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Title: Misbegotten Recent developments raise even more questions and help the agent's realize what is truly important Prologue Washington, DC "We don't want any of the errors that occurred with the first trial to occur in the second trial. Are you sure nothing was left to chance?" a tall man with dark hair asks from the shadows. He steps out of behind the crates that were concealing his presence, and another man turns to face him. He is younger, not quite as tall, but his eyes show that he has seen it all and lost his soul in the process. "Not this time. This ... specimen was virtually hand-picked, so to speak," the younger man says, with a slight smirk on his face. He knows all too well how the 'specimen' was procured for he did the procuring. No one will ever no how much he enjoyed it, either. "Then this one should be perfect?" the other man says, stepping further out of the shadows. He is dressed stylishly, his suit costing more than some live off of in a month. His eyes pierce the other man with their crystal blue intensity, and his black hair is coifed into perfection. Both men are complete opposites. The other man is dressed for a tougher life, a life befitting black denim. His short hair is mussed, and his eyes darker. What they share in common is their penchant for doing business in the shadows. "Quite possibly. It is going to be the closest to perfect that you are going to see under these conditions. I don't see what was wrong with the old way of doing things," the younger man says. "The old standards did not produce the results we desired. Those results were for the old plans created by old men who are now either dead or dying. This is the new way of doing things. This is the way to survival," he says, as he fidgets with something in his pocket. "There is only one way to survive," the young man says, holding out his hand. The other man puts a small vial onto his palm. Payment for a job well done. Georgetown Women's Health Center "You say May? Around six weeks?" Dr. Sarah Morton asks, as she passes the Doppler over my gel-covered belly. A boisterous swoosh swoosh fills the room. The undeniable sound of a fetal heartbeat. "Yes. May," Mulder says. He is at my side, holding my hand through all of this. When the results came back as positive, we both began questioning things faster than the doctor could answer. Other questions will come later. More personal ones. My eyes do not move from his, as we listen to the whirring sound of a new life fill the room. Even under these circumstances, it is beautiful music. "Well, folks, from listening to this nice, strong heartbeat, I'd say at least ten weeks. That would make the date of conception sometime near the end of April," Sarah says, as she pulls away the Doppler, casting the room into an unpleasant silence. She notices it right away, along with the fact that my hand gripped onto Mulder's just a little tighter and that he shifted around uncomfortably. "I, um ... could be wrong. Is there a problem?" "We don't know yet," I answer quickly. "When can we determine the exact age?" "I could do a transvaginal ultrasound now, and maybe get an idea, or we could wait a few weeks, and do a routine diagnostic ultrasound. If I'm right about the age, we can do an amnio at the same time. It all depends on how important this information is to you," Sarah says. She wipes the goo off of me, and I sit back up, covered only by a thin gown and a sheet of sallow green paper. She sits down in her chair and faces the two of us. We are still holding on tight to each other's hand, and I know his mind is going over all the things mine is cycling through. "Due to the circumstances beyond our control ... I was held hostage at the end of April. I was drugged, unconscious for an undetermined amount of time and tests were performed on me. I don't know what else they might have done," I say quickly, trying to convey to her all that could be wrong without speaking the words. Mulder looks down at the floor, and I don't look at him again just yet. Sarah knows about my life, what has happened in the past. She is privy to things very few people know. Or maybe a lot know. Who the hell can be certain anymore. "I will give you two a moment to discuss a few things. If you are concerned about the, um ... paternity, I can tell you that it is certainly riskier to do an amniocentesis before the 18th week. But I'm sure we could get that test in there when the time comes, too. That will leave you with some other options to consider," she says, as she scans us both carefully, waiting for the many questions we have yet to voice. "I'll be back in a few. You can get dressed, Dana." Getting back into that suit just doesn't seem important right now. Mulder wraps his arms around me, and in moments the front of his blue dress shirt is stained with my tears. I can feel his warmth under all the dampness, and I know his hands are cradling my head, but he seems so far away. It is as if this is all a dream, and I'm going to wake up and find I'm still in that abandoned house with Mulch. Mulder leans down and kisses my forehead, and I know it is not a dream. Not even a nightmare. This is our real, waking life. I can do nothing right now but hold on to him. "It won't matter, Scully. It doesn't matter," he whispers, but it matters so much to me. I don't want to be victimized in this way. I want it to be his so badly, made from us *wanting* to be together this time. Not some experiment, not some damn 'weather anomaly.' "Scully, she said the end of April. We were together at the hotel during that time period and we have the photographic evidence to prove it. We weren't that careful." "So many things could be wrong ... so many drugs," I say, not wanting to go into an all out sob here. I will reserve that for later, when we can be alone together somewhere other than this damned exam room. The walls are decorated with pictures of pastel women in long dresses frolicking with their fat, happy babies at the seashore. How come their lives appear to be so simple? Because they are only paintings. One dimensional images on poster board, not my multidimensional life. Too many dimensions. Mulder tilts my face up with his hand, so we are looking at each other. "Hey, we will get through this. Everything will be fine. No matter what." Scully-Mulder House Maggie came by early to pick up Christopher. She and Everett are taking him to National Zoo today, spoiling him rotten while Scully and I play hooky. I'm positive that neither of us has any sick time left, but what are they going to do? Fire us? On days like today, that would be a godsend. I climb back into bed with Scully, and pull her into my arms. She was up early getting Chris ready for the day, and then headed back to bed, leaving the final preparations for his departure to me. Avoiding her mother, as far as I can tell. I'm sure she will fill her in on everything when she is ready or when we know more. Today she simply told her she is sick. Scully and I talked over a lot of things last evening, and cried and laughed and just held on to each other for the whole night. Somewhere around 2 a.m. we both fell asleep, some questions still unanswered. She snuggles in closer to me, and rests an arm over my chest. "What scares you most?" I ask her. I move a strand of hair off of her face, and she carefully considers my question for a few moments. Finally, she props herself up and faces me, her face still puffy from the tears that flowed over night, her eyes rimmed in red. "The only thing that scares me is that he or she won't be yours," she says, her voice faltering as her eyes meet mine. "I can handle everything else, but that is the one thing I've always wanted. One of *our* own, just because I love you, not because someone else wanted them or needed them, too. I thought this time it was going to be different ..." I can see the tears form in her eyes again, and I pull her to me and hold her as tight as I can. I will admit that I want that, too. But if it isn't to be so, I will live with it. "Scully, we are quite an unusual family to start out with. Christopher was a complete surprise, and no one knows how we ended up together at that point anyway. Was it us or was it 'them?' If this child isn't mine genetically, it will still be yours. I will still love him or her just because of that, and no matter what *they* did, it will always be ours. Besides, the other option is out of the question," I say to her, already knowing how strong her faith is and what she believes is right. I want it to be mine, and if it isn't I will readily kill the person who did this to us. There is something inside of me that just knows that however they created it, that it is mine. Everyone keeps saying that is how it must be. Why would they change the game plan now? "I just wish ..." she starts to say something, and her voice trails off. "Wish what?" I ask. I want her to be able to tell me everything. I know that she has always kept so much stuff inside, including that she thought she was pregnant in the first place. She explained to me last night that she was afraid of hoping for too much. And now she feels she is going to get what she wants, but not everything she desires. "Wish we would have known sooner, that it was going to be like this. That there were more important things all those years when we just danced around our feelings," she says. "There is no telling what would have been if that would have happened. Maybe the reason it is this way now, and we love each other like this, is because of what we have gone through. And I will be the first to confess that you and I have been through hell, and I'm the one that dragged you there. I know this isn't how you imagined your life, but since it is the only one we have, will it do for now?" I ask her. "It will do for now," she says. Her hand moves to wipe the tears from her eyes. We stay wrapped up in one another for a long time, the three of us. There are so many 'what ifs' in our life. What if I would have just told her I loved her so long ago? What if that damn bee didn't take her away from me when everything seemed to be coming together? Who am I kidding? Our lives come together? That will be the day. "So, what should we do on our day off? Pick out furniture for the nursery? Decide on a name?" I ask, knowing that it would make her smile. Now that we are pros at it, we know how much time there is between now and then, how much time we really have. Sometimes it feels like an eternity. Sometimes it feels like it is coming too fast. "I think we have other things to do first. Like plan someone's first birthday party. And we have a wedding to plan, too," she says, looking up to me to catch my surprised expression. "Sounds like it is going to be a full day. Are you sure you are up to it?" I ask, not exactly wanting to leave the comfort of this bed, and certainly not wanting to leave the comfort of being with her. "I don't feel that bad this time around, Mulder. Just have to pee a lot. And I'm not really craving anything yet, either," she says, as she untangles herself from me and gets out of bed and heads towards the bathroom. "That's good. I don't think I can stomach another Burrito Supreme for as long as I live." Pampered Party "Bears or clowns?" I ask Mulder, and he looks at me as if I just asked him to tell me the meaning of life. He goes back to scanning the shelves, searching for something better. "Neither. I like these, especially now that Jar Jar is gone," he says, holding up party plates with the latest round of Star Wars Episode II characters on them. "Mulder, he's a baby. He doesn't even know about Star Wars, yet," I say. That was what he suggested we do this afternoon. Sit for two hours in the dark watching digitally created aliens talk at us. Perhaps he is looking for one he recognizes. I'm too restless to sit that long now. Mulder puts them back on the shelf and pouts. "Maybe we can get them for your birthday." "Well, then I will have to go with the bear. Clowns are frightening," he says, as he help throw the supplies into the cart. It is a little blue bear wearing a shirt with a big #1 on it. He's riding a rocking horse and looks happy. Of course he's happy. Birthdays are still a good thing at that age. I shouldn't say that. Birthdays are better than the alternative at any age. I know that well. "Is your mother going to make it down?" I ask, trying to figure out the guest list in my head. We don't have that many people we can invite. Our social circle hasn't exactly grown since Christopher was born. The Gunmen said they would make it. Then there is Mom and Everett. Reid said he might stop by with his new girlfriend and Soprano is going to be helping out. Not exactly a crowd. "She says she is," Mulder says, as he throws a package of matching blow-outs into the cart, followed by hats. I wonder if he knows he gets to wear one of those? "Is this everything?" "Almost," I say, as I direct him towards another aisle. The wedding supply aisle. Just to get ideas. I look into a display of cake toppers, and notice our combination of qualities just doesn't exist. A middle-aged man with chestnut hair. A red headed pregnant woman. A baby already in their arms. Dark, shadowy figures standing behind them, one with a cigarette dangling from his lips. I almost laugh out loud as I wonder if we can have one custom made, or maybe we just skip that part anyway. "You sure about this?" he asks me, as he absently flips quickly through a wedding invitation sample book without looking at a single one. I didn't know he was having second thoughts at this point. Perhaps it is only natural to question these things. Our relationship seems to always be moving in starts and stops. I get upset at him. He gets upset at me. Add to that the fact that we have technically been involved for ten years now, maybe his heart just isn't in it. Maybe he isn't sure. "Why wouldn't I be sure?" I ask back, as I continue to look at all the happy, young plastic couples. Actually there are a million reasons I might not be sure. Fear of what the future holds is always a reason that looms large in my life. I turn to look at him, as he leans on the podium holding the large, ornate tome of invitation choices. He is ignoring the book now, but rather he is watching me with that look on his face that makes my body tremble and my heart flutter. With so much wrong in our world to make me unsure, there is just one reason I am *so* sure. Scully-Mulder House "How does she do it?" Scully asks as she looks out the front window, watching Soprano run down the street with Christopher in his jogger stroller. It is only 7:00 a.m., but she is full of energy. Sophie bounced into the house at about 6:30 in the morning, allowing Scully and me to get ready for work without having to take turns watching Christopher. Sometimes I'm certain this is all too good to be true, and that we are going to find out she was sent by the devil to groom our son into the antichrist, but she smiles too much for that. And I haven't seen any rottweilers hanging around. "Youth. She is young. I am nearly twice her age," I say, as I walk by her, looking for some files I brought home. "I might have to fly out to Indiana today, but I should be home by tomorrow afternoon." "Indiana?" she asks, her voice sounding half interested. It is Friday, and I've been trying to avoid being out of town on the weekends, but this was something I was supposed to take care of yesterday. I simply had more important things to do. Last night we agreed to not let the things we can't control take over our lives. "Yes, Indiana. Bloomington to be exact. Unexplained deaths, missing body parts, lack of suspects, lack of evidence, apparitions spotted regularly, the whole nine yards," I say, finally finding the files I'm looking for right where I left them. "Reid flew out there yesterday. I told him I'd be there today if he didn't get everything wrapped up." She follows me into the kitchen, and removes a small bottle of water from the refrigerator. Our grocery shopping yesterday left us with a cart full of fruits, vegetables and whole grain products. I'm just thankful that not a single potato made it in there. The only unusual item was a box of chocolate covered cherries that she has yet to open. "How is Agent Reid holding out?" Scully asks. Sometimes I'm unsure whether she is jealous of him or if she is thankful that she's not the one flying out on a moment's notice to chase down some freak. "After his baptism with fire in New Mexico, I think he will do just fine," I say. He is smart and a good investigator. Amazingly enough, he is also open to certain extreme notions that Scully still doesn't accept. Scully looks better today than she has in weeks, her eyes not so lost behind a cloud of confusion. She commented briefly this morning about all the clothes she could finally fit into again, touching each suit on the sleeve as if she was saying good-bye forever this time. Then I watched her pull a small outfit out of the corner of the closet, where it has been hanging on a tiny hanger for 10 months now. It is white with 'Daddy's Boy' embroidered across the chest in blue. I could see the emotions beginning to creep up on her again, trying to convince the tears to start falling. I looked over her shoulder and asked if she thought we could find one that said 'Daddy's Girl' this time. The tears began to fall, but for different reasons. "So, did you ever consider having a forensic pathologist join your department?" Scully asks, shaking me from my thoughts and my files. She takes a sip of water and doesn't say anything else. "I don't know. Why? Do you know a good one?" Epilogue New York City The large, black car pulls up to the curb, allowing a man to step into its shaded privacy before pulling away. It quickly becomes just another car in rush hour traffic. Smoke fills the back seat, making the it not only dark but hazy as well. Another dark pit from which to do business. A place where the destiny of man has been bought and sold several times over. After taking another drag from his cigarette, an older man puts out his hand and waits for the new arrival to hand him something. On to his outstretched palm, he carefully places a small vial of amber-colored liquid. The man examines it closely, his cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Be careful. I hear it is flammable," the young man says, his voice filled with disgust for his fellow occupant. He only laughs and puts the vial away into a safe box sitting next to him on the seat. "How many sides are you playing, Alex? Is there any one who cannot claim you as their whore?" the man with the cigarette asks. "Only those who pay the price can claim me. Only those who give me what I want," Alex Krycek says scoffingly, his voice rough and edgy. He had to work hard to get this small vial. It is the only thing he knows that will get him to the bargaining table, allowing him to have what he wants in the end. The last few years have taught him how to play all the sides. "And for that price, you are always willing to provide your ... services, such that they are?" he asks, trying to rile Krycek, to lower him back down into his place on the food chain. "What service did you provide to get your paws on this?" He taps the box gently, not wanting to disturb the contents now that he is responsible for them. He lost it once, and isn't going to make the same mistake twice. He blows a puff of smoke towards Krycek, but he doesn't even blink. "No. I don't kiss and tell," Alex says, his mouth twisting into a grin that under any other circumstance would be charming. If only he had taken a different path, he wouldn't need to prostitute himself out to the highest bidder. He could have been in control now. In a way, he knows he is. "So, are you ready to pay me for my services to you?" "Why should I pay you for something that was already mine?" the man asks, before moving his cigarette to his mouth again and takes another slow, long drag. Krycek looks at him, wondering when this habit is going to kill him. Maybe he can't die. "You will pay me because you lost it. You trusted Diana Fowley to do your evil bidding and she failed you this time. So you need me," Krycek says. "I was under the impression that you killed Fowely. But that hardly matters anymore. What is it you want this time, Alex? More money? Another job being my lackey? A night at the Plaza?" "This time I want Mulder," Krycek says, his voice unfaltering as he makes his demand. The other man looks at him carefully, and takes one final drag before he extinguishes his cigarette. "That is an interesting request. What do you plan on doing with Agent Mulder, if I decide to give him to you?" he asks, blowing out the smoke he just inhaled. Once again it hits Krycek in the face. "With that vial, you don't need him. The only people who need him now are the one's running that sub-project of yours. The Plan B option. You and I both know you really have no interest in the fruitless work they are doing. I want to show Mulder everything he wants to know, show him what his *children* are meant to be, and then I want to destroy him," Krycek says, his voice growing colder with each word. "Mulder will never follow you," the smoking man says, sounding nothing more than humored by the request. "Why do you hate Mulder so much?" "Because you don't. Besides, we all know that if the truth beckons, Mulder is sure to follow." The End
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