TITLE: Even Doves Have Pride II (1/2)
AUTHOR: bugs
EMAIL ADDRESS: bugsfic@yahoo.com
SPOILER WARNING: none
RATING: This is the PG-13 version
CONTENT WARNING: Just sweet lovin' in this one, graphic depiction of
a birth. 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 rescued
ovum 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 she just stay pregnant forever?

I didn't want to be away from Scully, 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 pretty 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 moved up to massage her shoulders.
"Let me make it all better," I crooned.

She tilted forward with a little sigh of contentment and I swept
the soapy cloth around her warm pink back. As I peppered her
shoulders with ticklish little kisses, she began to giggle.
I want to die with that giggle as the last thing I hear, but
Scully swears she won't be laughing when I die.

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 Taj Mahal settled
back into 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, get up here and put yourself to some use."

I immediately crawled up to nestle against her back, wrapping my
arms around her and started nibbling at her ear in eager anticipation
of her plans to put me in my place.

But she fell 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, I couldn't sleep myself. I snuggled down deeper into
the curve of her back and began to draw a crude figure on the
rounded temple wall, 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) feedback happily received at bugsfic@yahoo.com

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