The Naked Kitties, Part Three: Stretched ThinThe Naked Kitties, Part Three: Stretched Thin Headers and Notes with Prologue and can be found where ever fic is posted. <><><><><><> I didn't say much to him for the rest of the night. I knew this would happen. I -knew- it and I let his sensitivity and his pathos affect me. All he had to do was put his hand to my belly to feel the baby - what he believed, despite everything I'd told him, was -his- baby - move. I felt something inside me start to melt as he looked up at me with those round, awe-filled eyes and then it refroze again, harder than before. He's going to do something stupid. He's going to try and make a deal or a trade or something to save the baby. He's going to get himself killed. I shouldn't have let him manipulate me like that. I should've stuck to my story about how the baby belonged to someone else, then told him that the father and I were going to get married and that I had to move to some tiny island nation where they don't speak English right away. He would've been hurt, but he would've let me go. He'd be safe. He'd be alive. "Scully, did you -" He stops, staring at me. His eyes are painted glass beads, shiny and bold. "Does Skinner know that I'm...back?" I shake my head, looking away from him. He knows I'm angry but he doesn't care. He goes into the bedroom and picks up the phone. His voice is hushed and all I can hear is the occasional syllable, not enough to understand the words. In a few minutes, he comes out again, shrugging into his leather jacket. "I'm going out for a while," he says softly, standing over me and expecting me to stop him. I don't. Leaning down, he presses his lips to my forehead quickly, hand on my stomach, and locks the door on his way out. He doesn't come back that night. <><><><><><> The next morning, I awake to the sound of something shattering and hushed cursing from the kitchen. When I manage to waddle out of my bedroom, Mulder's on his hands and knees picking up the pieces of a coffee mug and wiping up the spilled coffee. When he sees me, he winces, dropping his head and looking back at the floor before speaking. "You should be resting," he says as he stands, throwing the paper towels and broken ceramic in the trash can. I cross my arms over my aching breasts, fixing him with an icy stare. "I was gonna make you some breakfast, but I don't see any breakfast food in here." He opens the refrigerator and sticks his head in, searching for something and coming up with orange juice. "Folic acid," he reads from the carton, "helps prevent some birth defects." Pouring me a glass, he sets it down on the table and pulls out the corresponding chair. He's wearing the same clothes he was last night and I wonder where he's been. "Nice pajamas," he adds, starting to sweep the floor in case there are tiny shards of ceramic left. I'd started sleeping in one of his work shirts a when all my pajama tops got to be too small. The buttons were tight, but not bulging, and it reminded me of how much bigger than me he was. I'd never washed it, but a few weeks ago, it had lost his smell. The night I realized that, I'd cried myself to sleep. "Do you have to take these iron pills with food? I can go out and get you something." "I'd rather you tell me where you went last night," I finally tell him, sitting down and turning the juice glass around between my hands. "To talk to Skinner. He wondered why you hadn't called him, but I told him we'd been busy. You didn't tell me that he knew about this deal you made." He clenches his jaw, sitting across from me and folding his arms. "How many people know, Scully?" "Just you and him. My mother...my mother doesn't even know I'm pregnant." He opens his eyes wide, not believing that. "She left to stay with Bill and Tara a few months ago. He's stationed in Hawaii and Tara just had a baby, so," I shrug, thinking that explains everything. "A baby?" "Yeah, another boy - Conrad Joseph. They wanted a girl and they're already planning to start trying again this spring." He nods. "What do you want?" I look at him, not knowing what he means. "Boy or girl?" "It doesn't matter," I tell the orange juice. He stands, pouring himself a cup of coffee and not facing me. "I think I want a girl. I go back and forth. As long as it's healthy, it doesn't really matter, but I'm sure your mother would love a granddaughter since both your brothers have had all boys." I shake my head, feeling nauseous. "I told the realtor that we'd meet him at the house at ten, so..." He trails off, hiding behind the cup before starting towards me. "I went home before I came back here - I had to get some clothes anyway - and I brought you this." Pulling something out of his pocket, he holds his closed hand out to me. When I continue to stare at the table, he sets whatever it is down beside the glass and says very softly, "It was my mother's. I got it from the house in Chilmark after she died. It's the closest thing I have to an engagement ring right now, but I think it'll fit." My eyes fill with tears and, when I blink, they vanish. "I'm going to take a shower," he tells me, disappearing down the hallway. After I hear the door close and the water turn on, I pick up the delicate gold and sapphire ring and pretend not to be surprised when it slides snuggly onto my finger. He probably had it sized last year, knowing him. I want so much to be able to wear it and let it be faithful to what it stands for - love, companionship, eternity. I want so much to be warm inside again - since he disappeared, there's been sleet pulsing through my veins and heavy, dark, winter clouds covering my mind. He can thaw me. All I have to do is pull back the shower curtain and let his veils of heat and his arms envelope me. If it were that simple, I'd stay inside them forever. I slide the ring off, setting it back down where he left it. <><><><><><> Some time ago - I don't know exactly when - we'd gotten in the habit of leaving the connecting doors between our motel rooms unlocked and open when we had them. It wasn't an invitation so much as it was a confirmation - I'm here and you're welcome. We didn't even knock before entering anymore; it was unspoken that we could come in. Of course, I'd never actually used this arrangement to my advantage after Mulder had gone to bed. It should still stand, though, as long as I didn't loiter if he was asleep. And I'm not loitering. I'm sitting and watching. There is a difference. To say that we'd been quiet and distant the past few weeks since our initial sexual consummation was a gross understatement. We'd withdrawn into ourselves, preferring solitude and silence to companionship and conversation. Our days at work were passed by one of us asking simple, quick questions, giving lingering, concerned glances, and extending hopeful invitations to dinner and the other responding with monosyllabic words, grunts, or just head nods and vague gestures. He knew I was concerned about him, and I knew he was concerned about me, but neither of us hadn't pushed the other beyond the daily, "What's the matter" accompanied by increasingly pathetic, worried facial expression. For some reason, I interpreted his not pushing as apathy even though I knew better: he probably thinks I regret having sex and want to forget about the whole forever arrangement. Nothing could be further from the truth; it's just difficult to make such a drastic change one night, then act like in never happened the next morning. I cared about him, but, after a while, you get tired of getting the same shoulder shrug and head shake and just give up. Like the door, I knew he was always open, though, should I choose to walk in unannounced. Like now. I'd finally decided that I missed him too much and I wanted to talk. If he regrets us finally having sex, he can tell me. I would understand and, if I was a little hurt, I would manage to get over it. Limited Mulder is better than no Mulder at all, so long as we both know the limits. Of course, he was asleep. I always did have great timing. He has to wake up eventually, and since I can't sleep anyway, I'll just sit here and wait. He'd had the curtains open when I'd come in - he claims he can't sleep in complete darkness - but I'd closed them until there was just a tiny stream of light coming through the cracks as I sat down at the omnipotent little table in front of the window, letting the soft snores and the light from the moon keep me company. I can barely make out the slight rise of his hips underneath the mounds of covers. His head is partially covered, too, and he's on his stomach, his head turned away from me as he sleeps, his breathing deep and even, relaxed. I wish I could've fallen asleep as easily as he did. In the past week, I don't think I've gotten more than two hours in a row and it's starting to grate on me. I just can't seem to turn my mind off lately. Movement from the bed, then: he huffs as he turns over, towards me, and pushes the covers down so that he's cool. I can't tell if his eyes are open, but, if they are, he'll have to see me sitting here. I wonder if he'll be angry. "Scully?" He asks drowsily, and I smile, wanting to hear him say my name in that voice over and over again. "Yeah," I answer him, just a breath with some intonation attached. "Whassamatter?" "Nothing," I lie. "Hmm," he sighs as he rolls to his back. "You always sit there while I s'eep?" "No." "Then why are you there t'night?" Caught, I look down in the direction of my feet, and close my mouth. "Is okay. You wanna lay down?" When I look up at him again, pretending I can see his face in the dimness of the room, he's pretending to look back at me, waiting. Silently, I stand and walk around his bed, pulling back the covers and sliding into the warm place he left me. Mmm...Mulderwarm...and all my thoughts melt away into the night as I resist the urge to curl into a ball against him. "Now, what's the matter?" He asks again, significantly more awake. I exhale, sounding exhausted - which I am - and open and close my mouth a few times before figuring out what to say. "I don't know." It's another lie, but I don't know how to verbalize what I'm feeling, so it's close enough. He lets out an exasperated puff of air, then turns onto his side, away from me, again, not pressing any further. For a few minutes, I try and convince myself that physical nearness is better than no nearness at all and close my eyes, trying to relax. "Scully?" He asks softly a few minutes later, not even bothering to turn over. "Hmm?" "Do you ever wonder where it ends?" "Where what ends?" "This. Working for the Bureau, being shuffled around from one meaningless assignment to another." "You mean, this arrangement? You and me?" "No," he says quickly. "You know they're talking about shutting us down again, don't you?" I nod my head against the pillow - I'd figured as much. "It's just...ever since I heard that, I've been wondering where it ends. When I can quit with a clear conscience and move on with my life." "Oh," I breath, hesitating before he turns over and slides closer to me, laying his head on the very edge of my pillow. "Is that what's been wrong with you lately? You've been thinking about quitting?" "I don't know. Honestly, I don't, Scully. I've been so confused...I thought that if they ever tried to shut us down again, I'd be angry and I'd fight them, but I just didn't feel it. It's more like...I don't know, like a burden is being lifted, I guess. I think I've wanted them to do this for a long time." "How long?" "Since Samantha - since we found her," he admits. "I told myself a long time ago that I still needed to find the man that did this, bring him to justice, not just for her, but for you and your sister and Emily -" He hears me sniff quietly and lowers his voice, almost embarrassed to bring this up. "But my heart's just not in it anymore. I'm so tired of this, Scully, you have no idea how tired I am. No, yes you do, I'm sorry." He looks over at me for the first time, expecting me to be angry at him. "No, I don't," I whisper secretly, like there are others in the room and I don't want them to overhear. "You've been doing this your entire life, almost. I can't imagine what that was like for you, knowing you'd devoted your life to finding something that was never there to find." "It was just wasted time," he agrees sadly. "I wasted my life...and now I want to stop wasting it." I sniff again. "Is that how you see it? That it was wasted time?" "Yes. And I'm sorry you got pulled into it." "I don't see it as wasted time, Mulder." "You don't? After everything that's happened to you, you don't resent me and my worthless quest?" I slide my head closer to his, so that my lips are just beside his ear. "No. I'm grateful that I met you. I thank God every night that you're in my life and I ask Him to keep you safe so that you'll always be with me." He sighs, his breath watery and sad. "If you want to be," I clarify. "Mulder, I don't want you to do something that makes you miserable because of me. If you want to quit, then quit." "What would you do?" He asks, lowering his voice to our conspiracy tone. "I don't know; go back to Quantico, maybe. They've wanted me back for years -" He nods, not wanting to encourage or discourage that idea. "- but that shouldn't matter when you're trying to decide what you want to do." Maybe he wants me to tell him that it should matter. Maybe I should demand that he stay by my side and fight as I try to bring the man who's ruined my life to justice, just as I've done with him all these years. Or maybe he just wants an excuse to stay. "What would you do?" I ask. "I don't know. I have no idea," he admits. "Well, you can't quit the Bureau until you decide," I tell him needlessly. "I did, once. Quit without deciding what I'd do after that. I typed up my letter to Skinner and gave it to him without a second thought. You know what he did?" He turns his head towards me so that we're nose to nose. "He tore it up into tiny pieces and told me it was unacceptable." "When was this?" "When you were in the hospital after your abduction. Everyone told me you were dying and there was nothing I could do, so I just quit." "You gave up?" I ask in a stronger voice. "No, but I couldn't keep working there. I'd just figured out that the Bureau had something to do with it and if I kept working there, it was like I was contributing to it - even more than I already had." My silence makes him uncomfortable, so he rambles to fill the emptiness. "As I was walking out that day, X approached me. He said that the men that were responsible for your abduction were going to search my apartment that night at eight seventeen - they thought I had information about what had happened to you - and that I needed to be there to kill them. So I sat there, waiting for them until someone knocked on my door. It was only seven thirty, though; it was Melissa. She told me that you were getting weaker and they didn't expect you to live until morning - she wanted me to come see you and I told her I couldn't. "Right after she left, though, I decided that being with you as you died was more important that killing the men responsible. If I killed them, I would've been no better than they were. I would've been a calculating murderer. So I went to the hospital and sat with you until sunrise. When I got home, they'd been there - they destroyed my apartment looking for whatever they wanted. And I just sat down on the floor and cried," he finishes softly, his breath hitching. "Mulder," I whisper, laying my head against his heart and sliding my arm around his waist, pulling him against me. He wipes away tears with one hand and puts the other on my back, rubbing gently. "You saved me that night, Scully, but sometimes I wonder how much pain I would've spared you if I'd been at home to kill those men. I'm sure whoever had sent them would've had me killed shortly after that, but you would've lived anyway, so it would've been worth it." "You don't know that. I like to think that you were the reason I woke up." "Why?" "I told you, I had the strength of your beliefs. Isn't that what you said to me that night?" "Yes." I don't elaborate, letting him ponder that revelation for a while before I finally say, "I'll support you no matter what you do, Mulder. I just want you to do it - or not do it - for the right reasons." He can tell by my voice that I'm getting sleepy again, so he opens his mouth to tell me thanks for letting him talk with me about this and go back to my room when I tighten my arm around him and snuggle into his side, getting comfortable. "'Night, Mul'er." After a minute of shocked hesitation, he answers me. "Night, Scully," he says. I smile slightly and, for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep easily. <><><><><><> I remember asking him once if we could just get out of the car: I never knew he wanted to, too. I never imagined that he'd take the initiative. "What'd you think, Scully," he whispers in my ear, kneading my shoulders and beaming. I sigh and clench my jaw, not answering. The realtor had told us that the house is almost eighty years old, but still strong and sturdy. It's had four different owners, all who kept it up nicely. The last owners were retiring and moving into a smaller house, since their children had moved on to their own lives. According to Mr. Hutz, the house was wonderful for couples just starting out, nodding to my belly that Mulder had insisted I stop hiding. "This could be the baby's room," he says, walking around the room, looking out the windows, and kicking the wall lightly like he's checking the tires on a car. "We could paint it or maybe put up some wallpaper...the crib could go here...and that thing, what's it called, the changing table, could go here. How much furniture do you figure a baby needs anyway? More than fish, I bet." He stops in front of me to see if I caught his joke. I did, but I'm not laughing. "Let's go see the master bathroom - I think it has a big tub that you can soak in." He takes my hand and leads me down the hall, the realtor watching us with a curious expression. "God, it's huge!" His voice echoes in the vaulted ceiling. "Scully...Scully," he finally realizes that I'm not as anxious to pick out our rest stop as he is. "Don't you like it?" I nod, looking down and squeezing my eyes shut against my tears. "Then what's wrong?" "You're not being practical, Mulder. Why do we need a house like this?" "For the baby," he reminds me, stepping closer and dropping his voice. I shake my head, my hands going to my back and rubbing where it's sore. He sighs, frustrated, and pushes my curtain of hair behind my ears. The realtor approaches, mumbling something about how miserable his wife was in her eighth month and asking if I need to sit down. Mulder waits for me to answer, then does it for me. "Can you show us the other house while we're out here?" <><><><><><> Six hours later, Mulder and Mr. Hutz were shaking hands, exchanging congratulations and thank yous. I sat in the car with the heat on full blast, my hand pressed into my ribs, absolutely miserable. "Sorry it took so long," Mulder says as he climbs back in the car. "He wanted to make sure we were sure before he took it off the market. I told him I'd talk to the bank and call him later this week about finalizing the contract. He said he's never had customers who buy after only looking at three houses, but I told him that we really didn't have anything specific in mind." Looking over at me as he waits for traffic to pass, he takes my hand and laces our fingers together. "I thought maybe we could go look for baby stuff tomorrow. If you feel like it - you look exhausted." I nod and he takes his hand away, turning onto the road. "You like the house, don't you? I saw your eyes light up at that Jacuzzi bathtub." "I just think you're moving too fast," I say, turning to stare out at the dimness of the evening. "We don't have much time, Scully. That baby's not gonna wait until we're ready for it." "That's not what I mean." "What, then?" "Mulder, you just got out of the hospital. You were just returned after being gone for five months. You're bouncing back in like nothing's happened." He nods, not really paying attention. "But nothing happened. I don't have any injuries and I don't have any memory. They didn't do anything to me." "Are you sure?" I ask him softly. "I'm not waiting around to find out. I don't have a job and I don't have any immediate plans for the future beyond dragging you to the courthouse, if I have to, and settling down. That's all that I'm worried about right now. And if the baby's gonna have my nose," he grins. "Chances are you'll never even see it," I say more to myself than to him. "Scully, when did you get so pessimistic?" "When I was told by an evil, vindictive man that he would take the baby or kill you. Isn't that what you and Skinner talked about last night? How to circumvent my decision by offering yourself to him?" "If I wasn't planning to be here for all of this, why would I be buying a house and marrying you?" "So that me and the baby will have everything you think we need." He shakes his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. "I don't want you doing that. I don't want you making any deals to try and save this thing. I've made my decision and can you, for once, respect that?" As we slow down for a stoplight, he turns to me, taking my hand again. "Scully, look at me." I do - his face is creased with worry and exhaustion, but his eyes are bright and hopeful. "Do you trust me?" I blink, my eyes burning. "Yes. You know I do." "Then trust me now. I'm not putting myself in any unnecessary danger, but I'm not letting you sit passively back and let this man continue to rob you of things that are precious to you. Just trust me when I say that everything will work out, okay? Please?" I look away, my breath hitching, and he eases onto the gas again, slipping through the night. <><><><><><> I remember when I was little, my mother would tell me and Melissa bedtime stories about our wedding days. We couldn't have been more than ten, but she would regale us with memories of her own wedding - of walking under the swords that the sailors held above their heads, of our father in his best dress white uniform, of how much love and hope for the future she saw in his eyes as he waited for her at the end of the altar. She would smile tearily, tucking us in and telling us about how we would understand when it was us walking underneath those swords one day, when it was our husband in the dress whites and it was love and hope for us we saw reflected back at us: when we married a Navy Man, we would understand. Usually, those stories would be a preface to her telling us where we were moving to next and how long we had to pack and say goodbye to the tenuous few friends we'd managed to make. I knew at the tender age of seven that I didn't want to marry a Navy Man and move all around the world. I loved my father and I admire him for what he did, but I would never subject my children to that kind of temporary lifestyle. Mulder asked me once, a long time ago, what it was like not having a hometown. Not having any life-long friends. He'd grown up in a small, posh community, graduated with the same group of people he'd gone to kindergarten with, and couldn't imagine such a life as mine. I told him it was very lonely and that I'd learned early on that the only constant in life was family. He'd looked wistfully at me, shook his head, spit a sunflower seed into his fingers, and mused about yet another way we were completely different. It was a hard life - a hard way to grow up - but the one thing it taught me, that I've always appreciated, was how to be transparent to people. How to not be frigid, but not be warm, and how to make superficial, fleeting friendships that you could always say goodbye to the next time your country decided to uproot you. I learn fast in new environments and am keenly aware to subtle social barometers; I know how to fit in and be liked and I know how to guard myself against getting too close. If you get too close, you get hurt. People always leave you and, if they don't, you'll leave them. Either way, everyone is transitory, so don't work too hard at getting attached. It had worked well for my entire life. Then, I met Mulder. One night after we'd made love and I lay on top of him, him stroking my bare back and murmuring against the top of my head how he could feel every rise and dip of my spine, I'd realized that Mulder was the best friend I'd ever had. He was the closest person outside my family that I'd ever known. He was the most permanent thing in my life. My heart sped up when I realized that I was too attached to him and that, at some point, he would leave me just like everyone else. For the first time in my life, I'd let my defensive, transitory varnish drop away and left myself open and vulnerable to someone - and I was bound to get hurt. He pressed his open palm to my back, where my heart was beating wildly, and asked me what was wrong. I told him nothing and he laughed softly, telling me that was reason number four hundred sixty two that he loved me: I never whined. I laughed, too, and whispered against his skin that I was afraid of losing him. "You'll never lose me, Scully," he whispered back, trailing his lips down the soft hair along my temple. But he lied. I did lose him. Not two weeks later, I was pregnant and alone. I knew I had made a mistake when I let him get close to me, when I let him hurt me. I knew I couldn't make the same mistake twice. But oh, how I missed him. How I wanted nothing more than to absorb him into my skin and never be without him again. How I wanted him inside me for the rest of our lives. How I wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go. To him, we'd just made a pact for our future: that after our case in Oregon was finished, we'd cut back on work and fill in each our lives with the other. We'd decide what was important to us and how we could pursue that. The only certainty was that we'd be together; beyond that, our future was open, endless. A new beginning. To me, that was six months, a forced hybrid gestation, and a manipulative abduction ago - we weren't even in the same world. He wanted to pick up where we'd left off and I wanted to end everything: us, our jobs, our future. He stays with me every night while I type autopsy reports and write lesson plans, making sure I eat a balanced dinner and get to bed at a decent time, asking me about colors for the baby's room ("Pastel green? I like blue, but what if it isn't a boy? We really need to find out, Scully") and whether or not we should make the Gunmen godfathers. At ten o'clock, whether I'm done working or not, he ushers me into my bedroom and tucks me in bed, kissing me on the cheek, placing his hand on my belly, and looking like he wants more. He's waiting for me to invite him to stay with me, to hold me all night long, and to get me ice cream when I wake up at one thirty dying for some Concession Obsession. Instead, I rub the sore spot the baby loves to kick and thank him for being here, reminding him to turn out the light on his way home. I know he's confused and I know I'm hurting him. It'll hurt less when They come to collect on the deal I'm sure he's made. It'll all be worth it then. I have dreams, sometimes, where I have the baby. It has brown, wavy hair and blue eyes and my nose and his lips. The doctor tells me it's normal and it looks perfect. They ask me to fill out the birth certificate and I don't even get past the baby's name before I realize that Mulder isn't there. On those nights, I call him and he comes over to sit with me while I cry and shift restlessly in bed. Sometimes, as I'm dozing, I'll feel him lay down beside me with his head against my stomach, murmuring to the baby how much he loves it and how excited he is for it to arrive. Once, I threaded my fingers through his hair and dreamed I smiled at him and he smiled back. I get wistful sometimes. I wonder what will happen after the baby's gone. If he'll spend the rest of his life looking for it like he did with Samantha, thinking that if he could find it and bring it home he could construct his own little family. If he'll still want to pick up where he left off with me and try to have a bright, happy future. If he'll hate me for letting Them do this. He doesn't know what it's like to lose a child. Everything else, yes, but not a child. I hope he never does. He does know me and he knows how hormonally emotional I've become. He takes my anger with a twist of dry humor and he rubs my back lightly when I'm depressed. When I ask him to stay, he stays; when I tell him to leave, he leaves. He always comes back, though. Tonight, he's being especially obnoxious. He went shopping today and brought home six different wallpaper samples, asking me to choose which one I liked better. I peaked in the oven at his latest concoction, swallowed the iron pill he'd left out for me, and propped up my swollen feet on the coffee table. I don't know what he does all day, but house-husband Mulder is a little frightening. "I think we need a theme, Scully," he starts, sitting down beside me and stretching two samples out across his knees. "That's what the lady at the store said: we pick a theme and build around that. Wall color, border, a mobile, bedding, decorations. She was showing me this Noah's Ark thing, but that was too warm and fuzzy for me. I like the stars." He unrolls one of the samples, small, soft yellow stars on a pale blue background. "We could paint the top of the walls this yellow, put a chair rail in the middle, and put the wallpaper at the bottom or vice versa. Or, we could paint the whole wall yellow and put the border at the top. They have this mobile thing, with a moon and some stars, that go with it, and the blankets and stuff, of course. What do you think?" I think I'm retaining so much water, I'm gonna float away. "They had this baby sea animal thing, too, that has a white whale on it. It's new, though, and she wouldn't give me a sample. I told her we'd be back this weekend." "You have this all planned out, don't you?" I ask, opening up a random folder of autopsy notes. "Well, someone's got to. He's not gonna wait for us to get things ready for his big debut," he grins, poking my belly lightly. In response, the baby kicks back, and Mulder lays his palm flat, wanting to feel it again. "Where'd you go today about ten? I called you, but your voice mail kept picking up." "I had a doctor's appointment." "What's wrong?" He asks quickly. "Nothing, just a monthly check up with the OB that C.G.B. hand- picked. I'm thirty-two weeks. Do you know what that means?" He closes his eyes briefly. "Eight more weeks," he whispers, rubbing my stomach lightly. "No," I correct, frowning. "I'm eight months. They said They're taking it at eight months." He blinks twice, not looking away from my eyes. "So you can throw all that shit away," I continue, starting to feel the pendulum swing into the depression end. "I told you not to do this." "Scully -" "I have work to do, Mulder. I need to get started." Letting out a slow, steady breath, he stands and goes into the bedroom. I hear a plastic bag rustling and a few minutes later, he comes out, sitting down beside me again. "I got something for the baby today," he says softly, sounding upset. "It reminded me of that puff ball you called a dog. I thought we could name him Queequeg Two, The Revenge." A small, stuffed Pomeranian appears on top of my sketches of the victim's lungs. He gets blurry, and I blink back tears. "I know you're nervous, Scully, but you don't need to be. Everything will be fine. After the baby gets here, you'll see. It'll be perfect and we can forget that this whole thing ever happened. They're not going to take him. Not now, not ever." "What did you do?" I ask slowly, my voice rough and heavy. He takes a deep breath. "Nothing." "What. Did. You. Do." "I didn't do anything, Scully." "GODDAMMIT MULDER!" I scream, throwing my file against the wall. The papers flutter to the ground like snow and I stand, pacing in front of the couch and stepping on the soft flakes. "I TOLD you! I TOLD you not to do this! You ALWAYS do this to me! Goddammit WHY can't you just not second guess me for ONCE?" He sits calmly, watching me, his eyes the only part of him moving. "Scully, you weren't given a fair choice -" "My CHOICE was to either have this THING, this ABOMINATION or YOU! I chose YOU, dammit! I made my decision! I DON'T WANT THIS THING! I WANT YOU, MUL-" And then I sob, not able to hold it back. "I want you, Mulder," I say more softly. "They can't- you- I- you..." Loud, hiccupping, diaphragm based, fetus- upsetting sobs. He rises, finally, standing over me and placing his hands on my shoulders, trying to draw me into his chest. "I- I c-c-can't let them take you again. I-I can't lose you, Mulder. I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't..." He wraps his arms around me awkwardly, trying not to squish my stomach, and hushes me quietly. "You won't lose me, Scully. You'll never lose me." I link my arms around his waist, hoping to God it isn't a lie this time. "But I won't let you lose this, either. I know you're afraid, Scully. You're terrified that what the Smoking Man told you is true. You're terrified that this baby will be like Emily. I am, too. I'm scared to death. But I won't admit that I don't want this. And I know, whether you'll admit it or not, that you want this, too. You have to, Scully." I shake my head, my hair catching on the light dusting of stubble on his throat. "What if," he whispers, smoothing my hair down and pressing his lips to my forehead. "What if the Smoking Man was wrong? What if we did this without his help? If it was normal and healthy and perfect, Scully. Would you want it then?" Instead of answering, I swallow my sobs and let my body tremble with the effort of holding them inside. Eventually, I let him carry me into the bedroom, not waiting for an invitation before he lays down behind me and pulls me close against his chest, outlining his body with mine and holding me while I sleep. <><><><><><> "Hey," he whispers, lacing his fingers through mine. They're cold and I squeeze them tighter, warming them. "Have a nice nap?" I sit up quickly, my eyes going wide. "I went to sleep? How long -" "Not long. Lay back down, the pizza's not even here yet. You okay?" "Yeah," I answer, rubbing my eyes against the dim evening light from the window. I should've known that when I made Mulder my lover, I'd get a lot more than just a stiff dick and a few thousand "I love you's" every night. Devoted Mulder, caring Mulder, sickeningly sweet Mulder, attached at the hip Mulder, and grinning for no reason Mulder all came in the package. We've only had sex seven times now, but I can tell that he wasn't kidding when he made me promise forever. It should've been the easiest thing in the world, making the change, but it was one of the hardest and most arduous things I've ever done. Every word I say, every gesture I make, I'm afraid of sending him the wrong signal and him withdrawing from me. If that were to ever happen, our professional relationship and our friendship would soon follow. There was so much at stake that, at times, I questioned whether or not a little pleasure was worth the risk. Then, he would curl up behind me, wrap him arms around me, and whisper that he loved me as he was falling asleep. Not only did it send shivers down my spine, it melted any uncertainties I'd had. When he'd invited me over to do our monthly expense report, I knew that I wouldn't be going home tonight. Word was that all divisions were being audited for extravagant spending and we were on the chopping block first. We'd worked hard on the report for an hour before turning on the TV and ordering a pizza. A few minutes later, I was asleep, my legs draped across Mulder's lap. "Got you some Tylenol," he says, handing me a glass of water and moving to sit beside me on the couch. "Thanks." He knows that numbers give me a headache: considerate Mulder. "I thought we'd finish this tomorrow." The papers that were strewn across the floor and the coffee table earlier are in a neat stack on the corner of his desk now, the unspoken assumption hanging in the air. You'll stay tonight, won't you? "Okay." Yes, of course I will. He grins - for the fiftieth time tonight - and stands, walking back into the kitchen. I turn onto my side and face the television - some commercial with a little blond girl in a ballerina outfit is on. The voiceover is saying something about how special mothers are for loving and caring for their children. Only the best moms give their children Tropicana orange juice. By the time Mulder's back in the living room, tears are streaming down my face. "What's wrong?" Asks Concerned Mulder, kneeling beside me again. Not answering, I reach for his hand, staring at him with wide, curious eyes. He reaches up to wipe a tear track away with his thumb. "Scully, what?" "I want to ask you a question and I want you to give me an honest answer," I say, barely above a whisper. "Okay," he nods. "If we could...would you -" I reach behind his neck, pulling his face down to mine. "I love you." "I love you, too," he whispers against my cheek, his tongue capturing a tear. "If we could, Mulder...would you want a baby?" His breath is a long, hot, narrow stream against my neck. "Why?" "I just...I want to know that I'm not taking anything away from you." "Scully..." He kisses my temple, tunneling his fingers through my hair. "You're all that I want, Scully. As long as you don't take that away from me, nothing else really matters." "But if we could, would you?" I persist. For some reason, it's very important that I know this. "No," he says after a long pause. "You're lying," I whisper, starting to cry again. "It doesn't matter." "It does to me." "Why?" "Because I don't want you to have to sacrifice that for me." "If that's all I have to sacrifice," his nose trails down my cheek and over to my lips. "It's worth it." And I believed him. <><><><><><> It's dark outside even though it's only a little after seven thirty: I'll have to get used to the time change all over again. The lamp beside my bed is on, casting a warm, rose-colored glow over the still room and I burrow further under the covers, happy to be inside, out of the much-too-cool-for-the-beginning-of- November wind. There's something heavy and hot behind me: Mulder and his glasses, a book propped on his chest. I turn slowly towards him, my stomach brushing his hip under the blanket. He smiles, finishes his paragraph, and lifts his arm to let me snuggle closer into his chest. I missed this: dozing with him as he reads or watches TV. Our sleeping schedules never coincided and sleeping together didn't change that. He'd stay up until one or two and lay in bed until noon whereas I liked to go to bed early and wake up to usher in the sunrise. "What're you reading?" I mumble sleepily into his shoulder. "'Infant Personality Development: Grand Psychodynamic Models.' If I'd have known I'd need this stuff, I would've paid more attention in my development classes." "Whassat mean?" "That means I spent too much time staring at Phoebe instead of the professor," he teases. "No, psychodynamic." "Any theory that's based on Freud's models is psychodynamic. Jung, Erikson..." "Sex?" "It's more than that. Don't go back to sleep, you didn't eat any dinner." I hear the book close and he shifts as he sets it on the bedside table. "You feelin' better?" "No," I mouth against his skin. He turns to face me, sliding down the pillows until we're nose to nose. "What's the matter?" I shake my head, finding that warm place against his throat. "Scully," he says after a still moment. "We need to talk." I need to get warm. Curling tighter into the arc of his body, I fight the urge to chatter my teeth. "I don't like this distance you've put between us lately. We were so close to working the dynamics of this out before and now it's like you're not even interested in it. I know...I -know- how this feels to you, but you know how this feels to me, too. We're the only people that can understand each other right now and we need that. We need to work this out. You need to talk to me." His throat vibrates against my cheek as he speaks and it lulls me into a light relaxation. "And I need to talk to you, too. I haven't been doing that." He pauses as the baby shifts, rearranging his hand so that he can feel each subtle movement. "I'm afraid to slow down," he continues in a whisper. "I'm afraid of waiting to see how this turns out and having everything vanish: you, the baby. I know I'm just avoiding myself but I feel like I have to move on. When you were returned, I was amazed at how quickly you seemed to pick up where you left off - I expected you to have nightmares or flashbacks, but you didn't because you didn't remember anything. Whatever They did to you, They kept you sedated enough so that you were never able to consciously process what was happening. You had no psychological effects because there was no psychological trauma. "The same thing happened to me, though. They didn't do -anything- to me, so I can't have any memoories or dreams or flashbacks. There's nothing to fuel it. I know that five months of my life have passed, but, to me, it was just like being asleep. Skinner wants me to take a leave of absence and see a therapist and I know as a psychologist that there are facets of this that I'm avoiding, but there are more important things that I need to address right now. Like you. Like the baby. Like where we go from here. I'm filling up my life with other things so I don't have to face my own experience." Every time I blink, his voice becomes a little more husky and his breathing comes a little quicker. This time, he stops, swallows thickly, and looks down to see if I'm paying attention. I am. He's never had a more rapt audience. "I don't mean for you to feel like I'm forcing you to do things you don't want to and I don't want you to feel like I'm rushing this. This is just what I want and, in a way, I guess I'm trying to make up for these five months. I want to marry you. I want to buy a big house in the country. I want this baby. It just seems like everything is available now and I'm afraid that if I don't take it, it'll slip away. Does that make any sense at all?" "Yes," I tell him. He closes his eyes, pulling me closer. "I miss you, Scully. I miss this. Please tell me it's not too late." "It's not too late." "If I'd have known you were pregnant, I never would've gone to Oregon. You know that, right?" "Yes." "I think I'll regret that for the rest of my life: not being here for this. I've missed so much of your life and the baby's - it doesn't matter if it's not mine, Scully. Even if it is a, a hybrid, I still want," he swallows again, beginning to cry. "I still want to be apart of this. This is the only opportunity I'll ever have to experience this and I don't want to miss anything. "I guess the point of this is to tell you that you have choices. I'm not going to force you into anything. If you don't want to get married, we don't have to. If you don't want the house, we won't buy the house. If you don't want me to have anything to do with the baby, I won't. If you want to let Them take it, then it's your choice. You believe that it's your baby, not ours, so it's up to you. You know what I want and, regardless of the circumstances, that won't change. They're your decisions." I press my open mouth against his heart, too shocked to speak. "Whatever you decide, though, Scully...please don't shut me out of -your- life. I promised you you'd never lose me. Promise me the same," he whispers. "I promise," I finally manage to say. He squeezes me once, then rolls away from me. "Dinner should still be warm. Do you feel like coming to the kitchen or do you want me to bring it in here?" Not speaking, I rise and follow him out of the bedroom, a little unsteady on my feet. <><><><><><> Dinner was silent. Mulder watched me as I ate, struggling to swallow a few bites of his own, then washed the few dishes by himself. When he was finished, he stood in front of the table, wringing the dishrag nervously in his hands, and asked me very softly if I wanted him to go. No, I told him. He nodded, looking dazed, and waited for me to give him instructions on how to proceed. I stood in front of him and guided him to my chair, placing each of his hands on either side of my stomach. "Put your ear here," I whispered to him. He did. "Do you hear it?" He nodded slowly. "What does it sound like?" "A heartbeat?" He asked, his voice shaking. I tugged his head up with my fingers in his hair, stepped closer to him, and kissed him softly on his lips. "Come to bed," I whispered. He'd never been nervous when we'd made love before; his hands are shaking now. "You're sure this is okay?" He asks me for the thousandth time, kneading my breasts with his hands the way I showed him. Not too rough, but not too gently: just right. "Yes," I moan, looping my leg over his from in front of him. We've never done it like this before - from behind. Then again, we haven't done much of anything beyond the basics. "I won't hurt the baby?" "No." "You're sure?" "Yes," I say a little too sharply. He presses his lips against the bump at the top of my spine, dropping his hands to my hips. "And I won't hurt you?" I pull one of his hands lower with my own, pressing his fingers against my clit. "No." Slowly, slowly he penetrated my body with his, merging his soul into mine. They can't take this away from me again. They can't, I won't let Them. I won't let him. Afterwards, we lay together, his body molded around mine while the cold air pushes at the windows, begging to be let in. The baby complains about being jostled. Mulder asks again if everything is okay, if he wasn't too rough. Perfect, I tell him, my eye-lids heavy. For that moment, everything is perfect. <><><><><><> Then I wake up, burning. So hot, God, so hot. His body behind mine is fire and the covers are coal. I can't breathe. There's something on the sheets that's not from us. Not from him. The stain is brownish-red beneath me. My womb contracts, my hands going to push away the pain. The baby doesn't move. "Mulder?" I call for him in the dark. "Hmm?" He calls back sleepily. "Mulder, wake up." He must hear the panic in my voice. "What, Scully?" "Mulder, the baby." "What?" He sits up beside me, hands covering mine as my womb contracts again. "I t-think my water broke." "WHAT?" "My water broke, Mulder, it's too soon," I pant. He's already up and dressed. "What do we need to do?" "They're taking it. I told you, They're taking it." More pain, deep inside me. "Mulder!" "What, Scully, tell me what to do!" "Hospital." He helps me dress and carries me to the car when I discover I can't walk. In the ER, he tells them he doesn't know the name of my obstetrician and stays beside me while the attending physician searches for the heartbeat. "How far along are you?" He asks, looking between us nervously. "Eight months. I just had my check-up earlier today," I answer, clenching my teeth against the pain. These aren't normal contractions, I know that. They're deeper, stronger. It feels like my viscera is contracting into itself. "I'm gonna have a nurse give you a little somethin' for the pain, okay? You just need to relax and take some deep breaths." "What's wrong," Mulder asks, his face the color of the sheets. "Her blood pressure's a little high and she's got a slight fever. Since her water broke and she's starting to go into labor, we're gonna give her somethin' to slow that down. If we wait too long, there's a chance she could get an infection, so we'll try and see how much the baby's lungs are developed and, if we think there's a good chance, we'll go ahead and deliver. If not, we'll wait a few days and see what happens. We'll know more once her OB calls us back but, until then, one of ours is on her way down," he patiently explains. "Y'all just sit tight. The nurse'll be in soon to give you somethin' for the pain." He closes the door, leaving us alone, and I grab Mulder's hand, holding it tightly. "He must've done something earlier." "Who?" "The obstetrician. He said everything was fine and he told me that I was eight months, Mulder, he was telling me that They were still planning to take it. He did something to me to make me go into labor, Mulder." "You said They were gonna abduct you, though. Why would They abduct you from here? There are witnesses, it's too risky." "Mulder, They're taking it. I told you, They're taking it. I told you." "Scully..." he glances through the glass, seeing if anyone's watching. "I need to call Skinner, okay? I'll be right outside." "No, Mulder, don't leave. Please, don't leave." "I'll be at the nurses' desk, Scully, I have to call Skinner." "Why?" He sets his jaw, looking torn between me and the phone. "I told him I'd call him if anything happened," he says half-heartedly. "You did something. You and he did something, didn't you? You lied to me! Dammit, Mulder you LIED TO ME!" I scream, another pain hitting me. "Scully, please calm down. You're making it worse. The doctor-" "YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU GODDAMMED BASTARD! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?" I feel more liquid start to flow between my legs and Mulder's face gets a little more pasty. He runs to the door yelling for a nurse while the world around me gets white and hot and heavy. "Mulder -" I scream feebly as a nurse walks in, then turns around and yells at someone to page Maternity. Mulder's not there. No one is there when the world gets black and cold and light and I start to float. <><><>End Part Three<><><> This was posted a week early as a holiday gift to all readers. Hope everyone has a merry Christmas, happy Hanukah, kwazy Kwanza, and a solemn and dignified Ramadan. Spot "The Simpsons" reference, win a prize (and no, it's not the holiday thing). Feedback and comments - be they good or bad - are welcomed at lil_gusty@hotmail.com. It makes a great holiday gift!