ECLIPSE
Chapter Two.
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Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, VA
January 13, 2000
Anger and frustration simmer in his gut. He is tempted to drink a glass of
club soda, to create his own anxiety cocktail.
The treatments were supposed to stay within the realm of their personal
lives. The knowledge of what they were about to do certainly consumes his
thoughts. One reason he has kept himself from getting romantically involved
with her over the years is because he knew that once they bound their
personal lives together, it would take over his psyche. They could lose
their professional focus and everything -- love, work, life -- would fall
apart. He knows deep down that such reservations are ridiculous, but they
have been a very real worry for so many years.
If she would give him a sign that she felt the same fears and desires, he
just might have the guts to take that final step. Even if she doesn't want
him as a lover, he is determined to be an active father to this child, the
thought of whom awes him. He is scared and excited. No matter what happens
between Scully and himself, they are going to create a child together.
But she says nothing.
This frustrates him and is driving a transparent wedge through their
professional partnership. They carry on, investigating teens moving at the
speed of light in Virginia and driving home in the same car. Preparations
for the in-vitro treatments exist on the periphery of their time together,
referenced only in the making of appointments in their day-planners or a
weighted sidelong glance. The issue stands between them all the same. He
can barely contain his own emotions, so how can she do so with such ease?
They returned from Virginia yesterday. Scully has been cagey all day,
answering his case-related questions with perfunctory replies. They barely
spoke to one another as they completed the report for the Pittsfield case.
He noticed that she made every effort to be out of the office as much as
possible. Then, with an, "I'll see you tomorrow," she left for home at ten
minutes before five.
Since they left the initial planning consultation at the New Chances Clinic
six days ago, they have reached the point of no return. She has no right to
be so guarded with him while their potential children are being created in a
lab. Resentment slowly gives way to anger. Tonight he will call her and
demand the information she is withholding. He deserves no less.
After pacing the office for a few minutes, feeling her aura still filling
the room, he finally grabs his briefcase and storms out. Tight control
keeps him from reckless driving, and he winces as he enters his chilly
apartment.
Mulder changes into casual clothes and starts a pot of coffee, hoping the
caffeine will quell his anxiety. As he picks up his phone to call for pizza
delivery, he hears the staccato tone of the voice mail alert. He
speed-dials the message service and freezes as the message begins to play.
"Mr. Mulder, this is Rebecca Finter at New Chances," a businesslike voice
says. "We've already contacted Ms. Scully, but we wanted to personally let
you know that the incubation was successful and that we look forward to
seeing the two of you tomorrow at nine. Since she will need to have a full
stomach and bladder, we recommend you have breakfast beforehand. If you
have any questions, call me at the clinic before five today, or you can
visit our website for more detailed instructions. Again, this is Rebecca
Finter, and we will see you tomorrow morning at nine."
Blood freezes in his veins.
Still standing, he disconnects then hits the first speed-dial button on his
phone. Two rings later, he hears Scully's at-home greeting of, "Hello?"
"So, Scully," he snaps, "be sure to give me your address when you move into
that cute three-bedroom house with a big yard, so I can send my son or
daughter a gift every year on their birthday."
"Excuse me?"
He does not respond. She remains quiet and he knows she realizes his
meaning.
A full minute stretches between them.
She finally says, "I'm sorry."
He does not accept this. "When were you going to tell me? After the
pregnancy test came back positive, or would I have to wait until the baby
shower?"
"No..."
"'No', what? No, you weren't going to tell me, or no, you made a wrong
decision?"
He hears her sniff, and wonders if she has been crying. Mulder realizes
that he doesn't want to know. His anger can't handle the added dimension of
her tears right now.
"I'm sorry," she repeats. "It's just -- what if it didn't work? I didn't
want to put you through that."
Mulder feels her sincerity and tries to tamp his anger. "Scully, you began
to put me through all this when you first asked me to father your child."
"I know." Her voice is tenuous. "I've just had difficulties figuring out
our roles in the process. I thought I'd had everything planned out to the
last degree, but this is raising more issues than I'd imagined. This is
something new to me."
He sinks to his desk chair and stares through the blinds to the twilight
beyond. "I have a question for you, and I want you to think carefully about
your answer."
"Yes?" she quickly replies, fear creeping into her tenuous voice.
"When I gave you my answer, you said you wanted me to be completely involved
in this, to be a part of this child's life. What exactly did you mean?"
She thinks carefully for a long moment, then says, "I meant exactly what you
just said."
"Am I going to be a weekend daddy, with my name on the birth certificate but
little more than a guy the kid sees ever so often and donates a kidney if
something goes horribly wrong? Or am I going to be there every step of the
way?"
He hears her slow, even breaths over the telephone line. Mulder wishes he
had waited to have this conversation, and gone over to her apartment so they
could discuss this face-to-face. But he also knows that his initial anger
was too great for a physical confrontation. Perhaps they are speaking
honestly now because of the distance, or because they cannot see each
other's faces.
"Every step of the way, Mulder. This is your child too."
"This is OUR child," he corrects her. "If you truly do mean what you're
saying, then those steps begin now. You can't just wait until you're
confident of the success." Mulder softens his voice. He doesn't want to
lecture her, not when they're both so emotionally tense. "If it's not
successful, please let me be a part of that too."
"I know," she repeats, then pauses for a long moment. "Will you come
tomorrow?" Her voice is tentative, guarded.
"Yes," he immediately replies.
"Thank you," she says, and pauses. "And thank you for helping me with
this."
Her words once again provoke his irritation. "Scully, when you thank me you
distance me from the process," he says, slipping into psychologist mode and
catching himself before he begins to lecture again. "I'm not just doing you
a favor. WE are creating a child's life. OUR child."
"Half you, half me," she whispers.
His voice too drops to a whisper. "Hopefully the better half of each."
Mulder hears her soft laugh, tears clearly evident in the sough of breath.
They remain silent for a minute, weighing the moment.
Finally, he says, "The nurse who left me the voicemail said that you need to
have a full meal before the procedure. Do you want to meet me for breakfast
beforehand?"
"I'd like that, yes." She pauses. "And after the procedure I'll have to
stay off my feet for at least twenty-four hours. Tomorrow is Friday, so
I'll have that plus the weekend. Would you here stay with me and help me
out?"
He allows himself to smile. "Of course, Scully."
"Good. Then I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow?"
"I'll be here," he replies, then after a pause he disconnects the call.
If they are to become parents together, they have a mountain of issues to
work through first. But the mountain is not insurmountable, as their seven
years together have proven.
His call for pizza forgotten, Mulder settles on his sofa and begins to
imagine the next forty years for him, her, and the child that may begin to
grow inside her tomorrow morning.
If they live that long.
They will have to make some serious changes to their lives if she becomes
pregnant. They can minimize risk, but Scully's cancer may return. The
conspirators may come after them again. Any number of accidents could fell
them. But if they live their lives expecting disaster, they can never be
truly alive.
Perhaps the key to finding happiness it to seize it when the opportunity
presents itself. Anything can happen, yes, but he doesn't want to look back
on this experience and think, "I could have had so much if only I had let
myself take the chance."
++++++
New Chances Clinic
Gaithersburg, MD
January 14, 2000
Somewhere in a petri dish in the lab across the hall is a mixture of her and
Mulder's genetic material. Micro-manipulation techniques, the doctor is
saying, but she isn't listening. She knows she should be paying close
attention, but her mind is focused on those potential children.
Pulling her mind away from the dish, she focuses instead on the man across
the desk, who is looking at Scully with a question on his face. "I'm sorry,
could you repeat that?"
"I just asked if you'd followed the pre-procedural checklist," Dr. Parenti
says.
She knows Mulder has glanced over at her because she can feel the warmth of
his gaze on her shoulder. "Yes, I had a glass of water, so my bladder
should be half-full for the ultrasound. I also took some cold medication so
I won't cough."
"Right, Dana. Coughing causes uterine contractions which could cause
problems." He glances down at the paperwork on the table. "Mr. Mulder,
Dana will have to remain here for an hour after implantation. Will you be
staying here with her?"
"Yes," he immediately replies, and Scully turns to look at him. His face is
calm and interested, but she sees his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles
white and tendons taut. She wonders what is on his mind; he doesn't seem as
hopeful as she would have expected him to be.
"Okay, then," Dr. Parenti says, cheerfully. He passes a set of papers
across his desk, and Scully takes them. "Since the embryos are ready to go,
we need to discuss your options where they're concerned."
'Options' is such a loaded word, implying choice. Scully is here because
she has only one option. The IVF is all-or-nothing. This must work.
As he glances down at the papers, Dr. Parenti continues, "Based on our
discussion before Christmas, we were able to create eleven embryos in the
lab. For a woman your age, we recommend implantation of no more than four
at one time. If you choose to implant fewer than four, the chances of
viable pregnancy significantly decrease, particularly since the ova are in a
fragile state. As it stands, having four implanted would give you an
approximately 10-20% chance of success."
"And you would freeze the remaining seven, right?" Mulder asks.
"Right. If this attempt is unsuccessful, we can begin again after Dana's
next menstrual cycle. We would have two more opportunities, provided the
embryos thaw properly." He turns back to Scully. "How does that sound?"
Scully looks at her partner, searching his face for any last-minute doubts.
It is blank, but calm. He gives her a small, somber smile which helps to
reassure her. She nods.
The process of signing paperwork and delineating the specifics of the
procedure takes another ten minutes, then Dr. Parenti leads them out of his
office and down the hall to the exam room. As they walk by the lab, Scully
casts a glance inside, wondering where the petri dishes are now.
A mixture of her and Mulder, visible only through a microscope, waiting to
find a home within her womb.
Their eleven children.
The preparation, reminiscent of a routine pelvic exam, is quickly
accomplished. Blood slowly flows toward her head as she settles back on the
table, her abdomen slightly elevated. She feels vibrantly awake, conscious
of every cell in her body. The gown is soft from repeated washings, but it
scrapes against her skin.
As the physician's assistant busies herself preparing the ultrasound
equipment, Scully watches Mulder shift on his feet, his body tense. She
seldom gets to see only the lower half of his body, and the new perspective
seems fitting for such an unusual situation. The way he rubs his watchband
fascinates her. Her eyes strain as she tries to see his face. His eyes
flicker back and forth around the exam room, like an erratic slide
projector.
He notices the extra chair in the corner just as she's about to point it out
to him. Scully watches him fold his long legs under it, his upper body
yawing back and forth against the bland upholstery.
"Mulder?" she murmurs.
He catches her eye and she holds out her hand, too nervous to keep it from
hanging limply off the side of the table. A few scruffs of the leg coasters
against tile, then his hand is in hers. She gasps at the pressure and he
loosens his grip, apology on his face. Scully's smile of forgiveness does
not reach her eyes, and at the sound of the door opening she bites away the
smile.
"Are you ready, Dana?" Dr. Parenti says by way of greeting. An overlapping
set of footsteps accompanies him as the lab technician wheels in the cart
carrying the embryos and equipment.
Words refuse to form in her dry throat. Mulder answers, "Yes," and squeezes
her hand. She closes her eyes.
The sounds of jostling and gesturing fill her ears, then she feels warm
breath on the side of her neck. She would know the texture of Mulder's warm
lips anywhere, even if all her senses were smudged away. Once near the
corner of her eye, again at the curve of her cheekbone, then his smooth
early-morning cheek rests in the crook of her neck. Another moment of fear,
another rare moment of intimacy.
She wants to watch the process, but cannot. Dr. Parenti's repetition of her
name finally furrows her fear, and she opens her eyes to see a phalanx of
equipment, Mulder's chestnut hair framing the lower corner.
The procedure fulfills its promise of being like a pap smear, as Dr. Parenti
recites each step while the PA traces an image on a sonogram screen, her
finger as precise as a referee examining an instant replay clip. The
scenario's absurdity hits Scully full-force, and she wants to laugh but
doesn't, lest her abdominal muscles contract and ruin the procedure.
So she lies on the padded table, hips elevated above her head, and strains
to watch the fluid image of the Wallace catheter in the café au lait of her
uterus displayed on the video monitor.
Implantation takes barely forty-five seconds. She measures the time by the
double-speed heartbeat thrumming in her eardrums.
A wince as the catheter is drawn out of her body, then Dr. Parenti
cheerfully says, "All done, Dana." Scully feels a sudden panic that the
doctor might rub her belly like a well-loved cat, but instead the man turns
to the lab tech. He rearranges some equipment and says, "We're going to
take the catheter into the lab and make sure all the embryos were implanted.
It'll take about ten to fifteen minutes, Dana. You need to stay completely
still while we wait, okay?"
She closes her eyes in assent, listening to the sounds of the medical
personnel leaving the room. Scully doesn't feel any different than before
the procedure; she shouldn't expect this to change her cellular makeup, but
this stasis feels strange.
Mulder's face remains pressed in the curve of her neck, her skin now damp
from either sweat or tears. She wonders why this man -- who has seen the
world and then some -- cannot watch.
And then she feels the fear rising off them in waves, like vapor hovering
above asphalt on a fecund summer day. Fertile and electric, the energies
they have always tried to repress when it came to one another.
Their strength at this moment is not directed toward an unseen enemy: it is
focused on the embryos swimming inside her uterus, looking for a home.
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END (2/8)
alanna@alanna.net
All4Mulder@aol.com
