A/N: Hello! Well, I'm going out a bit on a limb here with this story so I thought I'd explain a little where it's coming from.
Firstly, I took advanced chemistry and biology at school. I'm no dumbass and I know this is totally and completely impossible so you don't need to tell me that. Also, I work in a hospital so all the miscellaneous details are correct, although obviously there is one large and (funnily enough) intentional mistake.
Secondly, this story was actually (partially) inspired by Midnight in Paris, which is an incredible movie and just reinforced my firm belief that the world is nothing without a healthy dose of imagination.
Thirdly, dammit babies are cute!
So, if you are the person responsible for putting this idea in my head – and you know who you are my lovely – this is for you, hope you like it and don't you dare let a cage full of ravenous plot bunnies loose in my head again!
I said I'd post this if at least three people asked for it. Well, five did. That's good enough for me! As long as I know I'm not the only one that'll read this sort of stuff. If it's not your cup of tea, I understand entirely but please, don't spoil it for someone else! Flames are a totally inappropriate response. Feel free to check out my livejournal and I will happily debate with you there.
The title is from the Rob Thomas song, which I will freely admit I think is beautiful.
At points, this chapter jumps timeframe wise. Please let me know if it's unclear when and I'll work out some way of making it clearer.
I will confess I am not particularly familiar with the x-men comic canon but did very much love the movies and given the ridiculous denial of gravity/laws of physics/general reality in Mr Reilly's works, this seemed the perfect combination to somehow explain that.
Also, can I just say, (this is the last thing, I promise) I've never before written a first chapter that I'm entirely happy with. I think the first chapters of my other stories are undoubtedly the weakest but this one I'm really quite pleasantly surprised as to how this one has turned out. Let me know what you think!
Chapter 1
Shane Schofield awoke. Slowly drifting back into consciousness, he tried to crack open one heavy eyelid to assess the situation and reassure himself that it could not possibly be real.
Just a shocking, unnerving nightmare, he thought to himself.
Eyes still shut – trying to block out the possibility of that sight – he could still tell himself the familiar smell of antiseptic was just in his mind. He tried to force himself off the bed but pain tore through his body, every muscle screaming in protest. Abandoning the effort, he sunk back against the starched pillows. Another means of testing his environment occurred to him and so cautiously, he tried to move a foot but found it tightly contained by a well-made hospital corner. The movement didn't bring the sharp pain back. Instead, it felt more like the dull tugging ache of a healing wound in the vicinity of his abdomen.
By the smell and the sheets, he was almost certain he had ascertained that he was in a hospital, so he decided to chance opening his eyes. The harsh fluorescent light on the gleaming while walls assaulted his senses. Definitely a hospital then, like any of the countless others he had wound up in courtesy of the usual bumps and bruises associated with being a marine.
Perhaps that was really all it was.
He was here, and Bosnia, or Wilkes, or that god-awful fiasco with the president had only just happened. But not the whole bounty hunt episode, that could all be a part of the dream.
Everything else, he reasoned, was just some grand and terrifying hallucination. He would recover, take Libby out to dinner and they would laugh about it.
If he focussed on that hard enough, he could even tune out the grating sound of a newborn crying down the other end of the ward.
He almost reached for the nurse call bell but quickly decided against it. If he was hurt or crazy enough to be hallucinating, he would rather keep that little fact to himself. If on the other hand, he wasn't hallucinating and it was reality that had turned crazy then he didn't really want to know.
He thought about turning his head and trying to look around the room but a weariness beyond anything he had every felt before seemed to have settled in his very bones and even that simple movement seemed far beyond him Besides, looking brought the greatest danger in that he might see her and then it would be beyond deniability. He was just too damn tired for the cold hard slap of reality yet, so he closed his eyes and let the blissful oblivion of darkness retake him for at least a few hours more.
Scarecrow had been missing now for three days. Now Mother wasn't a woman easily worried but when it came to the Scarecrow, she would make an exception. In fact, in the months following Elizabeth Gant's gruesome death, she had spent rather a lot of time being worried about the Scarecrow. So much so that she almost felt she was getting used to the feeling. But three days with no note, no call, no nothing, had stepped it up a whole new level. If they didn't find him soon then she was becoming quite concerned that the word fear might acquire a place in her vocabulary.
The first day, they had thought nothing on it. Even a year on and a seemingly complete return to health and active service, it wasn't unusual for Schofield to simply disappear for a day. Nobody quite knew where he went.
Maybe he was seeing a shrink.
Maybe he was getting thoroughly drunk.
Maybe he just hadn't felt like getting out of bed.
They didn't demand an explanation and he never provided one, but he always came back the next day.
Only this time, he didn't and Mother had felt the first vague prickling's of fear. She started by calling his mobile, moved on to his home telephone before escalating to previously unheard of levels and just turned up at his apartment in the hopes that he was simply sick and unable to answer the phone, or sleeping of the world's worst hangover and unconscious to the world, or just stubbornly ignoring it. Whatever it was, she was sure her physical presence could help resolve the situation.
At the very least, he couldn't ignore her if she broke down his door.
Only, he wasn't at home. That much was clear by the pile of mail shoved crudely under the door.
By the third day, she was worried enough to confide in Book II. He had sensibly suggested they contact his family and check he wasn't with them. It had taken a fair bit of wrangling with the bored receptionist on the personnel desk – which involved an elaborate yet imaginary surprise birthday party plan – but finally, she had reluctantly handed over Schofield's Next of Kin details. When it turned out to be only another place he wasn't, did Book II voiced the suggestion Mother had been studiously avoiding.
"Given Scarecrow's proclivity for danger and destruction," he had said, "is it not unreasonably to call around a couple of nearby police stations and hospitals?"
"Just to be sure," he had added hastily upon seeing the look on Mother's face. Normally she would have teased him about big words and dumb grunts but this time, she only nodded in reply and offered to do the hospitals if he would do the police stations. They both agreed to post bail no matter what the cost, but it wasn't necessary.
Mother found him in the fourth hospital she tried.
Schofield dreamed he was in a world of pain but the residual still throbbing through his limbs felt most certainly the product of reality – though the lines between reality and dreams felt blurred and he couldn't, or didn't want, to distinguish between them.
It had begun as a dull, niggling ache in the small of his back. It felt like nothing more than a cramped muscle, so he had simply stretched it out and pushed it from his mind. Certain it was nothing to worry about. He had worked through the strain all day and so was unsurprised when it was not only still present but worsened by the end of the day. Letting himself into his apartment and carelessly tossing his jacket and glasses onto the nearest chair, he was too sore and strangely tired to give a damn tonight. He had thought briefly about trying to cook but quickly gave that thought up, reaching instead for the frozen remains of some soup his grandmother had left from her last visit.
As all grandmothers' are prone to doing, she always protested he was far too skinny but right now, he was very grateful for her ever so slightly overbearing but well-meant care. It was times like this that loved ones are always most appreciated. With a pang, he realised that a year ago he would have just called Libby. Her warm body against his was more than enough to sooth any discomfort.
As it was, Libby was dead and his family was far away.
He was alone.
Alone and in pain.
The thought crossed his mind that he might call him, but he rapidly dismissed it as absurd. Instead, he headed for the shower.
A long, hot soak and the comfort food went a long way to temporarily ease the ache, which by then had settled into an uncomfortable rhythm of flaring up through his lower abdomen before easing off, lulling him into a false sense of security that each one might be the last before returning viciously. He knew he should have gone to bed and tried to sleep it off but having settled himself fairly comfortably on the couch –legs curled up practically in the foetal position and with one hand clenched over his stomach, the epicentre of the pain – he felt too wretched to move.
He was starting to feel nauseous and the first signs of a fever were breaking on his forehead. His last comforting though as he had fallen into an uneasy sleep was that this was just some fairly rotten twenty-four hour bug and that he had probably endured the worst of it.
Probably there being the key word as he was jolted awake by a bolt of pain ripping through his abdomen like lightning. In the few short hours he had slept, the strange pain had managed to intensify beyond explanation. It felt like a knife plunged into his gut and slowly, torturously, being twisted, tearing him from the inside out. The bitter copper taste of blood was on his lips from where he had evidently bitten down to stop from crying out; and his knuckles, clenched against the arm of the sofa, were white like bone.
As the pain peaked and finally ebbed away, in a moment of lucidity he thought about calling Mother for help but a remnant of (foolhardy) determination and a deep-seated weariness that he couldn't shake, despite the few hours of sleep he'd managed, forced that idea from him.
Instead, he curled in on himself, bracing against the couch and tried to ride out wave after crashing wave of pain.
It was then he saw the blood.
How it was he had managed to get – safely – to the hospital, he didn't know. He recalled holding on til he particular wave of pain had begun to pass before unsteadily forcing himself upright and stumbling out the door. He had hit the call button for the elevator but realised he probably didn't have enough time to wait for it before the next one hit. Unfortunately, he was only half way down the fire stairs when it arrived with spectacular force, bringing him almost to his knees against the bare concrete floor. This time, he couldn't supress a cry and it reverberated harshly back at him. Caught now between the safe zones of the couch and the hospital, he knew he couldn't stay in this dank and dirty stairwell. It took all his strength to force himself up again and make it to his car in the basement. It was a haze of traffic lights and pain and near misses and pain before his next sharp memory.
He had just made it to the hospital – a small catholic one around the corner from his favourite Chinese takeout, if he'd driven past it once, he'd driven past it a thousand times but never imagined he might need it – and practically fallen through the doors of the emergency department.
Strangely enough, he remembered exactly the welcoming cool of the tiles as he hit them against the warmth of the blood which stained his jeans a horrid crimson.
Mother stood in the cool tiled front reception of St Agnes of Mercy hospital in downtown D.C. Beside her, also wearing civilian dress and trying to appear inconspicuous with a small silver Remington shotgun concealed under his jacket – spend enough time with the Scarecrow and you learnt to be prepared for anything – stood Book II.
"Schofield, S-C-H-O-F-I-E-L-D," she repeated, her voice carrying over the tranquil music playing in the background, clearly not having the desired effect. Mother stood looming over the front desk while a slight young woman tapped the name into her computer.
"I have two patients currently admitted under that name," the hapless receptionist said, "Can you confirm the first name for me?"
"Shane," Mother replied sharply, bringing her large hand down hard upon the counter.
"Sure, level two," she replied chirpily, "he's under infection precautions so visiting may be restricted. You'll have to check in with the nurses desk up there as well. Have a nice day."
Mother stalked off without another word, so Book II shot the girl a quick 'thank you' before dashing off to follow her. Not two seconds later though, he was back at the desk and determined to do the talking himself.
"Excuse me," he said and the girl looked up from her paperwork, "I think you might have made a mistake, the sign by the lifts says level two is maternity."
"Oh no," she smiled as he she stood up, "it happens."
Her professional manner dropped for a moment as she giggled at his confused look.
"We're only a small hospital," she explained, "and sometimes we run out of beds. I wasn't here last night when your friend was admitted but I'd say it was a choice between maternity or the floor."
With a relieved smile, Book II went back to Mother beside the lifts and hit the call button.
The elevators were old but less than a minute later they were standing in front of another desk where a couple of tired-looking nurses wearing blue scrub gear were sitting drinking a cup of tea. One of them looked up as they approached and said with a friendly, lilting Irish accent, "Can I help you?"
"Yeah," Book II said quickly whilst Mother ground her teeth, "we're looking for Shane Schofield."
"Room twenty-eight," the nurse replied, tipping back in her chair to look at a busy whiteboard, "right down the end of the corridor."
As she spoke however, another head appeared from within a nearby office.
"Did I hear Shane Schofield?" A tall red-headed woman said as she appeared fully from the office. Unlike the others, she was dressed in a well-cut and form-fitting suit, with her striking dark red hair pulled off her face in a sharp bun. She held out a slender hand as she spoke, saying, "Sergeants' New and Riley, my name is Doctor Jean Grey and I think you'd best come with me."
They followed her wordlessly down the hall, wondering how on earth she had known their names. It was perfectly conceivable, they both knew, that Schofield himself had given her their names and told her they would probably be coming.
But it was equally conceivable that he had not and so they both tensed in preparation to reach for their guns if necessary.
She walked them all the way down the end of the corridor and right past a door with the number twenty eight stuck on the outside in brass figures.
It was firmly shut.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Mother protested loudly, stopping outside the door, "I want to see him now." Her tone was deadly and anybody who knew her knew better than to argue with that tone.
The woman doctor stopped, entirely nonplussed by Mother's death stare and looked at her appraisingly before nodding curtly. "Alright," she said, "He's sleeping right now and I really do think it would be better if I explained the circumstances properly but you may see him briefly."
She pushed open the door cautiously. They went to step inside but she held them back.
"Just look," she said in barely more than a whisper, "reassure yourselves he's okay."
They peered around the doorframe and sure enough, even in the low light of the drawn curtains, he was unmistakable. Schofield was lying on his side, facing them. His scars met and his breathing was deep and steady, fast asleep. Mother could see a tube full of a dark liquid that looked awfully like blood disappear into the crook of his elbow.
Dr Grey shut the door and turned to them. "I really don't want him disturbed," she said seriously. "He's lost a lot of blood and the potential for shock is still quite large but as long as he'd sleeping peacefully, I'm not too worried. Why don't you come with me and I can answer all your questions."
She led them to an airy, light filled longue room complete with flowers and floral patterned sofas. Book and Mother sat side by side and feeling rather out of place amongst the encroaching cut hydrangeas. The doctor perched herself in an armchair opposite them.
"I imagine you have lots of questions," she said at exactly the same time as Mother, pulling out her small handgun, said, "What sort of set up is this? How did you know our names?"
The doctor didn't flinch. In fact, she betrayed no emotion nor hint of surprise at the appearance of the gun. Instead, she simply lifted her right hand and with a casual flick of the wrist, the gun was tugged out of Mother's hands, soaring between them before coming to rest on a small glass coffee table.
Book and Mother watched it with their mouths agape. Their eyes flicked up immediately to Dr. Grey's and she was laughing pleasantly at their stunned expressions.
"Yes, they're rather impressive little tricks aren't they," she said amiably, with the air of one discussing the weather "Sergeant Newman, Gena if I may. I am no danger to you or Captain Schofield. The names and the gun were simply little demonstrations, if you like. Proof of what I am about to tell you."
"Genetic Mutation," she said suddenly serious. "It's the key to our very existence. Mutation took us from single-celled organisms to the dominant form of reproductive life on this planet. Currently, the human race is undergoing the next step in the evolutionary cycle. We are already seeing an increasing amount of individuals with extreme physical or mental mutations. Mutations, which are resulting in individuals with extraordinary capabilities."
"Mutants?" Mother cut across her bluntly.
"Homo Superior, actually," Dr Grey said, leaning forward in her chair and with her eyes lit up with excitement. She was clearly in her element, "but essentially yes, Mutants will do. You've heard of them?"
"We're soldiers, so yes, we were briefed on them," Book II said as Mother nodded.
"And the threat they might pose," he added somewhat ominously.
Jean laughed, a friendly sound. "Some mutants will almost certainly pose a threat to humanity," she said wisely, "But I think you'll find that most of them are simply normal people who happen to be able to do extraordinary things, but who also want to live ordinary lives.
I think we have more to fear from you, than you do from us."
Book II and Mother just stared at her, trying to take it in.
"What does all this have to do with Scarecrow?" Mother asked suddenly.
"Your captain," Dr Grey said, pausing for emphasis, "is one such individual."
Whilst Book II simply sunk back into the chair and exhaled his surprise with a low whistle, Mother exclaimed loudly, "Well knock me down with a feather and call me short arse, I always said he was special." She turned to Book, as if expecting that he would confirm that she indeed, had often said Schofield was special, could do things that others couldn't, but Book was internally processing his own surprise and didn't reply. It was Dr Grey who did.
"He is indeed very special," she said gently.
"What can he do then?" Book II asked, recovering his voice.
"Ah, well," the doctor said, straightening in her chair and crossing her legs, "That is a very good question but one to which we have yet to ascertain an answer."
"You don't know." Mother said bluntly.
"No."
"How can you know he's a mutant if you don't know what he can do?"
Book II prided himself on being a solid and sensible bloke. This whole shenanigans was a little beyond him.
He had no idea it was only going to get worse.
At the question, Dr Grey sat bolt upright, her obvious excitement was practically contagious. They had reached the crux.
"That's the extraordinary part," she said, "Captain Schofield was admitted here the day before yesterday with a condition never yet observed in a Homo Sapien male. He was pregnant."
A look of absolute shock passed over Mother and Book II's faces, before Mother managed to stutter out;
"Pregnant?"
"Yes," the doctor replied undisturbed, "We estimate between thirty-three and thirty-six weeks."
It was Mother's turn to be struck dumb but Book II managed to voice a slightly strangled, "Was?"
Dr Grey immediately turned to him. "You're sharp sergeant," she said, "the operative word there was 'was.' His daughter was born shortly after 3am this morning."
"Wait – No, Really?" Mother interrupted. "Pregnant? Like, a baby?"
"A baby girl," Jean said gently, reaching out and putting one hand on Mother's knee. "A rather beautiful little girl I must say. She looks exactly like him. Would you like to see her?"
"I'd like to see him." Mother retorted sharply, standing up. The other two followed suit, slightly alarmed. Book II placed a restraining hand on her shoulder, whilst Dr Grey spoke calmly.
"Gena, I understand that, I really do but let me assure you, the shock you are experiencing is nothing compared to his. Add that to the physical and psychological toll of what he's been through and Captain Schofield has had a very difficult couple of days. What he really needs is to rest right now but as soon as he wakes up of his own accord, I will let you in to see him."
Mother grunted unhappily but she recognised the wisdom in the doctor's words so she nodded curtly and resumed her seat. An uneasy truce was brokered.
"Sorry," Book II said conciliatorily, "it's just that we're fairly confused. How can this happen?"
"Did nobody ever teach you the birds and the bee's Sergeant Riley," Jean replied with a laugh. "It's actually all remarkably normal. The ability to conceive is a secondary mutation which we suspect is quite common amongst male mutants."
"You only suspect?" Book II asked.
"Yes," the doctor explained. "It's difficult to confirm the existence of this particular ability in any mutant until they actually conceive and even then, there are multiple other variables that must be met. Did you know that the amount of mutants in the general population is approximately the same as the amount of homosexual people, around one in ten; so the chances of then finding a homosexual mutant is only one out of one hundred. Of these, only half will be male meaning only one person out of every two hundred might find themselves in a situation possible for them to conceive and the chances of conception with any sexual encounter are only a quarter. So in total, the chances of a male mutant actually falling pregnant are around one in a thousand. Although this particular mutation could actually be very common, in the rest of the mutant population it is simply latent."
"Wait," Book II interrupted, holding out a hand, "I can see a snag in your formula. Scarecrow's not gay."
"Far be it from me to label anyone," she replied, "but gay, straight, blue with red spots, it's irrelevant. I can say with absolute certainty that eight months ago, your captain was having homosexual intercourse because the proof is lying in the NICU."
"The mutation doesn't work in reverse," she explained gently, "there's no woman alive that could get him pregnant."
"But who?" Mother asked with evident shock, finding her voice.
"I'm afraid that's a question you'll have to ask him," Jean replied firmly, "I'm really only placed to answer questions of a medical nature."
"They said something about infection precautions downstairs?" Book immediately seized upon the opportunity for a question with a perfectly rational answer that couldn't possibly shock him. Infections in hospitals were perfectly common and absolutely normal.
Dr Grey almost laughed. "No, I'm sorry," she said, "he's not infectious. In fact, there's really nothing medically wrong with him at all. We just imposed precautions on his room so we could control visitation and anybody else who might wander in. Other than myself, the nurses on this floor and a select amount of my colleagues who are all very familiar with mutation issues, nobody else is aware of his situation."
Mother wanted to understand everything, as if it might help her process this information. But most of all, she wanted to see him.
"You said before this is common," she asked, steeling her voice to stop it from shaking, "but then you rattled off a whole list of numbers making it sound very uncommon. One or the other and how many, exactly, have you seen?"
The doctor paused to consider her answer.
"It could be very common," she said slowly and cautiously, "but in practice, it is still quite rare. I've personally delivered nine infants – including captain Schofield's – to male mutants but I've heard of several others also."
"And the birth itself," Book asked the question but almost looked like he didn't want to know, "how?"
Jean smiled warmly at him. "That's one of the most interesting and complicated elements of these pregnancies. Every mutant I have seen carried their pregnancy differently. Captain Schofield's presentation however, was unusual even amongst them. He has a single functioning ovary like organ and, as far as we can see, no uterus. Now, this is pure speculation," she paused, "but based on his blood results which showed a slight decrease in his kidney function, I suspect that the placenta attached itself to the kidney and was leeching blood supply from there. It supplied the infant with the rich blood needed for its development but it was still a highly delicate pregnancy. One of the reasons I was reluctant to cut him open and perform a caesarean section."
"Sometimes, you just have to trust that Mother Nature knows best," she added with a smile. "As it was, the birth was remarkably easy."
"Or, at least, no more difficult than any other birth," she hastily revised. "The muscles of his abdomen tore themselves apart to form the canal in almost exactly the same way that we force them to for a section anyway and from there, he dilated and delivered exactly as we anticipated. The only complication was blood loss from the wound but a couple of well-placed stitches and a transfusion, and it's all under control."
She was cut off by the buzz of her pager, which she pulled from her belt and looked at quickly, before turning her gaze back to Book II and Mother, who still looked remarkably like deer caught in headlights.
"He's awake," she said.