October 17, 2008

It was a few weeks before she even had an inkling that there may be something amiss. She had very little time in her day-to-day schedule for personal issues, in the weeks and months following their little foray back into the world of the X-files.

Mulder had resumed his solitary existence, though he did get out more now that his freedom from the false FBI charges was confirmed. He had began clearing out the yard of its previous owners' abandoned possessions, which included at least two old wooden sheds in the trees filled with old bottles and other antique knickknacks that he'd brought into the house and cleaned, and displayed on shelves and tables all over the house.

He'd also cleaned out the stable and cleared the oppressive brush, and Scully couldn't help but be impressed at his tenacity. He still sat in his office for hours, researching, scouring local news sites and message boards for interesting occurrences and anything that hinted at what the next few years held.

Christian, after successive stem cell treatments, was improving, which was a point of great pride for her. She knew the time she was giving him would be a few years at best, but she hoped that for that boy and his parents, it would be enough.

And so in her life right now, responsible for Christian and the health of dozens of other children, as well as Mulder's mental health and well-being, keeping in contact with her family, listening to her mother describe to her the study habits and eating habits and personalities of all three of Bill and Tara's boys in great detail, and then listening to Bill do the exact same thing and still speaking with derision whenever Mulder's name came up, thinking about her son nearly every day, and living in fear that the FBI would call any day, with another case for Mulder that he would throw himself into, there just wasn't time for her to realize that she just didn't feel that well.

A vague nausea pervaded her day no matter what the time, though it wasn't severe enough to warrant pharmaceutical intervention. This particular symptom had only been plaguing her for a week, but the general malaise and exhaustion that had started nearly a month before showed no signs of slowing down.

It took her until these two symptoms were present to even become conscious of either. And then she accredited them to her workload and stress levels and the fact that she hadn't been eating well.

So she changed her diet, cut out caffeine, sugar and anything fried, gorged on fresh veggies whenever she could and started taking vitamins again. She even tried to get some exercise, which had been lacking in recent months, but found it stirred up the nausea again.

So, after several weeks of this, she finally admitted to herself that something might be wrong. But she kept this to herself. She didn't dare worry Mulder with something that might be nothing.

She didn't set up an appointment with her own doctor, but instead ordered several tests on herself and got Derek, the new guy in the lab who she suspected had a crush on her, to run them.

Her CBC was normal, though; no aberrant blood cell counts. This was comforting, somewhat, though she knew that blood cells never told the whole story about illness.

The possibility flitted around in the back of her mind of the recurrence of that dreaded disease, but she pushed it back. In spite of herself, as she sat poring over the test results, her hand crept up to the back of her neck. There it was, small, metallic and decidedly still implanted under the skin.

Her scientific mind could not deny why it was that she, who had reimplanted this piece of metal, was alive and the others, who had chosen to keep it out of their bodies, were now dead. But still the doubts remained. Maybe the chip had stopped working over time? Maybe it had been damaged.

But no, she told herself, the cancer could not be back. She'd not had a single nosebleed in the eleven years she'd been cancer-free. No, this was completely different. She hadn't felt like this even when her cancer was at its worst.

But, still, she thought, as she changed to go home that day, an MRI would certainly put her mind at rest. So, as she thought of ways to circumvent the normal hospital procedure (she truly did not care for the people here to have any medical knowledge of her whatsoever) she pulled on her clean bra over her still slightly wet skin and realized it didn't fit that well anymore.

It was an old bra, with rigid cloth cups, which was why she suddenly noticed it. The other two soft-cupped ones were in the wash today. She looked down at her breasts, half-ensconced in the cups and noticed they seemed swollen and much more veined than usual. Pulling back the cups, she found her nipples had become particularly dark and swollen as well.

She froze. And then it hit her. But how could she have not noticed?

A sudden thought gripped her—she had to know, and she had to know right now. Dressing quickly, wincing as the tight brassiere cut into her tender breasts, she grabbed her purse and jacket and slammed her locker door shut, locking it violently.

She bounded from the room, walking very quickly toward the exits. Halfway there, she started a sort of a half-run that got a few curious looks from patrons.

Finally she was in the car, and zipped out of the parking lot, tires squealing as she ripped down the street.

The drugstore was her first stop. She stepped into the interminably bright building, a building she'd been in dozens of times before. But this was different. She felt almost guilty, surreptitious as she made her way over to what she knew was the family planning aisle.

There had been a few scares—well, to call them that would imply that they were not wanted—in the seven years since her son's birth. But she had never tested positive. She scanned the blue and purple and pink boxes on the shelf. There were several types and price ranges—digital displays and blue lines or blue crosses, but Scully, as a scientist knew that they all did the same thing. Searching for that little amount of human chorionic gonadotropin the burrowing little embryo was giving off. She grabbed three unrelated boxes, again her scientific mind knew the chances of false negatives or positives would be lessened that way.

Again as she made her way over to the counter the urge to be furtive returned, and she found herself hiding the three little boxes from the other customers in front her her—a plump, elderly woman and a tall young man who appeared to be some sort of bike messenger. Finally it was her turn, and trying very hard not to make eye contact with the young female cashier, who she was sure was trying to give her some sort of congratulatory smile, or, perhaps a sympathetic grimace.

She paid and left, avoiding all eye contact.

Now, where was she going to take these tests? Home was not an option—Mulder would be there and would undoubtedly ask questions she couldn't bear to answer right now. She scanned the businesses around her—coffee shop, Subway restaurant, gas station. She could go back to the hospital, there were plenty of unoccupied toilets there. But no—someone might see her, ask questions, wonder why she was back again after unceremoniously leaving only minutes before. And she didn't think she could stand to answer questions right now.

She chose the Subway, which she knew had adequate lavatory space. She walked in, her eyes focused on the back of the restaurant, past people she really didn't care to look at right now. The women's washroom was empty—she sighed with relief—but was unfortunately only a single stall, so she'd have to be quick.

A couple minutes later she had managed to urinate on all three sticks, had recapped them and turned them upside down on the back of the toilet. Her breath was shallow now, and the blood was pumping in her ears. The nausea was starting to return, her stomach roiling and aching, her whole body anticipating the reveal of this monumental information. She washed her hands, trying very hard to steady their shaking and dried them on a towel.

She hazarded a glance in the mirror and saw dark circles; a pallor she'd not seen in a long time. Her eyelids drooped lazily and she looked exhausted. There was something wrong with her, she knew it, and found herself almost hoping that this was all it was.

The tests had been done for a few minutes, but she only now slowly stepped over to the toilet and turned the first one over. Two blue lines. Her breath hitched in her throat. Could it—the next one, the store-brand one and: a little blue cross. And the last, the most expensive one with the digital display—one word: "pregnant."

She swayed on her feet, grabbing the metal bar next to the toilet for support. No, this was not real, this could not be. This wasn't supposed to happen—they told her it could never happen. But then—did her perfect little boy not negate that? And who were "they?" The same men who deceived, inveigled and obfuscated for so many years. How could they be sure?

These thoughts cascaded through her head, crashing into each other, coming at warp speed. And now—what was she going to do? She thought of Mulder, of his reaction, of her son, out there, somewhere.

Breathing hard, she grabbed the three plastic sticks and slipped them in her pocket, shoved the three cardboard boxes further into the trash receptacle so as not to be seen by other patrons, and quickly left the restaurant.

The drive home was much slower than usual, for she continued to become distracted and not realize she was driving much under the speed limit. The thoughts had come back to her again, unbidden and she tried to shove them back. She had to talk to Mulder. Her rock, her touchstone, she had to talk to him first before the emotion overcame her.

Finally her car was trundling up the beaten path of their driveway, and she got out quickly, leaving all her things in the vehicle and nearly running up the stairs and into the house.

"Mulder!" she called, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice, but there was no response. She checked his office, their bedroom, but no go. Had he gone out? No—his car was still here. Then she caught a glance of clothing through the back window and moved closer. He was standing in the back yard, looking at the patch of land in an appraising sort of way.

She stepped out the back door curiously, descending the steps slowly until he turned and saw her.

"Hey, you're home! I was just—Scully? What's wrong?" for he had seen the expression on her face—she'd tried quite hard to keep it neutral—and had reacted accordingly.

Without answering him, she stepped forward into his arms, tears coming hard now and sobbed into the front of his sweater.

"Scully? Scully," he pulled away from her a bit and tried to lift up her chin, forcing her to look at him, "what is wrong?"

And now she could see he was scared, and she scolded herself for this, wiping the tears from her eyes and trying to return her breathing to normal.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" she looked up into his bright eyes, so filled with affection she almost began to cry again.

"Scully, you're starting to scare me here," he said, with that little nervous laugh she found incredibly endearing.

Her hand slipped into her jacket pocket, where the three little plastic sticks resided and she laughed, too, a quick, incredulous giggle that slipped out unbidden and that seemed to confuse Mulder even more so.

"Mulder, I—I don't even know how to explain it but," she took a ragged, shaking breath, and looked out behind him at a copse of tree swaying in the breeze, "I'm pregnant." Her eyes flicked up to his face after she said it and his reaction was predictable. He stepped back from her like from the force of the blow. He was breathing hard, his mouth slightly open, and he looked back down at her, shock still plain on his face.

"Are—are you sure?" He stepped back up to her, and she slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the three sticks, dropping them into his hand.

"I took these; they're all positive, Mulder. It's almost impossible for them all to be false positives."

He examined almost tenderly, reading the results of all three. And when he looked back up at her, he was smiling.

"Scully, this—" and now he was smiling even more broadly, and Scully had to look away. He caught her chin and made her look at him once again.

"Mulder, I don't know if—I—what if—" but Mulder had stepped forward and ensconced her in his arms, silencing her and comforting her all at once.

He leaned down, and whispered with a tone that still put shivers down her spine, "It's going to be okay, Scully, I promise."