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Yes, another angsty, mildly humorous piece of crap. Can't really
qualify as romance, though. Not right now, anyways. Will definitely
descend into sap at a later date. Had to write it and use these
luscious quotes or I would have gone insane. An improbable piece of
baby-fic as well. I know, I know. It'll never happen, but I can
dream.
Disclaimers: Here we go again. *sigh* I own nothing. I have no money.
Don't sue me. The University of Michigan owns me.
Literally. Long live Boone's Strawberry Hill.
Rating: Hmm. I'd say R. For language Mommy wouldn't want you to hear.
Think
By
Tamani R. Green
It's a really bad day for me. I wake up late. I feel really bad.
Like someone had the absolute gall to put my stomach on permanent
spin. It's all I can do to down a piece of toast. I discover to my
utter dismay that my favorite suit doesn't fit anymore. Since when did
I gain weight? So I have to put on this ugly camel colored thing I
never wear anymore. Get in the car. The engine's to cold to start. I
have to bring out a hair dryer and warm up the parts. The roads are
bad because the damn D.C. streets are fucked up. And it's winter, so
the snow is falling ad infinitum. Since I moved to the Georgetown
district after the basement office burned up it seems like my life is
is going down the crapper. So I am driving to work. I dread going.
Having to deal with Mulder. I love Mulder but sometimes he is annoying
as fuck. Excuse the language. Hell, fuck the language. Look, I
recently have been through a number of stressful situations. I found
that I really am a believer in all that crap. Mulder wasn't full of
shit after all. Don't I feel like a fuckin' idiot.
So I get to the building and find a parking space. Walking in, I
get a tag and proceed to our new office. I walk into the new office
and there is my lover, all dolled up just for me. Funny how he's my
lover but we've never actually said the words. A girl can't have
everything, now can she? He looks up as I hang my coat on the tree.
Smiling, he takes off those sexy, sexy glasses of his.
Unfortunately, he decides to be a complete total asshole today.
"How's my little shorty today?"
"Don't even start with me today." I almost snarl at him.
"Aw, what's the matter?" He simpers at me. "Are we in a mood?"
"Mulder, I swear to God, if you don't quit, I'll kill you."
"Damn. You *are* in a hell of a mood."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Dig deeper, Watson."
"Droll, very droll." I sit at my brand new desk. It's crap. But
it's a desk. Kept neat as a pin. A far cry from
the folding table that had been my desk. Oh, and this time *I* have a
nameplate. "So...what's on the agenda for today?"
"Kersch wants us to come to his office for assignment."
"Let's go, then." We head up to Kersch's office. The assistant
director is a dick. He's forever talking down to Mulder and I. And I
am the Enigmatic Dr. Scully. What a moniker. I don't think it's very
deserved at all, but what can I do?
Kersch gives us the assignment. Mulder isn't very pleased about
it. He doesn't think it's a "worthy" task for him. Kersch is about at
the end of his rope with Mulder today. I can see it's going to be
another one of those days where I have to put up with much crap from
Mulder. If I get ditched again, I'll fucking punch him in the nose, I
swear I will. Kersch finishes briefing us and we go back to our office.
It's not one of those long cases where we have to go out of town.
It's just in Boston, not too long a drive. I say so, and Mulder, ever
the drama queen turns on me.
"Scully, this case isn't worth our time or effort. Just stay here
and I'll do this."
"Wait a minute. Are we or are we not partners?"
"Yeah, but this kind of thing doesn't require two people working
on it. The Mighty Measurer of Shit Piles is on the case."
I am pissed. Royally. He does this shit every time. "Isn't that
what you said about that big bug guy in Chicago? Didn't I have to rush
in and save your ass last time? Don't I have to rush in and save your
ass every time? Frankly, I getting sik of it. You know, Mulder, every
day I'm starting to feel more and more like Dale Evans."
He says the wrong thing then: a joke. "Does that make me Roy
Rogers?"
"Oh, no, Mulder. That would make you...Trigger."
"As in faithful, devoted friend?"
"No...as in horse's ass."
He has no response to that. I have flamed him beyond belief. His
feelings are *so* hurt. Good. He needs to be knocked off that pedestal
of assholish behavior.
"How can you say that?"
"How? I just did. Look, I share your beliefs and I believe in you,
but I cannot and *will* not be ditched at your convenience. You do
that shit all the time. You run off and I have to pick up the pieces."
"So...what exactly are you saying?"
Duh, Mulder, duh. "Gee, it appears that *you* have been hit by the
dumbstick. Did have a brain tumor for breakfast? It's as plain as day
what I'm saying. I want to be treated like an equal partner in this.
Not just your little tagalong. I have to put up with your tempers and
fetch and carry for you. If that's what you want, you should get a dog."
"Scully, haven't you figured it out yet?" And that evil light that
comes into his eyes right before I get flamed like a piece of charcoal
appears in those hazel-green orbs. Uh-oh. Here it comes. "You *are*
the dog."
That is the absolute worst that I have ever heard from anybody.
And before I know it, my fist comes up and hits him in that bulbous,
disproportionate, fucking HUGE nose of his. He lets out *the* girliest
scream I have ever heard. His hand flies up to his shnozz. Blood is
running from it and spilling on to the pristine whiteness of his
shirt. Hmm...I wonder what cleaners he uses...never mind. I smile
triumphantly and stick my nose two inches from his.
"Fuck you, Mulder, and the horse you rode in on."
"I didn't ride a horse." He says stupidly while pressing a
handkerchief to his bleeding appendage. I think I broke it.
"Nooo..." I say and grin evilly. "The horse rode you." He looks
shocked and, grabbing my coat, I walk out, heels clicking rapidly on
the tiled floor. I just now realize that all of the agents working in
Domestic Terrorism witnessed our little scene. Great.
He comes out of the office, looking ridiculous with that scrap of
white cotton plastered to his face. He's yelling something about me
being the horse and a bitch. He's generally making an ass out of
himself. I'm not looking back. I will *not* give him the satisfaction.
So, I get to the parking garage and drive home.
Get home and already there's a message for me on the machine.
Damn. I play it back and the most recent one's from Mulder.
The bastard. He wants me to call him as soon as I get this. Yeah,
right. I'm not calling him. That would be admitting defeat. The next
one's from my doctor. The blood tests from my last physical came back
with something abnormal in the screen. God*damn*. This is just the
type of shit that I need right now. Great. And while I'm scared that
the cancer may have come back, mostly I'm angry. Pure anger. White hot
and fierce. At the fact that should be a lab rat. I'm a scientist,
dammit!I experiment on *fucking* lab rats! I'm not supposed to be one!
So...I do what any sane, normal person does when they're very mad.
I tear my apartment apart. My lovely, perfect, chintz-covered, Martha
Stewart-would-be-proud apartment. I mean, I really fuck it up. I break
dishes and smash lamps and make it into a general disaster area. Then
I leave. Just walk out the door. I get into the car and drive to Dr.
Sullivan's office to hear what ominous predictions of doom she has to
give me like I hadn't just acted like a total maniac.
It's still relatively early in the morning, so the nurse shows me
into Dr. Sullivan's office. The good Dr. is smiling like an idiot.
We exchange pleasantries and I sit in the plush chair in front of her
desk. She wastes no time in coming straight to the point and I get the
biggest fucking shock of my life.
I
Am
Pregnant.
Holy
Shit.
"What?" I ask her, still disbelieving. That's not possible.
"Oh, yes." She says, still giving me that stupid grin.
"You're mistaken. I cannot possibly be pregnant. I'm infertile."
"Obviously you *can* have children. I have the blood work right
here." She hands me the lab results from my last screen. Yep. I am
pregnant. Enciente. With child. Gestating. Breeding. *Shit.* I just
punched my kid's father and broke his nose. Hmm...actually, that
explains a lot. But still...how in the hell am I supposed to tell him?
Dr. Sullivan wants to do an exam right then and there. I acquiesce.
Hell, if she had told me to do a hula, I would've. I was that dazed
and confused.
The nurse shows me into an examination room and I put on one of
those crackly paper gowns while Dr. Sullivan scrubs up. The doctor
comes in and does a pelvic exam and a sonogram. As I look at the fuzzy
black and white screen, only one thought is in my mind.
Oh
My
God...
Even though it is still early, we can detect two fetuses. Two
babies. Twins. Who will most likely be born...let's see...in October.
Damn. Must have been Valentine's Day. They'll be born around their
dad's birthday. I figure it all out quite calmly and rationally,
considering my world has been turned upside down. She finishes and
leaves me to dress. I dress and go back into her office. She has me
answer general questions about myself and my health. Of course I don't
tell her all that freaky shit that's happened to me. No one would
believe it. Well...one person would, but I'm not talking to him at the
moment. Asshole. Dr. Sullivan gives me some prenatal vitamins and
schedules another appointment for me. I almost ask her if she knows a
good psychiatrist, because I am definitely insane. But, I don't and I
take my leave of her.
It's on the drive home that the panic hits. What about my job?
What about my *life*? How am I going to raise these kids? Will I make
a good mother? What am I going to tell Mulder? What if he doesn't want
them? What am I going to do then? What if they're *abnormal*? I don't
know if I could handle that. I'm such a hodgepodge of alien-human DNA
that it may affect the babies. Sweet Christ, I'm a mess.
I get back home and it all just washes over me and I sink down to
one of the scattered couch cushions and I cry. I don't normally cry.
It's all the hormones swirling around in my bloodstream. The phone
rings, dragging me from my pity party. The machine picks up. It's
Mulder, who else. I answer the call and tell him to meet me at our
bench in an hour.
I change out of my suit and pull on a sweater and a pair of jeans.
The jeans are tighter than I remember. Just one more reminder of these
invaders...these parasites in me. But, I think, they *are* me. And
they're *him*. And it's all fucked up. And my feelings are a mishmosh.
Slipping on a pair of black flats, so I don't cut my feet on the
shards of broken dishes, I clean up the mess. Putting on a coat, I go
down to the car once again.
I drive down to the mall and park on the street. Making my way to
our bench, I see him sitting there in his long, black trench, looking
cold and thoroughly miserable. His nose is all taped up and his face
is bruised like a mother. I can't help but grin. It's funny to me in
my state of insanity. He looks up and sees me before I want him to see
me. He sees the smile on my face and I wipe it off quickly. I sit down
and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Mulder, I'm pregnant." Just like that. No warning, no irritating
preamble. Just the facts, ma'am. I'm good with facts. His face freezes
and seems like time has stopped.
"Well?" I prod, wanting, no, *needing* a reaction of some sort.
"How can you be pregnant, Scully?" His voice has a slight
accusatory tone to it, like it's *my* fault. That gets my back up and
I immediately go on the defensive.
"I don't know Mulder." And I say his name with unmistakable
loathing. He is shocked. He blinks at me like he's never seen me
before. I guess he has just cause. Hell, *I* don't know me anymore. I
can't reconcile to myself that I'm having his kids. It's insane. *I'm*
insane. "But the fact remains that I am pregnant. So, what are we
going to do about it?"
"Why are you asking me? It's in your body."
"Not it. They."
"What?"
"*They*." I stress.
"They?! There's more than one!"
"Twins."
"Two of them?!"
I give him that "duh" look.
"There isn't supposed to *one*! Let alone *two*!"
You know, I thought the very same thing. "I know. The question
remains: what do you think? What do you want to do?"
"I don't know what I want to do. I can't handle all this right
now. I need some time to think about it." He says. Typical pussy
answer. But I suppose it's justified.
"Don't think too long."
"Give me a week?"
"Fine." And I get up, leaving him sitting there, staring after me,
after my pregnant self.
Head back to the car, start it, don't think about anything. The
radio's on. Weird. I wasn't aware of the radio being on. Shit, I was
so dazed and confused that an atom bomb could've gone off and I would
not have noticed. I chuckle to myself. An a-bomb *did* just go off,
Dana Katherine. Amazing how I can still laugh about this.
And I decide to think again.
I think about the kids.
Strange...I know they're girls. I guess it's a Scully trait. My
mom knew exactly what she was having when she had us. I think about
names for them. Stop it. I can't think about names or the fact that
they'll end up with their father's nose or that they'll have his green
eyes and my red hair. Their dad...that's another story. He may not
even want them. What then? We break up? I don't think I could take
that. I waited so long for him that I don't want it to end, even
though I called him all sorts of names and broke his nose and walked
away from him with no promise of coming back. Stop thinking. Pull up
in front of the apartment. Park the car. Turn off the engine. Open the
door. Get out. Close the door. Lock the car and set the alarm with the
remote. Walk up the pavement. Up the stairs. Into the elevator. Press
the button. Ride up. Out of the elevator. Walk down the hall. Unlock
the door. Step inside. Close and lock the door. Every little task
requires my undivided attention because I don't want to think about
this. Shrugging out of my coat, I go into the kitchen and uncork a
bottle of red wine. Pouring it into a glass that somehow escaped
destruction, I stop dead as it reaches my lips. I can't drink this.
I'm pregnant. Funny how everything hinges on that one word. I pour the
wine down the sink and shove the cork back into the bottle. I get a
glass of water instead and go sit on the couch. Flop and Slump onto
the couch is more like it.
I'm tired. This day has taken more out of me than I can possibly
express. I notice the blinking light on my phone. One of two people,
Mom or Mulder. Neither of whom I want to talk to at this moment. But,
resigned, I push play on the machine. And I listen to my steely voice
tell people how to leave a message. Boring. I've often thought about
putting a goof loop on there or having some funky background music.But
I wouldn't dare. I'm a chicken. I freely admit that.
The first message is from Mom. Of course. Checking on her baby
girl. I'm a grown woman, Ma...sometimes. I'll call her back sometime,
I guess. Not right now. Next message: Mulder. Like I'll really call
you back. Yeah, right, sucker. Chump. Punk ass. Such uncharitable
thoughts run through my head about the father of my children. The next
message is from Kersch. Surprise, surprise. He wants to talk to me
about this morning's little comedy. Hmm, wait 'til you hear what I've
got to tell you, Mr. Assistant Director of the FBI. I smile. He'll
probably shit a brick. Not one of his agents knocked up! Oh, no! It
can't be! Our Lady Scully, impure! Simply shocking.
Oh, I wonder what he'd do if I told him who the father was. The
look on his face would almost be worth it...if it didn't mean Mulder
and I would get our asses fired for breach of conduct. Maybe they'd
just transfer me half-way across the country. If that happened, I'd
quit. I *like* my home. I want my daughters to be close to their
grandmother. And in that moment, I realize that I've been thinking of
them like they're going to be here, in my arms, not like they're a
mistake.
I think about their names again. The same names I've had in
my mind since I was a junior in college. Josephine Cecilia and
Charlotte Amelia. Traditional names. Sophistcated names. Joe and
Chuck. Elegant. Yeah, right. I get a mental image of them. I know
already that they'll be tomboys, just like their mother.
It's a certainty that they'll be smart, hell, *extremely*
intelligent. With Mulder and I as gene-donors, they're a shoo-in.
They'll be taller than me. I hope. I think they'll get my dad's tall
gene and Mulder's whole family is tall. They'll have to wear glasses,
seeing as both their mother and their old man are near-sighted. And a
smile curves 'round my lips thinking of their bright, inquisitive gaze
from behind twin pairs of wire rimmed spectacles.
I'll have to quit putting myself in dangerous situations. I don't
care about myself, but I'd never forgive myself if something happened
to them because of my reckless stupidity. And since I've got *so* much
free time coming to me from the Bureau, I think I'll let them pay me
to sit at home for a year or two while I get to know Joe and Chuck.
Joe and Chuck. Chuck and Joe. Charles will certainly be pleased
that I've decided to give one of my daughters the feminine version of
his name. I had decided long ago that my kids would never have family
names. They need their own identities. And after having met Mulder, I
can honestly say I will never, ever name my kid Fox, William, or
Samantha. Sorry Mom and Melissa. You've lost out in the name game, too.
Bill will go ballistic. So what. He's my brother, not my father.
You know, I really don't care if Ahab is watching me with disapproval
from on high. This is my life. And so, it begins...
End, part 1/?
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