TITLE: The Blessing and the Curse (1 of 1)

AUTHOR: Leslie Sholly

E-MAIL: PennySyc@aol.com

DISTRIBUTION:  Spookys, Ephemeral,
Xemplary and Gossamer, yes.  Anywhere else,
with my name and address attached.  And please
let me know.

SPOILER WARNING: Requiem

RATING:  PG-13

CLASSIFICATION:  VA

KEYWORDS: MSR, ScullyAngst

SUMMARY: Scully makes a choice.

DISCLAIMER:   Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox
own these characters.  I mean no infringement or
disrespect.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: At the end

FEEDBACK:  Cherished and always answered. 
Please let me know what you thought. 
Pennysyc@aol.com (Leslie)

 
*********************************
The Blessing and the Curse
by Leslie Sholly
*********************************

     The baby was born dead.

     That's what they told Scully, after she awakened
from an emergency c-section performed in her
apartment by the doctor who had agreed to attend
her there.  She had thought to insure her baby's
safety, protect him from those who might have
wished to take him for their own malevolent ends.

     But all her solicitude could not prevent the death
of her son.

     For two days, Scully lay in her bed, alternately
sleeping and crying.  Her mother fussed over her,
pressing her to taste the soup that filled the
apartment with an aroma that would normally have
been irresistibly tantalizing.  But Scully, deep within
herself, could barely eat, could scarcely speak.

     It was the third day after the delivery when
Scully, in the hallway of her apartment after a
painful trip from her room to the bathroom, heard
the crying.

     She staggered to the front door, opened it,
stepped into the passage.  The wailing--the
distinctive hunger cries of a newborn--was louder
there, and Scully's aching breasts tingled suddenly as
her milk began to flow in a reflexive response.

     No one on Scully's floor had an infant.  The
apartment across from hers was currently
unoccupied.  Wanting to believe but hardly daring
to, Scully, heedless of her state of undress, the pain
from the surgery, or the wet spots on her
nightgown, crossed the hall and opened the door.

     A be-ribboned bassinet stood before the window,
its back to the door.  Marita, Krycek, and the
Smoking Man were standing on the other side,
gazing with undisguised admiration at what lay
within.  The baby's cries had stopped, and Scully,
overcome by a sudden uncertainty, paused at the
threshold.

     "Well, well.  Agent Scully," Spender greeted her,
his face wreathed by the smoke from his
omnipresent cigarette.  "I see you've discovered our
little secret."

     "My--my baby?"  Scully asked.  "You have him? 
He isn't dead?"

     "Come and see," Marita invited, and Scully
crossed the room and circled the bassinet, eagerly
anticipating her first sight of her son.

     A large, plump baby, with a head full of dark
hair, porcelain skin and a rosebud mouth.  Scully
sighed in delight and leaned over to pick him up. 
But as she did so he opened his eyes and she
recoiled in horror.

     For these were not the cloudy blue eyes of a
newborn.  These were not the eyes of a human at all. 
Enormous, oval, and pupil-less, they were the eyes
of a monster from another world.

     "What have you done to him?  What have you
done to his eyes?" she demanded in terror.

     The Smoking Man smiled at her tenderly.  "He
has his Father's eyes," he said.

     In her lonely bed, Scully woke screaming,
drenched in sweat.

     Another nightmare.  Pregnant women were prone
to them, Scully knew.  All expectant mothers
worried about their unborn children, and Scully had
more reason to fear than most.

     Awkwardly she rose from her bed and turned on
the light, standing before the mirror and looking at
her protruding belly to reassure herself that the baby
was still safely inside her.

     Thoroughly awakened by the dream and afraid to
go back to sleep, Scully made her way to the kitchen
and distracted herself in the familiar ritual of brewing
raspberry leaf tea.  It was only natural that her mind
should be in turmoil.  Tomorrow she would learn the
results of the DNA testing she'd had performed on
her baby.  And the conversation she'd had with
Frohike today had only made matters worse.

     He'd become a confidant of sorts to Scully since
Mulder's abduction, an unexpected source of
support.  A believer, who could, as her mother could
not, relate to and comprehend the extreme
possibilities involved in Mulder's disappearance and
her mysterious pregnancy.  A comrade-in arms,
accessible and comfortable in a way Skinner was
not.  In short, a friend.  And until now, he had been
all avuncular circumspection and solicitude where
her pregnancy was concerned.

     But today he had begun to ask hard questions,
questions Scully didn't want to answer, didn't want
to consider.  He knew about the DNA testing.  And
sitting in the Lone Gunmen's office that afternoon
he had asked, "If the DNA tests aren't . . . normal,
what actions are you planning to take?"

     Scully instantly encased herself in icy reserve. 
"What do you mean?" she asked frostily.

     Frohike looked uncomfortable, but didn't back
down.  "If the fetus isn't human, will you terminate
the pregnancy?"

     Fetus.  Latin for young one.  Her baby. 
Terminate.  Kill.  "No!" she exclaimed.

     Frohike, plainly confounded by her immediate
denial, demanded, "Then why test at all?  What's the
point?"

     "Because I have to know, Frohike!  I need to
know what I'm dealing with.  I need to be prepared. 
But I'm not going to kill my baby.  He can't help his
genetic makeup."

     Scully's face was flushed and Frohike attempted
a conciliatory tone.  "But . . . Scully, what if it's not
a baby at all?  What if it's nothing more than a . . .
gestating alien?"

     Scully buried her face in her hands.  "Then I'd
abort it.  Are you happy?  It wouldn't be a baby and
killing it would be self-defense."  She raised her
head and wiped angry tears from her eyes.  "But if
it's got any of my DNA or . . . or Mulder's . . . if it's
human at all, then it's still my baby and I'm going to
give birth to it and protect it and raise it the best I
can."

     Upon reflection, Scully wasn't angry with
Frohike.  She knew his questions came from
concern.  He was trying to take care of her as
Mulder would, and Mulder would have asked similar
questions, had the same concerns.

     But in the end, Scully believed that Mulder
would have respected her choice.  This was and had
to be her decision alone.  If the baby had a part of her
or Mulder in it, she knew she would love it.  How
could she not?  The child that she sheltered in her
body, whose life force stirred within her, with whom
she shared the most intimate of bonds.  She couldn't
kill this little creature, whether it was a creation of
God or of someone else.

     And so as the sun rose over Georgetown, Scully
sat in her chair sipping tea, phone on the table next
to her, waiting for the call that would either fulfill 
her greatest hopes or confirm her deepest fears.      

*****************************************************
"I have set before you life and death, the blessing
and the curse; choose life, then, that you and your
descendants may live."

Deuteronomy 30:19
*****************************************************

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies to Ira Levin, the
author of Rosemary's Baby.

Feedback appreciated at PennySyc@aol.com
(Leslie).