There's nothing more to 
           say, is there? Except I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept this from 
           you. I'm sorry you had cancer. I'm sorry you were left barren. 
           I'm sorry I dragged you into this whole fucking mess. Most of 
           all, I'm sorry for being so goddamn selfish, putting me before 
           you, my need to have you with me over your safety. I should 
           have sent you far, far away years ago, Scully, but I didn't, I 
           couldn't. I'm sorry I'm the man I am. A better man would have 
           let you go. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.
           
           She gives me a frown that says, "Let me go." So I do -- years 
           too late.
           
           ----------
           
           FBI Headquarters
           X-Files Department
           A Few Days Later
           
           Scully took her ova -- the eggs I'd recovered from the Lombard 
           lab more than three years ago -- to her doctor for a second 
           opinion. Trust no one, eh, Scully? I guess she's been listening 
           to me after all. 
           
           Dr. Parenti and his colleagues have been checking out the eggs, 
           doing whatever tests they do to prove or disprove viability. 
           After a phone call this morning, Scully went to meet with her 
           doctor and hear whether it's thumbs up or thumbs down on future 
           progeny. 
           
           I'm afraid she's in for a disappointment no matter what the doc 
           tells her. Let's say for argument's sake that the ova are 
           viable and in vitro fertilization is successful. Then let's 
           suppose she manages to carry her child to term. This isn't 
           exactly an ideal time to be bringing a child into the world. 
           With EBEs poised to take over the planet and wipe out the 
           entire human race at any minute, how the hell do you keep a 
           child safe? Fevers or diaper rash are one thing; alien invaders 
           fall into an entirely different category.
           
           That said, how do I ask her to give up hope for the one thing 
           she wants most when she's already given up so much? I'm 
           not sure I can. I'm not sure I should.    
           
           Scully arrives so I shut off the Internet, hiding the fact that 
           I've been researching the success and failure rates of 
           infertility treatments. She hangs up her coat. Powers up her 
           computer. Her face is unreadable.
           
           "Come on, Scully. What's the word?"
           
           She crosses the room and settles one hip against the side of my 
           desk. Smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt, she 
           chooses her words with care. "Dr. Parenti feels, with the 
           proper approach, there's a good chance for me to become 
           pregnant." She flushes the prettiest shade of pink and allows 
           herself one tiny smile. Hope opens her heart just a little. 
           
           "That's...that's good, Scully. That's great."
           
           "He suggested I start soon."
           
           "Oh?"
           
           "Right away, as a matter of fact."
           
           "I-I see."
           
           She fumbles with the pencils lined up at the edge of my desk, 
           missiles waiting to be launched at the ceiling. "He said he 
           could...um, help me with genetic counseling if I wanted, 
           to...to find an anonymous donor..." -- another glance my way, 
           followed by a quick smile -- "for...for the baby's father."
           
           "Right. Is that, um, is that what you plan to do?"
           
           "Well, there are other options. I could...I could ask someone I 
           know." She releases the pencils and they roll across the desk 
           like pick-up sticks.
           
           "I hear David Crosby's available."
           
           "Yeah, well, I was thinking more along the lines of someone 
           with a reliable health record. Someone whose semen wouldn't 
           require the mandatory six-month quarantine period." Her eyes 
           stop searching the room and target me. "I was thinking of you."
           
           Me? "Me?" With all my shortcomings? I may be free of STDs but 
           for Christ's sake, I'm a genetic freak of phobias, failings and 
           psychoses. A double helix of doubt. A mental Mutato. I'm an 
           idiot right down to the cellular level. Why would she want to 
           pass on my defects to her offspring? I chase aliens, for God's 
           sake. I'm a laughing stock, a joke to my peers, an annoyance to 
           my superiors. Any kid of mine is doomed to a lifetime in a 
           padded cell. 
           
           Yet, she's looking at me as if I'm a t-bone and she's a 
           junkyard dog. 
           
           "Yeah, Mulder. I can't, I can't think of anyone, anyone I'd 
           rather, um...have..." This woman needs to get out more, see 
           other men. Her sense of reality is skewed after seven years 
           with me. "I-I wouldn't expect anything from you, Mulder, 
           beyond...this. I mean, the baby would be my responsibility. I 
           wouldn't need money and you wouldn't have to be involved 
           in...you wouldn't need to--"
           
           "Scully..."
           
           "You don't...you don't have to answer now. Think about it. I-I 
           want you to think about it."
           
           "Scully--"
           
           "Come over. Later. I'll be home. You can let me know then." She 
           stares me down, her face full of worry and hope. "Consider it. 
           Please, Mulder."
           
           Her hopefulness is too much for me. So I nod. "Fine, Scully. I'll 
           think about it."
           
           With one more transitory smile, she flees from the room before 
           I change my mind and tell her no.
           
           ----------
           
           Ssssssooooooo, what-the-heck do I do? Another pencil sails 
           ceiling-ward and lodges in the tile.  
           
           Scully wants me to be the father of her child and although her 
           request is flattering, it's absurdly misguided. What could she 
           possibly see in me that'd be worth passing on to future 
           generations? Emotional baggage aside, I'm no prize. 
           Nearsighted, colorblind, predisposed to alien encounters -- not 
           the traits a woman usually looks for in a mate. Then there's my 
           tendency toward stupidity. How many times have I put my foot in 
           my mouth? My head up my ass? You can count my good qualities on 
           one hand of a bad shop teacher. My nickname should be Sorry-
           Son-of-a-Bitch, not Spooky.
           
           Spooky Mulder.
           
           Hi, kid. I'm your father, Spooky Mulder. I've had holes drilled 
           in my head to trigger memories of my sister's abduction by 
           extraterrestrials. 
           
           Right.
           
           To be honest, I've never wanted children. It's not that I don't 
           like them, it's just that I don't feel prepared to protect 
           them, not after what happened to Sam. And certainly not with 
           Armageddon looming on the horizon. I have neither the skill nor 
           the fortitude to raise a child.
           
           Samantha's cries for help still haunt me. "I'm afraid, Fox. 
           I'm afraid." I can see the terror on her face even after all 
           these years.
           
           She begged for my help.
           
           I couldn't save her.
           
           I can't save anybody. I get paid to watch Scully's back, but 
           look what's happened there. I'm not father material. Having a 
           kid...it would be a huge mistake.
           
           But...but *if* the universe were a normal place and *if* I were 
           to have children, I'd want to do it with Scully. Only with 
           Scully. Because she'd be a great mom. She'd make up for my 
           inadequacies and ineptitude tenfold. 
           
           Her kids would be beautiful. And loyal. And intelligent. They'd 
           inherit her integrity, her skill. 
           
           There's no doubt Scully would love her children thoroughly and 
           unconditionally.
           
           Like Emily. She loved that little girl enough to let her go 
           rather than let her suffer. Putting her own feelings aside, 
           Scully did what was right for her child.
           
           I've never done anything so unselfish. I've never done anything 
           unselfish at all.
           
           When Scully was abducted by Duane Barry, I asked Skinner, "What 
           if I knew the potential consequences but I never told her?"
           
           As usual, he cut right to the chase. He bulls-eyed my 
           complicity. "Then you're as much to blame for her condition as 
           'The Cancer Man.'"
           
           Skinner was right. I'm every bit as responsible for Scully's 
           abduction, her infertility, and her cancer as Old Smokey is. 
           She carries a chip in her neck because of her association with 
           me and the X-Files. She lost her sister. And Emily. Her 
           abduction was orchestrated to end my search for the truth. 
           When I was called in to help with Duane Barry's hostage 
           situation, the reasons had nothing to do with my knowledge of 
           alien abductees. Duane Barry was just the first step in an 
           elaborate plan, the biggest set-up of all time. Skyland 
           Mountain, Krycek, Cancer Man -- everything was premeditated, 
           designed to take Scully away from me and shut me down.
           
           Now, Scully is offering me an opportunity to make up for my 
           role in her terrible past. I know I can never give her back 
           all that's she's lost, but I may be able to atone for some of 
           it by giving her this chance to live an almost normal life, 
           have a family, become a mother.
           
           Thing is, she'd be better off starting her family without me. 
           A guy picked at random from a donor list would be a safer bet. 
           If I were to father Scully's child, we'd have to keep it a 
           secret. For her sake. For the baby's sake. Forever. Any 
           association with me would put them both at risk.
           
           Could I walk away from Scully and our child? Pretend our baby 
           isn't mine in order to keep it safe?
           
           I doubt it. Abandoning Scully to raise our child alone would 
           make me no better than my own dad. I wouldn't do it. I 
           couldn't.
           
           Shit.
           
           Why did she have to ask me to do this?
           
           I love her. I love her more than anyone or anything. For her 
           own safety, for her baby's safety, I should say no. 
           Unfortunately, I can't. I can *not* bring myself to disappoint 
           her. Not again.  
           
           As wrong as I know it is, my answer is going to be yes.
           
           ----------
           
           Scully's Apartment
           Later That Day
           
           It took me forever to lift my knuckles to Scully's door and 
           knock. I'm kinda nervous. Scully left me hours ago to mull over 
           her proposition and, at first, I was dead set against becoming 
           a father. I had all my arguments ready. Alien invaders. Enemies 
           around every corner. DNA chockablock full of flaws, faults and 
           failings. Then I realized I'd have to present these arguments to 
           Scully. It soon became obvious I couldn't deny her this chance 
           at happiness. So that's when I began warming up to the idea. 
           Half her and half me -- our child wouldn't be half bad. 
           Now my gut tells me this is the right thing to do. It is. I 
           think. No, I *know.* Sorta. Anyway, I'm a tad uncomfortable. 
           Happy, but uncomfortable. There's just no way to get relaxed 
           about this thing. I mean, this is serious. A big decision. 
           Momentous. We're talking about creating a life here. Well, not 
           *here.* We're still at the discussion stage. And one of the 
           things we'll be discussing is whether or not I'm willing to 
           jerk off into a Dixie cup while Scully knows I'm jerking off 
           into a Dixie cup. Hence, my discomfort. Yes, she's a doctor, 
           clinical detachment, yada, yada. But let's be honest, we're 
           partners, friends even, but...we're not lovers. We're... I 
           don't know what we are. All I know is we both know I'm gonna be 
           milking the ol' snake into a cup, trying my best to-- 
           
           Scully opens her door. "Hi."
           
           "Hi." Is it hot in here or is it just me? 
           
           My tie felt like a hangmen's noose on the way over so I 
           loosened it in the car. Now I wish I'd thought to straighten it 
           again. This should be a stylin' moment. As awkward as the 
           situation is, my announcement deserves a little respect. I 
           mean, I'm about to tell Scully I plan to be the father of her 
           child. This falls outside the realm of our usual office banter.
           
           "Uh, come on in."
           
           "Thanks." 
           
           "Can I take your coat?"
           
           "No, I can't stay. I have to get back to the office for a 
           while, um..." Man that sounds so lame. The fact that it's true 
           doesn't help. The fact that Scully is actually wringing her 
           hands doesn't help either. Christ, I should have practiced 
           something in the car. Take the lead here, Scully, will ya? 
           Before I blurt out something stupid like...like...shit, I can't 
           even think of something stupid. I've lost my God-given ability 
           to make an ass of myself. Why the hell would she pick a buffoon 
           like me to be the father of her child?
           
           "Obviously you've had some time to think about my request."
           
           Yep. Yep. "I'm...it's...it's not something I get asked to do 
           every day. Um. But I'm..." -- what the Christ do I say? The 
           only thing that pops into my head is the "I'm flattered" 
           cliché, which sounds like something from a soap opera, not that 
           I watch soap operas, but maybe I should watch them because they 
           might have prepared me for a moment like this when -- "I'm 
           absolutely flattered" -- oh, Jesus, I went with the "I'm 
           flattered" thing! Dope! Okay, just move on and try to make it 
           sound sincere -- "No, honestly!" 
           
           "Look, if you're...if you're politely trying to say no, it's 
           okay, I-I understand."
           
           I *am* trying to be polite, but more than that I want to phrase 
           this just right so that twenty years from now when we're both 
           reminiscing, we'll be laughing at how wonderful the moment was 
           and not how really weird it sounded. "See, as weird as this 
           sounds, and it sounds really weird I know," -- ugh! -- "but I-I 
           just wouldn't want this to come between us." 
           
           Oh Lord, I must be obsessing about the cup thing. Or maybe I'm 
           thinking about Baby Mulder graduating from high school, unable 
           to decide between my alma mater and Scully's and we wind up 
           having a big, blow out over...or maybe I'm just certain I'll 
           fuck everything up by over-thinking it--
           
           Scully looks crestfallen. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I understand. I 
           do."
           
           Yikes, she thinks I'm going to say *no.*
           
           "Oh, but...the, the answer is yes."
           
           Man, oh, man, her crestfallen look morphs into a wonderful, 
           beautiful, wonderful smile! And I put it there! Me! 
           
           Uh-oh, she looks like she's gonna cry now. 
           
           And smile, too! And hug me! She wraps her arms around my neck 
           and she feels so warm and good and I wish...I wish... Ah, hell, 
           alien invasion be damned -- we'll cross that bridge when we 
           come to it. Right now I plan to enjoy our nanosecond of bliss. 
           Nothing else matters except for the fact that *finally* I'm not 
           responsible for taking something away from Scully. I'm able to 
           give her this one thing. 
           
           She readjusts her hold on me. I hear her breath stutter in my 
           ear and I think I'm about as happy as I've ever been in my 
           whole life.
           
           Unfortunately our celebratory embrace ends all too soon and she 
           pulls back, releases me. Still smilin' though...with tears. 
           
           "Um, well, I'll call Dr. Parenti and uh, I assume that he'll 
           want to meet with you and, and go through the...the donor 
           procedure."
           
           "Oh, at that part, I'm a pro." 
           
           Jesus! I can't believe I just said that. I'm such an idiot.
           
           ----------  
           
           Dr. Parenti's Office
           The Next Day
           
           "Mr. Mulder, come in." Dr. Parenti welcomes me into his office 
           with an outstretched hand. My medical records adorn his desk, 
           including the encyclopedic tome I filled out in the waiting 
           room under the watchful eyes of the receptionist and several 
           hopeful parents-to-be. "Have a seat. I received your history 
           this morning. Dana has kept quite a thorough medical file on 
           you." He flips through a page or two. "No HIV, Hepatitis B or 
           C, HTLV, Syphilis, Chlamydia, or Gonorrhea."
           
           "The FBI is pretty strict about wearing latex." I sit across 
           from him, try to make myself comfortable.
           
           "Your most recent tests are three months old. If you've had 
           sexual relations since that time, you'll need to be retested."
           
           Sexual relations? Not in any widely understood definition of 
           the term. "That won't be an issue."
           
           "No exposure to bodily fluids? No intravenous drug use?"
           
           "No."
           
           "Have you ejaculated within the last twenty-four hours?" He 
           peers at me over his eyeglasses.
           
           "No. I'm pretty sure I'd remember."
           
           "Hot tub, steam bath, sauna?"
           
           "No."
           
           "Briefs or boxers?"
           
           Jesus. "Boxers. Um, my boys are footloose and fancy free."
           
           "Our questions are intrusive, Mr. Mulder, but we do wish to 
           maximize our success. Dana's opportunities are limited. With 
           only five viable eggs, we have very little room for error 
           here. As it is, you fall outside our preferred age range of 18 
           to 34."
           
           "Then maybe we'd better get started before I grow any more 
           decrepit."
           
           "The donation process is simple, at least from your 
           perspective. You'll need to fill this." He nudges a sterile 
           container my way.
           
           "Sex-say." 
           
           "Yes, well. You'll have plenty of privacy and we do provide an 
           assortment of reading material you may find stimulating if you 
           need it. And if all else fails, you're welcome to call on 
           Nurse Ratchet to help you out."
           
           "Who?"
           
           "Just a little sperm bank humor, Mr. Mulder." 
           
           Oh, funny. "Heh."
           
           "Drop your sample at the desk. You'll get a phone call from me 
           after we've had an opportunity to evaluate your specimen for 
           cell count, motility, and morphology. If all is as it should 
           be, your sperm will be introduced to Dana's ova for 
           fertilization."
           
           Introduced? **Oh, hello, Mr. Sperm. What a pleasure to meet 
           you.** **No, no, no, Ms. Ova, the pleasure is all mine. Shall 
           we swim a few laps around the petri dish or do you wanna get 
           it on right now?**
           
           "Don't be discouraged, Mr. Mulder, if your semen fails to meet 
           our criteria. Only five percent of all male applicants who 
           apply to be sperm donors make the grade in our anonymous donor 
           program. With direct donors such as yourself, requirements are 
           a bit less strict. But even so, anywhere from fifty to sixty 
           percent of all applicants are rejected because of a deficiency 
           in one or more of the critical areas." He shuffles my 
           paperwork and smiles at me. "Any questions?"
           
           "Which way to the Poconos?"
           
           "Second door on the right."
           
           I snag my hot date and head for Lover's Lane. 
           
           ----------  
           
           The room is small, but immaculate. It contains a sink for 
           clean up. A chair. Written instructions, complete with line 
           drawings, are taped to the wall, making the process appear 
           simple. Step 1: wash hands. Step 2: masturbate into sterile 
           container. Step 3: cap container and leave at front desk. Hmm. 
           They skipped the "tips on how to get a hard on in the least 
           arousing environment on Earth," as well as the "witty things 
           to say to the nurse when you hand her your Special Sauce on 
           the way out." 
           
           Nothing's happening downstairs. 
           
           Playboy, Celebrity Skin, a few other magazines tempt me. Any 
           redheads? Whaddaya know -- an article on VCR maintenance. I 
           should read that. 
           
           Maybe not right now. It's time to get busy. Do the deed. This 
           is no time to beat around the bush, ha, ha. God, that was as 
           pathetic as Dr. Henny Youngman's "Nurse Ratchet" line. 
           
           I take off my coat, roll up my sleeves, wash my hands and get 
           comfy, more or less. Should I use the chair or do this 
           standing up?
           
           Still no sign of life below decks, so I give myself an 
           encouraging squeeze through my pants. 
           
           Lordy, this has got to be one of the weirdest things I've ever 
           done. Kinky, but in a very unsatisfying way. Brings 
           performance anxiety to a whole new level.
           
           Come on, Muldick, get it on. Drain the lizard. Spank the 
           monkey. Boot up the ol' hard drive. At least unzip your pants.
           
           Do you suppose they have any hidden cameras in this place? For 
           whatever reason -- and I have no intention of analyzing it -- 
           this notion helps summon the genie, so to speak. Kojak perks 
           up. I start stroking.
           
           And stroking...
           
           And stroking...
           
           Shit. One step forward, two steps back. My love pump needs 
           more priming.
           
           Maybe if I think about Scully. Not about how her hopes and 
           dreams hinge on my success here, but as a woman. A sexy woman. 
           A sexy woman who wants me.
           
           Yeah, that's it.
           
           Nnnnnnope, that's not it.
           
           Okay, what is she wearing? 
           
           A thong. Nothing else. And we're...we're in my apartment. No, 
           we're in her apartment -- her place smells better. She's 
           standing...no, she's sitting...no she's lying on the bed...the 
           couch...the kitchen table. Maybe we're in the office and she's 
           bent over my desk.
           
           Christ. 
           
           Should I switch hands? Maybe this isn't my lucky palm.
           
           I'm not sure what this says about me, but to be honest I find 
           Scully incredibly sexy when she's standing in the pouring 
           rain. Not wearing a skin-tight, wet T-shirt without a bra 
           necessarily, although that would be nice, but fully dressed, 
           like on our first case together when we went to the Bellefleur 
           Cemetery in Oregon. I was babbling on and on about lost time 
           and alien abductions while she stood at the edge of two empty 
           graves in the pouring rain. She started laughing. Not because 
           she didn't believe my farfetched theories but because she 
           *did* believe them, despite how damn ludicrous they 
           sounded. Water streamed over her, plastered her hair to her 
           head, drenched her clothes. And real laughter bubbled out of 
           her pretty little throat and she looked so young and sexy. Our 
           conversation, her smile, her soaked clothes and wet hair -- it 
           was a huge turn on.
           
           **"Peggy O'Dell's watch stopped a couple of minutes after 
           nine, Mulder. I made a note of it when I saw the body."**
           
           **"That's the reason the kids come to the forest, because the 
           forest controls them and summons them there. And, and, and the 
           marks are from, from some kind of test that's being done on 
           them. And, and that may be causing some kind of genetic 
           mutation which would explain the body that we dug up."**
           
           **"And the force summoned Theresa Nemman's body into the woods 
           tonight."**
           
           **"Yes, but it was Billy Miles who took her there, summoned by 
           some alien impulse. That's it!"**
           
           That *is* it! The memory has jumpstarted my jets. Hallelujah! 
           Now if I can manage to focus on Scully and not miss the cup, 
           I'll be golden.    
           
           ----------
           
           Mulder's Apartment
           The Following Week
           
           Scully underwent embryo implantation this morning. Twelve days 
           from now, a pregnancy test will tell us if any of the embryos 
           took.
           
           Her ova and my sperm produced three viable embryos. Dr. Parenti 
           implanted all three at once with the hope that Scully will 
           carry at least one to term. Talk about putting all your eggs in 
           one basket. After this, there are no more. Her doctor claims 
           this is her one and only opportunity to bear her own child.
           
           We received the good news that fertilization had been 
           successful four days ago. Male and female cells converged, 
           sparked to life, formed a new nucleus. Like magic. The 
           blastospheres split, divided again, followed an ancient set of 
           instructions and created something altogether new. Three 
           teeny-tiny specs of humanity waited ninety-six hours to join 
           with their mother -- today. 
           
           Pumped full of potions to synchronize the growth of her 
           uterine lining with the development of the embryos, Scully's 
           endometrium was ready to receive the itty-bitty bambinos. How 
           do I know this? Not from Scully. She is more reticent than 
           usual. Maybe she's afraid she'll jinx the pregnancy by talking 
           about it. Or maybe she just doesn't consider it any of my damn 
           business.
           
           So I looked up IVF on the Internet.  
           
           I volunteered to go with Scully this morning to take the edge 
           off, lend a little moral support. "I'm fine, Mulder," was her 
           familiar response. Guess she didn't feel comfortable having me 
           hanging out while she welcomed our future child into her womb. 
           Honestly, I'd like to be more a part of things, but I don't 
           want to push. It's not as if she's my wife. I don't have any 
           rights here. She only asked me to donate sperm. She's never 
           hinted she'd like more from me than that. And it doesn't really 
           matter what I want -- this is for her. This has always been for 
           her at my own behest...no matter how much I wish it were for me 
           now, too.
           
           It's pretty clear she took me at my word when I said, "I just 
           wouldn't want this to come between us." God, I can be such a 
           fucking dolt. I was so afraid of messing up what we already 
           had, losing her, I didn't consider that a change in our status 
           quo might be for the better. I also missed the fact that she 
           was never mine to lose in the first place.
           
           I wanna call her. Ask her if she's okay. Hold her. Tell her I 
           love her and let her know I am forever connected to her whether 
           our babies survive or not. 
           
           The phone rings and when I lift the receiver, I hear Scully's 
           voice on the other end of the line. "Hey," she says.
           
           "How'd it go?"
           
           "Fine." She sounds like she means it this time. "Mulder?"
           
           "Hmm?"
           
           "Thank you." 
           
           ----------
           
           Scully's Apartment
           Fourteen Days Later
           
           Today's the day Scully finds out she's pregnant...or not. She's 
           with Parenti right now while I wait at her apartment. 
           
           I had come here thinking I might drive her to her appointment 
           and we could receive her doctor's proclamation together. As 
           usual, she insisted on going it alone. She says if Parenti's 
           news is good, she wants me to hear it from her lips and not 
           his. 
           
           "And if it's bad?"
           
           "Then I'll need some time alone."
           
           Alone. At what point in her life did Scully decide she has to 
           face tragedy in isolation? She clings to stoicism, wearing it 
           like a badge of honor, proof that she's made it in the FBI's 
           Boys Club. She hides her emotions from everyone who might 
           compare her to the macho Bureau standard and judge her as soft. 
           "I'm fine" is her mantra. "I'd like to be alone" is her 
           dismissal to those who might think any less of her should they 
           catch a glimpse of a crack in her dented suit of armor. She 
           has included me among the masses who must be kept at arm's 
           length. Only on the rarest occasions does she allow me to 
           share her show of emotions. To her, such moments betray a 
           weakness. She doesn't view sorrow as a normal human condition, 
           but a fault. She categorizes mourning as a virulent contagion, 
           treatable only by quarantine.         
           
           I guess I fell asleep while waiting for her, because the next 
           thing I know, I hear the door and the rattle of her keys.
           
           "Scully?" A little fuzzy-headed, I rise from her couch, turn to 
           face her. "I musta dozed off. I was waiting for you to get 
           back."
           
           She pins me with a sad stare, crawls inside my head and 
           delivers God's news without uttering a single word. She doesn't 
           need to speak. The disquiet of her shattered heart tells me 
           she's lost her last hope. She steps close, grief glossing her 
           eyes. 
           
           "It didn't take, did it?" I ask without needing to. The answer 
           is as crystal clear as the tears slipping over her lashes.
           
           "I guess it was too much to hope for." Her voice collapses. She 
           fights a losing battle with her tears and suddenly everything 
           pisses me off: her retreat from hope, the unfairness of this 
           news, God's perpetual blind spot. I don't understand why He 
           abandons her. She is forever faithful to Him, but He turns His 
           back on her time and again. If He loved her the way I love her, 
           He wouldn't hurt her like this. 
           
           I drag Scully into my arms, shaking my head at her words, at 
           God. Clinging to my neck, she quakes with vulnerability and 
           despair.
           
           "That was my last chance."
           
           Her heart breaks, disintegrating in the halo of my embrace. The 
           implosion shudders my chest, too, and I tighten my hold on her 
           in a futile effort to keep her faith whole. She is right here 
           in my arms but she is lost. Damn it, damn it. 
           
           I hate God. 
           
           He owes her. 
           
           We both owe her.
           
           I wrap her in my sympathy.
           
           Scully draws back, unable to accept my meager consolation. 
           There is no succor for disappointment of this magnitude. Yet I 
           refuse to give up. Unlike God, I have no intention of turning 
           my back on Scully. Kissing her brow, I crave to remove the 
           anguish that swirls there. Then I press my head to hers, 
           trapping my kiss between us, praying it will become a conduit 
           that allows the strength of my beliefs to flood from me into 
           her. Know my thoughts, Scully. Know my heart. Know with 
           certainty that I believe we are destined to find God's 
           blessing. Together. 
           
           "Never give up on a miracle."
           
           A tiny shake of her head threatens to dismiss me. Science has 
           sealed her fate, declared motherhood off limits. Her beliefs 
           hang themselves on the combined failures of science and God. 
           She has nowhere to turn for hope. 
           
           Except to me. 
           
           And I am changed; we are both changed. I find myself 
           inexplicably aligned with Providence while she surrenders to my 
           uncharacteristic optimism, shedding her desolation. Maybe my 
           words are what she wants to hear. Or maybe she believes me. In 
           either case, she returns my kiss and my embrace.
           
           We stand together for a long time, buttressing one another 
           until her tears dry.
           
           Life returns to near normal. We let go. She makes tea. We sit 
           side by side in the quiet until our untouched drinks cool. 
           Evening shrinks the room to nothing but the white flag of her 
           face. She is exhausted.
           
           "I should go." I clasp her hand and give her fingers a gentle 
           squeeze.
           
           "No, Mulder," she says, curling her fingers around mine, 
           confirming her next words. "You should stay."        
           
            
           THE END
           
           Author's notes: At reader request, I wrote a sequel to 
           "Scully's Proposition" called "Mulder, Please Stay." I always 
           aim to please. Look for it on my web site. 
           
           Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or 
           any of my stories. Send comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net.