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Ontario here. Sorry about that. Our Provincial govt, dumbass Ford, cut our wild fire budget by 100 million. 3 waterbombers sitting idle, no pilots. Same Gov't,Campers caused this. Not dried out environment because temperatures are way above normal. This is Ontario right now. We have had the worse air quality in the World that two days. Basically our whole Northwest is on fire.
i'm hoping to do more soon! they actually have a pretty nice variety, specially scully. feel free to reply if you have any suggestions for next ones :D
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In which season andor episode was the pregnancy book seen in their office? I can't remember.
Just my thoughts:
When the IVF fails, she tells Mulder "it was my last chance" and not "it was my only chance", so I take it as they have tried before. This gets me thinking that there might have been a time when the IVF did take, but then she miscarried, and why they have a pregnancy book in the office. Not a medical book on IVF or other medical research book. For a moment, they were looking forward to a pregnancy together.
He says "don't give up on a miracle" which suggests that she could still get pregnant without IVF because they were already doing it. He wouldn't suggest a "miracle" with another man. No way.
I think you're looking for the "Pregnancy, Birth, and Family Planning" book, credit to @dreamingofscully.
The still is from Brand X (or earlier?), credit to @fashionbooksboozefeminism):
You could also argue it was present in Amor Fati:
But to answer your last question: Scully could have had multiple attempts, of course.
Personally, I think not. Because--
Parenti's pressure when Scully consulted him: a "good chance" he called it, with the caveat, "it's not out of the realm of possibility if we start soon."
I'm no medical doctor, but I don't believe he'd say that if her remaining ova could be preserved and stored reliably.
I believe the writers were referring to Emily (since Frank Spotnitz not only had a large hand in her fate but also in Scully's pregnancy.)
As Scully said in A Christmas Carol: "I feel like I was given a second chance." Her language in Per Manum ("It was my last chance") was in keeping with and building on (and concluding) past sentiments.
Mulder's face. If this had been the final of a series of attempts, his reaction would have been different: more worn, weary, stricken. Instead, he rises nervously, rambles about sleeping on her couch, and tries to read her expression to know if the attempt was successful. Those are first timer responses: he's unused to this new side of his partner (and them.) By the second, third, or etc. time, he would have known within a glance ("that unspoken.")
Meta and Resources
“Pregnancy, Birth and Family Planning” (and Emily's photo?)
All IVF Roads Lead Away from The Unnatural and to Millennium
"Life on This Planet" Before the IVF Arc
Biogenesis-The Sixth Extinction and Scully's healed fertility
Mulder Didn't Use Scully's Apartment Key Until He “Belonged”
The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XIV Home and Part XXV: Existence.)
The X-Files (In-Depth): Scully's Pregnancy, Mulder's Abduction, and the Truth Behind Requiem and Season 8
Bonus
Fan Theories on the IVF Arc's Placement
@settle-down-frohike's Treatise on the Intimacy of IVF
@carefulfears and @gabby-msr on Mulder's IVF parenthood
Scully looked almost like she’d seen a ghost, and he should know; he’d seen her after she’d seen one. Her fingers flexed on the back of one of her high wooden chairs. “It’s because I haven’t been getting enough zinc.” She swallowed. “Isn’t it.”
When he stepped toward her she kept the chair between them. She could break his heart if she weren’t so busy scaring the shit out of him.
He tried, “Scully.”
The low, sibilant way she used to take to like a body to water, in the middle of the night, in the flail of some nightmare: Where is my weapon. Did I take enough zinc. And -- Scully, till she sagged with it. Her muscles going long against her bones, which had gone still against his. Scully, alright Scully. Asleep in his arms untense as an exhausted swimmer.
But now she was rigid. And her eyes were so open, he could see straight to the very blue bottom of her confusion, which was something terrible and true.
“No,” she said. “Don’t do that.” One hand went to her mouth and the other to her chest. Like she was going to throw up and recite the Pledge of Allegiance at the same time. “Oh my god,” she said, all but doubled over with it. “Please don’t do this to me.”
She hadn’t answered the door when he’d knocked, though he’d hardly knocked. The buzz of anonymous highway had been in him, dirt still in his hair, and he’d realized on the walk up to her apartment that he was wearing a rather nice suit, probably Armani.
It was all too strange, even by his generous measure. He’d woken up under a slice of clear blue rectangle in North Carolina that morning. In his gums, it made his teeth ache.
And then there was Scully.
Don’t do this to me, that’s what she’d said when he’d come in the door, too, bolting upright on her couch, scrabbling for her service weapon. Had she been asleep? It was two o’clock in the afternoon. It was, per the gas station calendar as he’d hitched statelines, a Tuesday. Her hair had been a fright. There were bruises under her eyes as purple as any cadaver’s little finger.
He’d thought — what had he thought? What was he supposed to think? She was Scully. The steps were quite simple: If things were strange, he found Scully. Sometimes, yes, it took a moment to travel from point A to point B. Sometimes there were many smaller steps between those two essential ones. But the fact remained that, in ketamine dreams or the throes of self-imposed psychodemetia, the buck stopped with Scully. Once he found her, some broader leap toward not-strangeness, or at the very least a better kind of strange, could almost always reliably be made.
Except this was worse, undeniably. Scully cornered across her kitchen where she’d flown after failing to locate her gun. It was not so much that she seemed afraid. The first thing she’d said, before imploring him that she could not take it, had been his name. And she’d said it just like she always had, with a tugging in it, a slur that was like closing a distance. It sounded exactly like the buck still stopped at her front door.
“Please,” she was saying still, but she had stopped looking at him, sobbing to the hard wood and pale tile floor. “I don’t know—”
“Scully,” he said, in a different way, older and more urgent. “It’s me. It is me.”
And damn if her face didn’t snap right up to his again. Yes. The echo and aftershock of recognition. His Scully of the basement office and the connected motel room door. Since forever, his assigned seat-mate, his stalwart, his level best. The dutiful daughter whose eyes had looked like that — Christ, just like that — when her father had died.
Still, she was shaking her head. Her chin in that self-loathing crimp. “I can’t,” she said.
“Yes,” he told her, though he didn’t know what, really. Anything. “Sure you can, Scully. It’s alright.”
Scully took a deep breath. When she tore loose of herself it was with a shudder. The same rent-apart way she'd looked when she recalled burning spaceships with her hands open, or when she’d stepped through the doorway into his room, that first time.
Upon him then, across the room, the dig of her forearm into the flesh of his neck like an incision, like that was how close she wanted to be: to the bone. The chair rattled.
“Hey,” he said, “hey, oh —” He put his arms around her ribs and spine. He put a hand in her hair to hold her and mean it. He said her name one more way, a way that wasn’t worth describing.
Scully cried like to bring down high heaven. She cried like when she’d nearly had her heart torn out on his ratty living room floor. She cried in a way he’d never heard her cry before.
Mulder put his face to her hot neck. When he tried to speak, he didn’t know what there was to say. He stood and shook funeral dirt all over her, his widow, and her bright clean kitchen floors.
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AU ficlet for the end of The Truth because William should have been there with them.
This was meant to be written for the X-Files Bingo. Then everything went to hell, and I didn't finish it in time. I've decided to finish it and put it out in the world as it is.
Tagging @today-in-fic
~
The rain patters against the roof outside, but inside, it’s quiet. Mulder barely dares to breathe too loudly, to move too quickly, to make a single mistake. He’s made too many of those already. His hand is on his son’s stomach, rising and falling with the boy’s even breathing. It’s everything he’s dreamed about these last couple of months. What kept him going.
When he closed his eyes at night, he pictured Scully and their son, just doing everyday life things. All the things he was missing. He pictured them smiling, just living. And that’s what kept him alive, too. Hoping that one day he could return, be with them again.
His son has grown into a solid form, bigger than Mulder expected. When he left, when William was only a few days old, he felt light in his hands, but took up all the room in his heart. His reddish tuft has turned a darker shade, as have his eyes. The ghost of Scully’s features is there on the boy’s face. As well as his own. They’ve always been a perfect team, working well together. Their son, however, is their masterpiece.
The bed dips and Mulder lifts his eyes from his son. Scully is smiling at him. Soft and gentle, tired but happy. Her hair is still wet, her complexion rosy from the hot water. The white fluffy robe almost swallows her. She doesn’t seem to mind. She scoots closer, on the other side of William, who sleeps through it all. Mulder watches him, curious to see if the boy wakes.
“He’s a deep sleeper,” Scully says, reading his thoughts.
“Wonder who he gets that from.” He smiles at her, and her answering smile is a balm on his beaten soul.
“He gets his appetite from you,” she says, her fingers tracing his, careful not to disturb their son. “He’ll be awake before you know it.”
“I can’t wait to get to know him,” he whispers, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. His son doesn’t remember him. When he opens his eyes to look at him, he’ll see nothing but a stranger. For Mulder, holding him when he was a few days old, it meant the world. He missed everything in between then and now. How can he ever make up for it?
“You will,” Scully says. The voice of reason, the sound of hope.
But is there hope for them? For any of them? With what he found out, the future has an expiration date. The date’s set and he can’t do anything about it. Neither of them can. He looks at his son, sleeping peacefully. Unaware of what’s happening around him. He lives in certainty that his parents will keep him safe. Mulder promises it, manifests it. They will keep William safe. His eyes find Scully’s. There’s no resentment; she did all of this on her own. She kept going. Maybe, he thinks. Maybe there is a sliver of hope when she’s by his side.
“What are you thinking?” she asks him in a soft voice. He’s not ready to voice it yet. His fears, his hopes. No matter how much she deserves to hear both.
“I’m thinking… I’m thinking about the last time we sat like this. When our journey started.”
“You told me about Samantha.” Scully puts a hand over his and he’s back there in that hotel room, nine years ago.
“You thought I was crazy.”
“I still think you’re crazy.” She smiles at him, and he laughs.
“Did you think we’d…,” he trails off. Of course she didn’t think this is where they’d end up. Him on the run from the government. Her by his side. Their son, too. Mulder touches the boy’s hand, needing to assure himself that he’s real.
“Did I think we’d be here?” Scully asks softly. “I couldn’t have imagined any of it, Mulder.” He nods at her. “But I’ve told you before,” she says, touching his cheek. “I wouldn’t change a single day. And I’m not giving up. We’re not giving up.” She emphasizes the we.
“You and me, huh?” He grins. “And William. This is all I want, Scully. All we have is each other. I don’t care if we… I won’t give up. I can promise you that. You and Will. But all I want is for us to have a life. Together.”
“Then we want the same thing.” He reaches over, touches her lip. She kisses his thumb without taking her eyes off of his. The determination in her expression fuels him. His spirit. She’s the love of his life, the reason he keeps going. A smile cracks over her face, like the sun breaking through clouds.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Good,” she replies. “Because I love you too. But we need to sleep if we want to save the world.”
He won’t remind her that she’s already saved the world. His, anyway. Instead, he just nods. Careful not to wake William, he scoots closer, wrapping his arm around the two people who make up his whole cosmos. He hears her sigh and tightens his hold on her. Tomorrow they will have to make a plan. They don’t know where they’re going yet. They don’t know how it will work. If it will. But there will be a tomorrow.
“Maybe there’s hope,” he says, looking at her. The words finally slipping from his lips.
“I know there is,” she replies after a beat. He watches her, soaks up as much of this moment as he can. Exhaustion tugs at him, and before he knows it, his eyes drift closed. He falls asleep with a newfound confidence that they can save the world after all.
She had gone to Philadelphia and come back changed—he feared irrevocably. Sure they had newfangled lasers that might starch ink from skin but this wasn’t about that. It was about the cool level way she looked at him across their desk, the way she’d not met his eyes in the hospital, and how he’d thought he missed her, then.
They confer professionally with long silence. Scully’s raw with bruises and rough handling. He recalls how, in Graceland, he had addressed her a postcard but not gotten it sent. Scully — scrawled, and that was all.
4x6 sentiment. The square footage of them. If they got another desk she’d have to stand in his shadow to reach anything of value. Her face is familiar, and silent, and WISH YOU WERE HERE! is what the card had had to say before he’d ever touched it.
The quiet grows to the size of the room.
“I may be in love with you,” is how he chooses to fill it.
After he’s said it, he knows it is true. Before he’d only had his hunches.
Scully says nothing. Impassive. But he sees it, a kind of wince, to the right of her eyebrow, with the bruise, like he, too, has caused her some pain. She leans forward and slides a file off the desk, tucks a paper clip to it, then looks down to her brief case and neatly puts it away.
Had he spoken? Mulder blinks at the place where a moment ago her face had been, absent now as she ducks about her business. “Scully?”
Half-rising. “Hm?” The smooth, unflinching side of her face. It’s astounding. He blinks again at nothing. “Did you hear what I said?”
Scully gives him an absent, midweek smile. A Thursday night, reports done, let’s call it early crimp. Then it’s gone. “Been a long day,” she says. “Night, Mulder.”
The door shuts behind her, and on Monday, he knows, she will come in with her face powdered, and her mouth closed. The postcard stuck in a motel drawer with the Gideon Bible.
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(MUSIC: “HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS” — FRANK SINATRA)
It could be 1999 and it could be 2029. It could be the beginning of the world because he’s finally gotten her back and safe in his arms, or it could be the beginning of the world, again, because the last spaceship has left Earth.
He could be 38 or 68. This could be the first morning or every morning. Just another one for him and his Scully.
It’s snowing, again. It hasn’t snowed in ages. The weather is strange, but it’s always been strange. Is it still global icing?
Mulder’s feeling vulnerable today. He thinks about all the choices he has made to be here, right here. What if he had accepted Samantha’s disappearance like most brothers? What if he had pursued that psychology PhD like he had planned in the early 80s? What if he had not jumped down the rabbit hole that was the X-Files and stayed as Violent Crime Division’s Golden Boy?
What if he had made his move on Scully when they first met? What if he had kissed her when she hugged him in relief of the confirmed mosquito bites? What if he had let her call him Fox since 1994? What if he had taken Scully away, away, away from all of it after she was returned from her abduction?
How many universes have his choices created? A hundred? A thousand?
Scully is on his side of the bed tonight, and he is on hers. Just because it had happened that way, and they were tired. They really aren’t young anymore.
He would have her in every universe, wouldn’t he?
Instinctively, Mulder tightens his arms around her a little.
I love you in every universe, he thinks. As much as he believes in having Scully in each and every universe where he exists, he is as certain that he will love her.
“Aren’t you sleepy?”
Scully says, looking at him tenderly. Her hair looks shorter than a week ago. When did she get it cut? He hopes he’s made a comment about the hair. Scully always smiles when he comments about her hair.
Mulder suddenly remembers the Scully on that ship, the USS Ardent, which is now at the bottom of the Norwegian Sea. Her hair was the same color, wasn’t it? Or was it lighter?
Mulder reaches out a hand and wraps a lock of Scully’s hair around his finger. It’s soft and fine and cool to the touch.
“If you keep thinking,” she begins, “Santa Claus will never come. And the only thing you’ll get is coals in your stocking.”
“You got me coals for Christmas?” He touches her cheek with his nose, “thank you.”
She giggles, her hand stroking his forearms.
“Will you love me until you die?”
“Mulder, you don’t believe I will ever die.”
“So? Will you? Love me until you die?”
“Yes.” She says, smiling. “Yes, Mulder.”
When they open their eyes, it’ll be Christmas.
2030
482. love the best
(MUSIC: “WHICH WILL” — NICK DRAKE)
He’s been sitting in the lifeless-looking hospital room for nearly an hour, waiting for her to wake up while contemplating the conversation he had this morning.
William doesn’t think he’s ever seen her like this. He can’t imagine her fear when the house crumbled from the earthquake, her grabbing the children nearest to her and shielding them with her body. It’s a wonder that she came out with only bruises and two broken ribs.
William feels his brain cells throbbing furiously—at the lack of sleep he’s been enduring, the dehydration, and the hunger. They’re also sad, his brain cells, too sad to process anything.
He’s also angry—angry at her, angry at himself, and angry at anyone who might have known this even though he has no right to be angry at anyone. He’s nearly lost it in front of the senior and very respectable nun this morning.
It has taken him nearly three decades, but at age 29, William feels like he has a good control of his anger. He seems to have inherited the very dominant gene of both his parents’ quick temper. Maybe when they made him, their bodies believed that he would be the only one, the last one, and wanted to showcase the most outstanding traits of the two bloodlines, which, ironically, was the anger.
His sight falls onto the patient in front of him. William’s known her for nearly 12 years. He wonders if that counts for anything, anything at all.
He waits.
.
When the young woman finally wakes up, his lips are too dry to speak. He passes the immediate opportunity to set the tone of the conversation by speaking first, and he silently curses.
“William!” She calls him, her face warm and happy. “I didn’t—”
“Hush.” He orders. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
Her face grows sullen, and her lips hang slightly open. From her eyes, he knows that she knows exactly what he’s talking about. Her mouth closes in a soundless admission.
William grips the wooden armrests of his chair, so hard that the tips of his fingers turn white.
“I saw Master Qing this morning. She’s aged.”
The young woman agreed, “78 this June.”
“I heard it from her; now, I need to hear it from you, M—” Not knowing how to address her, he tries again. “She told me out of the 49 years she’s been a nun, she’s never met anyone who became a monastic with your reasons, but she chose to believe you because she’s known you since you were 7. Now, tell me it isn’t true.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t tell me, or you can’t tell me that it isn’t true?” He presses on. “Tell me that you did not become a nun because of me.”
William’s voice is no longer unwavering; he keeps holding onto the armrests.
“You were not the only reason, but you were a big part of it.” She says it painfully slowly, “I was 16 when you first showed me what you can do. And... I believed in your visions. After Their first attempt, I saw that you and your family have what it takes to stop Them.”
“Had you stayed, you would’ve been a great help.” He murmurs.
“No, I would’ve been a distraction for you. Remember that Christmas Day when the sky went all dark? And instead of being at the underground station with your parents, you came to get me?”
“I’d have done the same for Cricket, but that doesn’t mean my little sister was a distraction for me.” He argues. “I’d... always go back for you.”
“Besides,” she gives him no time for mushiness. “I had no skills to offer there, whereas at the temple, I took care of people. I was able to keep Cricket safe, as well as the dozens of children who lost their parents... We helped all the Runners that stopped by; I was doing my part, Will. No one bothered us at the temple. And if I got to do my part in putting up the fight, why did it matter how I looked or who I was when I did it?”
She reaches up to touch her head and is surprised to find her hair being longer than she expects.
“Where did you speak with Master Qing?” She asks, her eyes dark and serious.
“At the garden on the 4th floor.” William answers while attempting to read her expression. He dares not read her mind; it's been too long. He identifies hurt and sorrow, and anger, among other things.
“You were meant for great things, Will. The Savior. Had I stayed... I’m so proud of you. I’m proud to call you my friend, I am, but at the same time, I’m honored that I’m a nun so I could take care of all those people. It was meaningful work.”
Her voice is nearly sobbing, but William is not done. “You became a Runner too; you kept that from me. My parents could have taken you in, then you would always be with us. They wouldn’t even need to pull any strings to get that done.”
She gives him a scoff so similar to the ones she gave him when she was a teenager. “You would’ve been happier for your parents to take me in and list me as your adopted sister? ‘Cause that’s what you just proposed.”
“Fine.” He spits, eyes sullen and sharp, like a player with a plan. “Tell me why you won’t get ordained. Explain to me why you’d rather look and live like a nun but you keep from getting ordained. Explain to me why you hadn’t gone through with it.”
The young woman is silent, and William breathes a hopeful yet forceful question: “Is it for me?”
“No.”
“You liar!” William’s tears escape, and he wipes them off angrily. Calling her a liar devastates him.
She doesn't know William can hear the thoughts of those he loves when they also love him back. She hesitantly raises a hand, not certain if she should touch him, not certain if he will break.
“Do you have... any idea how much I’ve loved you?” He asks, bitterly.
William finally softens his tone, and his hand goes to cover his mouth. “Now, Master Qing told me that she foresees her journey will end. She asked if I want to take you home because you have no one. I told her that it is your choice. I’ll always welcome you.”
She does not answer.
“Do you know what happened to the new monastery?” He asks.
She nods sorrowfully, but he goes on, “They’ve relocated the remaining children. I think they’ve sent home all of the novices; of course, there were only a few. I’ll take you home if you want to come home. I believe that’s what Master Qing wants to happen, too, which I gotta say, I’m surprised.”
“She can read people’s past and future, you know.” She states in a low voice and runs her hand through her growing hair. “She would’ve shaved my head for me if she wanted me to stay with her. I can take care of her...”
“You... can take care of me.” He pleads softly. “I can take care of you. Please.”
A knock comes through the door, and both of them jump a little.
“Hi,” Cricket pokes her head into the room, “I’m coming in.”
“Oh, Cricket!” The patient opens her arms to embrace the girl, and William wonders when they will be normal again.
“I got some things for you, Shifu, and your doctor says you can come home tomorrow. Daddy says you’re staying with us, and Bullfrog can visit, but he’s not allowed in the girls’ room.” The tween stays in the embrace, already half-sitting on the bed.
William remains, oddly feeling like he’s been defeated. He watches his sister talk to his friend, his friend, and wonders if what he heard this morning was a dream, or if the time she’s lived as a nun was a dream. Maybe they are both dreams. Or maybe they are both realities. His poor brain is too tired to argue, even with himself.
“Bullfrog, how come you never read her mind?”
It takes many seconds before William catches the question from his sister.
“Dad says if I wanted the relationship to work, I gotta stay out of her mind.” He says dejectedly.
Cricket rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t take relationship advice from Daddy.”
“Stay out of my mind, Scamoo.” Her use of his high school nickname jolts him like a bucket of ice water.
“No one’s called me that for years.” He snorts, “What do I call you now?” He asks carefully.
“Hum... Give me some time?” She says weakly with a smile. “Please?”
William looks into her brown eyes. It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to see her as a friend, and he considers all the things that have happened in the past three years. Life is impermanent, that’s what Millie always said when they were young.
But that seems like such a long time ago.
-----
thanks for reading. Tagging @today-in-fic & @mulderscreek, thanks!
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