From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sun, 13 Mar 2011 17:35:14 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: When All is Right with the World by Ana Hawkman
Source: direct

Reply To: anahawkman@gmail.com


Title: When All is Right with the World
Author: Ana Hawkman
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Post-ep for The Amazing Muleeni, Per Manum
Category: MSR
Feedback: Please! I haven't written fic in 8 years, 
a little encouragement couldn't hurt: 
anahawkman@gmail.com 
Archive: Ephemeral and Gossamer great; others, 
please e-mail so I know where it's going!
Disclaimer: These characters, of course, belong 
to 1013 and Chris Carter. I don't make a dime!






Four hours after we parted in separate cabs from 
the airport, he's at my door with a bottle of wine, 
wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, his casual 
uniform. His face is relaxed.

"Did you drive here?" I ask dumbly. It's 8:00, not 
any kind of outrageous time to drive places in 
D.C. 

"You said if we made it back by sunset?" he 
trails off, crossing the threshold. I step back, 
letting him through. My slub clothes are far less 
appealing than his: black leggings, a long belted 
sweater, a camisole underneath. I'm not even 
wearing a bra; I have no shape.

"I said that three days ago," I remind him, smirking, 
watching him move through my kitchen in a 
familiar way. He finds a corkscrew instantly, he 
knows my drawers. Two glasses. Doesn't ask, 
just pours. The bottle looks expensive. 

"Three days ago, and you didn't specify when. 
You said if we made it back 'by sunset,' that could 
have meant on any day." He hands me a glass, 
plunks down on the couch. I sit next to him, and a 
comfortable silence falls between us. Now is the 
right time. Now may be the only right time.


"Mulder," I start. His name is a comfort and I look 
down into my glass of wine. "I need to ask you 
something." He doesn't speak, just reaches 
between us to tip my chin up. His knuckle lingers 
against my cheek and it's almost enough to make 
me pause. I can't ruin this. "I got that second 
opinion. The eggs are viable. I just need a donor," 
I say slowly, somehow unable to use the word 
"sperm." Funny, with all of my medical training, 
he can still reduce me to an embarrassed girl. It's 
okay, though--he gets the picture, nods, takes a 
long sip of wine. I love this man, can't imagine 
my life without him.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," he starts 
softly, his voice kind and gravelly. "I just need to 
think about this." He sets his glass on the coffee 
table and faces me. He reaches for one of my 
hands, presses it into his warm palm, looks 
evenly into my eyes. "I have to ask you," he 
hesitates. "Are you asking for a sperm donation, 
or are you asking for a child? with me?" His 
voice gets quieter, slower as he finishes the 
question. 

I hadn't anticipated this question, but the answer 
is simple. "A child, Mulder. I would want you to 
be in this baby's life, of course. And in mine."
The second part is a given, but I say it without 
having planned to. "I want you here," I add, 
hoping he can see what I see. Hoping that he can, 
someday, come home to me and have that be 
enough. He squeezes my hand gently, then takes 
my glass of wine and sets it on the table next to 
his. He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead 
like he has so many times before.


"I need to make sure," he whispers, stroking my 
hair, "that I can be what you're asking me to be." 
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, pulls back 
and runs his fingers over my face. "I don't take 
this lightly," he adds. I knew he wouldn't. I nod, 
not sure what to make of this. What am I asking 
him to give up, exactly? His life, his quest, his 
career, his meaning? How can I expect him to 
find peace warming formula on a stove at 2:00 
a.m. instead of fighting the good fight out in the 
field? Is he capable of doing so?  What right do I 
have to ask such a thing of him?

Just when I begin to really reflect on my doubts, 
he kisses me with a force and intensity that takes 
me by surprise. This isn't just a kiss of comfort or 
reassurance. This isn't a kiss of fatigue or relief. 
It's all of Mulder's single-minded passion 
directed at me?I'm not used to this?I lose 

myself in him and he stays with me, not pulling 
away. 

When he finally leans back, parting with shorter, 
softer kisses, I'm breathless. He presses his 
forehead into mine, whispering kindly: "Please 
let me make sure. I won't make you wait." With 
this promise, he stands up. We both need to 
breathe. We've barely made a dent in the wine, 
but he heads toward the door. Suddenly, my 
fears of having asked too much go dim. He's not 
leaving because he's scared or overwhelmed. I 
understand that he needs some space to think 
over this kind of a request. I'm not asking for a 
sperm donation, I'm asking for his love. I'm 
asking him to become something more to me, 
and to become the father he never had himself. 

He stands by the door, shoves his hands into his 
pockets. "I'll come by tomorrow," he offers. I nod, 
standing and taking a few steps toward him. 
"Don't worry, Scully," he adds, saying my name 
with a tenderness and affection that only he can. 
And then he is gone.




Fin
anahawkman@gmail.com