Even Doves Have Pride II (full version)TITLE: Even Doves Have Pride II
AUTHOR: bugs
EMAIL ADDRESS: bugs1231@my-dejanews.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer and please request before archiving.
SPOILER WARNING: none
RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations-I have distributed a PG-13 version, sex 
free, please hold back your gasps of shock.
CONTENT WARNING: graphic depiction of a birth in both ratings. Ick warning.
CLASSIFICATION: M/S, Mulder POV, Humor, MulderAngst, ScullyChildbirthTorture, 
Marriagefic, Babyfic--Have I done it? Have I dodged the schoomp bullet? Is it 
possible in a Babyfic?
SUMMARY: The moment of truth has arrived for Mulder and he's suffering from some 
anxiety.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story takes place in the AU created with my story, 
Butterflies All Tied Up, but it isn't necessary to read the other stories for 
this one to make sense. All you need to know is M&S are married and Scully has 
been gone through artificial insemination with a fertilized egg created from one 
of her rescuedovum and Mulder's sperm. I have included the last part of Doves I 
to bring everyone up to speed. Doves I is in Scully POV, but Doves II is in 
Mulder POV. Please mark your scorecards.
GRATUDITIES: Thanks to my beautiful betas Finn, Alicia, and Kerri. Thanks also 
to all those feedbackers who clued me in that I had to write this story, or 
else. I thought the story was over at Doves I and now I'm happy I wrote this, I 
think it's a nice break for anyone who found Dark Seed a little…dark. 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
December 13, 1999; Shady Grove Fertility Clinic, Annapolis, MD 
I'm trying to find a way to put on the paper medical gown so that I preserve 
some semblance of my dignity. Mulder is carefully folding my clothes and putting 
them on a chair as I say to him, "Oh, in case I forget, when it's time to leave 
here, go out first and check the bushes for that Raaker person. So help me God, 
he's not going to stick his nose in our business again." 
Mulder nods as he helps me slide up onto the examining table. "Yes, dear." 
Oh Jesus. I've got to find a way to break him of his newest habit. Ever since we 
got the positive pregnancy test back he's been calling me 'Dear' and 'Darling'. 
What do I expect? This is a man whose models for marital behavior came from 
observing repressed WASPs while passing around pigs-in-blankets on silver 
platters at his parents' cocktail parties. 
Or... Perhaps I've fitted Mulder's choke collar too tightly and the reduced 
blood flow to his brain has caused permanent neurological damage... The 
impossibly cheerful technician enters and tells us she's ready to begin. Well, 
on with the show. 
I lie on my back, trying not to shiver as the she spreads the cold jelly over my 
already swollen belly. Mulder gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. The tech 
begins to run the sensor over my uterus, and I immediately begin squinting at 
the small grainy image on the screen. Her voice chirps in the background. 
"There's the head, an arm..." 
I reach out to Mulder and touch his face. I don't dare take my eyes off the 
screen, so I stroke his rough cheek instead. I feel tears under my fingertips 
and wipe them away. 
The technician asks, "Do you want me to sex the fetus for you?" 
Before Mulder can say anything, I speak. "No thank you, we'd like it to be a 
surprise." I feel Mulder's head nod under my hand as he turns it to kiss my open 
palm. 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
June 16th, 2000; Fairfax Hospital, Washington D.C. 
I come to. Everything is as it always is. I'm flat on my back, the whisper of 
fine hospital linens in my ear as I shift my body. The low, florescent lighting 
burns my eyes. My head hurts like hell. 
Scully is in a wheelchair next to my bed. She looks bad too, with big shadows 
under her eyes and the worry wrinkle between her eyebrows prominent. She gives 
me her special *You scared me* watery smile. 
I smile back. Everything is fine. Scully is here and in one piece. I concentrate 
to try to remember what happened. I don't want her help, I want to do it 
myself…Oh-my-god! 
"Scully, did I drop the baby?" I've failed already and I've only been a father 
for--how long had I been out? 
She's calm. "No, Mulder. How's your head?" 
For once, I won't accept her assurance. "Scully, where's the baby?" 
"In the nursery for now." She lifts herself carefully from her wheelchair. 
"Should you be up?" I fuss as I watch her tentatively take the few steps to my 
bed. I try to rise to help her, but my whirling vision forces me back into the 
pillow. I must have a concussion-- great. 
As she settles herself on the edge of my bed and slowly swings her legs up 
beside me, she gives me her sneaky, bad-girl glance from under the sheet of her 
hair. "No. But I want to make sure you're okay." 
I pull her close to me and we both groan in pain as our battered bodies come in 
contact, but neither of us shifts away. She settles into a half-sleep and I 
don't disturb her. 
I'm afraid to ask. I don't want to know. I've put up a good facade these past 
six months, ever since we saw the first sonogram of our child. 
In the beginning of our relationship, Scully continued to show her reticent 
attitude. I pushed her, perhaps with the arrogant assumption that I knew what 
for best for the two of us. 
I had known Scully was a bit ambiguous about trying to get pregnant. She doesn't 
take failure well, and she knew all the odds, down to the tenth of a percent. 
Once pregnant, however, Scully settled into a groove. She had a task and a goal, 
nurture the fetus and give birth to a healthy baby. This was a tangible she 
could grasp onto. 
Well, payback is a bitch--that's what life's taught me. Once my work was done, I 
had no purpose. I had nothing to do but worry. 
It started on the drive home from the doctor's office after viewing the 
sonogram. Despite my support of her decision not to know, the question was still 
swirling in my head, in bold red letters: What is the sex? 
That was the beginning of my slow descent into failure as a parent. I should 
love my child no matter what, accept it in whatever form it takes. But from that 
first moment I saw the shape slide out of the shadows on the screen, I wished 
for a boy. 
It truly had not occurred to me that pregnancy would result in a living, 
breathing baby who needed and wanted a father. My model for this role had gone 
through the motions but had lacked the depth to give me any confidence in my own 
ability as the clock ticked on Scully's belly, marking the time until my test 
would come. 
It suddenly hit me with a flash--a flashback to watching my father try to fasten 
his tie in the mirror, being unable to keep the look of contempt from my face at 
his fumbling, drunken hands and then meeting his eyes, realizing he'd caught me. 
I've spent a lifetime facing looks of contempt but I think the one that would 
finally break me would come from my child. 
And if it was a girl, a young woman with tattoos and multiple piercings, rolling 
her eyes at my admonishments… 
The thing is, I seem to have trouble keeping track of all the important women in 
my life. Some, like Sam, I didn't look after closely enough. Some, like Diana, I 
misplaced by being inattentive. Some, like Scully, I trusted to take care of 
themselves. Some, like my mother, dissolved right in front of my eyes. What 
chance would a little baby girl have with me as her father? 
The pregnancy itself went well and I actually enjoyed myself. Why couldn't 
Scully just stay pregnant forever? 
I didn't want to be away from her, so I went back to profiling at Violent 
Crimes, at least for the time being. I believed that if I tried hard enough to 
make myself a good husband perhaps I could be a good father. 
Everyone there greeted me warmly, much to my horror. I'd passed some test I 
hadn't realized I was taking from those big-bellied men around the water cooler. 
I had finally married and impregnated my immensely fuckable little partner. I 
was normal. 
Scully seemed less satisfied with her confinement than I did with mine. She was 
forced back behind a desk and autopsy table, neither of which was particularly 
comfortable with her protruding belly. 
She came to accept her confinement with her usual stoic reserve. But I kept 
catching her prying at my locked briefcase with a letter opener to look over my 
files. I took to consulting with her on all my cases and we both were satisfied, 
playing at being Nick and Nora Charles. 
Finally, in her seventh month, she came storming through the door of our 
apartment. I'd taken the afternoon off to assemble the crib, with extra high 
sides, a shiny white cage for our UberMulder. 
"What's wrong?" I was instantly worried. 
She flung her purse clear across the room, narrowly missing a vase on the dining 
room table, shot me a venomous look, and stomped out of the room with as much 
dignity as her large-bellied form could manage. 
I followed her down the hall, picking up the clothes she was shedding. "Scully, 
baby, what's wrong?" I'd learned to be sensitive to her mood swings. And to duck 
when she hurled shoes at me. 
She filled the tub and I got down the special aromatherapy bath salts, 
Tranquility, from the top shelf. Immersed in the water, she floated like a 
white, freckled hippo. She didn't have those twitching hippo ears to show her 
displeasure, but the crackling flames in her eyes did the trick. 
I soaped up a washcloth and began to smooth the rough cloth in circles around 
the blessed belly. "Honey?" 
She sighed dramatically and buried her chin in her chest. "I don't fit anymore. 
I can't work." 
Carefully, I asked, "Fit?" 
She spat out, "I can't reach the cadaver anymore. My arms are too short." 
I've somehow acquired the emotional control of a Shaolin monk since becoming 
involved with Scully, and it came in handy at this moment. 
"That's too bad, dear," I soothed. 
She grumbled on. "And I refuse to sit at that desk again, on the phone. So I 
went on maternity leave." 
"Perhaps this is for the best," I suggested. Through my mind flitted the 
statistics for mortality in women over thirty-five in childbirth. Now she would 
be home all the time. I could keep an eye on her every movement. Like a good 
disciple, I could worship at the temple of the blessed belly as often as 
possible. 
My washcloth-covered hand had slipped under her round stomach and between her 
legs. "Let me make it all better," I crooned. 
She looked away, but opened her thighs slightly. I took that as an invitation. I 
lifted one small foot to my mouth, running my tongue up the sole. She began to 
giggle and I practically creamed my shorts. I want to die with that giggle as 
the last thing I hear, but Scully swears she won't be laughing when I die. 
She lifted her other leg out of the tub and settled it over the edge of the tub 
as I began to suckle on her big toe gently. Ah, my little Russian gymnast 
Scully, limber even while seven months pregnant. 
Most of my fantasies I've shared with her, but this one I don't think she'd 
understand. Fantasy number 37, under Olympic sports, was to see her with those 
large paper flowers holding her hair in pony-tails, and her sleek body encased 
in a bright red leotard. And that arch in her back. I repositioned myself so I 
could get better access for my hand's work, rubbing and stroking between her 
legs, giving her the attention she so richly deserved after a bad day at work. 
My own belly pressed impatiently against the hard edge of the tub. The 'Daddy' 
books call them sympathy symptoms. I see a number of contributing factors, 
including that and anxiety and stress and depression--whatever it is, I seem to 
be trying to catch up with Scully's expansion. 
I'm not a fool. I realized I was suffering from severe anxiety. Just realizing 
that is half the battle. Hiding it from Scully is the other half. This anxiety 
has manifested itself in my eating habits. 
I first noticed when I started buying my sunflower seeds without their shells, 
and just up ending the bag of salted, shelled seeds directly into my mouth. They 
go down a lot faster that way. 
While Scully did go through cravings, she would only be interested in a 
particular food for a bite or two and then was revolted. Someone had to eat up 
all that food…and apparently it was me. 
I was rudely brought back to my task when my own Taj Mahal rose with a long 
groan from its reflecting pool, then sank beneath the surface, washing me over 
with a Tranquility scented wave. 
In the beginning, I tried to hide my concerns, but one day, she finally caught 
me. 
"What're you doing?" 
I was innocent. "Nothing." 
"Sure doesn't feel like nothing," she said wryly. 
She knew, she had to. Perhaps she only suspected. But she's a good enough 
investigator, she had to be able to figure it out. 
I was under the covers, and I had been whispering prayers at the altar in the 
temple of the blessed belly. My rational mind knew that my fate was already 
sealed, but like the fanatic I was capable of being, I still had to try. 'Be a 
boy.' 
She flipped the blanket back to reveal my red and sweating face, topped with my 
matted hair. Indifference dripped from her voice. "Well, if you're not doing 
anything anyway, while you're down there…" 
Ah, a way to distract her--perhaps she hadn't caught on. I quickly started 
grabbing pillows to support her lower back and buttocks for my task. 
The belly rising up above me, I draped the legs of my own little Olga up and 
over my shoulders. She seemed to prefer this angle and if anything, I was a 
loyal hand servant. 
I was sure she was too warm, so I blew cooling puffs of air onto her hot fleshy 
labia. I got a light thumping on my back from her heels and a low hum from 
somewhere on the other side of the belly. I took this as a sign of approval from 
the high priestess. 
As I settle my nose into her curls, the belly pressed my head to my task. 
Delicately I reached out with my tongue, humming with excitement under my 
breath. Broad strokes up through her folds with the rough side, and then a slide 
down with the slick underside of it. I know what she likes. She can't writhe 
anymore, she has to settle for rolling from side to side like some overburdened 
barge. 
She's not a big one for penetration during oral sex, so I contented my tactile 
needs by making broad sweeps with my hands over the blessed surface above me. I 
pushed myself up to be able to reach around it to grasp her breasts, and stroked 
their sensitive, taut weight gently. Just a slight pinch of her nipples--ah, 
there was that low moan that drives me wild. 
I started a little rocking rhythm of my own against the mattress, but I had to 
be careful. I hadn't done the laundry yet and there weren't any clean sheets. At 
least not any with the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton for my delicate little 
flower. 
Speaking of which--I wrapped my lips around her engorged clitoris and gave it a 
slight tug. I heard a faint rumbling, like a freight train coming down the 
tracks. I glanced up, the best I could in this position, and saw the pure white 
mound start to quiver. When the train's whistle gave a long, low screech as it 
roared past, it was like I'd been standing under the shelf of a snow bank, and 
an avalanche enveloped me. 
I barely hung onto my own orgasm and crawled up her body to get my reward. 
"Hmm…Mulder." she moaned as she tried to stroke my hair back in place. I smiled. 
There it was, my reward, that expression of pure bliss that softens her features 
to erase every bit of pain she's ever suffered. 
She had something else in mind. She slid her arm down between our bodies and 
found my rock hard cock. "Poor baby," she murmured. 
"It's okay," I groaned, turning away so I wouldn't be sent over the edge by the 
sight of her little pale hand on my pulsing dark penis. 
"No." she said in a completely businesslike tone, ruined by the fact she'd begun 
to stroke me. She gripped my cock right under the head, lightly twisting her 
hand around and around so she could still rub the tip tenderly with her thumb. 
Why does it take me forever to jack off and all she has to do is give me a few 
tugs and I'm lost? I still can't get used to looking down and seeing my reserved 
partner's pearl-white hand on my dick. 
I'm afraid I whimpered. I suppose I should be the grunting and groaning manly 
sort, but I seem to find myself whimpering and whining in bed. Although it's 
embarrassing, I'll use the excuse that we're still officially on our honeymoon. 
When she began a series of long, strong strokes down my shaft, I was lost. "Oh 
God!" was all I managed as my hips rose off the bed and the stream of my 
ejaculation spurted out to fall back over my abdomen. I swear this woman is 
going to kill me one day. 
But she was the one to fall asleep immediately, in the odd way she's developed 
during her pregnancy. We'd be having a conversation and suddenly she's gone. 
This time, my heart was still racing and I couldn't sleep. After wiping myself 
off with a tissue and snuggling up next to the blessed belly again, I began to 
draw a crude figure on it, a baby with a carefully added penis. 
I tried to start a conversation where I confessed my concerns, I really did. It 
just never turned out quite right. 
"What do you want the baby to be?" I'd casually asked a couple of weeks ago as 
she watched me wallpaper the baby's room with unisex Pooh borders. 
"It doesn't matter as long as it looks like you," she said. "No red hair, that's 
all I'm asking for." 
I turned on the ladder. "I like red hair." 
This earned me the raised brow. "You didn't have to put up with the teasing." 
"Firecracker," I said through a grin and she shook her head in disgust. Puffing 
out my chest, I added, "Anyone teases my kid and I'm gonna beat him up." 
Wryly she said, "I'm sure you would. That would be a sight--big, mean Mr. Mulder 
stomping on some little bully in the street." 
Frankly I didn't see the problem, but I was being carried away by a worse 
thought. What would the baby look like? The possibilities were daunting. 
A girl with my height and crackling red hair on top? With my big nose and feet? 
A boy with her height and too much curly brown hair? With my big nose and feet? 
I shook my head to knock loose the visions. 
This is how I spent those last weeks, spinning frightening scenarios, one after 
another, past my petty concerns about the baby's sex to cover all the birth 
defects the tests may have missed. I thought the resolution of the birth would 
set me free, but I was wrong. 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
She stirs beside me. "Wanna go look?" she whispers. 
I play stupid. "At what?" 
She raises her head up to look me in the eye and I have to work very hard to 
keep my expression open and innocent. Slowly she says, "I need to feed the 
baby." 
I reach over to ring the nurse's call button. "Yes. Let's go." There's no 
avoiding it now. 
As the nurses push us down the hall, the king and queen of pain in our matching 
wheelchair thrones, I feel the dread of a man on his way to the gas chamber. 
There's no going back now. This is it. Fatherhood lies at the end of this hall. 
My head is splitting with pain, and all my failures on the way to that 
humiliating moment come flooding back. 
Scully's contractions had started 23 hours ago. If you didn't know her like I 
did, you wouldn't have known she was in considerable pain. I could see the 
strength of the contraction on the monitor, but she would just lie there 
gripping my hand until it turned purple, staring at the ceiling. 
Maggie Scully sat on her other side, wiping her brow and offering her ice chips, 
but wisely didn't give her a hand to hold. 
Timidly I offered, "Honey? How is it?" 
This got a response. She rolled her head over to look at me, and her eyes were 
practically black. "How is it?" Each word came out like a drop of blood. "It 
hurts." 
"Of course," I babbled, and Maggie shook her head with wonder at my stupidity. 
I leaned in to smooth her limp hair back. "I wish I could take some of the pain 
away, this is killing me." 
She looked away again. "Don't worry, I've got a plan. You're gonna feel pain all 
right." 
"Dear?" I squeaked." 
You're never going to get sex again. Ever!" she burst out. 
"But-Honey--Scully-- uh…we didn't get pregnant by sex," I pointed out 
rationally. 
The eyes now bore into me like two blue steel spikes. "But when we have sex, 
you're thinking about impregnating me, admit it!" 
I cleared my throat and glanced at Maggie, embarrassed. She looked away. I had 
to soothe her. "Well--Yes, I must admit, but it's just a response to--" 
She cut me off. "See?! So there--you're never getting sex again!" 
I had to fight back the tight lump rising in my throat. I pried my fingers loose 
from her grasp. "And another thing, Fox, I'm gonna start calling you Fox all the 
time," she growled. 
As I mumbled an excuse and fled the room, Maggie tried to shush her. "Fox, Fox, 
Fox--" echoed in my ringing ears. 
The waiting room was no better. Bill was there. He had been in town on shore 
leave when Scully went into labor, so we were now graced with his looming, 
doomsday presence during this joyful occasion. 
He cruelly chuckled when he saw my face. "Let me guess. She's cutting you off of 
sex." He glanced up at the clock. "Right on schedule." 
If this was his idea of support, I didn't need it. I slumped in a chair, staring 
at the floor. 
He slapped me on the back, ignoring my attitude. "Man, don't worry, Tara said 
the same thing to me. They all do." 
What a wonderful thing for Bill and I to finally bond over. 
The moment my head hit the back of the chair, I must have fallen asleep. My mind 
drifted in that odd state between sleep and dreams. I could hear Bill on the 
phone with Tara, and his words made my heart tighten into a fist. 
"Yeah, honey, she's still pushing. Poor kid! The baby is huge, apparently. I 
tell you, I think animals are smarter than people. A giraffe wouldn't try to 
breed with a gazelle." 
I woke with a snort of indignation only to find Bill sitting reading a magazine. 
He gave me an odd look as I shook my head in befuddlement. 
Dr. Pfeifer, Scully's obstetrician, came out to find me. "Mr. Mulder, we need to 
talk." 
The overwhelming fear that I kept in check for nine months came rushing forward. 

I stuttered, "What is it? Is Scully all right?" 
He furrowed his brow at my use of her last name. "At this point, nothing serious 
has happened. But she's been pushing for eight hours now and in my opinion, we 
should go in and take the baby by cesarean section." 
I interrupted him. "Scully doesn't want that--" 
Bill breathed down my neck. "The doctor knows what's best--" 
I just keep saying, "But Scully doesn't want that--" 
The doctor lost patience with me and brushed my objections aside. "The baby is 
large. If she continues to try to deliver vaginally, she could break her pelvis. 
The baby will go into distress soon. It's better to do this when we have the 
time to do it right, rather than wait until it's an emergency surgery." 
I nodded numbly, my stubbornness washed away by my fear. "Have you explained 
this to her?" 
"I know better than to try," he said wryly. "I was thinking she'd understand if 
it came from you." 
Yeah, right. Coward. Not that I blamed him in the least. After a painful thump 
on the back from Bill, I forced myself back to her room. 
When I swung the door open, and our eyes met, I could see she knew what I was 
going to say. She had to quickly look away, only to have her gaze trapped by her 
mother's understanding expression. I realized that after all the test tubes, 
needles, and charts, Scully just wanted to give birth to this baby the 
old-fashioned way. Instead, she'd bred with her over-sized giraffe, and now she 
had to give that dream away too. 
Rushing to surgery, I caught sight of myself in the reflection of a chrome set 
of doors. In the voluminous set of scrubs, I looked like a big blue vampire bat 
with black frightened eyes. 
In surgery, things were moving ahead. Scully was lost under the drapes and 
tubes. This wasn't right, this wasn't right at all. Angry, hot tears pricked at 
my eyes. Nodding in my direction, I heard a nurse comment, "Isn't he sweet?" 
I was mad as hell--that's what I was. This thing was hurting my Scully. It was 
making the doctor hurt her. Her grip on my hand was no longer paralyzing and I 
missed the pressure. I couldn't look at her and see the reproach. 
"Mulder?" 
"Hmmm?" I made myself turn and accept my punishment. 
She gave me a small smile. "Do me a favor?" 
"Of course!" I was overwhelmed. 
"Go down and make sure he's doing everything right." 
She was going for flip but I could see the terror in her eyes. Doctors make the 
worse patients. 
I nodded and dragged myself up off the stool to travel down behind the drape. 
The blessed belly was exposed and alone in a sea of sickening blue fabric. They 
were going to violate the temple. The nurse carelessly swapped Bedadine all over 
the pure white surface and it ran down the sides like rusting blood. 
I forced myself to breathe in and out as the doctor approached her with the 
knife upraised. He casually made the incision, chattering to Scully over the 
drape like a car salesman. Red blood washed away the brown stain. His ghostly 
rubber hands reached down into the cut and cut again. 
He seemed to be rooting around for something, and fascination won out over 
revulsion. I leaned in. 
IT rose out of her, cradled in his grip, covered in a horrifying cobweb of white 
mucus and impossibly red blood. IT was stiff and blue, perfectly wrinkled like a 
very old walnut. 
IT was quickly cut free and passed to a waiting blue drape held out by a nurse. 
Her actions seemed too fast, rubbing and rolling IT like a genie's lamp, 
flushing the skin bright pink. 
Scully voice sounded like it was a hundred miles away. "What is it?" 
I had to do this for her. I peered over the nurse's shoulder. I was sure they 
were speaking to me, telling me, but I couldn't make out the words, I had to see 
for myself. 
One of the wrinkles of the pruned face suddenly cracked open. It was a great 
maw, like the mouth of a plankton-sucking whale. Two more wrinkles snapped open 
and clear glass eyes stared at me, accusing. 
The creature was very angry. Sounding like a rusty hinge opening for the first 
time, a piercing siren's wail tunneled into my ears. 
The nurse was holding IT up, offering IT to me. Suddenly, there was merciful 
silence. I could vaguely hear Scully's commands trying to bring me back. I 
couldn't stay--I was floating away like a balloon. I was suddenly very tired and 
needed to take a nap. 
I decided to lie down, and the floor obliged me by zooming up to meet my 
buckling legs. It must have been night because I saw stars. 
"Mulder! Mulder!" Scully is trying to shake me out of my trance. 
"Huh?" I have to find a way to do better than this, or it's going to be a very 
long eighteen years. 
"We're here," she says.I look up and realize we are at the entrance to the 
nursery. This is it. 
Our chairs are positioned side by side in the nursery and the nurse goes to get 
the baby. 
"I hate pink," Scully says, and I remember I haven't had a prayer answered in 
decades. Someone, somewhere, in charge of these decisions, has decided I need to 
buck up and take it like a man. 
The nurse is handing our daughter to her, but Scully shakes her head. She looks 
at me calmly. "Give her to him." She knew. I had to fight to hide my shame. 
The nurse asks doubtfully, "Do you know how to hold a newborn?" 
I do, I listened carefully in class, I just don't think my shaking arms can hold 
the weight of our child. 
I manage to take her, but then quickly lower her to lie in the crease of my 
legs. She's asleep. I don't have to look into those accusing eyes yet. 
Scully reaches over to pull away the offensive pink blanket. Our baby is bared 
to me. I cover her sturdy barrel torso with my whole trembling hand and I can 
feel the beating bird's wing of her heartbeat through her tissue-fine skin. 
Her eyes open. Their color is blue. "She has your eyes," I say to Scully. 
Her voice is a puff of warm breath in my ear. Pointing, she says, "No, look. See 
the spot of yellow in the right one? They'll be hazel." 
"Maybe she'll have one of each," I suggest. 
This time our baby's eyes aren't angry. They are calm and determined. "She has 
your eyes," I whisper again. 
Her expression is filled with wisdom. I let out a deep breath I'd been holding 
for nine months. 
I don't know if I said it out loud but Scully says, "Yes. It's because her soul 
is new and pure. She knows everything she needs to know about the world." 
Everything is going to be all right. Our baby has all the answers. 
"Greetings from planet Earth," I say and Scully's chuckle jostles my arm. 
The baby seems to nod benevolently. She is kind to her subjects. 
Inspired, I say, "Let's call her Sage." 
"Uh…I thought we'd decided on Claire for a girl," Scully slowly says. 
I search her face. "You don't like Sage?" 
She keeps her expression neutral. "It's not that. I just think it's going to be 
confusing to call two people in the house Mulder." 
I'm not listening anymore. Sage is giving me the wise look again. We both smile 
at the preposterousness of her mother. I know newborns aren't supposed to be 
able to smile, but I can tell Sage is advanced already. 
"Let's call her Sage Claire, that way she can pick what she wants to be called," 
Scully says. As one, we both shift our eyes at her mother's over-logical manner. 
We are a team. I'm seeing the advantages of this situation already. She's 
Daddy's girl. It is she and I against her mother. I may actually win an argument 
or two now. 
Out of curiosity, I gently fit the tip of my pinkie in her ear as Scully's hand 
sweeps lightly over her head, like a clairvoyant rubbing her crystal ball. "I 
think it's brown," she comments on the fine dusting of hairs. 
I lean over to whisper in her ear, "I think she has my pointed head." 
She gives me a light, delicious kiss and says, "No, that will go away, that's 
from her attempt to come down the birth canal. Now your head…" 
Sage's face splits open with a jack-o-lantern's toothless grin, but then it 
twists and reddens. I lean back in horror. A tiny fist raises in frustration. 
She looks all the world like Winston Churchill in mid oratory. The wail begins, 
less frightening this time. 
My daughter is suffering--something must be done. Only, I have no idea what that 
is. 
Scully lifts Sage off my thighs and begins to loosen her robe. Oh, that's what 
the problem is. 
She laughs nervously. "We had a little trouble the first time. Let's see how 
things go now." 
I give her a sympathetic smile. I could offer some tips, but I doubt Sage could 
comprehend the information at this stage. 
After some adjustments of her sturdy little body, Scully has Sage is position. 
The baby fusses for a few anxious moments and then latches onto Scully's exposed 
breast. A new blessed temple has arise. I'm stunned by the sight. 
Seeming to read my mind, Scully says in that completely flat tone she uses to 
signal a truly deep feeling, "Well, I never thought I'd be doing this." 
I can't stop myself. I start to cry, blubbering actually, in a very unmanly 
manner. I manage to apologize. "Sorry…" 
She reaches out with a free hand and brushes the tears away. "It's okay. I'm 
revoking my order not to cry anymore. I plan on crying every day of my life from 
now on." 
I can only nod in agreement as I reach out to catch the first tear to drop off 
her eyelashes. 
Settling back in my chair with a shattering sigh, it suddenly hits me that all 
my wishes have come true. After all these years, my quest is over. I've found 
what I was looking for all along, hope. 
The End (2/2) 
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