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Title: Joy Begets Sorrow Summary: In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children. Author's note: It's been over a year since I've written fanfic. What can I say? The Requiem bug bit me. This short piece is actually the beginning of a much longer story, but I thought it stands alone pretty well. And besides, I have grave doubts about ever finishing the larger piece. Real life is a time sink. Thanks to Leyla, Paula, and Kelli for their encouragement on this one. And, because you never know whether this one's gonna be the last, thanks also to MCA and Mustang Sally for just being. Throughout the animal kingdom, the females of thousands of species manage to hunt their prey, roam great distances, evade predators and defeat their natural enemies, all while carrying two, six, even more offspring in their bellies. So why can't I manage three blocks in heels? My back hurts, my feet are swollen, I can't sit for the hemorrhoids, and I eat Tums by the handful, like he used to eat sunflower seeds. Eats. Eats. Dammit. Eats. I have much more important things to do than hang around and nurse my pregnancy-induced aches and pains. Things like finding a man who could be anywhere in the universe by now. Literally. So every time I set foot in my OB's office and skim one of those ain't-nature-grand La Maze pamphlets, with their advice about "slowing down and getting in touch with the changes in your body," it makes me want to pull out my sidearm and blow away the next woman in Birkenstocks who has the misfortune of crossing my path. Okay, so maybe I have some rage issues. I think I have a right. It's nothing a stiff drink wouldn't drown. Trouble is, all I get are tall glasses of calcium-fortified orange juice and a horse pill they call a prenatal vitamin. God, my mind is wandering all over the damn place. It does that a lot lately. When I try to rein in my thoughts and focus, there's only one thing I can possibly focus on. And, being no closer to finding him today than I was the day he vanished five months ago, that's a subject I try to avoid at all costs. Five months. Only two more before the girls arrive. Less, probably, given the increased risk of preterm labor in a multiple pregnancy. Just a scant handful of weeks in which to keep looking for anything that might provide a clue to his whereabouts, or at least some indication of what happened to him. If I get really lucky, I might even hunt down the two people who really know - if you can call finding a rat and a bitch lucky. My existence has become truly bizarre. I'd consider myself lucky to learn that the father of my children is being held captive by a ruthless, two-faced bastard and his sleazy sidekick, both of whom are most likely conspiring to let hostile aliens take over the planet. Because if all that were true, at least it would mean that the father of my children is still on the planet. The alternative is too bizarre and horrific to contemplate. All right. Enough. This pity party is officially over. I'm just going to park my pregnant butt down and watch that damn building on the one-in-a-million chance that Krycek or Covarrubias will show up tonight, even though they haven't been anywhere near the place for the past twelve nights running. I wish I didn't have to pee so badly. As I lumber heavily down the basement hallway, my 36 week- pregnant body resembling my former self as a cement mixer resembles a Porsche, I spot Skinner standing outside my office, as he's done so many mornings recently. I know what he has to say to me, and I groan inwardly at the prospect. Hearing it only reminds me how useless I've become, and how much time has gone by, and how little I've accomplished. But there's no avoiding him now, and even if there were, I doubt I would. "Agent Scully, you shouldn't be here." I pass him silently and enter the dim office. "I said, go home, Agent Scully." I don't really think ignoring him would make him go away, but you know what they say about hope. "There's a fine line between selfless devotion and senseless masochism. You crossed it weeks ago." I'm so, so tired of this conversation. It's one Skinner and I have had nearly every day for six weeks. The words have changed little in that time, but I've watched his lips tighten, his eyes narrow, and the creases in his forehead deepen from day to day, week to week. I know his concern is due in part to his honest regard for me, but there's another part that has more to do with placating his conscience, and that's the part that irritates the hell out of me. Unspoken subtext: "I lost the father. Now it's my duty to take care of the mother." Chivalry isn't dead, it's just lost all its hair. I think he'd have donned his suit of armor and mounted a fiery stallion if he could have requisitioned one from the FBI motor pool. I don't bother replying. I have nothing to say - especially because I know he's right, and I don't particularly care. What the hell does he expect me to do? Go home and stare at the walls from my sitz bath? "Any fresh leads?" Thank God. He's switching gears. As long as he's not trying to order me out of the building, I'm willing to talk. "Nothing concrete. But I'm waiting for some information from Interpol that could shed light on the Tunisian connection." "Tunisia? Isn't that pretty stale stuff? By now Krycek's probably..." "I know," I interrupt, trying to still the voice of reason. "But it's the best I can do." I hope he'll leave it at that. He doesn't, instead starting to say something about wasted effort. I've stopped listening. Skinner's lecture suddenly seems utterly unimportant - at least, when compared to what now has captured my undivided attention. A warm, wet trickle of fluid down my inner thighs. Times like this, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. First, for being alive in the 21st century, when modern medicine takes so much of the risk out of childbirth. Second, for having enough common sense to realize that anesthesia-free labor is a crock of all-natural, organic fertilizer. At the moment, thanks to a highly effective epidural anesthetic, my greatest discomfort comes from having to stare at the God- awful pink flowered wallpaper in this absurdly luxurious private "birthing room." It's a triumph of design --the room, not the wallpaper -- in which all the anxiety-provoking high-tech medical equipment is camouflaged by what looks like a neo-classical armoire. The soundproofed walls provide complete protection from the anguished screams of the La Maze practitioner next door, whose well-rehearsed pain-relieving breathing exercises have given way to blood-curdling screams punctuated by obscenities hurled at the father of her child. Mulder would find all this highly amusing, I think. Not surprisingly, I become suddenly teary-eyed, wishing he were here to say something cutting and caustic. But part of me suspects that, under these very special circumstances, he might not. After all, I'm not exactly behaving in character myself. I'm lying here with Walter Skinner - Walter Skinner! - sitting imperiously by my side. Never in my wildest imagining could I have dreamt up such a scene. So I'm lying here staring at the annoyingly feminine wallpaper, with Skinner watching CNN on the ceiling-mounted TV, and I'm thinking the one thought that I haven't allowed myself to think for the past six months. What are they? Are they, as I've been insisting to myself all these months, the normal result of those all-too-few long, steamy, sensual nights Mulder and I had finally allowed ourselves - nights of profound happiness and, more to the point, repeated acts of unprotected sexual intercourse? But that's just it. We used no protection because we both thought - no, we knew, with as much certainty as iit is possible to know anything - that none was necessary, because when those sperm came a-knockin', there would be no one home to open the door. And here I am, about to deliver two almost full-term babies, if my cervix would just hurry up and dilate a few more centimeters. The alternative explanations run dizzying circles around my brain, conjuring memories of the alleged gray aliens, clones, mutants and hybrids Mulder and I have encountered through the years. And one hybrid whom I'd thought until recently would be the only child I would ever have. These thoughts make my heart twist and strip me of every shred of protective mental armor I have. I am raw and exposed at this moment, silently offering the most fervent prayers of my life for God to send me two healthy, fully human babies. Please. Please. Please. "Scully? Are you all right? Is the anesthesia wearing off?" Skinner's voice disrupts the vicious circle of my thoughts, and I suddenly realize that I am crying. "No. I'm fine. I mean..." Fine? I'm fine? "I'm scared." He says nothing, but takes my hand and grips it hard. I find an enormous amount of unexpected comfort in that physical contact. A nurse enters without knocking and announces that "it's time to take another look." Skinner releases my hand and circles discretely to the head of the bed, from where he can only see the sheet pulled tight across my raised thighs and not the wide-open beaver on display from the other end. "Nearly ten centimeters dilated," she announces, much to my surprise. I've felt so little during the contractions that I never realized my labor was progressing. "I'll get Dr. Rizoff in here." When the door closes behind her, I'm startled by the panicky, choked sob that escapes me. The reality of two babies had seemed so remote for all these months, but now that their appearance is imminent, I find that I'm terrified. Please, God. Please. Oh, please. Not a very articulate entreaty, but as heartfelt as they come. The doctor comes in, accompanied by some nurses and a couple of pediatric residents. The latter earn a glare from me, or at least what passes for a glare after all these hours of waiting. Pediatricians don't usually stand by at normal births, but multiples are considered to be at higher risk, a fact of which I do not care to be reminded. Skinner moves toward the door, and, somewhat to my surprise, I stop him and ask him to stay. He simply nods. All the activity helps distract me from my fears, and when the grueling work of pushing begins, all my energy is focused on expelling a bowling ball-sized head through my golf ball-sized birth canal. After what seems like hours on the Abodomenizer, I feel the most incredible pressure on my pubic bone, and then I hear my daughter cry, and the nurse is holding her up for me to see before the resident checks her out, and she's fine and beautiful and wrinkly and very, very human-looking, and I know that's exactly what she is. I just know. That's all I can think about through the next three contractions. I just keep pushing and thinking, "They're ours. They're mine. Mulder's and mine," until I hear the OB say "breach" and "prep for an emergency c-section," which has the effect of instantly dissipating my sentimental reverie. "What about internal version?" I ask, my voice sounding far away, like somebody else's. "I don't dare," he says. "The position of the placenta makes it too dangerous to turn the baby. I'm sorry. I'll try not to ruin your bikini line." I don't even try to laugh at that. The next half hour goes by in a blur of tense activity as I'm quickly scrubbed, shaved and moved into the OR, where I see nothing but a sterile drape. Skinner hovers up near my head looking grim, as if we were storming a beach somewhere and taking heavy enemy fire. I get a quick glimpse of my second daughter moments after she makes her debut, crying and flailing her tiny fists at the indignity of her sloppy entrance into the world. But the first true moment of my new reality doesn't come until later, when I'm lying alone in the recovery room. Skinner's gone off to gather his wits, and I hear the sound of squeaky rubber soles on linoleum and the rattle of shaky plastic wheels. A smiling nurse and two bassinets come to a halt by my bed. "Do you feel up to holding them?" she asks. I nod. One by one, she lifts the tiny, swaddled forms from their beds and tucks each one under one of my arms. Without hesitation, two little heads turn, and two little mouths root uselessly at my sides. Grateful that Skinner is gone, I untie the neck of my hospital gown, pull it down and bring each mouth to its own swollen nipple. As my babies work to draw sustenance from my body, I feel the tears slide down my cheeks. I know the watchful nurse must think they are a new mother's tears of joy. And why not? What could she possibly know of my regrets, my failings? For months, I've been promising myself that he would be here for this moment. Now, I'm afraid he'll never know what he missed. The End
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