The Naked Kitties, Part Two: Careful Not To Cut The SkinThe Naked Kitties, Part Two: Careful Not To Cut The Skin Header and Notes with Prologue and can be found where ever fic is posted. <><><><><><> Of course as soon as I sat down, the phone rang. I didn't even give it a second thought - Daniel hadn't been too happy with my admission that no, I didn't want to "pick up where we'd left off," no, I didn't need him, no, I hadn't missed him all these years. In the past ten days, he's called at least ten times. When I asked him why, he said he wanted me to know that he was thinking about me and that he loved me. If it wasn't so annoyingly sickening, it'd be sweet. The bathroom door was closed, but I heard the tell-tale "beep" as my pre-recorded message ended and then the low, muffled tones of the male speaker leaving his just thinking about you and love you speech. I just sank further down into the bubbles and silently wished for more wine to appear in my glass because I was certainly not getting up to refill it. Mulder and I had been adolescently awkward around each other in the past ten phone call filled days which did nothing to alleviate my discomfort. I think I hurt his feelings when I left without waking him that morning, but what choice did I have? I had to go home to get ready for work and I didn't want to wake him - he rarely gets enough sleep anyway and it was much too early for him to be up for work. My plan for the office was to act like nothing had happened the previous night; outside the office, however, I'd planned to touch him more - just casually, naturally - to flirt more openly, to invite him to stay overnight at my apartment more. His plan, if he had one, which wasn't likely, was to either jump in head first, have sex, and damn the consequences, or to pretend that we hadn't had the conversation at all, forget that we loved each other and wanted to physically express that fact, and go back to being just partners and friends. And as is our wont, we didn't talk about any of this. Of course. Heaven forbid we actually communicate about something important. It's been getting worse, though. He barely said anything to me today beyond "we have a flight at eight thirty-five Monday morning, see you at the airport," and didn't look at anything below my chin without getting red and dropping his eyes. I'm figuring out that Mulder is a little less experienced at this sex-game than I thought he'd be. Or maybe he's just playing naive and hard to get. I told someone once that the best relationships come from friendships. I wonder what I was thinking when I made that brilliant deduction. At times, the thought of having sex with Mulder is a little...incestuous. We've had these unspoken boundaries - both real and figurative - since we met. Crossing them will just feel weird, maybe even revolting. I feel strange about touching him in intimate ways with an intimate purpose - I've been touching him for years, I've seen him naked, and I've been privy to some rather vocal solo entertainment sessions conducted while on the road. I know everything about him and while sometimes, it makes me more comfortable with the idea of "more serious," sometimes it intimidates the hell out of me. Correction: I don't know if he's a good lover. I can't decide if I really want to find out, either. Things are so much more complicated when you don't have a half-naked, partially aroused man beside you in a big, warm, comfortable bed. All of that led to a pretty stressful week. When I got home today, all I wanted to do was to relax, unwind, and be lazy for as long as possible. The wine and warm water have done wonders for me, only now I just don't ever want to move from this tub again. Until I hear something that sounds like a door closing outside. I sit straight up in the tub, my hands going to cover my breasts and my eyes darting around the room, looking for something that can be used as a weapon. Then, a voice: "Scully?" I exhale heavily, then sink back down, chill bumps rising on my arms and chest. "In here." His footsteps shuffle across the carpet as he approaches the door, stopping just outside of it. "Sorry. You weren't answering your phone." Oh, it was him. Not Daniel. Why is that a little disappointing? "Yeah, I was screening," I explain, like I don't have Caller ID. "Oh." Of course Mr. LowSelfEsteem thinks I didn't want to talk to him. "Mulder, you can come in." He slowly pushes open the door, searching the room for me. When he finds me, he flushes a deeper red than earlier and finds his shoes very interesting. "I didn't need anything, I was just...I'll wait outside," he tells the floor, already turning to walk back out. Right: bubbles don't cover much, Dana. And now that the previously half naked, partially aroused man who was beside me in a big, warm, comfortable bed is fully clothed in those jeans and that gray T-shirt in my overly cool bathroom, things aren't as complex as they seemed just a few minutes ago. "Mulder," I call to him. "Yeah," he says, deciding the ceiling hasn't been inspected in a while. "Come here." He drops his head and ambles slowly over to the opposite wall, staring blankly in the direction of the window. Not good enough. "Sit down." Absently, he moves to the toilet and starts to sit on the closed lid. "No, here," I ask him softly, dropping my arm out to the side of the tub, my fingers dripping tiny spots of water onto the floor. He sits down Indian-style next to the tub, tugging at his shoelaces. "Mulder?" "Hmm?" He asks, not looking up. "What's the matter?" Is it me, or did my voice just get deeper? "I, um...I lied to you." He leans his forehead against the side of the tub, exhaling miserably. OhGodohGodohGod. He changed his mind and now I look like a slut. And a fool. "What?" "I did need something." Oh. That. "What?" I ask again, sliding my wet fingers through his hair, trying to soothe and reassure him. "I was worried about you." "Why?" "The last time you didn't answer your phone, it turned out an escaped necrophilic murderer had you tied up in your closet." Of course. Why didn't I think of that? I get a chill all of the sudden and pretend it's because the air conditioner just came on. "I'm fine, Mulder," I whisper, scraping his scalp lightly with my nails. "I know. And I know you can take care of yourself and you don't need me worrying about you. I know you hate it when I do, but, God, Scully...what would I have done if I'd have gotten here and you were laying in this tub, covered in your own blood, with your fingers and hair cut off?" His voice has a slightly thick edge to it and I know he's trying not to cry. Mulder is worse than women with his monthly cycles - sometimes, he's happy, positive, and nothing can bring him down. Other times, he's weepy, regretful, and walks around looking like he's about to pull out his gun and shoot himself in the head. "I don't hate it when you worry about me," I tell him. "You don't?" He asks, finally looking up at me with those sad puppy-dog eyes. "No. It reminds me that you care." I give him a soft, slightly weary smile and his already dilated pupils get ever bigger. He must notice that mine do as well because, for a long, tense, electric moment, we just stare at each other in silence, not blinking or breathing, watching our irises become entirely black. The moment is broken when he swallows thickly and flushes again, looking down. Remembering to breath, I start panting instead, the alcohol beginning to buzz through my veins. "Mulder?" I ask him in an even deeper voice. "What?" "Do me a favor." He looks up, swallows again, then nods. I fish for my body pouf under the water, then hold it out to him. "Wash my back?" He looks positively shocked for three seconds before deciding to comply, taking the pouf from me and looking at it like he doesn't know what it's for. I sit up, drawing my knees to my chest, and look at him expectantly as he dips it in the water behind me and draws it up my back, across my shoulders, and down again. Up, across, down. Up, across, down. Slowly. Maddeningly. Deliciously. My head lolls on my shoulders and I give him another weary smile, moaning in approval. Then, he stops, keeping his hand underneath the water behind me. When I open my eyes, he's staring at me, looking starved. Another long, tense, electric moment, only in this one, he's moving closer to me until his lips barely graze mine, his breath warm on my lips. I inhale and don't move again. His lips move over mine, kissing and begging to be kissed and I do what I always do give in and ooooooooooh God his tongue is like velvet and he's devouring me and I wish we weren't in this tub and we were in bed or on the couch or in the middle of the Bullpen at the Hoover Building I don't care I just want more I want that tongue everywhere and his hands everywhere and I can't breathe I have to breathe God don't stop Mulder don't - We're both panting at the end of the moment this time, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the next move. "I think," he starts, not able to look away from me now. "I think I should go." WHAT? Nonononononono. "I, um...this isn't why I came over. I don't...I want this...I don't want this...Scully...not like this," he finally decides. Nooooooooooooo. "Like what?" "I don't want to do this for the wrong reasons. I want it to be because we're ready, I mean mentally, emotionally ready, not just physically. Not yet. Not like this." "Mulder," I say, taking his hand and lacing our fingers together. "If we keep waiting until we're ready, we'll never stop waiting. Something will always keep us from this." He looks down into my eyes and says softly, "But I want it to be perfect, Scully," squeezing my fingers tightly. "It is," I assure him. He keeps staring at me as I rise from the tub, looking away as I minimally dry myself, turn around and lead him into my bedroom, sitting him down on the bed and straddling him before he has a chance to object. "Tell me this is forever," he requests for the six hundredth time as his hands slip under the towel, enjoying the lack of bra-clasp to fumble with. I moan something unintelligible against his mouth, moving his hands from my back to my front and pointing him towards the loose knot of the towel. "No," he says, pulling away and waiting for me to look up at him in confusion before continuing. "Tell me. Tell me that this is forever, Scully." Taking a deep breath and licking my lips, I do. "This is forever, Mulder." "Change," he whispers against the pulse in my neck. "This is gonna change. Everything...everything's gonna - unhhh," my hands against his erection, eager. "chaaaaange. No more FBI...no more dangerous cases...too much...too much at stake..." I tug his head back up to mine, then, not wanting to talk about dangerous things and the FBI and everything waiting for us outside this room. "Promise, Scully," he moans as he pushes slowly inside me. "Promise. Change. Forever. Love you." "Love you, too, Mulder," I tell him as I wrap my legs high around his ribs, pushing him further inside me. It was so easy that night - making love to him. <><><><><><> I can't imagine what the ER team thought when I staggered through the ambulance bay doors, Mulder hanging limply at my side. We were soaked and his skin was blue, his breath coming in watery, inconsistent pants. The nurses and doctors jumped as soon as they saw us, though, grabbing two gurneys and hollering at each other for different things. Not knowing any better, they put us in separate trauma rooms and threatened me with a sedative if I didn't calm down and stop screaming since they were trying to do their jobs and help my friend - did I know what had happened to us? Are there any pre-existing medical conditions we should know about? Is he allergic to any kind of medications? No, I have no idea what happened to him; He said They wouldn't hurt him. No, no pre-existing medical conditions that I know about, but I haven't been privy to his health and care the past five months. Yes, he's allergic to morphine based pain-killers, let me up, I have to see him. Once they figured out I was pregnant, they confined me to a bed and admitted me "for observation." I threatened to call in every FBI agent in the state, whatever state that was, if they didn't let me see Mulder. It worked and I signed myself out AMA just in time to watch them wheel Mulder up to have an MRI to check for head injuries. It wasn't too hard to find a hospital, actually. Once we were out of the parking lot and back onto what looked like a heavily traveled road, I saw a blue "H" sign and followed it. I still have no idea where we are, but Mulder's with me and that's all that matters right now. I'm filling out his admission forms in the waiting room when the ER doctor comes to tell me his condition. "Ma'am?" He still didn't know my name. "Dana Scully. I'm a doctor," I inform him, my teeth chattering from my damp-and-clinging-to-me clothes. He gives me a look that says, "yeah, right," and takes a deep breath. "What's your relation to Mr..." "Mulder, Fox Mulder. We're FBI agents. He's my partner." Another look that says, "wait, I thought you were a doctor." "And you have no idea what happened to him?" "No. I found him like that." "Found him where?" "In the woods." His face stays perfectly still, anticipating an elaboration. "I can't give you any more details than that, I'm sorry. I honestly don't even know where we are." "You're in Milford, Pennsylvania," he answers uneasily. Well, at least Old Smoky is consistent. I nod, getting impatient. "Beyond severe dehydration, malnourishment, and a few healing bruises and scratches, there's nothing wrong with him. His pupils were sluggish to react and his pain reflexes were slow, so we suspected a head injury, but the MRI was negative." "Have you done a Tox screen?" "Yes, but the results aren't back yet. I d-" "It could be a sedative," I say, more to myself than to him. "They could've drugged him so that he wouldn't wake up or remember..." "That's what I'm thinking at this point. Without knowing what he was given, we can't estimate how long he'll be unconscious, of course, so it'll be touch-and-go until the results of his blood test comes back." "When can I see him?" I ask, changing topics rapidly as my brain switches from detached, clinical, doctor mode to concerned, anxious, friend mode. "A nurse will come and get you when he's settled. He's breathing on his own, but there was some fluid in the lungs, so were monitoring his blood-ox levels and we're also monitoring his heart rate and temperature. There's a strong possibility that he could develop pneumonia from the dampness and his compromised immune system. We'll be keeping a close eye on him, though," he tries, and fails, to be reassuring. "If you have any questions, have the nurses page me." I nod, then collapse heavily into a cold, hard plastic chair, hanging my head between knees, or, as close as I can get to them over my stomach. The baby has taken to sticking its foot underneath my bottom right rib and that spot aches from me pushing its foot down and it kicking it back up there. It hasn't moved in a few hours - its probably tired and hungry and weak like me. The nurse will be here any second, though. I have to see Mulder. I have to make sure he's all right. Oh, shit. I have to hide this from him. How am I going to hide this from him? He'll know, he always knows, as soon as he wakes up, and he's going to want answers. He'll want to know all about the baby and the deal I made and then he'll be angry. He'll be angry that I trusted the Smoking Man and put myself in danger and agreed to this - "Miss Scully?" A tired-looking woman shakes my shoulder lightly, getting my attention. "Hmm?" "You can see Mr. Mulder now. Follow me." <><><><><><> He looks impossibly pale against the overly bleached white sheets, but his chest rises and falls steadily, if a little noisily. The door softly clicks closed as the nurse leaves me alone with him. The distance between the doorway and the bed seems to take forever to cross, my footsteps quiet against the tile. In the half-light from the hallway, I can see faded yellow and green bruises on his cheeks, jaw, and arms, A scratch across his eye. He'd definitely lost weight, but not so much that he looks emaciated, and muscle mass. His hair is longer and ragged and there's a fine layer of goosebumps down his arms -he's cold. I spread the blanket from the foot of the bed over him, trailing my hand up his leg, over his hips, across his chest, and down his arm until I can lace my warm fingers through his chilled ones, sitting gently beside him and trying not to jostle him. He said They wouldn't hurt him and He lied. They beat him and They starved him. It's probably not the only inconsistency I'll discover before the deal is done. "Mulder," I whisper, leaning down so that my nose is behind his ear, my cheek against his stubbled one. I kiss him lightly on that tender spot under his jawbone, where I can feel his strong pulse, and let my lips linger there. God, I missed this. I missed him. I switch hands, holding his with my left while my right cups his cheek, holding him against me. For the first time in five months, I breath deeply, momentarily believing that, as long as he's beside me, all is right with the world. And if he'd only wake up and come back to me, everything would be perfect. <><><><><><> But perfection, I've discovered, comes in many different and widely varied forms, most of them wholly unrecognizable when it's really just not what you'd expected. The nurses of perpetual cheeriness come make an appearance every four hours to take his temperature, blood pressure, and to make sure that, while I've been watching him, he hasn't stopped breathing. One asks me if I'd like some coffee or something to read. I didn't look away from the steady, deep rise and fall of his chest. This could still be a dream, I think. He could still be...wherever he was, being subjected to...whatever They did to him. When he finally stirs at a little after four, I breath in and out slowly, afraid of scaring him. His breathing is only erratic for a few seconds before he turns his head towards me, opening and closing his mouth before opening and closing his eyes. I step up to his bed from the chair I hadn't budged from in six hours, wondering what to say. His skin is loosely-packed, freshly fallen snow on a lake of crystalline ice, belated pine needles streaking the surface and marring the flawlessness. I'm afraid to touch because he'll melt, but snow always melts eventually. "D'I have a dream?" He asks slowly, his voice freshly scoured rusted metal. "What?" I gasp, caught off guard and expecting something completely different. "What're you doin' here? D'I have a 'nother dream?" He rubs his eyes, brushing off a few flakes, then sits up, reaching for me. "You okay? You dizzy again?" "No, no. I'm fine." I choke back tears and wonder if he thinks it's still May and not October. Gently, I sit down beside him, afraid the fragile ice will crack and he'll slip through, under the surface and I won't be able to get him back. "Whassa matter, then?" "Mulder, do you know where you are?" I whisper, looking around and wondering how he could miss it. Apparently, he's just noticing his surroundings. "Uh...not Oregon, I guess. Hospital?" I nod once, biting my lower lip to keep from crying. Warm tears melt snow. "What happened?" Panicking. A deep breath - the baby kicks, waking up and demanding an early breakfast. "You don't remember?" "No." He looks over his body and I see him wiggle his toes from underneath the blanket, checking for injuries. "What happened?" "How do you feel?" "Fine, Scully, what the hell happened?" He grabs my arm above my elbow and the coldness leaches into my bones, making me jerk away. Too much. The baby kicks again, reiterating its request. I feel nauseous, the cold from him contrasting thickly with the sudden heat of the room. "Scully?" His voice is low, concerned for me. "Happy birthday," I whisper. A blank look. "What?" "Your birthday was last week - happy birthday." "My birthday's in October, Scully, you know that," he says slowly, melting. "I know." "Wh-" And I burst into tears, pulling my knees as close as I can get them to my chest and sobbing until the baby sticks his foot underneath my rib and I have to stand, pacing and hoping he can't see the bulge. He watches me in silence and I pretend his eyes aren't fixed on my abdomen, though it's too dark to be sure. "You were abducted." It's enough of an explanation, I think. "How? Scully -" "Skinner said you walked off to fix one of the lasers and then there was a light overhead. He thinks he saw a ship and then you were gone." Ten second silence. "Are you okay? They didn't take you, too, did They?" "I'm f-" It would be a lie. "No, They didn't take me." He lets out a slow, even breath. "What did They do to me?" He asks in a voice too tiny for him. I cross my arms over my swollen breasts, decide my breasts are too sore, and let my arms hang uselessly at my sides while I try to speak in a steady voice. "We don't know yet. You were just returned - I just found you late last night." "You found me?" "Yes. In the woods." "Scully, it's too dangerous for you to be out here. They could still be here, waiting -" "We're not in Oregon. We're in Pennsylvania. The Smoking Man brought me here last spring." His face hardens, refreezing. "What about the others? Billy and...Theresa's husband?" "I don't know." I honestly hadn't thought to care. I've had other things on my mind. "Scully?" He asks, sounding lost and afraid in the darkness. I touch my bottom lip lightly with my fingertips, remembering when it was easy to kiss him and not be afraid of the cold. He inhales, holds his breath, then exhales. "How long before I can go home?" "You were dehydrated and a little malnourished. Nothing serious. A few days." Smoothing the covers over his legs, he keeps watching me. "Do I even have a home?" The way he asks that, so pathetic and lonely and unsure and scared, snaps me out of my reverie. I know what this is like - being returned to a world that had gone on turning without me, having to catch up on three months worth of news and family and work, while everyone watches you and smiles, happy to have you back. "Yes. Everything is just how you left it," I say, returning to the bed to venture further onto the lake, testing my weight to see if it breaks. Except me, I don't add. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, exposing a reddened, bruised throat. "Tired," he mumbles, sliding back down in the bed. "I know," I whisper, smoothing his hair back from his scratched face and starting to bend down to kiss his forehead before remembering that bending is not an option. "Yeah, you do, don't you?" "Yeah." I stand and tuck the covers tightly around him, melting the snow a little more. Melting isn't bad. "I don't remember anything, Scully. Just telling Skinner there was no such thing as a snipe, then nothing." "It's okay." Soothing, comforting, pushing him into sleep and unconsciously rubbing over the sore area that's the baby's favorite to kick. "Stay?" He asks softly, eyelids heavy. "Yes. Go to sleep." "Mmm." The ice creaks and groans, but doesn't break. <><><><><><> At six a.m., one of the nurses asked me if I wanted some breakfast. When I said no, she gestured to my stomach which I thought I'd hidden well, and said she was bringing me some anyway. Cream of wheat, dry toast, and orange juice; she stood there and watched me eat it. "You gotta take care of the baby and not just his daddy, hon," she reminded me lightly before continuing her morning rounds. So people naturally assume that the baby is Mulder's - why shouldn't they? It must be obvious to them that I love him deeply and, to a lesser degree, that he loves me. To them, we're the perfect little couple who're about to welcome the third member into their family and can't wait to do so. If they only knew. Some time between the ten p.m. and two a.m. vitals check, I'd realized that I couldn't just hide the baby from Mulder until They decided to take it. If he didn't notice my stomach, he'd notice a wailing baby trying to come out of me. When he did, he'd want answers: is it his? If not, whose is it? How? You're supposed to be infertile, Scully? You did what? You made a deal? With the Smoking Bastard? How could you do that, Scully? My life for your child's? He told you it was a hybrid? And you trusted him? Jesus, Scully, are you that naive? And Mulder being Mulder would assume that he could fix all of this by offering himself to Them in exchange for my safety and the baby's. Knowing Them, they'd take Mulder, then take the baby, just to show both of us how powerful They are. Then, I'd be worse off than I was before this whole nightmare started. It would be easier for him if he didn't know the truth - yes, I have to lie to him to save him. He won't realize it now, but he will later, when They take it. When I need him to help me pick up the shards of my life, he'll know why I couldn't risk losing him again. In one of my fits of estrogen-induced happiness and faith in optimism, I'd put together a scrap book of all the things Mulder had missed: sonogram pictures, synopsis of the first time I felt the baby move, when I discovered that I was showing, normal things like that. I'd written in the back that I hoped it looked like him and that its last name on the birth certificate would be his. I should've burned it after the estrogen high wore off, but I stuck it in a drawer instead and then, in a fit of testosterone, forgot which one I'd stuck it in. If I'm not bawling, I'm forgetting my social security number and if I'm not picking out wallpaper for my non-existent house, I'm thinking of all the different ways I know to perform safe, bathroom abortions. Damn hormonal moodiness. I'm somewhere between the mandrake tea and the animalistic keening when Mulder wakes up in typical Mulder fashion: eager to get up and move. Yes, I missed him terribly but, five seconds after he opened his mouth, I'm already sick of him. "When can I go home, Scully?" He asks, not even fully awake yet. I don't even look at him, concentrating on keeping my legs crossed, which is no easy thing these days. "I told you last night, not for a few days." "Why not? If I'm dehydrated, I'll drink water. You can take care of me better than they can here." Taking a deep, calming breath, I stand and remember not to put my hands on my back to massage. "You need IV fluids, not just tap water. And you need vitamins." "But I need rest, too, right? I can't get that here. I promise I'll do whatever you say at home, just get me out of here, Scully," he pleads. I remember that: just wanting to get back to normal. To him, everything is normal. Yesterday he was in Oregon and we had just had sex for the first time. One little side trip and then he would come back to start his new life, one without all the shadows and conspiracies and disappointments. A new life with me as his lover. Then, he wakes up in the hospital to an angry, moody partner/friend/lover/brood mare - no memory of the past five months. He just wants everyone to leave him alone so that he can continue with his New Life plan. God, I'd give anything if he could have that. "Mulder -" I start, my voice betraying the fact that I got absolutely no sleep last night. Someone knocks on the door, though, and enters without permission. "Morning," his doctor who's name I didn't catch earlier says brightly, nodding first to Mulder, then to me. "How're you feeling Mr. Mulder?" "Anxious to get out of here," he answers easily, tensing his fingers in the blankets. "Well, we should be able to help you out there. You're responding well to the rehydration, so I think you'll be able to go home sometime today." "Really?" He asks, looking at me curiously. "Yep. In fact, if you're ready, I can get your discharge papers now." "I'm ready." The doctor nods, then walks out of the room, promising a nurse will be in in a few minutes. Mulder's steady stare becomes unnerving and I walk into the bathroom, retrieving his clothes and setting them on the bad without looking up at him. As I start to turn away, he grabs my wrist and pulls me back. "Scully," he says softly. "What's wrong?" I sigh harsher than I mean to. "Nothing." "Yes, there is. What's the matter? What are you not telling me?" "Nothing, Mulder," I insist, mentally hurrying that nurse. "Something is. You've been acting strangely ever since last night. First you were crying and distant and now you're angry and distant. Why?" I shake my head, not trusting my voice to be strong and unemotional. He strokes his thumb over the inside of my wrist, feeling the pulse there. "I know that some things have changed, Scully. They were bound to in five months but..." This is hard for him, too, and he pauses, regrouping. "I want you to tell me why you don't want me to go home. I think I have a right to know." "Nothing's changed," I whisper, finally looking up at him from underneath my hair. "What, then? What's the matter?" He whispers back, pushing the hair away behind my ear and making me shiver in the process. His eyes are dark and bottomless and, for a few seconds, I want to find the bottom of them and never come out. Instead, I shake my head, ready to tell him no again when the nurse comes bustling in. "Here you go, Mr. Mulder, if you'll just sign here." He does, the pen a little loose between his fingers. "All right. As soon as you're dressed you can go." She turns to me and asks in a lower voice, "May we speak in the hall while he gets dressed?" I look at him and he nods, telling me he can at least dress without help, which is better than what I could do after I was returned. Nurse Perky and I leave him in peace, closing the door behind us. "I know you're a doctor," she starts, "but here are some basic care guidelines that we give to all the patients." I stare at the papers like they're written in ancient Greek, my hand shaking lightly. "You will be the one taking care of him, won't you?" She asks as if it just occurred to her that I might not be. "Yeah," I say, nodding. She gives me the usual spiel about calling her if we have any questions, blah, blah, blah. My hormonal pendulum is swinging back to Get This Thing Out Of Me Now Before It Kicks A Hole In My Uterus and I'm getting antsy to go home, too. Out of habit, my hand goes to push its foot from under my ribs and lingers there, staring at my reflection in the floor and trying to determine which posture is best so that Mulder won't notice. "Scully?" He asks a few minutes later, his head sticking out of the door. "Hmm?" "Ready?" "Yeah." "Me, too. Let's blow this joint," he says brightly, anxious to follow me home. <><><><><><> I think he found it odd that the furniture in his apartment wasn't dusty and that the air wasn't stale. And that his fish were alive. And that there was food in his refrigerator. And dirty dishes in his sink. And he had bubble bath in his bathroom. He just grinned at me and asked if that was his welcome home present, then asked who was playing in the World Series. I shrugged and stopped my fingers from unbuttoning my jacket. He went back into the bathroom and said something about taking a shower, then eating. He expected me to stay here and eat with him. Figuring that his stomach wouldn't be able to handle anything very heavy, I heat up some tomato soup and fix some rice on the stovetop to go with it. When we were sick as kids, my mom used to put the rice in the soup - it was my favorite part of being sick. As I watch the water boil around the rice, my vision gets blurry and I realize that the pendulum has swung back and I'm crying again, wishing I was a little girl and that mommy could fix everything with a cool cloth and tomato and rice soup. Mulder's going to think it's odd that I haven't taken off my jacket. My clothes - the ones I don't remember putting on - are too tight to chance him not noticing, so I'll have to leave my jacket on and convince him that I'm cold. When the shower cuts off, I go and sit on the couch, watching the bowls of soup cooling on the coffee table. He brushes his teeth, shaves, and dresses in pajama pants and a white t-shirt before venturing out of the bedroom, his growling stomach proceeding him. "Smells good," he says as he sits down beside me, picking up his bowl greedily. I just sit, staring at my hands and trying not to burst into tears. "Mmm, tastes good, too," he mumbles around his full mouth before noticing that I'm not joining him. "You okay?" I nod, sniffing quietly. "Not hungry?" I shake my head. "Why'd you make two bowls, then?" My chest heaves and I sniff louder, not able to stop it. "Scully -" He starts softly, putting his bowl down and moving to put his arm around me. I stand up suddenly, wobbling on my feet a little. "You're not right," I say miserably. "What?" "You're not right. You're fine. You're not supposed to be. I...I wasn't, but you are. You act like nothing's happened. How can you do that?" "To me, nothing has happened. I don't remember anything, Scully. Nothing. I don't even have any injuries. I wasn't sick like you. I'm fine. A little stiff, but fine," he tells me, standing beside me and watching me like I'm a frightened, injured animal he's trying to help. "You said you were tired," I remind him, wiping tears off my cheeks and remembering to stand up straight, but not too straight. "That, too," he concedes, taking another step towards me. The only sound in the room for a few long seconds is my thick, heavy breathing and his, slow and measured. "I'm going home," I finally decide, not looking up at him. "Why?" That hurt, lost, and afraid voice again. It makes me cry harder. "Because. You n-need to r-rest." "So do you. You didn't get any sleep last night, did you?" "No, b-but, y-y-you n-need -" "I'll rest better if you're here -" He puts his hands on my shoulders, looking down at me. I can't see much of the floor between us and I wonder if he can see the bulge. My chest heaves and I try my best to take deep, calming breaths, otherwise not moving. "- but you can go, if you want," he finishes softly, making it obvious he doesn't want me to. Nodding, I step away from him, moving blindly towards the door. "Call me later?" He asks as I'm walking into the hall. With my back to him, I nod again, then close the door, leaving him alone. <><><><><><> I ended up crying the whole way home from his apartment. How can I be so insensitive to him? He's just been through an incredibly traumatic ordeal. He was missing for five months and now he's back to a world that's entirely different from the one he left. He's sick and he needs someone to take care of him. And I just leave him there like these past five months haven't been the most miserable of my life because he wasn't here. God, what a cold-hearted bitch! It's better this way: he'll take my distance as me moving on. When he finds out about the baby, he'll assume that I've met someone else and that I've decided to pursue a relationship with him. He'll leave, then - just fade into the background like any other friend after so many years. Only Mulder's not just a friend - to him, we've just become lovers. He promised me that we'd change and move on together; he'll want that. Of course he'll want that. He loves me and thinks that I love him. I do love him. Bitch, Dana. You're a bitch! After They take the baby, I can go back to him and tell him the truth. I'll explain how I gave it up for his safety - maybe he'll understand. He'd do the same for me, if he were in my position. Maybe we can still have our life together. Maybe he can forgive me for hurting him. I sit on my couch until it's dark outside, wrapped in a blanket and rocking myself slightly, crying and cursing and pushing the baby's foot away from my ribs. After a while, I must've fallen asleep, because Mulder is kneeling in front of me, watching me with wide, shiny-damp eyes. "Hey," he whispers, brushing my hair behind my ear and smiling softly, happily. Before I can catch myself, I shrink back into the cushions and away from him. "You okay?" He asks slowly, sniffing and letting small tears drip from his eyes. I nod, wrapping the blanket tighter around me for protection. "Scully - God," he breaths, setting his palm lightly on my stomach and looking at me in awe. "Why didn't you tell me?" Sitting up and suddenly feeling hot and nauseous, I push his hand away and launch myself into the kitchen to get away from him. Heknowsheknowsheknowsheknowsheknowsheknows. God, I was so stupid to think he wouldn't notice. Goddammit! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Shit! He follows me, of course, and slides his arms around my waist from behind. "Don't," I say, trying - and failing - to push him away. He has me pinned against the sink, though, and I have no where to go. "What? What's the matter, Scully? Why didn't you tell me?" His palms are flat against my stomach again and looking down at it over my shoulder. "Were you afraid I'd be angry?" I shake my head, wiping away fresh tears and relaxing into him like I've wanted to do so much in the past few months - to let him hold me and just stop thinking for awhile. "What, then? Scully, how? How did this happen? I thought we couldn't." I shake my head again, the rest of my body trembling with the effort of trying not to scream. "I'm not angry, Scully. God, I'm...I can't believe this. I want this. I'm happy, God, I'm happy, Scully." He pressed his lips against my neck, breathing slowly. Not appreciating the heavy weight above it, the baby kicks at his hand, trying to dislodge it. Mulder gasps softly, then presses a little harder, eliciting another kick. "Was that him? Scully, was that him?" I nod silently, gripping the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. "Our baby," he breathes, kissing me lightly behind my ear. "Our baby, Scully." I start whimpering miserably, then, and my knees buckle from exertion. He effortlessly picks me up and carries me into the bedroom, mumbling something about it either being a big baby or I'd hidden some extra weight well as he pulls the covers over me and lays down beside me, holding me close. "You know what this means?" He whispers, stroking the material smooth over my stomach. "Now you have to marry me - you don't have a choice. Well, you do, but I won't let you not marry me. And we'll have to find a house. With a big back yard - quiet, away from the city. You're, what, five months? We don't have long." He's just thinking out loud, now, imagining his perfect fantasy where the baby is normal and healthy and we get to keep it. "What's the matter?" He asks after a minute, raising his head to look at me. I shake my head, wondering what to tell him. The truth? No, of course not. I'll have to lie, but how? He's already planning for the future, thinking that we're going to be a happy little family of three soon - how can I disappoint him? "Are you sick?" He presses. "Is it the baby, is something wrong?" "It's not yours," I remember to whisper, my whole body shaking violently. I feel him tense behind me, all of the air leaving his lungs. Closing my eyes, I turn my head into the pillow and let it absorb my hot tears, ashamed. "You're lying," he says flatly after a moment, his hands still pressed against my stomach. "N-n-no," I manage to tell the bed. "Yes, you are. It can't be anyone else's. You're at least five months along which means that you got pregnant the night -" he sighs raggedly, putting two and two together. "The night I left for Oregon. God, Scully, if I'd known...if I'd known, you know I wouldn't have left. God, I'm sorry, Scully." He's not listening to me. "It's not yours, Mulder. I'm not five months, I'm seven." "Then it was the first time we -." Again, he tenses, this time actually processing my claim and doing the math before asking in a strangled voice, "Who?" Shit...I sniff and wipe my face with my hand, erasing my tears. "Why did you leave me that book, then, if it's not mine?" "What?" "That book - the one with all the sonograms in it. It was in my desk. You made it for me while I was gone and then you left it there. If I'm not the father, then why did you make it for me?" He asks angrily. Oh, goddammit. No, no, no, no, no, no. "I-I...I...I didn't -" "You're a bad liar, Scully," he says calmly, feeling the baby kick at him again. "Why are you lying to me?" "I'm not," I say, starting to whimper and shake again. "You are." There's no anger in his voice now, just confusion and hurt. "Why are you lying to me?" "I-I-I'm n-n-" He gets up, walks around the bed, and lays back down in front of me, tilting my face to his. "You are. Why?" I do what I do best, then: burst into loud, keening sobs and bury my face in his chest while he holds me tightly, whispering that it's okay and to calm down, I'll upset the baby. If he only knew. <><><><><><> When I wake up this time, it's to the smell of something yummy in the kitchen and the sounds of pots being dropped and muffled cursing. Mulder must be cooking - Mulder. Mulder's back. He's safe and he's in my kitchen, cooking us dinner. I smile and burrow further into the covers, thinking that, for right now, all is right with the world. Then the baby kicks and Mulder knocks on the door, poking his head in before letting the rest of his body follow. "Hey," he says softly, sitting beside me and finding my hand underneath the covers, lacing our fingers together. "Have a nice nap?" I nod absently, focusing on how warm his hand is. "I made us some dinner. You hungry?" Not anymore. I blink at him in the lamp light, wondering how late it is. "C'mon, I'll bet the baby's hungry." He smiles at his words, then pushes the covers off of me and waits for me to get up and follow him into the kitchen. "You okay?" He asks once I'm seated with a plate of chicken-flavored Rice From A Box in front of me. "Yeah," I whisper, picking up my fork and pushing the rice around a little. He watches me as he eats his own rice, then starts talking rapid- fire, not even pausing to breath. "I was thinking. I think we should get married - if you want," he adds softly. "I want to. I mean, I've wanted to - that was the plan, right? Eventually, I mean not immediately, but now I think we should. Not -now- now, but a few months after the baby's born. I'm sure you're mother will want a big, elaborate wedding, but if you don't want that, I'm not gonna force it. As long as we're married, it doesn't really matter how, although it'd be nice if it was in a church so your mother wouldn't hate me more than she probably already does. And we need to look at houses - I got on the Internet and looked for a few, wrote down the numbers, you know, and made a few appointments for this weekend. I don't see any baby stuff around here, Scully, is he gonna sleep in a drawer? We need to get some stuff - I guess we can do that this weekend, too. What's wrong with it, is it not good?" He asks, taking a long sip of his tea and gesturing at the rice. To appease him, I take a tiny bite. I am hungry, but I don't feel like eating. "So, I was thinking Virginia, but if you'd rather be closer to your mother, that's fine. Houses are cheaper in the suburbs of Alexandria, but that doesn't really matter. You're not still in the field, are you? I don't want you in the field - it's too dangerous. I'm sure Skinner's already taken care of that, but if he has-" "We can't keep the baby," I tell the pile of sticky rice, interrupting his diatribe. "W-what?" He asks, leaning towards me. I keep my voice monotone, not betraying how hard it is for me to tell him this. "We can't keep the baby, Mulder. I wasn't lying when I told you it wasn't yours. It's not, but I don't know whose it is. It's a hybrid, like Emily." His eyes turn dark and feral, his hands clenching and unclenching on the table. "The Smoking Man approached me the day after you were abducted - I didn't even know you were gone yet - and told me that he had had a doctor implant the zygote in me while I was with him in Pennsylvania," I say softer, more empathetically. "I'm the mother, but the father's DNA was extra-terrestrial. He said They'd abduct me and take the baby at eight months." In the misery and loneliness that the past five months have been, it slipped my mind that the deadline was coming so close. Assuming, of course, that They stick to the original plan now that the arrangement has been altered. "Scully, that doesn't- that doesn't make any sense. Why would They do this? Why now?" "He said it was the next phase of the project - to have the hybrids gestate inside human mothers." Nodding, he takes a deep breath, licking his lips like an animal stalking its prey. "And you're just letting Them do this? Have you have genetic tests run? Are you sure what he's telling you is the truth? You can't trust him, Scully, you know that." "I didn't have much of a choice." "You did. You do. You could go into hiding or, if the baby was abnormal, you could've," he swallows, "terminated the pregnancy." "He said that if I did, They'd kill you," I say deliberately, finally meeting his eyes. "He said They're working with the Bounty Hunters - that's who abducted you. You were taken to ensure that I would go along with this. You weren't even supposed to know about this - They were going to return you after They'd taken the baby, but when -" my voice breaks and I have to look away from him. "When I had a miscarriage scare last month, They decided to return you early. I wasn't taking care of myself, looking for you, and it was hurting the baby." He stares at me for long, tense seconds, waiting for me to continue. When I don't, he sits back in the chair, picking up his fork like he means to stab something with it. "You seem awfully calm about this," he finally says, focusing on the metal prongs. "I don't have a choice," I repeat, feeling the urge to cry again. Damn this hormonal pendulum. "You do, Scully. You don't have to give up your child for me." "It's not my child, Mulder. It's a hybrid, a creation. An abomination of nature. I don't want it." "How can you say that?" He screams, standing up and pacing beside the table, looking wild and confused and afraid. "This child is a part of you! It's probably the only child you'll ever have! How can you be so emotionally detached from it?" "They're going to take it from me anyway! Why shouldn't I be detached?" "You can fight Them, Scully. -We- can fight Them." "And what if They take you again? What if They don't return you this time? What if They kill you?" He leans down to me, his nose brushing mine as he speaks. "It doesn't matter, Scully. You can't let Them do this. I'm not gonna let Them do this. I'm not gonna let Them use you and abduct you and take from you and I'm sure as hell not gonna let you allow Them to," he says in a low, threatening voice. I look away from him, my cheeks burning and hot tears scalding paths down them. "Scully..." he says, sitting down again and softening his tone. "I can't imagine what these past five months have been like for you, but we can't let Them win this one. You can sit there and tell me that it doesn't matter, that you don't want the baby, but it's a lie. I know you, Scully, and I know how much you want this. You have to - I do. Even though according to you, that child has no blood relation to me, I want it. I want to keep it and raise it like it was mine. I want us to do that together. But most of all, I don't want you to have to give up that option for anything, especially me." "If I had to choose, I'd choose you," I tell him. "Nothing else matters to me." He puts his hand on my back, rubbing and closing his eyes against his own tears. "Then we'll have to make sure you don't have a choice to make." Confused, I look up at him. "There's more than one way to skin a cat, Scully. We'll just have to explore the other ways." <><><>End Part Two<><><> Feedback and comments - be they good or bad - are welcomed at lil_gusty@hotmail.com