Lastochka

He traces her flat stomach--peachy-softness, slight dip at the navel. Flutter of muscles at his touch.

There won't be any. They've never even discussed it: you can't bring children into life when your own is under permanent threat. He wonders if she's ever wondered... He hasn't--until now. Scully's miracle burns him like acid, like unfairness.

He thinks it would have been a girl, dark-haired. The thought hovers in the room with them--rush of warmth, heartbeat of tenderness. She'd have had her mother's grave eyes, her father's stubborn expression. A giggle as light as a swallow's flight, and movements reckless as a west wind. There's a word he'd have liked to call her, in Russian--he can't quite bear to think it.

He tells her to go, gently. There's no room for her, no place in this dirty maze for something so swift and clean, so light-hearted.

Under his heavy arm, Marita sleeps.

(Lastochka = Russian, "little swallow")