Title: Every Night Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com) Rating: R (language) Category: MSR,A Spoilers: Three Words (I caved and wrote a season 8 fic. Forgive me. I am weak) Archive: Sure Summary: The night becomes a playground for dark thoughts. Disclaimer: The X-files and its lovely characters belong to CC and 1013. They are also the ones responsible for season eight. Read into that what you will. As always: An Easter basket of thanks to Christina for beta-ing this baby at 3 AM! Above and beyond. A million pounds of chocolate to you. Every night since I was released from the hospital, we play the same game. Her bed or mine. It doesn't matter. We both dress for sleep and she positions herself carefully on the left side of the bed. She lies on her right side, pillow between her pajama-clad legs, facing me. I get in, mumble "sweet dreams," and turn in the opposite direction. Back to Scully. Back to Scully's baby. In my more rational moments, I tell myself the child is mine. We tried to make a baby the high-tech way and, without that specific goal in mind, put a fair amount of effort doing things the old fashioned way, as well. All very logical. Too bad my thought processes don't stop at that point. The fact is, when last I saw her, the stick had not turned pink or blue or whatever the hell it was supposed to turn. She had cried over her very last chance and looked wistfully at another woman's baby knowing she'd never have one that was biologically hers. No more ova. A junior high school student in health ed could think this one through to its proper conclusion. Okay. Two further explanations present themselves. First, there is the miracle theory. I suppose I could hardly scoff at that one anymore, considering how I spent my winter vacation. Besides, I was the one who promised her a miracle in the first place. I guess talk isn't always cheap. The other was something we had never discussed. We both knew it was the next logical step but feelings had been too raw over the recently failed in- vitro attempts and we certainly didn't simplify things by attempting to have a personal life. Together. I thought we'd get around to talking about it when we were a bit more settled. Donor eggs with my sperm. Scully is seven months pregnant. The last in-vitro attempt was eight months ago. I've been gone for six and a half months. My memory isn't quite as sharp as it was before my abduction but I think I would have clearly recalled a second donation. Which would appear to mean that while I was in her bed, she took the next logical step--leaving me out of the equation. Well, as a biological parent, anyway. Of course, I could just ask. I could turn over right now and say, "Scully--ease my mind about something, sweetie- pie. That is my child you're lugging around--right, precious?" At which point she'd puke over the endearments and shatter my shattered world with--well, probably with whatever answer she gave me. What is it with us? We haven't left each other for more than an hour since my. . .whatever you want to call it. . .and yet, we still leave so much unsaid. She stood up from that bed when I woke up and I just stared. She looked back and smiled and I managed, somehow--to return the smile, choked out a "when is it due?" and she gave me the date. Whoop dee fucking do. Too much negativity in this bed. Stressed-out pregnant lady and baby on board. Time for the source of negativity to move to Scully's living room to ruminate on thoughts equally cheerless. She knows I leave her after she falls asleep. She's always been highly respectful. That's probably why she's not telling me about the baby until I ask. Give me time to decide for myself when I'd like to hear--and face-- whatever she has to tell me. Unless she believes I already know. Which would make the baby mine. Which would make me an insensitive jackass. So what else is new? I'm fucked up. I need things spelled out. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I sit by her dining room table and stare out into the dark. I've always been a couch person. I'm not sure why the sudden switch. There's something reassuring about the cold, hard, wooden chair. Kind of honest. Like sitting on the Rock of Gibraltar rather than being lulled by the false sense of comfort that a sofa provides. The thoughts--flashbacks, really--came into my mind, unbidden, right from the start. Now, I force myself to replay those I've already had, hoping to stimulate some new ones. All in an effort to make sense of something that seems so random and senseless. Seems. But isn't. I know that much. I take each memory and try to clinically dissect each one. Replacing the jarring feelings with calm acceptance. The psychologist in me thinks this is an awful way of dealing with trauma. The psychologist in me can take a flying fuck for himself. The blade. I think that is the worst one. The huge, circular blade that looked just like the ones in the Dudley Do-Right cartoons I watched as a child. Or was that the Perils of Pauline? Whatever. Focus. Focus on the pain. Work through it. The searing white hot pain. Breathe. Breathe. You aren't there. You're here and you're safe. It's strange how the body resists certain things. My mind doesn't want to focus on any of this. My mind wanders. It's gone from cartoon remembrances to the realization that I'm no longer alone. Her eyes are on me. I don't want to look. Those beautiful blue eyes full of life and light. I can only give her death and darkness in return. I turn to see her leaning in the open doorway of her dining area. "I'm sorry," I say automatically. "Why?" "I woke you up." "Not exactly. First, nature called and second--well, it's mambo night in Babyville." She returns my half-smile tenfold. "Is this what you do every night when you leave the bed?" she asks. "Every night," I echo. She walks into the room and stands before me. There it is. "Scully--I should--go back to living alone, I think." "No!" I think the word is out before she even realizes she's opened her mouth. "Please. . .no." "Your world right now should consist of pink and blue ducklings and baby powder--not some maniac either screaming in his sleep or staring out into space." "I can't. I can't be without you now. Please. I need to be able to see you whenever I want to. I need to know that I lived through the last few months and made it-- that I've got you back. Don't--please don't take that away from me." She's never even remotely said anything like it before. I take it inside where I store all the important stuff that I'll have to revisit when--if--I'm allowed to feel, instead of just hear, words. "I'll stay, Scully." I can't cause her any more pain. I trust her more than I trust myself. If she wants me here, that's where I'll stay. Besides, I don't want to leave. I didn't do well in my apartment. Even with her there. I need a place that is bright--even if I choose to turn off the lights and sit in the dark. I feel her hands on my face--caressing both scarred and unscarred flesh. "Don't," I pull her hand away and see the pain flash across her face. I attempt a smile. "Not until I'm my usual pretty self. Should be any day now." She lifts her hand and touches the evidence of my healing wounds again. "You're perfect right now." Liar. Sweet, gorgeous liar. That belly is huge. She's so tiny and she's all stomach. My mind is very focused now and it's all centered on that huge expanse in front of me. I don't look into her eyes for answers I'm too afraid to find. I put my hands out and rest each one on either side of her waist and lean forward to rest my head lightly against her. One hand is on my shoulder and the other is in my hair. Both are gently pulling me closer. Towards her. Towards the baby. I haven't touched her since she stood up in the hospital room that night. Since I realized she was pregnant. I've never touched a pregnant woman before. I close my eyes thinking about--trying to think about-- life. New life--possibilities--hope. I feel nothing. It's a sin. A goddamned sin. I feel just the very beginnings of a burning sensation as my tear ducts release a bit of moisture to soothe my dry eyes. And then--all thought stops as I receive a quick punch squarely in the nose. I yelp and move back. "What the fuck?" "Shhh. . .Mulder. You don't want to teach your offspring that word until he or she is at least four years of age." Offspring. My. Offspring. My offspring. Mine. My baby. Our baby. Okay. I get it. It's in my mind. And it makes a difference. What a shit I am. It makes a big difference. Not because of the biology but because it proves she didn't shut me out of her life. Trust no one? I think this time I carried it too far. No wonder my child decided our first communication should be a violent one. A bubble of laughter reaches my throat and bursts forth in near hysterical laughter. Scully joins in--sounding no more sane than I. Poor kid will probably stay in the womb for at least a couple of years. It's probably too scared to face its creators. The laughter subsides only when the tears quietly fall. Psychologist Mulder sits back like old Sigmund himself and praises Repressed Lunatic Mulder for the breakthrough. RL Mulder tells P Mulder that he aint seen nothing yet. This is not even the tip of the breakthrough iceberg. If it happens, I'm sure P Mulder can write a book about it. All it is, is a start. She holds me and she and the baby manage to provide a surprisingly firm place for me to burrow my face as I weep for everything in general, and nothing in specific. The child--our child--has a good heart. He/she doesn't kick his/her old man when he's really down. I look up at Scully. "I wasn't sure." "I had this horrible feeling you weren't. I just didn't know how to tell you without getting you more worried about--well, everything I've been worried about all this time. You just don't need that right now." She's right. The baby--our baby--is a complication at this point. I won't even allow my mind to wander to just how much of a complication or any of the seemingly countless implications. Not tonight. Tonight--it's a miracle. It appears we've cornered the market on all the really weird ones. I smile. Just a little one. But I feel this one. Somewhere, I feel it. She steps away from me and brushes her hand against my face. She then walks into the bedroom. I soon follow. This time, I choose to sleep on my back. I quietly reach for and find her hand. I place our intertwined fingers over the huge healing wound on my chest. It begins to itch. A sign of healing. The End