Tailor-Made

by Sebastian

Disclaimer: The characters belong to CC, but I suspect after this he might not want to admit it.

Pairing: M/K/Sc (Don't know if this counts as het or slash)

Rated: M

Beta: Thanks To Dr. Ruthless for having the courage to look this over.

Warning: Graphic baby stuff... not for the faint-hearted.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

When at last it came, it wasn't as I'd expected. There was pain, yes, but my injury must have been so bad that the sensation was fleeting. I guess my brain couldn't cope. Overload, perhaps, or simply not having the means to process the unknown sensations.

The other, unexpected feeling was of gratitude that, in the end, it wasn't Mulder who killed me. You see, I've always carried a torch for him, though it hasn't stopped me fucking him over. I don't think I could ever have killed him, even if I'd been given a direct, unequivocal order to do so. So I was happy that I wasn't dying at his hand, even though I suspected that he'd have done it without a second thought or regret. Even at the end, we cling to our fantasies.

So, the pain came and went, to be replaced by lightheaded chill, and my surroundings slowly fogged, muffled. I lay, trying to think of a smartass last line, but the only thing I wanted to say was "I love you, Spooky," and it seemed a bit late for that. Anyway, they weren't paying any attention to me, no last breath in someone's caring arms, no whispered endearments for poor Alex. Their meaningless words floated above my head, irritated bursts from Skinner and a rant from Mulder. I don't know what they said; my body sprawled on the floor at their feet, ignored, already yesterday's news.

And as the scene faded, and the voices came from far away, I thought, isn't this where I should be floating, looking down at my own body? Where the fuck is that tunnel, with the bright light and the angel?

Then, pow!

Agony slams into my gut like someone has driven a pile-driver into my belly, the lights flare, a hundred times brighter than before, there is a hubbub of anxious voices and faces of flushed, frowning strangers in surgical masks swimming in and out of my vision.

Jesus, they've taken me to hospital, I'm thinking. In the end, they couldn't leave me to die like the rat I am, they're doing the Right Thing. Then the excruciating pain takes me again, and I scream. My body arches, racked with a tearing, clenching cramp, great red-hot pincers gripping, squeezing my gut, pushing my entrails out of my ass.

"Damn, she's going to pass out again." Hands force my shoulders down onto a bed, and a face leans in close to me. I can see the pores, black hairs prickling from his nostrils, before I close my eyes to concentrate on the pain that embraces me. "Dana, slowly, remember the training. Little breaths, pant... You're hyperventilating. You know panic will only make it worse, make it seem to take longer. When the pain stops, try to sit up and brace yourself for the final push."

Arms go round my shoulders, urging me to bend, to come upright. "You must be bloody joking," I gasp, struggling to lay back. "Get lost. Can't you see I'm dying here! Can't you give me something?" There's a sob in my voice, it sounds strange, and harsh, and my throat is sore, as if I've been yelling for a long time.

A soothing voice says, "You know it's too late for that. You're fully dilated, you'll be feeling the need to push any minute, and you can go with it, dear."

The agony, which has dissipated leaving me faint and shivering, my robe damp with sweat, hints it is returning. I'm starting to be puzzled. I'm in hospital, but it seems Dana Scully is here, too. She's having her baby, I guess, and I'm bleeding out from a gunshot wound, and they've put us in the same room?

Then it grinds into me again, and I'm shrieking, "Fuck, oh fuck, stop it someone, please," and the cries become more and more guttural as the torture continues. There's an arm bracing me, I thrust back against it with all my strength as my belly wrenches with a twisting gripe as if it's going to blow out my innards in a massive explosion of shit and blood. I can feel it, feel my bowels bulging between my legs, and I howl as a green-clad figure reaches in and eases something out, something that slides over my thighs and ass, warm, heavy, thick with slime.

The pain stops.

The attention is all on whatever I have expelled. I am sick and faint, lost... What the hell is going on, what is happening to me? Nobody is looking at me; all eyes are on the nurse at the foot of the bed. I can't see what's come out of me, it's hidden beyond the blood- splattered hospital gown draped over my bent legs.

"What is it?" I whisper, plaintively. "What's wrong?"

A tall man turns and looks at me, his eyes crinkling into a smile above his mask.

"Nothing's wrong. It's perfect, completely perfect. Congratulations, it's... "

This is a dream, a nightmare. That's Doggett, there in the mask.

"What? What is it?" I demand.

"A boy."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

It can't be real. These must be the delusions of a dying man, or I'm high on opiates and being treated for my injuries. It sure as hell is life-like, though. How can my subconscious be so twisted as to turn me into Dana Scully, in the pangs of childbirth? And fuck, if what I was imagining is anything like reality, how come women have more than a single kid?

But the hallucination doesn't stop there. It's got more fun in store. Somebody tries to hand me a swaddled bundle. Inside is a tiny, wrinkled, red, distorted gnome, that someone has smothered in lard. I take a glance, and it blinks at me with lashless lids that slowly sweep its navy blue eyes. Its head is lop-sided, distorted. Its lips draw back from knobby gums, and it mewls at me.

I shrink back and wave it away. "No... later." My voice quivers, and now, now that I'm not screaming, I can hear it's not my voice. It doesn't sound like Scully's either; but it wouldn't, I recall, if it's coming from inside my head. I look up, and the nurse pulls the mask from her face, and smiles reassuringly.

"He's fine, you know. He's just a little premature. You must know how it is, Dr. Scully. His skull is distorted, from the birth, and he's covered in vernix. In a few days, it'll even up and he'll be perfect."

She holds it out again, and I try to smile, but find I've stuffed my hands under my thighs. I don't want to touch it. "Later," I say, shaking my head desperately. "I... I'm tired." My belly clenches, and I hiss with pain.

"it's the afterbirth," says the nurse, passing the baby to a bystander... Doggett, I note, with distaste. He's clucking at it, and rocking it. Christ, this gets worse and worse. The nurse sticks me with a hypodermic. "To help the womb contract."

I nearly burst out laughing. I've got a womb, a fucking womb. Then I notice that tears are trickling over my cheeks; I'm so messed up - I just want it to stop. Put me back on that floor, please God, at Skinner and Mulder's feet. I think I'd rather be dead.

It continues, despite my fervent prayers.

"Oh, you poor dear, you must be worn out," coos the nurse, wrapping her arm round me. "Just a little longer, and we'll have you all cleaned up, and into bed. You're exhausted. Don't worry, you can have a good rest, and get to know baby in the morning."

The gripes hit me hard again then, and someone pulls gently on my insides, then lifts a thing like a large lump of liver into the air, and deposits it into a kidney bowl. I stare at it, and try not to barf. The nurse and another poke at it, then look at me. "It's all there, Dr. Scully. Nothing to fret about. No chance of haemorrhage.

I lick my lips. "The... placenta?" I venture.

The nurse giggles, and looks at her colleagues. "How long is it since you've delivered a baby, Dr. Scully?" she asks.

"I'm a... " I look round, wide-eyed.

"Dr. Scully is a pathologist," supplies Doggett. I wonder what the hell he's doing here. Surely the prim Scully didn't want too many people to see her in this state... and where's Mulder? If anyone should be in this nightmare, he should. "Dr. Scully and Agent Mulder want it preserved carefully. It may be medically important."

"I'll keep it away from the vultures, then," says the nurse, brightly. She turns to me... "That's the finance people. They get a good price for these, from cosmetic companies."

"Maybe I should eat it," I say, dryly. Damn, I'm getting into the spirit of this now. Could it get more surreal? There's another gripe, and I wince.

"That's a good sign," encourages the nurse, seeing my grimace. "Your womb is shrinking quickly. You'll probably have more discomfort when you breast-feed, but we can give you painkillers."

She bends down, and peers between my legs. Two others join her. It occurs to me, at last, that my legs are splayed open, my crotch is totally exposed, to them, to Doggett, to God knows who these others are. I start to move, to cover myself, but her latex clad hands hold my thighs apart while they examine me. There are fingers touching me, prodding inside me where there is no business being an entrance at all. Hell, it's sore. I pull away from her hand, and she looks up, and smiles.

"No sign of a tear," she announces. "You won't need stitches, though it'll be a little stretched. Hubby will understand, I expect."

I'm not sure I heard what I just heard. She's worried that Dana's too slack to give some bozo pleasure, after what she's just been through? It's so bizarre, it's frightening.

Is this degrading, or what? I never knew, never realised. When it comes down to it, women can't ignore the primitive, the animal, no matter how men gloss over their connection to the rest of nature. Oh, come on, Alex, I tell myself. This is a dream, and the most fucking politically correct dream that's possible, too! This is a combination of imagination, and the Discovery channel...

She shoos the bystanders away, and closes the door on them and the kid. "I'll give you a wash, and get you into a fresh night-gown. Then, by the time you've had a sleep, you'll be ready for visitors, and to show off baby. What's his name? Have you and the father chosen one, yet?"

"Uh... " I purse my lips, and look down. At least, I would look down, but my vision is blocked by a pair of fleshy lumps. To guys, they are breasts; to be grabbed, and nuzzled. What the hell are they when they are stuck to your front, and there's a parasite that is expecting to suck a meal from them? It's not natural. Well, it is, but it's not discussed.

This isn't real, what the hell...

"Fox and I haven't really firmed it up, but probably... Alexander," I say.

I'm going to laugh... I'm going to laugh! Oh, shit.

Did I say that? Alexander?

"That's nice," she says, not really listening, as she fetches a bowl of hot water and a bar of soap.

A minute ago I was crying, and now I want to fall about in glee. Fox as the daddy. I know he's not... not in the conventional sense, anyway.

"We're going to have a nice blanket bath, then off to bed, dear. In the morning you can make yourself beautiful, and get to know little Alex, and show him off to his daddy. He'll be round tomorrow, won't he?"

"You can be sure of that," I say, and give myself over to her. There won't be a morning; whatever's doing this to me will have worn off, gone, and I'll be... what the fuck will I be? But I'm tired, and it's all too much, and she is gentle. Twenty minutes later, I am asleep.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Somehow, it is even worse when I wake up the following day.

A woman is in my room. The bedroom's pastel - pink, with frilled drapes, and a bevy of bouquets jostling on every available surface. There is a mirror on the wall across the room, and as she arranges the breakfast tray on a trolley, and brings it to me, I try to avoid my reflection. Still, there's a flash of tousled red hair, and a blue nightgown.

"A whole heap of cards for you, Dr. Scully," says the orderly, patting the pile beside my tray. "Ring when you've had your breakfast, and freshened up, and I'll bring baby. Daddy is with him, right now. It's such a cute sight. He's brought a camera, too, so if you want I'll take some pictures of the three of you together."

Thud, goes my heart. Then it seems to stop. I feel sick. I want to run, but where can I go? This can't be a dream, a hallucination. Maybe there is another possibility? Maybe I am Scully, and just think I'm Krycek. Damn it, that would make more sense than the alternative, that I've taken over her body. Which would beg the question, where is she? Dead, in my corpse? Assuming I am dead, that is. Mulder will know that at least, and it's one thing I'll feel safe enough to ask.

I sip at the juice, and take a mouthful of toast, but I'm too wound up to eat more, despite the growling from my stomach. Above all, I need to pee. I'm going to have to get out of bed, and deal with the reality of this body. I'm going to have to touch it.

Then it occurs to me, Mulder has tacitly assumed fatherhood - or perhaps Scully and he have agreed on this. But wait; the orderly didn't give a name, she just said, "Daddy". Fuck - it could be anyone out there - Doggett - some unknown boyfriend of Scully's - Skinner. I gulp as I imagine Skinner's hands on me... on Scully, I should say... expecting kisses, caresses, expecting to screw me.

I wobble to the bathroom, and slump on closed toilet seat, gazing blindly at the shower opposite. I've just realised. I've been expecting Mulder to say he's the father. I've been expecting him to kiss her, caress her, make love to... me, fuck... me, and it's seemed so right, I've taken it for granted. Fox Mulder, who was my unattainable dream lover, is probably now mine for the taking.

It's so wrong.

I'm shivering. It's shock, I suppose, and maybe the after-effect of giving birth? I suspect the former. My trembling hands smooth over my thighs. I don't want to lift the robe, pull down the panties and see the blood on me, see her groin, acknowledge the evidence that my eyes have been avoiding. It's already there, though, the evidence. Two hands, Alex. Tiny hands, with dainty, wire-thin tendons under the fine white skin, red-painted nails, and wrists so slender I'll be scared to lift anything, in case they snap.

She's no china doll, though, Dana Scully. For her size, she's fit, and packs a punch. I don't want to be that, though. I've never wanted to be anything but a man.

'For a woman... ' What a patronising phrase! Now it's me. I'm the one who'll only come up to Mulder's chest, who'll have to scurry to keep up with him, who he'll be able to lift with one hand. I don't fucking want that. I was happy being six-two, being able to hold my own... a little thick-set I suppose, compared to Mulder's elegance, but that's how I liked it. My body-image fitted me just fine.

I feel vulnerable. I feel robbed.

It's painful now... I've really got to go, got to empty my bladder. I stand, and slip off the nightgown completely. Scully's breasts get in the way as I move my arms, rest on my chest when I lower them. The skin where they touch feels sticky. I pull the panties down. There's a pad in there, to catch the blood; it's clotted, stuck to the hair and I have to peel it painfully away. Fuck, this is awful.

I glimpse myself in the mirror and look swiftly away, then force my reluctant eyes to return and examine my new body. It looks like a pigmy's. It's in proportion, I suppose, except for the huge jugs swaying on the front like a pair of water-filled bladders. I give a snort of laughter. I guess a lot of guys go for just that, petit woman, impressive cleavage.

Trouble is, I'm a fag. Totally wasted on me. Sure, I go with women sometimes, but if it's from choice, it's the ones that are so skinny they look like boys. It's a shame in the circumstances, that I never hankered to be a woman. Still, with me in charge, the correct Agent Scully won't suddenly be chasing skirt.

Dammit, I'm assuming this is gonna last. I'm thinking of all the straight guys I've lusted after in my time, and what they'd be like in the sack; but could I face intercourse as a woman? I'm blushing now. This is sick. I

lower myself to sit on the toilet, and wonder how to pee. The muscles down there are wrong; I don't know how to let it out, though the pressure seems incredible. Maybe if I don't think about what I'm doing, it'll happen. I look over at the mirror, and pull Scully's face into grotesque expressions, and make her say stuff I'd never hope to hear from Scully's lips. The little pouty lips purse, and a giggle escapes, and with that, a dribble of urine.

Jesus, I nearly leap through the roof. There's a slash of burning pain from my sore cunt as the liquid touches it, and my muscles cramp again, shutting the sphincter off. This is fucking ridiculous. I leap up, and fling myself in the shower, put the spray on, hot and stinging, then stand, legs akimbo, with the stream running down between them, and force myself to relax. The red-stained liquid, water, blood and piss, swirls down the drain, and I sag against the tiles in relief.

Ten minutes later, I'm wrapped in a pink fluffy towel, with another round my washed hair, rooting through Scully's suitcase for some clean clothes. There's plenty of panties, and lots more of the pads that stick inside them. I'd thought they were something special, but they're just sanitary towels, I find. Not something I've ever even thought about. I wonder how many female secrets, female rituals I'm gonna discover. You get hints on the TV... make-up, leg-waxing... I shudder. My mother was a country-woman, tanned and jolly, with work- roughened hands. If she had secrets, she kept them to herself. She wasn't a high-maintenance designer-label bitch like Scully.

The doorknob rattles, and in walks the orderly, pushing a crib, with Mulder in tow. They haven't bothered to knock. I stare at him, wide- eyed. My heartbeat is racing, and I start backing towards the bathroom, a handful of clothes clutched to my chest. He frowns, and strides towards me.

"Scully, are you OK? You look so pale. You shouldn't be out of bed." He takes me by the arm; his hand looks huge, the fingers go almost all the way around my biceps, and leads me towards it.

My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. I hang back, and when he looks down at me, I give a timid smile, and stutter, "G-get dressed," and I flee into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I lean against it, and slide down to sit on the floor. My lower lip is nipped between my teeth. I'm trying desperately not to cry.

What the hell is this body doing to me? I feel so frail, helpless. I should have been dressed and out of there when I had the chance. Should have liquidated Scully's assets, and disappeared, made a new life, left this mess behind. I suppose I didn't because I'm still waiting to wake up.

I can't stay in here all day, though. I've got to go out there and face them. As I pull fresh panties over Scully's lax, sagging belly, and do up the tiny buttons on a long-sleeved, flower-sprigged night- gown, I try to make up my mind how to play this.

For want of information, I consider just two possibilities. Either I'm stuck in this body for good, in which case I should take it carefully, and say as little as possible - on the whole, go with the flow, or, it's a temporary situation (with an unknown future) and I can do what the hell I like, because there'll be no payback.

Alex Krycek wouldn't have survived so long without erring on the side of caution... and, usually, knowing when to keep his mouth shut. It's a policy that's served me well in the past. Keep mum is the sensible thing to do, until I see the lay of the land.

A third idea occurs to me. Whatever has happened to Scully and I could have been done deliberately. Someone could know that Scully has been replaced. This is frightening; how can I know that anyone is the person they seem? That is so off the wall, it's impossible to deal with, and I try to banish the idea.

I walk out of the bathroom brushing my damp hair, so I won't have to look at anyone right away. Mulder's sitting on the bed, jiggling the baby gently, and the orderly has gone. There's a nurse here instead, and she gives me a determined smile.

"Come and sit in the bed, Dr. Scully. It's good for you to get up and about, as you know - we don't want a thrombosis, do we - but we don't want to overdo it either. I've brought an icepack for you, to ease the swelling down below, if you want it."

I offer no resistance as she settles me back in the bed, and tucks me in. Mulder half-twists round to face me. "He's real cute, Scully, and so tiny." He has that goofy smile on his face, but he's not really looking at me, he has eyes only for the baby. "He's hungry, too, but they wouldn't let me give him a bottle. They said he had to have a good appetite, so the breastfeeding would get established easier."

"You've got to be kidding," I whisper, appalled.

Mulder looks up at me. His expression is bland, but his raised eyebrow tells that this is the wrong response.

I backtrack. "I mean, I'm feeling so washed-out, Mulder. Maybe later."

"Nonsense," says the nurse, taking the baby from Mulder, and thrusting it into my arms. "The sooner the better, and baby needs you, Mommy."

Mommy? That's me.

I look down at the little monster in my arms, and feel like puking. Yeah, I know what I told Scully and Mulder, and, I can tell you, it took me a long time rehearsing it to be able to sound plausible. Christ knows what the game is this time, or who the parents of the kid are (though I have my suspicions), but I sure don't want to parent it.

"I don't think I can," I say, looking at the nurse beseechingly.

"It's perfectly natural dear." She's fiddling with the buttons on my nightgown now. Does she think I'm a fucking dairy cow, or something? I want to grab her wrist, and hiss some expletive at her, but my hands are full of baby, and I'm wondering what Scully would do.

"Are you planning to stay for this exhibition, Mulder?" Where there should have been a growl, I just sound catty. I can feel blood rushing to my face as my chest is exposed.

He reaches over and strokes my shoulder. Ahhh... his touch. My mouth goes slack, and I take a shuddering breath. It's not for you, Krycek, it's for Scully, I tell myself.

"You were so enthusiastic," he says earnestly, looking into my eyes. My pupils are dilating, I'm sure. Does he kiss Scully? If he does, if he does it now, I think I'm gonna faint. But he gets up, and starts pacing about the room, expounding on the value of colostrum, the benefits to the mother of breast-feeding, throwing things Scully has said back at me.

The nurse is looking at us oddly. "Do you always call each other by your surnames, dear? He's the father, isn't he?"

"It's just a habit," I say. "We were work colleagues, for a long time... before... "

Scully has committed herself to this, it seems. If I'm going to keep up the illusion, I'll have to try. I feel I'm being forced into it, though, and it's making me mad. The nurse is murmuring instructions to me, I can hardly hear her for Mulder's eulogy. And the rugrat's screwing up its ugly face. It's gonna yell...

Without choosing my words, I spit, "For fuck's sake, enough, Mulder. Just shut up, sit down, and keep still. I'll give it a try, OK?"

There's silence. The nurse draws back. He glares at me. I know that glare... Krycek knows that glare. I hold his gaze and smirk at him, then raise an eyebrow. "You wanna watch, Agent Mulder? Get your ringside seat for the Wonderful World of Motherhood show? Get an eyeful of tit? You better pull up a chair."

"I'm sorry, Scully," he apologises at length. I get the kicked puppy look, this time. "I shouldn't bug you, it must have been rough. I'll go, and give you some peace."

"No." I reach to grab his sleeve. I don't want him to go. I think I can do this, for him, because he expects it. I can't do it for the baby. I feel nothing for it but disgust. "Sit down beside me, Mulder, and give me some support. I could have done with you at the birth, you know." I give a little laugh as his weight makes the bed dip beside me. "I know you would have enjoyed it. I bet you were expecting junior here to have grey skin, or tentacles."

"Already checked that out on the ultrasound," he says smugly, and his lips twitch. I smile back.

"Where were you?" I know where he was, but I don't know if Scully would. If I ask, maybe he'll tell me my body's fate.

"I was with Skinner and Krycek," he says. "Scully, Krycek's dead."

"What? Why? Are you sure?" I try to sound shocked, rather than as if I'm asking for confirmation.

"He's dead." He looks at the nurse. "We'll talk later."

Just then the baby starts to bawl as if it wants to burst our eardrums, and there's a flurry of activity, and then silence again, as the baby's mouth is plugged with a fat portion of Scully's left nipple and areola. Jeez, it has a grip, I reckon I could stand up and dangle the kid with the suction it's applying.

Mulder's arm snakes round my back, and suddenly the tension goes out of me. I relax against him. Even what the kid is doing is starting to feel nice. My... breasts are tingling, my rigid hold on the baby eases, and, disturbingly, I find I'm smiling down at it. The nurse gives a satisfied sigh, and goes to the door. "If you need anything, just buzz," she says, and she's gone.

I'm alone with Mulder. I'm snuggled against him, there's a mouth, doing incredible things to one of my nipples. Where's a dick, when you need one? This is a hard-on moment gone to waste, though maybe that warm feeling that's making me press my legs together is something significant? And suddenly I'm depressed again. This isn't for me, it's for her. I'm stealing it, and it makes me feel like shit.

I sit up a little straighter, and say, "Tell me what happened with Krycek, please?"

Mulder sighs. I can feel it, his ribs pushing against me, and his breath on the top of my head. This is weird, being small enough to fit under his arm, the very size discrepancy is going to make me think of him differently. I resent it. I want to be his equal, even if I have to lose this. I want to earn him for myself, not by deception. But it seems there's no going back.

"Tell me, Mulder?"

He takes another deep breath, and holds it. "He let us down again, Scully. I've... hated him, then believed him... then trusted him again, only to find it's all crap. Skinner... he killed him."

"I thought he was with us this time." I try to sound disappointed, to moderate my reaction as Scully would. "Did he say anything, before he... "

"It was quick." Am I imagining the quiver in Mulder's voice? "Nothing... I hoped he'd explain himself, but... nothing."

"You wanted him to have some excuse?" The surprise is genuine. I look round at him.

"He was an odd one. I kept hoping, y'know. I got the impression that he was torn, his loyalties were split, and I hoped he'd come down on our side, despite what he'd done."

Never split until you came along, Mulder. It was always me first, until my yen for you messed with my head.

"So you're sorry he's dead?"

I regret asking as soon as I say it.

He's silent, and then says, "No."

It's what I expected, but shouldn't have heard. I bow my head, and then detach the baby as the nurse has shown me, and set it suckling on the other side. Mulder looks on with interest. I don't know why I don't feel embarrassed under his scrutiny. I think it's because it's not a sexual look, just curiosity, and wonder. Though I feel a bit freaked out doing this, I suspect it's no more than Scully would... maybe less. She's used to having breasts, but not as practical appendages.

The baby falls asleep. Mulder unwinds himself from me. I miss his warmth against me immediately. It was contentment, just to be near him, to be accepted by him. I'm scared I'm going to be seduced by this; let myself be Scully, just to be close to my love. I'll never forgive myself.

He takes the baby, and puts it in the crib, then walks to the window. He clears his throat. "Why did you say the baby's name was going to be Alexander, Scully? You told me you'd chosen William."

I look blankly at his back. I hardly remembered the previous night, it was a blur. It had been a flippant remark, but hell, why not? Alex Krycek would get no other memorial.

"It's a good name, Mulder. My baby can make it an honourable one. He can redeem it." I'm biting my lips to stop myself laughing at this tripe. In the end, I have to bury my head in a tissue, and pretend to sneeze. "And if you're claiming to be the father, maybe we should be on first-name terms? I feel like a loose woman, calling you Mulder."

"I could be the father, Scully... Dana... we don't know that I'm not." He turns around, and frowns. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with Alexander."

I almost blurt out, 'Alex would have liked you to have been, Agent Mulder!' but I manage to shrug instead.

"You want to choose a name... Fox?"

I wonder why he says he could be the father. Have he and Scully been boffing? Or does he think his sperm's been used for the fertilisation? No-one's under any illusion that this pregnancy is natural, surely?

"I wasn't happy with William, either." He's pursing his lips, and avoiding my eyes. "It's a family name for you, though... so I didn't say anything."

"What a bitch," I sneer, thinking how insensitive Scully is. OK, it's her dad's name, but it was Mulder's father's too, and the name holds no happy memories for him. I've never been able to stand the woman, and she's screwed Mulder over more than once, according to reports.

"What?" He looks puzzled.

"Sorry... nothing," I mutter. Hell, if I'm Scully, I may as well be a bitch too. "Come back and sit down," I say, patting the bed beside me. When he's settled, I reach for his hand, and squeeze it, staring sincerely into his eyes. My other hand goes to my throat, deliberately to toy with the tiny gold crucifix hanging there. "I just had a feeling last night, Mulder, that we should call him Alexander. The name came from my lips without me even thinking it." I blink, and suck my bottom lip in, as if I'm about to cry. "There's a reason. Something is telling me that our son needs this name."

Meryl Streep, eat your heart out... He swallows it without even a protest. His hand turns under mine, to clasp it. "Our son... Yes, of course... Dana." Her name is awkward to him, I know. "We'll call him Alexander."

"Thank you Fox, "I whisper. I tilt my head, and look into his eyes again, letting my lips just part as the tip of my tongue moistens them. Will he... ?

He leans down, and for a moment, his lips touch mine in a chaste kiss. He pulls back almost instantly, looking panicked. Shit, I'm panicked, too. My heart is going like a jack-hammer. I'm sure now the two of them have never fucked. He tries to smile, but just looks awkward, and, somewhere deep inside, I am thankful. She's not his lover, and if he becomes her lover, now, I can justify that it was because he wanted to be with me, not the one who used to inhabit this body.

"Dana... Will you change your mind, and marry me? I know we've thrashed this out more than once. I know you've said that it would spoil our friendship, that you can manage on your own, that you don't want to be tied. But, even if you don't want a husband, now the baby's here, couldn't we make a proper family for him?"

Involuntarily, my brows shoot up. He looks sheepish. "I'm sorry, I guess. I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but I thought you might feel differently after the baby was born. The offer stays, though, if you change your mind. You said we didn't love each other the right way. That it would be a sin for you to go into a marriage without the right reasons, the right intent."

Fuck, this is weird. I really don't want to hear it, don't want to listen to Mulder laying all this stuff out to Scully, but I don't know what to say to stop him. I suppose I ought to know what's been going on between them, but it's embarrassing. I'm evesdropping.

"But you're my best friend, Scully. I've never loved a friend more than you, and I'm sure it would work out." He stops, and looks at me, his funny frown crinkling his forehead.

Oh shit. What I'm being offered here is what I've always wanted; Fox Mulder, all mine, forever. My mouth is dry, and I can't force any air into my lungs. I want to scream, "Yes, yes! Now!" but do I really want him like this? It doesn't sound like Scully did. She obviously wasn't 'in love' with Mulder, even if she loved him, or she realised that he wasn't in love with her.

My hand trembles in his. I'd forgotten he was holding it. Perhaps, if I'm stuck in this body for the rest of my life, I can get him to fall in love with me. God knows, I love him too much to settle for the horror of the bargain he's offering. One day, maybe I could make his proposal the real thing. Maybe he'd fall in love with me, when he could only love Scully.

What a sentimental idiot I am. Self-deluding, too. Making love to Mulder in this body would be gross, a betrayal of my needs and feelings, a relationship based on a lie so deep it would be obscene.

"You are a wonderful person, Fox, and I'm truly grateful, but I'll stick to my decision, for now. Thankyou."

"I won't give up then?"

"You wouldn't, if I told you flatly to fuck off, Mulder. You're tenacious like that," I say acerbically, and he laughs.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Over the next couple of days I discover the delights of bathing baby, of diapers, of nursing a baby for real, when the milk comes in, and makes your breasts hot and hard, as if they've been pumped up tight as drum's with superheated steam. Then there's baby puke, in your hair, on your clothes... and the nurses, patronising, as if the arrival of a baby signals the departure of a woman's brain and given name. Mom... The word made me want to scream.

In between times there was a stream of visitors. Luckily, it didn't matter that I knew none of them... by the time they'd cooed over Alexander, and I'd recited once again how the birth went, I'd usually managed to infer their names. Mulder was there a lot, too, and kept the conversation flowing in his quirky way. I felt stupidly happy deep in my belly, just having him there, relaxed, smiling, and far more at home with the baby than I knew I'd ever be. For a guy with no experience, he handled Alexander with perfect confidence and seemed happy to be with him.

I still loathed the little brat. I only touched him when I had to. I learnt to deal efficiently with his needs, but was more than pleased to pass him to others to dandle, and talk too. The only pleasure I had from him was feeding him. The sucking sent a spicy tingling through my body, and was utterly relaxing. It was frankly erotic, but on such a low level that it merely made me feel I was floating in a blissful warm sea.

The small amount of spare time I passed researching my new role. Survival and Alex Krycek are synonymous. With the aid of women's magazines, Scully's make-up bag and clothes, I gave myself a crash course in beautification. Fuck, the whole thing was stupid, but I tried to look on it as a disguise, a job, and worked up the enthusiasm that way. Left to myself, I suspect Scully would have gotten a crop, and be clothed in my usual jeans and leather jacket. Sadly, she's no Sigourney Weaver; I suspect Scully as dyke would not be flattering.

Anyway, who was I kidding? If I had to live out my life as a woman, I wanted men in that life, and if that meant using the warpaint and impractical clothes, I'd have to learn to live with it.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Three days later, and I am on my way home. Scully's mom comes to fetch the baby and me; she's bought groceries, and freshened up Scully's apartment with flowers. She's a sweet lady, I feel a bit guilty deceiving her. I hope she puts my silence down to hormones... when you've had a baby, it's a real catchall excuse for bitchy behaviour. She fusses around Alexander and me, tells me over and over to call her if I need help, offers to babysit anytime. I suspect I'll be taking her up on it, but right now, I need to be alone.

How hard can it be to look after a baby? I soon find out. The little bastard wakes up ten minutes after she leaves, and by the time he's been changed and fed, and changed again I'm beginning to see things through a red haze. It's not good. Even if I doted on him, I wouldn't have the patience for this. Finally, I shut him in the nursery that's been prepared for him, and raid Scully's cupboards for booze. A couple of shots of vodka later, the squalling stops, and I'm deep in a pile of her old letters, tax returns and investment papers.

The letters I'm just reading out of curiousity. I want to know how she feels about Mulder, what Mulder has said to her... they don't tell me much, and she doesn't seem to keep a diary. Waste of time.

As for the rest, I make a list of her investments, gather up her passport and any documents I'll need to get at her money. It's possible I can still realise some of my own assets in an emergency, but it could attract the wrong sort of attention. Tomorrow, I'll start moving her money into places where I can access it at short notice. Uneasy suspicions have been crawling into my mind over the last couple of days, and I want to be sure I can bolt if I need to.

The baby is a liability, too. It may not be the new Messiah, the crap I've been spouting, but it is valuable. If it weren't for hurting Mulder, and Scully's doting relatives, and because it would be a major give-away to who I've become, there are a couple of places I could market it. You're getting soft, Alex, I think wryly.

Still, there's no point in being too precipitate.

I'm in my lonely bed by nine. Mulder called, and suggested he came round, and I was tempted, but I think I need to keep him at bay for a day or two, to think through my feelings for him and try and be logical about how I'm gonna play what's between us.

By two in the morning I've been through another feed and change, and I'm wishing I'd stayed at the hospital longer and let the nurses take care of the kid. By seven, I've been woken up three more times, and fall into my bed with my head swimming. I sleep until noon, and drag myself into the bathroom for a shower, when the bawling starts up again. At two in the afternoon I'm still not dressed, and I'm sitting in front of Scully's computer with the baby clamped against my shoulder, and a cup of tepid coffee in my other hand. Where did the day go? Damned if I know.

I've had a few phone calls asking about how I'm getting on, then Mulder calls again, and lets slip Krycek's funeral was yesterday. I go ballistic on him, demanding to know why I wasn't told, leaving him in no doubt I wanted to go to it. He's soothing but mystified, answers all my questions and rants patiently, supplies details of where the grave is to be found. I can hear the question in his tone, but I'm too overwrought to be rational. Half a dozen people attended, including Mulder and Skinner. Mulder makes no bones about it; he says the others weren't there to pay their last respects, just to make sure Alex Krycek was safely six feet under.

That finally gets me moving. A couple of hours later I'm walking through a cemetery, pushing the baby in a stroller, looking for the plot. I suppose it's pointless, really, but I need to see. I'd have liked to have looked at my body; maybe I wouldn't feel so dissociated if I had, but Mulder says he saw it, and there will be photographs, because after all, I met a violent end.

It's easy to spot... fresh-turned earth, the clods dusted with frost, and a small, plain stone. 'Alex Krycek', and the dates. Nothing else. A memorial for a man that never existed, the only truth on it the day the man's heart ceased to beat.

The grass all around is grey-brown, winter-dead, and the bare poplars whip the pale sky, gusted by ice-filled air. Once my footsteps, grating on the gravelled path, stop, the lonely silence screams at me. Hurriedly, I pull flowers from the rack beneath the stroller. There are none on the grave. I expected none, but the tears came anyway, that my death is unmourned, that those who would care will never be told.

I want to throw the wrapped bouquet down and flee, but it's so ugly, wasteful, to leave their beauty hidden in the gaudy wrapping. I open the paper, and scatter the white roses, one by one, on the mound that covers me, one for every year that I lived.

I turn to leave. I've said goodbye. My life must change now, be renewed. I must accept what I am as real, and grasp it, make it my own. But a sob escapes me, and suddenly I'm weeping, bereft, crying pitifully for the lonely man that was Alex Krycek, and for the rootless woman I've become.

Suddenly, I'm enfolded in strong arms, and pulled in tenderly to nestle against a fine wool overcoat. "I knew I'd find you here, Scully. But why are you so upset?"

It's Mulder. He must have come across the grass, I heard nothing.

"And flowers? For that piece of shit? Why, Scully?"

I gulp, and try to reply, but I can't. My arms go round his waist, and I hug him tightly, sobbing against his chest. His hand is stroking my hair, slowly, lovingly, and he's making ridiculous soothing noises, trying to comfort me.

"Somebody..." My voice hitches. In little gasps, I say, "must have cared for him - his family - once. Perhaps they'll never know what's happened. It's - sad."

I want to tell him who Alex was, let his life flood from my thoughts, drown Mulder in the deep waves of my childhood, the chaotic maelstrom of my adult live. I want him to sink with me into the beauty of those early years, sun-dappled reefs of memory, to flounder with me in the squalls and storms of my adulthood, crying for succour with no-one to hear.

"And, even after all, you care, Scully? He was a stranger to you."

"He was a stranger to himself, Mulder." Then I say, "I will marry you, Mulder. Please; I would be honoured to be you wife."

The most heartless thing I have ever done is this act, tying the person I love above all to a woman he is not in love with, but at that moment, with the shards of my life scattered about me, he is the only thing left to cling to, all that I can carry with me into my trackless future.

"Thankyou... Dana," he whispers, and squeezes the breath from my body in a delighted hug, as he drops a kiss on the top of my head. He pulls back and grins at me. "By the time we get to the wedding, I hope we will both got out of the habit of calling each other by our surnames - it's gonna be just too confusing if we're both Mulder."

I chuckle, and he passes me his handkerchief to wipe my face. Fuck... there's dirt on it. Make-up, I think, wryly. Can't even have a weep without thinking of the consequences, now. I must look like a damned clown.

He takes the handle of the stroller in one hand, and tucks me under his other arm. We turn our back on Alex Krycek, he's gone, soon Dana Scully will be gone. I can put them both behind me, and start anew; a new person, Mrs. Fox Mulder.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

I survive four more days at Scully's place before coming so close to hurting the baby that I know I can't take it any longer.

I hate her home. It's neat, chill; it resents my presence. It's organised and brusque, like its owner, yet has all the cloying sentimentality. Her home hates me.

I'm trapped here, isolated, with the monstrous baby that won't let me sleep, sit, or have barely an instant to be myself. Bonding is a joke - the only thing we share is feeding time - and I resent every minute I have to spend dandling him and tending to his other needs. It's not just me that's suffering, I know. Alexander needs love, someone who'll be pleased to be with him, or he will be harmed, mentally and probably physically. I feel nothing but a growing hatred for the child.

I didn't think I could be like this. I get on all right with kids, and even if I didn't dote on him because he isn't my child, I thought I'd be able to deal cheerfully and tolerantly with his care. Perhaps I'm suffering from post-natal depression...

I do manage to squirrel Scully's funds into an easily accessible account, and make myself as familiar as I can with her background. Skinner gets in touch, too, wanting me to confirm my plans for my work. Scully had assumed she'd take at least six months off; I tell him that I'll be back a lot sooner, if only part-time, and arrange via Kim to look over the FBI creche the following week. If I don't have to bolt, I'll need to do something to keep my mind active, and, more importantly, to keep my channels to information open. Playing happy families is out, for sure.

I can bluff my way easily as Mulder's partner, though I'll have to get out of the autopsies. Even if I could stomach them, I don't have the training to do one. Maybe I could be worried that I'd compromise the baby's health; emotional blackmail could be fun!

Still, I'm suffering from emotional overload at the moment, and no number of stultifying coffee parties, or cosy visits with Scully's Mom is going to make my isolation, exhaustion and anger any the less.

It comes to a head at about two in the morning. Alexander, who is ten days old now, has been grizzling for hours, and refuses to go to sleep. I try everything I can think of, including ignoring him, but to no avail. I am so worn down, so hazed from broken sleep, that in the end I start swearing at him, and catch myself shaking him, telling him... begging him, to shut up.

Suddenly, I realise what I am doing. It's as if I've been dipped in ice water. Clear-headed, shocked to the core, I place the screaming baby carefully down in his cot, and step back. I can think of only one answer, one thing that will make me feel better. I pack necessities for the two of us, load up my car with the bags and the baby, and head for Alexandria.

Naturally, by the time we get to Mulder's, the baby is sound asleep. I struggle up to his apartment with my burdens, cursing under my breath about this tiny, useless body I inhabit. At least I'm over tripping over my own feet, or reaching for things and missing them, because of my new proportions. For the first couple of days, my co- ordination and balance were completely shot.

I let myself in quietly. Mulder's form, asleep on his couch, is illuminated by the writhing pink screen of the TV, where a cheesy porn film is playing, the throbbing music almost below audibility. I feel calmer already, being with him, I don't need to wake him, I just need to know he's there. We creep into the bedroom, I push the junk off the waterbed, and I climb in and fall straight to sleep, with Alexander cradled in my arms.

A few hours later, and Mulder's at my bedside, still damp from the shower and wrapped in an old towelling robe. He holds out a cup of coffee, and says, "Room service, m'am. I'm sorry, the night porter was asleep when you checked in."

I grin at him, and scratching my head through my tangled hair, sit up on the wobbly mattress, and take the cup from him. Alexander is sleeping serephically at my side, looking the picture of contentment. It all seems so stupid now, such an over-reaction to the baby's testiness, but I know it will happen again and I'd be a fool to risk it because I'm too ashamed to admit I can't cope.

"Could you call in, and tell them you'll be an hour late this morning, Mu - Fox?" I ask. "I've got to talk to you."

The baby lies between us as I tell him of my weakness. It's odd, he almost looks pleased. I wonder if the news that his perfect Scully has flaws makes him feel bigger, more in charge. I have no doubt that the real blessed Scully could cope, that she'd fly through this with no problems at all, and rub Mulder's nose in his own inadequacy.

He snuggles in beside me as I give the baby his morning feed, and strokes my back. It's reassuring. I know I can depend on him. I can't find the words to say how much I love him, and if I could, I dare not voice them.

I am going to move in with him. For the present, Scully's apartment will remain as storage, until the lease expires. He talks of buying a house together, of trees, and white picket fences. I tell him that I don't want any of that, I want to be here with him, in the dark warm womb of his apartment, safe, content, intimate, a den for the Fox, and his family.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Now I'm with Mulder, I start to come around from the state of shock that's had me in its grip since this nightmare started. He never sleeps much anyway, so he takes over the night time shift with Alexander. The brat gets formula now at night - and the little bastard behaves himself, too. It could be the stress I'm under, I suppose, that he plays up when I have him.

With rest, and a little leisure, my brain clicks into gear again and I start to really wonder what has happened to me and Scully. I suppose I should consider myself lucky, despite the position I'm in, that I am still alive after a fashion. Whereas Scully - what the hell has become of her? Is she in someone else's body? Maybe she's in the baby; it's got bright blue eyes now, and the malevolence in its gaze...

Then there are all the things I was involved in. In some cases word will have gotten around that Alex Krycek is dead, but there are a couple of projects that could still yield dividends. I'm undecided whether to pursue them, or if I should drop all connections with my old life. Though I had intended, at the graveside, to turn my back on Alex, it could be that my situation has been brought about by deliberate intervention, and it might be sensible and advantageous to keep my channels open.

With rest, too, my body starts to remember who I'm living with. Somehow it all went on hold after I left the hospital; worry and tiredness robbed me of any feelings but a vague desperation, interspersed with resentment. Now there is a constant shimmering arousal, if I'd been in my own body there would have been no disguising the hard-on.

But, apart from an occasional hug and sometimes a peck on the cheek, he makes no move to touch me. I dare not make overt advances, but I can't avoid trying to be close to him at every opportunity - watching TV, leaning over him as he uses his computer, anything to come into contact with him. It make me feel like a teenager with a hopeless crush on a teacher. Every once in a while, we end up sleeping together in his bed. It's never premeditated; maybe he dozes off rocking the baby, or he's been reading beside me, and I have the joy of lying awake and studying him as he sleeps, even sometimes brushing my hand over his body, or snuggling against his back and ass as I masturbate, and fantasising that I'm still me, and could pin him down and ease my needy cock into his sleek body.

I don't know if he finds my behaviour or conversation odd; I try to guard what I say. I encourage him to talk about his work and get him to bring home case files that have been put on hold during Scully's confinement. I have to assume that I'll continue in her role for a while, and must know what I'm talking about.

I have a lot of second thoughts about the marriage. I intended to be noble, and then found I was too weak to sustain my resolve. It's such a temptation, being able to slot into his life like this, but it's such a deep, cruel lie as well. I make excuses and postponements not to decide, telling myself I must think it through properly, analyse my true intentions, work out what I realistically can expect to happen. Before I know it, the day has come.

I insisted that there should be no fuss. Mulder didn't care; anything I wanted, he'd go with, but Scully's mother wanted the works, white dress... hundreds of guests. Still, I persuaded her to let me have my way. She will look after the baby for the weekend, Mulder and I will tie the knot at a little town up the coast, and spend a couple of days relaxing together in a plush rustic hotel with every facility.

I go out to shop. At last, this person must not be totally Scully. If nothing else, the clothes for the wedding weekend will reflect me, not her. I buy some casual things; pants... including a leather pair, which she looks surprisingly good in, some frivolous tops, underwear and night-things, and a dress in which to get married. Scully's figure restricts what is suitable. She's too short for frills and drapery, for fuss. But I hate her collection of dull pant-suits. I prowl the designer shops, and settle on a neat little wool dress, slinky, smart and fucking expensive. I could almost fancy her in it, myself. Then shoes... sky-high impractical stilettos, glossy and black, with tiny bows at the backs of the ankles, to make her little legs look elegant.

We drive up separately. Mulder has been out of town for a couple of days, and will go directly there to meet me on Saturday morning. I settle into our room; it has a vast four-poster bed, one of those bathrooms belonging in an upmarket porn-movie, and a private verandah looking out over trees and a frozen lake. The snow sparkles on the firs in the clear winter sunshine, and there's someone buzzing around on the ice on a machine that looks like a jet-ski. I change into the dress. It's pale grey, soft as angora, and rubs over my skin like velvet. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I've got used to this now, this strange face, with its round, pouted mouth, and determined chin. The fine chain round my neck catches my eye; Scully's crucifix; a part of the past. It will have to go. I unhook it, and open the door onto the verandah. The cold air is so pure, it washes through my lungs like freezing vodka, and I grin, and throw the necklace out into the snow.

Soon, Fox is there, looking svelte and too-desirable in a suit that hangs on him like an paean to hedonism, and takes my hand, slips a ring on it, and he is married. I am trembling and faint, not sure what I have done, or who I have wed him to. Despite the words I have said, the documents I have signed, the longing in my heart, I cannot feel that I am tied to him. It is a sham, and I am ashamed and empty.

We eat a quiet meal, and then he suggests that we explore the grounds of the hotel. Wrapped up warmly in parkas and snow-boots, we set off, in the pearl-gold sunshine, for the distant lake.

I can't wait any longer. I have to know how we will live together, whether his love for Scully has a chance of becoming that love for which I have betrayed his trust and my judgement.

We stand at the lakeside, and I turn to him, and say, with a smile, "I'd like the traditional kiss now, Fox, for the bride. The one earlier hardly counted." I reach up, and clasp my hands behind his neck, and blink up at him.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to rub noses, like the Maories, Scully... Dana? With a bit of thought, I could think of even more outr customs."

"Let's start with this one, shall we, and you can give me a list of others to think over for tomorrow?"

He grins, and puckers up his lips. "C'mon," I say, "a proper kiss."

He raises a brow, and shrugs, and lowers his lips to mine. There is no breath in my lungs as I stretch towards him, and feel his lips, softly parted against my own. Our tongues brush together for an instant, but his body against mine is stiff and tense, and he draws back almost immediately. There is nothing; no spark, no yielding, no desire.

I am sick with dismay.

He bites his lip, and heaves a big sigh, then pulls me to him in a warm hug. "Maybe we shouldn't have done this," he whispers, "but I think it will all turn out alright in the end. When I asked you to marry me, Dana, I meant it truly, and, if it's what you want, it will become a marriage in more than name. But something that's happened has shocked me badly, and I'm going to need a while to recover, to forget, before I can build something new with you."

"Tell me then, Fox. Whatever it is, I'll understand." My voice, a little unsteady, is muffled against his coat, but I dare not look up at him, I am afraid I will confess my own crime.

"You'll need all your forbearance for this, Dana." He lets go of me, and takes my arm, leading me along the lakeside path as he talks.

"Do you remember, when we first discussed this, when you told me you were pregnant, we had a long talk about our feelings for each other, and how they compared with what we felt for other friends, and lovers we have had?"

"Remind me, Fox. I remember the general gist of it, but it was a long time ago."

"Well, we talked about the difference between love and desire, and if either of us had felt both strongly for anyone."

"Yes... because I had misgivings about marrying you, right?"

"Yes... and there had been three or four for both of us, who had aroused both feelings. We both said that neither had such a person in their lives right then. I thought I didn't; but I was wrong."

I stop, glance at him, then look out across the lake. "Why did you carry on and marry me, then?" My voice is trembling now.

"I'm so sorry, Scully. Perhaps I shouldn't have. But I didn't realise what I felt for this person until it was too late. It was a pointless, hopeless passion, anyway. Completely illogical, and ridiculous."

"Who?" I whisper.

"You knew I'd slept with men as well as women before all this happened, and then I told you, during our talk, that guys had never been more than just sex with me? I'd never been in love with one? I think that's why I didn't know, didn't recognise it. I thought it was lust... "

"Who?" I say, more firmly.

"It doesn't matter. He didn't feel anything for me, and we couldn't ever have been together, if he did. I'm such a fool, I didn't understand how I felt until he was... dead."

"For pity's sake," I spit, "Say the name, Mulder."

"Krycek," he replies. "I was in love with Alex Krycek."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

So, I have my answer. Now I know why I am here, in Scully's form. So many people have told me I would burn in hell for my crimes. They didn't tell me what pride Lucifer takes in his office, that for every sinner that dies, hell is tailor-made.

End

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

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