Yes, it's a continuation. I liked the first one so much, I had to get
at this story from Mulder's pov. Maybe you won't like it, but this is
my page, so screw you, you no-romo bastard!

Disclaimer: The X-Files belongs to...Pouffy Haired Surfer Boy, creator
            of the sucky 'Millenium'; 1013 Produtions, the think tank
            of the best show on television; and Fox Network, the home
            of some of the best overlooked shows of the age. Don't sue
            me. I have no money with which to pay exorbitant royalties
            and copyright fees. I own nothing. The University of
            Michigan owns me, lock, stock and barrel. To get any money
            from me, you'd have to sue *them*. Don't. We have a wily
            lawyer as president, bwahahahahaha!

Rating: Hmmm...R, I suppose. For foul and rancid language.

Think Again
by 
Tamani R. Green

    Today is a great day! I feel refreshed and energized, having 
actually slept on my couch instead of lying awake watching pornos.
My couch, mmm...some pretty incredible things have happened on that 
couch. Oh, yeah...
    So, I get up and since Scully is making sure that I, you know, EAT
I really have food in my apartment. So, I make a omelet with ham,
green peppers, onions and tomatoes. Contrary to popular belief, just
because I don't keep food in the house (hey, I'm a single guy!) 
doesn't mean I can't cook. I can. That's one of the things that Scully
has discovered about me since we've become lovers.Funny how I think of
her that way when I've never actually told her. I think it's one of 
those things that's understood, but goes unsaid. Nah. I'm a big-ass
chicken, I admit that freely.
    I have a leisurely breakfast and then I shower and dress. It's
March, but it's still winter time. The snow is falling in drfits and
it's awesome. This is one of those days where you just want to curl up
in bed with someone and watch the snow fall and make love all day.
    Don't I sound like a fucking sap? Yeah, that's me, Fox Mulder, 
surface asshole, undercover romantic. No one would ever know that
about me. Except for Scully. I think that my boyish attempts at sexual
subtext finally got to her. Oh, yeah. I knew what I what doin' all
along. She just put more of a resistance than I anticipated. But now
the joke's on me.
    I need her, man. I need her bad. Sometimes the only reason for me
to get up in the morning is to see her. *Shit* I never wanted to need
*anybody* like this. And the scary part is, I *like* it. Want it. Have
to have it. Goddamn it.
    I drive to work and go up to our new office. It's crap. We're back
in the bullpen of domestic terrorism like a couple of rookie agents.
Our new boss is a prick. Life in the FBI is dandy. I sit at my desk,
which is rapidly becoming a shit pile, and work on a report.
    I'm there for some time when she walks in the door. Damn. She 
looks good. That camel color looks really good on her. Scully is
fantastic. And I whip off my glasses and say the first thing that
comes to mind.
    "How's my little shorty today?" Her expression changes then. 
Oops, said the wrong thing. Dammit.
    "Don't even start with me today." She takes off her coat 
and sits at her desk.
    I give her this pouty look and simper at her teasingly. "Aw,
what's the matter? Are we in a mood?"
    She looks like she's going to kill me then. "Mulder, if you don't
quit, I swear I'll kill you."
    I think she really means it. "Damn. You *are* in a hell of a mood."
    "No shit, Sherlock." Ah, that's the Scully I know.
    "Dig deeper, Watson." I reply jokingly.
    "Droll, very droll. So...what's on the schedule for today?"
    "Kersch wants us to come to his office for an assignment."
    "Let's go, then."
    We go up to Kersch's office. Kersch has been an asshole, for the
most part. He is no-nonsense, takes very little shit from anybody. The
assistant director gives us the assignment. It's some bullshit case
that can be handled by any other agent besides me. Instead, the Boston
field office sends it down here because of my august reputation. 
*Shit* I hate this. Measuring piles of crap. This thing isn't worth my
time or my effort. Kersch can see my belligerent attitude. Hell, it's 
as obvious as the nose on my face.
    Scully and I leave Kersch's office and go back to our own. Scully
tells me that we can drive up to Boston, solve this thing and be back
for the Redskins-Patriots game later that night. So, I give her some
attitude, what's new about that?
    "Scully, this case isn't worth our time or effort. Just stay here
and I'll do this." She looks at me with steely blue eyes. The famous
'you're so full of shit' look.
    "Wait a minute," she says. "Are we or are not partners?"
    Where did that question come from? Of course we're partners,
Scully. But I give her the asshole answer instead. Ready? Here it 
comes: "Yeah, but this kind of thing doesn't require two people
working on it. The Mighty Measurer of Shit Piles is on the case."
    And after I say it, I can see she is really pissed off. I can see
the anger surging in the carefully controlled, but all-too-noticeable
flush of her cheeks. She chews me out about ditching her all the time
and her having to come and save my ass all the time. Then she says the
funniest thing I have heard in a long time.
    "You know, Mulder, everyday I'm starting to feel more and more
like Dale Evans."
    I decide to reply with my standard response, a joke. "Does that
make me Roy Rogers?" And I smile, hoping she'll laugh. Wrong again,
fuckhead.
    "Oh, no Mulder. That would make you...Trigger."
    I wonder what she means by that. I go for the obvious connotation.
"As in faithful, devoted friend?" 
    "No...as in horse's ass."
    What the fuck did you just say? I had no idea that's how she felt 
about me. I can genuinely say that that hurt. That is one of the worst
things anyone has *ever* said to me.
    "How can you say that to me?" I ask, just a hint of hurt creeping
into my voice.
    She declares that she won't stand for me ditching her anymore. I
know, Scully. You think I don't, but I do, really. Just sometimes I
get caught up in being an asshole searching desperately for the truth
that you occasionally get caught under my chariot wheels. Just another
roadkill. But I play the dumb role once again, stupid, stupid...
    "So...what are you saying?" I ask.
    She gives me this flamer about being really dumb and if I wanted
someone to pick up the pieces and put with my array of shit, I should
get a dog. Wanting to hurt her the way she hurt me, I reply, evilly:
"Scully, haven't you figured it out...You *are* the dog."
    And that's when it happens. She gives me a roundhouse to the nose.
She's so fast with it, I don't even see it coming. I do, however, feel
the pain and the blood rushing in my nose. I hear the bones crack
under the unexpected solidness of her small fist. My hand flies up to
my nose. The blood is running from my nose to drip onto my shirt. 
*Damn* My new one from Brooks Brothers, too. *Shit* She puts her face
about an inch from mine.
    "Fuck you, Mulder, and the horse you rode in on."
    I have to talk around the hankerchief I have pressed to my face.
"I didn't ride a horse."
    "No... the horse rode you." The bitch grabs her coat and strides 
out of the office, her dinky little feet in their dinky little shoes 
making enough noise for an elephant on the tiled floor.
    "Scully, you *are* the fucking horse! You bitch! Fucking horse
bitch!" She doesn't give me the satisfaction of turning around. Two
agents come to see what the hell's happened and she leaves the 
building, scot-free. Dammit. I look around and see the other agents
staring at me in astonishment. Some trying to conceal their laughter 
at my predicament. Dammit all to hell.
    After the one of the FBI docs patches me up, Kersch calls me on 
the carpet. He demands to know what happened. I give him abbreviated
version. I don't think he buys it. Tells me to go home for the day to
cool off. I know he's going to call Scully. I need to call her myself,
to ask her what's her *fucking* problem! I go back to our office, call
her and leave for home. 
    The snow is still falling heavily. The drive back is worse than 
earlier. Shit. I can't understand what the hell happened. I am totally
confused right now.
    I get home and drink a shot of whiskey. The good stuff: Jack. See,
Mrs. Spooky, I *do* know Jack. He's right here in my hand. I change
out of my clothes and put on a sweater and jeans. I know I shouldn't
be drinking with the prescription the doctor gave me, but hell, it's
not everyday a man gets his nose broken by the love of his life. Did
I just say that?!!! Well, I can't ignore it anymore. It's true. But...
I don't wanna introspect about that right now. 
    A few hours pass and I'm sitting here on the couch, nursing the
Jack and watching a video. Yeah, I know I've got the real thing now,
but it's a habit. Besides, I've watched a few with Scully and things
got really fucking exciting after that. I look at the clock and I 
decide to call her again. I get the machine. As I'm leaving a message,
she picks up the phone, tells me to meet her at our bench in an hour
and hangs up. Just like that. The little general giving me orders once
again. I leave my apartment right then and make the drive back to the
city.
    I get to the Mall and make my way to the bench. It's covered in
snow. After brushing it off, I sit and wait for her. I see the kids in
their plump little snowsuits, running around in the snow, smiling and
laughing their little heads off. Kids. I'll probably never have kids.
And even if I did have a couple of kids, what kind of father would I
be? Sometimes I'm no more than a kid myself. I look up and I see her,
wearing almost the same thing I am. She's smiling. That's good. When
she sees me seeing her, the smile is gone almost instantly. Damn. I
thought that the crisis was over. She sits next to me and the next 
words out of her mouth are the biggest fucking shock of my life.
    "Mulder, I'm pregnant." She just lets me have it like that. No
chit-chat about this and that. Just WHAM! There it is. All notion of
time and space have ceased to have meaning for me. 
    "Well?..." She prods. All right dammit! Give me a fucking minute.
It's not everyday that a man get the shock of his whole life.
    "How can you be pregnant, Scully?" I say, trying to conceal my
amazement and excitement at this new prospect. I don't know if I can
handle all of this. I guess the tone of my voice is a give away.
    "I don't know, Mulder." Her voice is laced with poison as she says
my name. Where the hell did that attitude come from, Scully? I thought
you'd be happy? "But the question remains. What do you want to do about
this?"
    "I don't know what I want to do about it."
    "They."
    "What?!"
    "Not 'it'. *They*."
    "There's more than one?!"
    "Twins."
    "Two of them?!"
    She gives me that 'duh' look I've come to know so well.
    "There isn't supposed to be *one*, let alone *two*!"
    "I know. So, what do you want to do?"  
    Damn, woman. You just knocked me for a serious loop and you want an
on the spot decision that will affect the rest of my life? I mean, here
I was, Fox Mulder: angst ridden, swingin' guy and hip bachelor. Now I'm
Fox Mulder: angst ridden father of two. I can see it in your eyes that 
you're going to keep them, no matter what I say. You have that dead-set
Scully look on your face that I've grown to hate and love to see. But,
Scully, what if all those tests they did on you has an effect on the
kids? What if they're seriously fucked up because of what those bastards
did to you? I mean, it seems like this was a random occurence, but if
coincidences are coincidences, why do they feel so contrived? I can't
sort this all out now.
    "I don't know what to do. Give me some time to think about it."
Please, give me time. I need to sit down and ponder through this. Come
up with some kind of solution.
    "Don't think too long." 
    "Give me a week?"
    "Fine." Scully's voice is dripping with rancor and something else I
can't quite put my finger on. Disappointment? Disappointment with me
because of my reaction? Forgive me, Our Lady Dana Scully of the Flaming
Hair. I have to have time to sort to through this. And she leaves me.
Just walks away. With no promise to come back to me. And I stare at her.
Look at her small form with my children inside of her. I sit there, with
my nose all taped up and my face all bruised up and watch her go away.
    What am I supposed to do? I never thought of myself as ever having
kids. I don't think of myself as being the fatherly type. Sure as hell
didn't have the best example for a dad. What do I know about being a 
father? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My ass is getting cold from sitting
on this bench in the early March snowfall. 
    I go back to my car and head on home. 
    And I think about the kids.
I think about how good a mother Scully would make. I've seen her with 
kids. She's very patient and caring. I know she would be even moreso
with our kids.
    I think about how much she would love them.
    Damn. I don't want to think about this. But I do. 
    I envision how the girls will look. I know, somehow, they will be
girls. They'll probably end up with the Mulder excuse for a nose. But
they have a good chance of getting their mother's smaller, more delicate
one. They'll have her red hair and my eyes. And they'll definitely will
wear glasses, seeing as both their mother and their father are near-
sighted.
    Damn. Kids.
    My ass is cold from sitting there so long in the snow. I get up and
go home to my crappy apartment. How come her last two apartments have
been nicer than mine? And she's got a new car, too. A far cry from the
lil' blue Cavalier. It's a pale blue Crown Victoria. It's a nice size
for someone who's got two kids. It'll haul all their soccer crap around.
    Yes, they WILL play soccer, seeing as their old man was on the team
when he was in college. They'll be taller than their mother, I hope.
Then again, she is very charming in her infinite shortness. If they're
girls, it'll be ok, but if they're boys, they'll need to be able to 
look other men in the eye. They have to: it's a guy thing. 
    My children. *God* It's the sort of thing that makes a man 
contemplate returning to his religious roots. How long has it been 
since I went to temple? I open the door to my apartment o'doom and 
throw the keys down on the coffee table. I survey my domain. It looks
shitty as hell, but it's all mine. Now that I am faced with the 
prospect of fatherhood, my surroundings look worse than ever.
    I don't know why I haven't touched the legacy that my father left
me. Yes, I do. Because the day I left for college I swore I'd never
take anything from him again. But it's something I'll have to think 
about finally claiming. I have two new responsibilities now. I want
them to live comfortably. The FBI pays well, but not enough for a man
who's got two kids and is paying through the nose for a crappy place in
a crappy neighborhood. 
     I never thought I'd be one of those guys who want their kids to 
grow up sheltered in a nice two-story with a white picket fence and a
dog, preferably the all-American Golden Retriever. But then again, I
never thought I'd have kids either.
     I am becoming accustomed to this idea of being a father. I pick
up the phone to call Scully to let her know my decision. She doesn't 
answer. Big surprise there. I guess she wants to give me the full week
to decide. That's fine. It'll give her time to adjust to the idea, too.
So, for now, I sit back and think. And smile.

End.
Damn! That there was good shit!!!