Title: Pater Familias I- Not A Perfect World
Author: OneMillionAndNine
http://www.geocities.com/onemillionandnine
Rating: Moist, glistening NC-17
Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com
Archive: feel free.
Disclaimer: I like to surf but it'll take more 
than that to make me Chris Carter. That aside, 
I still can't figure out how to turn fan fic 
into a cash cow.
Note: Not A Perfect World was my very first 
attempt at fan fic and when I posted it 
initially I thought it was a complete story. A 
veritable landslide of emails informed me 
otherwise. Three months and 200K later, here 
we are. Be careful what you ask for. That said 
all in all this is a fairly happy shiny story 
though it has its dark spots.
Thanks: All thanks to MaybeAmanda - she asks 
good questions, capitalizes, punctuates, points 
out gaping holes I have missed. If it weren't 
for her, I'd probably never post a thing. And 
now she's set up a website for me {gets down on 
one knee before the whole fic world}
Mandy, will you leave your husband and be my 
bitch?

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:
01/02

After twenty hours of labor and an emergency 
Caesarian section, the doctor finished by 
putting four stitches in Scully's vagina. 

It had started gently, innocently even. Well, 
at least as innocently as things ever went 
between them. Mulder had asked her, in voice 
that was nearly a whisper, if he could touch 
her belly, maybe feel the baby kick. The shape 
of her stomach had suddenly shifted and his 
face lit up. 
 
"Scully this is..." He sat and faltered for a 
moment before breaking into a smile. "Ummm, 
can I...under the shirt, Scully?" 
 
A smile curled the corners of her mouth and she 
nodded almost imperceptibly. Unbuttoning her 
blouse from the bottom up, exposing a cream- 
white abdomen the size and shape of a 
watermelon, complete with red stripy stretch 
marks, she took his hand. "Feel there? 
That's his right foot," as a hard point 
appeared and ran deliberately just below her 
ribcage. 
 
Mulder came at her with the softest of 
fingertips and made contact. Her belly lurched 
and shuddered and erupted in a gentle wave of 
motion. For the first time, he really believed 
there was baby inside her. Somehow, his hands 
found their way to her breasts, then inside her 
bra. He looked up at her, startled, as if she 
had put them there. 
 
"I wish..." He sounded so wistful 
 
"I know." She was tired and getting more tired 
just listening to him. 
 
"Just my luck, Scully. You're having my baby 
and I've never even had my tongue in your 
mouth." He was looking at the floor but had 
yet to move his hands. 
 
She was digging her nails into her palms. Her 
face turned to his slowly, like a plant 
to the sun, her mouth pulled open by heavy 
expectation. "Try me." 
 
And he did. He tried. 
 
Dana Scully was both sad and relieved to 
realize Fox Mulder was not the best kisser in 
the world. Just average, at best. He 
managed to be both too hard and too soft at the 
same time, as if he could neither let himself 
go or make himself stop. 
 
He was sweating. Then he bumped her hard on 
the cheek with his nose, his enormous nose, the 
same one he'd always had. Shouldn't surprise 
her now. 
 
She tried to sound confident but all she could 
do was whisper. "Now I want you to fuck me." 
 
He shrunk back, shook his head. "I don't want 
to hurt you." 
 
She did her best to leer. "You forget; I'm a 
doctor." 
 
He put his head down, dejected, pressed his 
lips together, and seemed lost for a moment, 
lost somewhere inside his head. Then he 
stiffened and smiled, did a lame little head 
bob and his best whispered Elvis voice. "Okay, 
partner, let's. . .bring it on." 
 
For a moment, Scully was afraid to breathe. 
Then he was pulling her skirt down and she was 
giggling. 
 
He stopped for a moment, mesmerized by the 
sound of her laugh and the sight of her cobalt 
blue panties against her pale, pale skin. His 
hands reached up and cupped her ass, brought 
the panties down hard, rough even, and lifted 
her whole body awkwardly up. She flailed and 
laughed as he carried her to the wingback chair 
and suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore. 
 
She started to sweat. His hands were clutching 
at her newly heavy breasts and it was 
imminently clear to her what Mulder's next act 
would be. She sincerely hoped he was better at 
this. 
 
He parted her legs easily, his palms under her 
knees, took one look and whistled, long and 
low. 
 
She broke out of her reverie, half-annoyed and 
half-alarmed. "What?" 
 
He was biting his lip. "You look so good." 
 
"Just the standard issue, Mulder." 
 
It did not look standard issue to him. To him, 
it looked like a white peach in a nest of 
cinnamon curls. "Like a peach," he mumbled. 
 
She could not stop herself from smirking, from 
lifting that damned eyebrow. "That's one of 
the classic symbols...like a snake...are you 
going to ask me to tell you your penis reminds 
me of a snake?" 
 
He shook his head and blushed and looked, for a 
moment, like he was gathering his courage all 
over again. Damn damn damn! Would she ever 
learn to keep her mouth shut? 
 
In a split second, he was running his hands 
down the length of her legs. Slowly, softly, 
he pressed his tongue to the bottom of the 
cleft, pushing the two halves apart as he moved 
to her clitoris. When he reached it, it was 
small and swollen and shell pink. 
 
He breathed on it and her entire body 
shuddered. He held it between his lips and 
sucked gently. She had a buttery taste, half-
way between a morel and a lemon 
 
He was better at this. So good, in fact, that 
she would entirely overlook the bad kissing. 
He could kiss her badly for the rest of her 
life. 
 
Her white knees were quivering. Her perfectly 
manicured hands were buried in his hair. He 
crossed two large fingers and slid them into 
her. 
 
She came in seconds and a cold wave shot over 
her. 
 
He sucked a little harder, twisted his fingers 
inside her, slid them halfway out, pushed them 
all the way back inside her. 
 
She came again, hot this time. 
 
He started licking, stroking, biting. She came 
three more times. Hard. In rapid succession, 
like fire crackers . 
 
Her eye lids were fluttering and she was 
muttering, but he couldn't tell if she was 
saying "Fuck Mulder," or "Fox Mulder," or "Fuck 
Mother," for that matter. "Fox Mother," maybe? 
 
He was trying to stay calm, trying not to get 
excited. He wanted this to last. 
 
She was talking. Her voice was a shaky squeak. 
What was she saying? "My turn." 
 
"Day. . .um, Scully, you don't need to...you 
don't have to prove anything to me. It's not 
necessary." 
 
"My turn, Mulder." She sounded close to old 
self now, and struggled to get out of the 
chair. It was his turn to give up control. 
 
He grinned. "Okay, you drive - I'll stand up - 
you can stay where you are." 
 
For a moment, as he came to his feet, he seemed 
all knees and elbows. Her hands went shyly but 
purposefully to his fly as he pulled off his 
shirt and threw it as hard as he could. It hit 
the wall and slid behind a low bookcase. He 
looked away - consciously, purposefully away - 
as she pulled down his boxers. 
 
She smiled a soft smile but he was not looking. 
"This certainly isn't standard issue." 
 
"It's not "this", Scully." The way he said it 
was wistful and slightly pained. "It's just me. 
Just me." 
 
He thought about telling her the story of his 
first time, how, at the tender age of 16, he'd 
ended up driving Jeannie White, the class 
slut, to get stitches. It had been a Tuesday 
afternoon, late spring, and, as was her wont, 
his mother had been down the hall sleeping 
with Prince Valium. He was set to go to Oxford 
in the fall, but he had wanted to go there 
feeling like an adult, like someone in charge 
of his life, and that meant not arriving 
in England still a virgin. So he'd brought 
Jeannie, who'd been all of maybe five-foot-two 
and tiny, tiny like Scully, back to his 
mother's house. 
 
It had lasted all of fifteen seconds, she'd 
torn in three places, and the only time she'd 
spoken to him afterwards was to call him 'a 
complete asshole' repeatedly as he'd driven her 
to the clinic in his unconscious mother's car. 
His father, having learned all about it, thanks 
to the rumor mill, had slapped him upside the 
head until he'd bled from his left ear. For 
the last month of high school, his nick name 
had changed from "The Nose" to "The Dick". 
 
In the split second that the thought took, 
Scully leaned forward and covered the tip of 
his cock with feathery kisses. He decide he'd 
share that charming story with her some other 
time. 
 
The head was violently purple and roughly the 
size of a tangerine; the whole thing was pretty 
much the size of Scully's forearm. She glanced 
at her arm for a quick comparison. Pretty much 
exactly, in fact. 
 
He'd never get the whole thing into her. The 
space simply did not exist. Well, there was 
something she could do. She slid out of the 
chair to get the right angle, knelt in front of 
him, opened her swollen lips wide and slowly, 
careful, swallowed him down to his stiff black 
pubic hair. 
 
He looked drunk his face wide his eyes slipped 
to slits, "Shit, Scully. You think you 
know somebody. . .!" Then, more quietly, "I 
guess it's true what they say about Catholic 
girls." 
 
If she could have, she'd have smiled. She 
began to make snakelike movements with her 
tongue instead, her luminous eyes shining up at 
him all the while. She was on the brink of 
either gagging or crying. He didn't want 
to know which it was. 
 
He was gasping. He had never even heard of 
anything like this, let alone felt it. He 
couldn't help opening and closing his mouth 
with no sound at all, fishlike. Abruptly, he 
was pulling out of her mouth and swearing. 
"Shit Shit Shit!" His cock was dripping wet 
and leaping in the air. "I'm coming." 
 
"SSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh..." Scully 
remained calm, pressed her little hand firmly 
to the base and stopped him, somehow. Then she 
almost undid it all by running his entire 
length along her cheek. 
 
She was smiling. She gestured with her head, 
tugging uncertainly at his hips. She was 
leading him into the bedroom. Her bedroom. 
Her bed. White sheets. White sheets and skin 
like milk. He wanted to whistle again. He 
wanted to make a joke but found he couldn't; 
the point of no return had come. 
 
For awhile, they kissed and groped on the bed, 
lost for words for once, her hands stroking 
him until he took it upon himself to press the 
thick head against her pale and tender opening. 
He was sitting on his heels, his long thighs 
underneath her, easing his way into her as 
slowly as possible, his thumb drawing tight 
circles on her clitoris. 
 
It was Dana Katherine Scully who lost control 
first, seized him by his hips, and pulled him 
in as far as he could possibly go. He was 
ramming her cervix and every stroke hurt, but 
she kept coming and coming. 
 
To be fair to Fox Mulder, the first seven 
seconds felt like someone was skinning his dick 
with a wire loop, but after that, it was bliss. 
She was moaning and writhing, really writhing, 
and Mulder was doing all he could not to follow 
her, not to come. He reached down and pinched 
the inside of his thigh until he was sure it 
would leave a purple mark. He had waited too 
long not to make it last. He pulled her little 
legs together and held them in front of him as 
he fucked her. Kissed the soles of her feet, 
pretty little feet with nails painted to match 
her pussy. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
He was lost in the rhythm. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
He smiled down at her. The baby was moving, 
kicking, turning. 
 
"Let me get on top, okay?" She was insensible, 
on fire, nostrils flared, eyes dilated. Her 
skin was no longer pale, but flushed, very 
flushed, though she was quick and sure as she 
mounted him. 
 
Again, it took all his concentration not to 
come instantly. 'Okay, think think think think 
think, in ancient Rome, this position was known 
as 'The Racehorse'. It was the most expensive, 
since Roman prostitutes charged by the amount 
of effort they had to expend. It cost five 
times what the standard rear entry position ran 
under the reign of Claudius. Or, to be 
precise, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero 
Germanicus.' He was struggling not to come 
with every fiber of his being, willing himself 
elsewhere if only for long enough to catch his 
breath. 'Claudius was declared Emperor by the 
Praetorian Guard who discovered him cowering 
behind a curtain, clutching his cock, after 
they finished slaughtering the rest of 
Caligulae's family. They needed an Emperor to 
justify their continued existence and the 
ineffectual old man was well suited to their 
purpose. Caligulae meant literally 'little 
boots,' from a tiny soldier's uniform he had 
worn as a child when he served as something of 
a mascot for the Roman legions fighting the 
Gauls on their home turf. The position was 
commonly known as 'The Racehorse'.' 
 
Scully arched her back and screamed. 
 
Scully. He was fucking Scully. Or rather, 
Scully was fucking him. He could not hold 
another thought in his head, could not think at 
all. He could only respond, had to respond. 
Was responding. 
 
He took Scully's ass in his hands and arched 
his own back to meet her. Rose. Fell. Rose. 
Fell. Lifted the two of them high off the 
mattress. 'The Racehorse,' indeed. 
 
Her orgasms went rippling through her, through 
him. He pushed her, pulled her, lifting her 
higher, bringing her down harder than she could 
have done on her own. 
 
For years, he had imagined this about a million 
different ways: Scully on her hands and knees, 
soft kisses on her nape, his hands running 
gently down her spine, followed by penetration 
in one swift, wet stroke, and more kisses on 
the back of the neck. Maybe a little biting. 
Maybe a lot. 
 
But he had forgotten that now. He was sobbing, 
unable to catch his breath, Scully was 
shuddering, the baby was kicking, and he was 
coming. He was coming deep inside Scully, and 
he felt golden. 
 
Then, suddenly, her shudder became a grimace 
and he was washed out of her in a deluge of hot 
water. 
 
Scully had pissed on him? 
 
Noooooooooooooooooooo. He had been pissed on 
before; it wasn't like this. 
 
Scully was panting and gritting her teeth. Oh 
Shit! He had broken her water! 
 
He stared at his dick; there was thick, pink 
mucus and flecks of blood all over it. 
 
How fucking erotic. How perfect. 
 
As soon as the pain passed, Scully was out of 
the bed like a shot. He could hear the shower. 
 
"Scully, Hey! Scully! Sculllleeeeee!" He was 
wondering if he could possibly find one more 
way to screw up today. Big. Dumb. Ox. 
Monster. Worthless. Loser. Jerk. Asshole. 
Loser. He was repeating himself. He ran to 
the bathroom, pulled back the shower door. 
 
She glanced up at him. "I'm fine. Really." 
She smiled a little weak smile, shut off the 
water. "Towel?" 
 
He handed it to her dumbly, but inside he was 
screaming {Fine? Fine!? 'Dying of cancer' 
fine or just plain 'Mulder, you've screwed up 
again' fine???} 
 
Her face went rigid and she nearly dropped the 
towel - another contraction. He was holding 
her in the shower then, silently, his sweat and 
musk against her clean, sweet skin. 
 
The whole thing took less than 2 minutes. 
"Mulder?" She sighed. "Have you stopped 
talking to me? it's been a long time but 
I usually don't have this effect on the men 
I sleep with." 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he moaned leaned 
into her and, for a moment, she was afraid he 
was going to cry. 
 
"I'm not hurt. No one's been hurt, Mulder. It 
felt good. I liked it. Okay?" 
 
He didn't answer, merely turned on the water 
and began soaping himself angrily. 
 
She tried to find the words to make him snap to 
- something he might say. Then it came too her. 
Maybe he'd laugh. "Cowboy up, partner; today 
you become a father." 
 
Instead, he vomited, and then he started to 
cry. Maybe it was inevitable. 
 
She rolled her eyes and decided she had done 
all the Mulder coddling would do on that 
particular day and left him to finish his 
shower. 
 
She brushed her teeth. She flossed. She put 
on her stupid maternity sweat pants and her 
Quantico t-shirt. She packed her overnight 
bag. She was tired and excited and stunned but 
most of all she was pissed off. She wanted to 
cry. She wanted to be a basketcase too. But 
that option wasn't really open to her. 
 
When Mulder went back to the bed room with his 
wet hair and his rumpled suit, Scully was 
holding onto the dresser, swearing. Another 
contraction. He supposed the expectant 
fatherly thing to do was time them. He 
suppressed a smile and looked at his watch. 
 
He cupped the small of her back with his hand 
in the familiar gesture, counting. Seconds 
later, she handed him her car keys. "Hope you 
can pull out of your sensitive misunderstood 
Spooky routine long enough to take me to the 
hospital," she snorted carefully slipping her 
feet into unlaced tennis shoes. 
 
He laughed out loud. "Could I get out of this 
if I told you I don't know nothin' bout 
birthin' no babies?" 
 
"Not unless you want me to call Frohike." 
 
"That's low, Scully. Besides, the only reason 
he'd come is to get a look at your snatch." 
 
She arched one eyebrow. "Snatch, Mulder?" 
 
He smiled inanely and nodded. "Snatch, cunt, 
pussy, quim, beaver, hair pie, shall I go on?" 
 
She wasn't sure whether she should blush, 
giggle, or look for her gun, but opted to keep 
looking annoyed. "Is this supposed to be 
turning me on?" 
 
"No. It's supposed to turn me on." He smiled 
dreamily. "Move the seat back for me, will 
you?" 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
"I just need to get something." Gesturing with 
his head - "Go on." 
 
She stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. "You 
need to get something from my apartment?" 
 
"My watch says you've got just enough time to 
get to the car before the next contraction 
hits. Go, already." 

===============

He was standing over her, leaning against the 
car, staring. She noticed him as the 
contraction began to wane. Rolling out of 
the parking lot, he laid a book on her knee. 
It was a history of the IWW - Industrial 
Workers of the World. 

It was one of those strange Mulder things. She 
had never had even the most vague idea why, 
years ago, he had given it to her. For his
birthday, no less. Very bizarre. And she had 
never managed to make it through the prologue. 

For Pete's sake - did he want her to read it 
now? 

"Don't go straight to the hospital. I need to 
pick a few things up at the store." Then the 
next contraction hit. 

When the pain began to slow, she saw that she 
was holding his hand. She gave it a quick 
squeeze and let go. 

"Turn to page 141." He was smiling coyly, 
obviously very pleased with himself, obviously 
very pleased that she was puzzled. 

It was a black and white photograph, dated 
1950. In it, a husband and wife stood in field 
of what looked like cotton. There were five 
children, all girls, lined up in front of them. 
They looked clean, cared for, but slightly 
frayed around the edges. "Some labor 
organizers?" 

"And?"

She frowned. She looked closer. Someone, 
Mulder presumably, had penciled each girl's 
name lightly, but clearly, down her chest. 
Emma Goldman Hersch, Rosa Luxemborg Hersch, Jo 
Hillstrom Hersch, Marteena Hersch, Robnett 
Hersch. 

"Mulder?" She looked his way. 

He was drumming on the steering wheel, being no 
Help whatsoever. He was being so fucking 
secretive. She found herself simultaneously 
irritated and intrigued. "Mulder, what am I 
supposed to be seeing?"

He smiled and bit his bottom lip. "LOOK at it, 
Scully." 

She narrowed her eyes. {Okay, I'll play} 
Husband and wife - both tall, tanned, stringy, 
even. Their faces were somewhat similar; low, 
prominent brows, high, prominent cheek bones, 
small, nearly slanted eyes. She looked at the 
names - Aaron and Judy Hersch. Vaguely 
familiar. She tried to recall a class at 
Georgetown on 20th Century labor movements. If 
she was remembering right, Hersch had been a 
minor figure, something of a crackpot, even for 
the Wobblies. A fact she could have gotten, 
she now saw, from reading the opposite page. 

"A small-time far-left labor organizer and his 
family. I'm looking at this because...?"

Mulder pulled into the grocery store parking 
lot as she started to contract again. He 
reached for her hand, held it, squinted at his 
watch. The contractions were getting further 
apart, which seemed wrong. But maybe that was 
normal, early on. 

Scully had relaxed and was making her neck pop. 

He took that as a sign, squeezed her hand 
lightly and hopped out of the car. "My mom is 
the second to last." And he slammed the door. 

Scully blinked. Well, she hadn't been 
expecting that. She looked at the picture 
again. 

The resemblance was clear, now, but not eerie. 
Aaron Hersch stood with his head tilted, a 
cigarette in one hand, and was looking 
slightly...bemused. And it was suddenly very 
clear where Mulder had gotten his nose. 

He opened her door and extended his hand. She 
took it. 

"You're telling me Teena Mulder was a red 
diaper baby?" 

"Marteena Hersch," he nodded. 

She raised an eyebrow. "Hence your occasional 
use of the name 'Marty?'" 

He'd wondered if she was going to catch that. 
"Guilty," he shrugged. 

She thought it was creepy. She could not 
imagine using her father's name to buy porn. 
But then, if he didn't do something to creep 
her out every once in a while, he wouldn't be 
Mulder. She shrugged inwardly. 

"Did you know them?" 

Another shrug. "Two weeks in Brooklyn every 
summer. Kind of a reverse 'fresh air program' 
- The Hersch Family 'City Stench' prograaam." 

Scully couldn't decide what to ask him next. 
Finally, her exasperation got the better of 
her. 

"You've been waiting all these years for me to 
put this together from two paragraphs and an 
old photo?" 

"Not my fault you're slow." 

In response, she cuffed him on the shoulder, 
not gently. 

* * * * * *

Two sets of contractions later, they were 
nearly out of the grocery store. She stared at 
the cart, checking items off mentally: Bottled 
water. Newborn diapers. Tiny socks. Sanitary 
pads. 

She held up an impossibly tiny t-shirt. "How's 
this to come home in?" 

Mulder looked dubious. "Scully, that's 
supposed to be a shirt for a human? That's 
a...a mouseshirt." 

"It's a baby shirt, Mulder." 

"My baby is not going to fit that shirt." 

"'Your' baby isn't? Oh really?" 

"Oh really." 

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you know about 
babies?" 

"Next to nothing." 

"Remind me to mark this down on the calendar." 
She dropped the shirt into the cart. "Want 
anything, Mulder?" 

In his turn, he threw in three packages. 

She smirked. "Oh, sunflower seeds. I would 
never have guessed." 

Suddenly, he was nervously shifting from one 
foot to the other. He, man of a million little 
nervous tics, seemed bent on displaying them 
all before they got out of the express lane. 

Did he want to kiss her? Run away? Did he even 
know? Finally, he spoke. "So, how long do you 
think this is going to take anyway?"

She laughed. She laughed until she had to wipe 
the tears from her eyes, though it wasn't all 
that funny. "I wish I knew." 

He was starting to look pissed off. "Less than 
a week?"
 
"Much less," she nodded. "The doctors won't 
let it go on for more than 24 hours." 

His face was softening. What an asshole. It 
wasn't like any of this was happening to him. 
When was he going to stop being an asshole? He 
groaned inwardly. "24 hours from...when?" 

"Twenty four hours from when my water broke." 

In both their minds, they were naked in her bed 
again, shivering in orgasm. 

Suddenly, his lips reached down to hers. She 
strained upwards. He was kissing her badly 
again. She took his face in her hands, pushed 
their mouths together until it hurt. 

They were interrupted by the clerk clearing his 
throat and a line of staring shoppers. 

"Okay," Scully popped her neck again, "get me a 
bacon cheeseburger and take me to the 
hospital." 

"Aye aye, Captain." He grinned wildly. 
"Anything else?" 

"Pay the man, dear."

"Dear?"

Scully, a little shocked at herself, just 
shrugged.

The clerk was nonplussed, but being called 
"dear" had given Mulder an erection so intense 
he felt dizzy. He pursed his lips and tried to 
brush against Scully as subtly as possible 
while retrieving his wallet. 

She rolled her eyes. 

End 01/02
=========================

02/02

Back in the car. Again. Scully felt like 
she had spent all her time with Mulder in the 
damn car. 

His hand brushed his erection absent mindedly. 

Yup. Still there. Scully was wondering how 
many erections she had pointedly ignored in the 
car, how many she hadn't noticed. Maybe she 
didn't want to know.

He was starting to relax. He could cope. Just 
because things hadn't gone the way he planned 
didn't mean he had to totally freak out. They 
could talk in the car just as easily as they 
could in the bed. Easier, maybe. 

"You know, Scully," - for a moment, somewhere 
in the back of his head, he wanted them to be 
Fox and Dana, but was afraid to say it - "we 
never really talk." 

"Mulder, we never do anything but talk."

"But not today."

"Point taken. And see where it got us?" She 
was smiling, but soon she yawned. "So, where 
do we go from here?"

"Ask me anything, Dana Scully." It was as 
close to saying the first name alone as he 
could muster. Suddenly, the desire to call her 
anything other than 'Scully" seemed achingly 
stupid to him. 

"Okay. How many partners have you had?"

He stared at his hands. "Eight."

"Eight?" She sounded surprised. "Really? 
What happened? Everybody ask for a transfer?" 

He was staring, wide eyed. "What?" 

They had both completely misunderstood each 
other. Yet again. She could not stop herself 
from laughing.

In between giggles, she managed short 
articulate bursts. "I'd heard rumors . . . 
Reggie Perdue...wasn't your first." She cupped 
her head in her hands.

"Oh." He was shaking his head and swallowing 
hard. "I have had four FBI partners."

"Thank you." She wiped her eyes. She had 
laughed more on this car ride than she had 
laughed in the past seven years. She guessed 
all the orgasms had shaken something loose. 
"Who was the one before Lamana?"

"Dr. Sam Rodriguez."

"And here I thought I was your first doctor."

"He was short and Catholic, too."

"Must be fate."

"Yup."

"He get sick of you?"

"Not that I know of." Mulder stuck a pantomime 
gun in his mouth. "Ate his gun." The way he 
said made it sound like a poor culinary choice 
rather than suicide.

Scully let slip a small sad "oh." Would 
everything she say today manage to hurt him 
somehow?

She flipped on the radio. It was tuned to a 
college station coming out of Annapolis. 
Someone was singing in a squawky voice. 

"Heaven Oh Heaven...On Mars" 


--she turned the dial. A low male voicee::

 "With some one like you 
 I could spend my lifetime trying to be hurt
 Feel like a king and a wounded bird
 all at one time 
 completely out of my mind
 over someone like you" 

She changed it again. Was anything ever going 
to be easy with them? 

Wait - had she just passed Elvis? Mulder liked 
Elvis. In fact, it was the only music she knew 
for sure he liked . Okay. Houston, we have 
achieved Elvis. 

"Are you lonesome tonight?

They drove in silence for awhile before she 
decided to try again. 

"Tell me about your grandparents."

"Aaron Hersch was born Aaron Herschel Levy in 
or about 1900 in a schtetel in Northern 
Lithuania. He came to the US in 1915 alone, 
having left his family over religious 
differences."

"Not like that." Scully snorted. "You sound 
like you're talking about a case." 

His eyes twinkled. "Aren't I? How do we 
become what we become? How much of us is 
shaped by our own lives and how much is shaped 
by the lives of those who have gone before us?" 
It was his turn to snort. "Family 
dysfunction - the biggest x-file of them all." 

She decided to stop him before his roll picked 
up momentum. "New question. Did he have a 
nickname for you ?"

"A nickname?"

"You know - Scout, Buddy. Starbuck - something 
like that?"

Mulder looked bemused, just like the man in the 
photo. "'Trust Fund.'"

"Your grandfather called you 'Trust Fund?'"

He nodded, grinning insanely. 

"So what did Aaron and..." - she looked down at 
the book - "Judy Hersch think about Bill 
Mulder?"

"Judy Nachman, actually. They were never 
married. Although it would have been 
expedient and kept the kids out of state 
custody a couple of times. Kept her from 
testifying against him in front of HUAC, too."
He shrugged philosophically. "In the immortal 
words of Aaron Hersch 'I have yet to witness 
a wedding ceremony without a renewed sense of 
horror at the social insistence that two 
individuals become one, and that one is the 
husband'."

Scully rolled her eyes. 

"What? Got a hankerin' after civil death, 
Scully?"

"Not particularly." She sincerely hoped that 
was not his idea of a proposal. "But you 
didn't answer the question"

"I sincerely doubt my mother could have found 
someone less appealing to her parents."

Scully blinked up at him. He could see a 
contraction coming and leaned in close to hear 
what she was saying through pretty white teeth. 

"Eugene McCarthy?"

He laughed so hard he almost lost control of 
the car. When her breathing returned to 
normal, he glanced at his watch before 
returning to his previously derailed train of 
thought. 

"It's fascinating, though, Scully. Each 
generation struggling to undo the life's work 
of the last: You and I fighting diligently to 
bring down the conspiracy my father was a part 
of; my mother trying to have the Ozzie and 
Harriet life her own parents mocked and 
rejected. I understand that Hersch's father 
was a rabbi." 

She raised an eyebrow and gave a thoughtful 
purse to her lips. "Were Judy and Aaron 
religious at all?"

"My grandfather made a deliberate point of 
having a ham and cheese sandwich at noon every 
Yom Kippur."

"And Judy?"

"Judy claimed to be an atheist, but she kept 
kosher in a kind of nominal way and observed 
the High Holy Days."

"That doesn't make any sense." She sounded 
like she was on a case, now, too.

"Maybe if you understand her reasoning," he 
cleared his throat "'Our people have not 
survived oppression, pogroms, slavery, wars, 
and our own stupidity for me to stop being 
Jewish just because I know God is a sham' Thus 
spake Judy Nachman."

"Alright, I'll buy that. She believed 
in continuity. I respect that."

"You remind me of her...sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah"

"That's good?" 

He nodded. 

"I am genuinely touched, Mulder, I really am." 
She furrowed her brow. "You know, I'd like
to meet your family." 

He groaned inwardly. Things were changing and 
there was no way to apply the brakes. The baby 
would probably have changed everything anyway, 
but now that they had had sex it was pointless 
to try to stop it, it was like trying to turn 
a pickle back into a cucumber. 

It wasn't that he regretted getting what he had 
pined for for years. No way. But things were 
hard enough for him already. Some days, it was 
all he could do to go 24 hours without 
looking like a moron. Now, shit, he couldn't 
seem to pull himself together, and Scully 
couldn't seem to stop laughing.

She pointed out the window -- 
"Burgers, ahoy!" 

She was so gorgeous. The Pregnant Goddess. He 
was such a loser. Big L, little o, little s, 
little e, little r. Loser. 

Mulder. 

Loser. 

Same difference. 

****************

"MMMMMMM!" 

Scully was having her own little orgy with a 
bacon double cheese burger. Somehow, she 
had gotten mustard on the tip of her nose and 
for some reason he could not explain, he found 
it terribly sexy. As in terribly. As in 
terrible. As in 'I'm taking her to the 
hospital to give birth to my child and all I 
can think of is getting back into her pussy.' 
He wished there was some inconspicuous way to 
get himself arrested, or maybe wiped off the 
face of the Earth. 

She was about a third of her way through her 
burger when she spoke. "So which side of your 
family did you like the best growing up?"

"I know this may be difficult for you to 
believe, but growing up in a staid New 
England community, I was, perhaps, not the 
most popular kid around. I would even go so 
far as to say that some members of my 
patronymic grouping considered me a 
little...over the top."

Doing her best imitation of astonishment, Dana 
Scully nodded. "You don't say?"

"Incredible, isn't it?"

"Something like that. Must have been before 
you read Dale Carnegie."

"ANYWAY! When I was with my mom's family, I was 
just one more clown in the funny car. That's 
what Aaron used to say whenever there was a new 
baby in the family - 'One more clown for the 
funny car.'"

"You already have the shoes."

"At least my feet reach the pedals."

"When's the last time you were all together?"

"When Judy died in '89."

"Did any one say the traditional Prayer for 
the Dead?"

He looked at her sideways. "Nope. It was 
strictly bake and shake."

"Excuse me?"

"Cremation, followed by the traditional 
sprinkling of the ashes at Coney Island."

She put her hand on his thigh like it had just 
happened. 

"Of course, my mother didn't go."

"Are you in contact with any of them now?"

He shrugged. "Sporadic letters, mostly. The 
occasional call."
 
There was a pause. "Mulder, could we go to New 
York when the baby's born? I want to meet your 
family. The ones who are like you."

"Or we could send out the ugliest birth 
announcement we can find."

"I want to see them."

"Why Scully? They all look like me and you've 
seen me plenty."

She rolled her eyes

"You keep doing that and they'll stick," he 
muttered, pushing half a bacon double cheese 
burger into his mouth. 

"Just who are you ashamed of?"

He replied with a strangling noise and eyes 
wide. 

"Who are you ashamed of? Them, or me?" 

"Scully," he swallowed hard. "Myself."

Scully was caught somewhere between derision 
and amusement. "Since when?"

"What will happen when you find out I'm not the 
smartest one?" 

He was telling the truth. Or at least, she 
knew, he was telling it to the best of his 
understanding. She didn't laugh though she 
wanted to, but she wondered how he could be so 
dense. 

It was as if some part of him had been 
caught holding its breath since he'd lost his 
sister. For years, he had been trying to stay 
twelve years old, trying not to let time pass 
without her. Mulder had wanted to find Sam so 
they could finish growing up together. {Hey 
let's go finish that game of Stratego!} But it 
was too late for that - Mulder had left 
that part of himself too far behind to have it 
suddenly catch up with the rest of the world. 

She sighed, followed by a whisper. "Yo, 
Spooky."

"You were addressing me, Doc Ice?"

Inside her head, she was whispering {nobody's 
called me that in years. You know what they 
call me now? Mrs. Spooky.} "I just realized 
I haven't called anyone." 

"You mean to alert them of the imminent arrival 
of the Spooklet?"

She nodded. "The Icicle."
 
"Baby Doc?"

She released a coughing sort of laugh. 

"I'm not officially on leave 'til next week. 
Someone should really call Skinner...and my 
mother."
 
She was panting and shaking again. Mulder held 
her hand. 

After a pause - a long pause, Mulder noted, - 
she went on. "And the Stooges...they helped me 
so much when you were...gone."

"What? Iggy Pop's band is playing hospital 
gigs, now?" 

She smirked, and he wanted to kiss her. More 
than that. He wanted to make out with her, 
here, now, in the car. In the hospital parking 
garage. In labor.
 
Shit, he was hopeless.

"Don't you have Trig homework to finish?" 
Scully was mocking him yet again. 

He must have said it out loud. 'Make out'? He 
sounded like a fucking teenager. He wanted to 
pound his head against one of the concrete 
support pylons in the parking garage. 

But she climbed into his lap, anyway, awkward 
as it was, and he wanted to ask her if she 
still had her old Catholic school uniform. 

She could not take anymore bad kissing. She 
was going to have to show him, teach him, how 
to do it right. The very idea turned her 
on.

Of course, she couldn't put it that way to 
him. Ever. Unless she never wanted to have 
sex with him again, which, now that she thought 
about it, she did want to do. So she ran her 
lips up his throat. "Let me . . . drive. You 
just lie back and think of England."

She ran her lips over his. Dry, barely 
touching at all, then adding the barest 
flickering of wet tongue tasting strongly of 
bacon cheese burger. From there, she went to 
long, slow, wet, and unhurried, and Fox Mulder 
came in his pants.

He sobbed without tears and she held him. She 
shook and he held her. She did her funny 
breathing. Scully's contractions were getting 
regular again. 

He was beginning to think he might survive 
having his dreams come true. He cleaned 
himself up with some of the baby wipes she had 
bought. Of course, he now looked like he had 
pissed in his pants instead of come in them. 

"I'm thinking of a poem, Scully," he whispered 
in her ear as she snuggled against his chest. 

 "But these maneuverings to avoid
 The touching of hands
 These shifts to keep the eyes employed
 On objects, more or less neutral
 (As honor, for the time being, commands)
 Will hardly prevent their downfall

 Stronger medicines are needed
 Already, they find
 None of their stratagems have succeeded
 Nor would have, no
 Not had their eyes been stricken blind
 Hands cut off at the elbow"

"What's that from?" She sounded vaguely 
dazed.

He unlocked the car door. "Love's 
Stratagems - Donald Justice. 1958."

"I've heard that some where before. Read it, 
maybe?" She cocked her head, thinking. 

"The Hotel New Hampshire - John Irving, Henry 
Robbins Press, 1981."

"That's the one about the boy who's in love 
with his sister?"

"Ding ding ding!! - Tell the lady what she 
wins." 

========================

With a familiarity born of too many bedside 
vigils, Mulder flicked on the TV reflexively. 
Shit! He half expected the baby to shriek 
awake.

No harm no foul, it seemed; the boy's deep, 
even breaths continued. Clearly, he had 
inherited his mother's knack for sleeping.

He pressed channel. Oprah. No. Juice-a-
Matic. Maybe. Touched By An Angel. Maybe 
after his lobotomy. Saved By The Bell. No, 
but only because someone might come in and 
catch him either being a tasteless imbecile or 
a dirty old man. Next. News. No. No 
obsessing over the news. John Wayne. 
hhhhhmmmm. Juice-a-Matic. John Wayne. 
Juice-A-Matic. Okay. John Wayne.

The Duke bellowed from the screen, his color 
flickering ominously. "I aim to kill you in 
one minute, or see you hanged in Fort Smith at 
Judge Parker's convenience. Which'll it be?"

Out of nowhere, Scully spoke up groggily. "I 
call that bold talk for a one eyed fat man."

Scully was frowning at Mulder, her eyes, slits, 
her cheeks a mass of spidery broken corpuscles. 
Honestly, she'd looked better after Antarctica. 
So it was firm evidence of the true depths of 
his depravity that he was turned on. 

Mercifully, she fell back into her heavily-
medicated slumber as soon as he lowered the 
volume. It was going to be a long six weeks 
before he could have sex with her again. If 
then. Get over it, buddy. 

Mulder sat nuzzling his baby boy. Poor thing. 
He looked like . . .what? A mouse. An ugly, 
red, long, skinny mouse with a shock of orange 
hair. An ugly, red, long, skinny mouse with 
clown hair. Mulder was sure he could 
recognize the beginnings of a huge honking 
nose. Poor baby.

He held him closer, spread one tiny hand open 
and kissed each fingertip. "Love you, Scully." 
He kissed the little wrinkled forehead.

He supposed he would be 'Scully', wouldn't he? 
He felt lightheaded to realize they had never 
talked about names, first or last. He was 
clutching the baby to his chest, staring at the 
floor, when a pair of thick soled white shoes 
came to a stop in front of him.

"Mr. Scully?"

He looked up dumbly.

"You are Mr. Scully, aren't you?"

For a moment, he sat with his mouth open trying 
to decide what to say. Finally he, stammered, 
"We. . .we aren't married."

The nurse looked very bored by the news. 
"But you ARE the father." It was not a 
question.

Of course that poor ugly baby was his, looked 
just like him painted in all Scully's colors. 

He nodded. He was the father. Oh shit! He 
was THE FATHER.

The nurse went on "And there are a lot of 
people out there who want to see the baby."

"Of course." He stood, pulling his suit to 
some rough semblance of order with one hand, 
then gingerly doing the same for the baby, 
smoothing out his 'mouse shirt', wrapping him 
up carefully in the blanket Scully had brought 
in her bag.

Once again, he rolled it over in his mind 
{Scully, you know everything, and I am just a 
dumb pretender. Big Idiot}

"Okay, Duvalier, it's show time!" 

*********************************************** 

In the waiting room, the first person he saw 
was Bill Scully, and his heart sank. Within 
seconds, however, he was surrounded. Skinner, 
Byers, Langly, Frohike, Tara, Mrs. Scully and 
Bill hanging back a little bit, looking 
like he wanted to punch Mulder in the face. 

Good, Mulder thought. You just stay back 
there, Bill. 

Where to start? What to say? He looked at 
Maggie. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Oh Fox, I'd love to!" and he was in her arms.

Suddenly, Fox Mulder felt both fifty pounds 
lighter, and strangely empty.

Skinner hugged him. Walter Skinner? Okay, 
that was weird. 

Byers cleared his throat repeatedly and said 
nothing, while Langly and Frohike took turns 
punching him in the arm. He was beginning to 
feel giddy, when he heard Bill Scully's voice 
behind him.

"You've got a family now, asshole. Better 
start acting like it."

Mulder spun around and grinned broadly. "I 
intend to." And it was true.

He didn't know what possessed him to stick out 
his hand. Bill stared at him a full two 
minutes before he shook it, both rough and 
grim. "See that you do. We love her."

"What a coincidence," Mulder replied. "Me, 
too."

He was completely expecting it when Bill 
punched him in the face. It was fine with him. 
He had it coming, after all. Bill Scully as 
the instrument of fate.

Byers was pulling Mulder to his feet, when he 
was suddenly flanked by the other two Gunmen.

"Much as we hate to mar this joyous occasion-," 
Frohike began. 

"-a package arrived at our offices for you," 
Langly concluded.

Mulder's brows rose. "A package?" 

"A video." Byers finally spoke. "It's from 
the Smoker." 

End Not a Perfect World 02/02

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