TITLE:  Hold-Up in Aisle 5
AUTHOR:  Amanda Finch
E-MAIL:  Chaelysq@aol.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/Finchfic
ABASHED:  Because I said I was retiring from fanfic.  Who am I to fight with
a Museflash?
RATING:  PG-13 (language)
SPOILERS:  post-Requiem, with small ones for Christmas Carol, The Unnatural
CATEGORY:  Humor
DISCLAIMER:  Please don't operate the Electronic Chris Carter Melon Baller
and matching 1013 Martini Shaker while in the bathtub.  Could result in a
fatal electric shock, or at the very least, a watery martini.
ARCHIVE:  Spirit it off wherever you like, with this info attached.  Ransom
notes written in crayon are accepted.
SUMMARY:  Scully's had just about enough of this maternity gig.

Note:  To Kim, who dropped everything and beta'd, my warm thanks.

Second Note:  I took some liberties with the obstetrical stuff.  I know I
took liberties because I was pregnant once, so don't say I don't know.  I
know.  Been there, done that and got the four-year old!  If you don't like
it, sue me for all these Stomp Rockets and Pokemon trading cards!

+++++
At age seven, Dana Scully's wish (second only to her promotion as Benevolent
But All-Powerful Princess of the Known Universe) had been a fervent desire to
point to whatever she wanted in the grocery store and get it.  Just like
that.  No lecture about healthy eating from her mother, no stern orthodontic
horror stories from her father.  To point to the ice cream and get the ice
cream, that's what she wanted.  And then, once she had it, only *she* could
eat it.  That's right, Bill, put down that spoon and step away or prepare to
die.  Mwhahahahahahaha!

Okay, so as Princess of the Known Universe, she was willing to forego on the
Benevolent.

And when she got a bike she hadn't asked for instead of her dream grocery
spree, she'd realized maybe the All-Powerful wasn't working for her, either.

All that healthy, wholesome eating and she'd still ended up with an expensive
mouthful of metal and a brother who called her Jaws.  Life was a cruel joke.

But none of that mattered now, because in front of Scully was her dream
grocery basket.  Sure, it'd taken almost 30 years.  Better late than never.
At this rate, she'd have that pony she'd always wanted before she was 45,
though what in the hell she'd do with it then...

She chortled rather nefariously to herself.  It was the sugar doing this to
her, and maybe the pre-natal vitamins were a factor and the gly-cola she had
to drink everytime she saw her obstetrician.  Just like Maggie Scully had
before her.  She'd have to remember to send a thank you note for that later.

But most of all, it was the Magic Shell.  The five bottles of it lined up
neatly in the cart, and the sixth one opened and clenched in her fingers,
seemed unaware of her lusty gaze.  She hadn't wanted something this intently
since... well, Mulder, and look where *that* had gotten her.  She had to hold
the cart about a foot and a half away from her belly, her feet hurt and the
piped-in Muzak version of "Sister Goldenhair" was making her more nauseous
than usual, but she had Magic Shell, dammit.

Oh, she could see her obstetrician's face now.  Dr. Sabold viewed her
pregnancy as nothing short of a Waterloo (and he was short like Napoleon now
that she thought of it).  First, he'd said no more coffee.  Very dutifully,
she'd switched to decaf.  Then, no more soda.  The diet Cokes were thusly
jettisoned.  Next, it was a boycott on fat.  The muffins were traded in for
bagels and her long-time enemy, "lite" cream cheese.  But last week, he'd
dropped the bomb:  Go easy on the sugar, too.

Something in Dana Scully had snapped, and while it felt like it might've been
her pelvic bone, she was reasonably sure it was her mind.

No sugar.  No Ben and Jerry's, no Haagen-Daaz, no weekly appointment with the
lemon cheesecake at her favorite deli.  Not even her non-fat tofutti rice
dreamcicles made *that* unkindest of cuts.  No caffeine, no sodas, no fat, no
sugar?  What was left?  She clenched the sixth bottle of Magic Shell even
more tightly in her hand, imagining her third trimester, maternity-gowned
self foraging in the woods for tree bark and nutritious stems.  And then he'd
tell her that she needed the *low-fat* tree bark, that smug bastard.  He'd
actually suggested groats.  Groats!  Sounded like something itchy and
communicable.  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you have a serious case of groats."

Twice a week, he had to check her out now.  And when he'd hurriedly closed
the door to his office to shuffle in to the waiting room that very morning,
she'd smelled them.  *Otis Spunkmeyer Double Chocolate Muffins*.  She sniffed
again:  They had butter on them, too.  He was eating them with a big mug of
real coffee with real cream and real sugar in it.  The man was built like
Alfred Hitchcock. In a perfect world, he'd be just as pregnant as she was
with twice the morning sickness.  He'd asked her to come on back and she rose
as if nothing was awry.  Best not to give those sneaky gynecological types
any reason to worry.  He might try to make a grab for the long swabs, and
then what would she do?

When he'd told her to change into the paper gown, that he'd be right back,
she knew where he was going.  Rendezvous with a giant muffin, that was where.
 Two months of oatmeal and steamed carrots and bottled water, and he was
going to escort that muffin to its abdominal fate not even 25 feet away from
her.  She unfolded her paper gown, smoothed it over her lap, and tried to
remain calm.  It was a precarious pregnancy and women just have to go through
this, she reassured herself unconvincingly.

It was then that she saw the gly-cola.  Dr. Sabold had taken the care and
consideration to have it chilled and waiting for her arrival on a napkin that
was probably thicker and more discreet than the one she was being asked to
wear.  The first time she'd drank it, she'd almost gagged.  It was like
Sprite without the carbonated water to cut the syrup.  But it was sugar.  Oh,
heavens yes, sugar.  It wasn't a four-pack of Hostess Twinkies, but it would
do in a pinch, yes indeedy.  It was the unrefined street-level version of
every sugarplum dancing madly in her head.

Before she'd even mentally planted her flag in it and claimed it for
Scullyland, it was gone.  She turned the empty bottle upside down and
hungrily dabbed at what had escaped down her chin.  Oh, if this was here...
then somewhere in this building, there was more.

Inconveniently, her stubborn ethics had chosen that moment to remind her that
they existed.  In her hands, she tore at the gown until snowy bits of it
littered the floor.  Hypertension, gestational diabetes, low iron, hormonal
injections, a good chance of a C-section in her very near future... she had
to be careful.  Besides, they probably locked up all that delicious gly-cola
somewhere, probably the minute she walked in.  That's when the devil on her
left shoulder promptly devoured the angel on her right.  There was a
supermarket down the street.  She'd seen it on her way there.  Why settle for
gly-cola when she could have the real thing?

The oblivious young woman at the front desk had just cheerfully told her to
have a good day.  Sabold was still putting in face time with his muffin.  She
made a break for it and squealed out of the parking lot.  The supermarket was
right there on the left.

Be calm, Dana, she advised herself silently, maneuvering her absurdly rotund
self out of the car.  The greeter offered to get the cart for her, but she
politely said no.  So far, so good.  Try not to act suspicious.

The candy aisle would've been her first choice - all those rows of
cannisters, full of jelly beans and nougats.  But that's what Sabold would
expect.  Oh, sure, he was a corpulent monster, but he wasn't dumb.  The
doughnut counter was to her left, but it was right there where everyone could
see it.

And then it occurred to her:  Magic Shell.

There was something about how it was soft and liquid in the bottle, but
hardened upon exposure that thrilled the hell out of her.  It was a concept
both acceptable and mysterious to her physicist brain.  And - looky there! -
it was right across from the ice cream!  Who said there were no more geniuses
in the world?

She opened a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby and dumped Magic Shell in it
until it ran down the sides and solidified right before it would've
splattered to the floor.  That was so cool.  She peeled away the pieces of it
and ate them.  It was just like letting glue dry, and then peeling it away,
only you wouldn't get in trouble for eating it.

She dug through the Magic Shell into the cold ice cream below it, wondering
why *everything* wasn't covered with Magic Shell.  Pretzels, peanuts... those
were easy.  Hell, she'd eat groats if they were just covered in chocolate-y
goodness.  She was wandering down the cereal aisle when she saw the bananas.
Mmm!  Bananas and Magic Shell!  Bananas are good for me, she told herself
rationally.

From her right, the man in charge of supermarket security warily approached.
"Ma'am... ma'am?"

She ignored him.  Time for another banana.  The bananas were starting to bore
her now, but she could see the bakery up ahead.  Chances were good they had
some lemon cheesecake, and if they didn't, chances were good they'd make one
if she pointed a gun at them.

"Miss... really... I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

With the aforementioned gun in hand, she spun around.  "And how do you
propose you'll do that?"

The rent-a-cop staggered back.  "Oh shit."  He called over his shoulder,
"She's over here!"

Men, Scully thought with a good-natured eyeroll.  Give them a security post
and a uniform and they thought it was their job to control the place.  If she
squinted, she could make out the shape of something that looked *just* like a
lemon cheesecake.  Skinner blocked her path.  "Agent!"

Scully sulked.  "I'm on maternity leave!"

"Which is why I find it strange that you're wearing your gun holster with a
pink maternity dress and some fuzzy blue house slippers, Agent Scully."
Skinner put a tight slip-proof hold on her arm that he probably learned in
'Nam and glared sternly at Sabold who was slowly bringing up the rear, and
what a big rear it was.  Scully giggled.

"I told you to keep her in the room until I got there!" Skinner growled at
Sabold.  "We've been looking for her since yesterday morning, and you leave
her in the room by herself?"

Sabold looked positively squeamish.  "I didn't know the hormone injections
were measured inaccurately, Mr. Skinner!  And even then... I wouldn't have
anticipated them having this effect on her!"

"Well, they did."  Skinner pulled her along as he tracked Sabold, and eyed
her carefully.  "Agent Scully, can you tell me what day it is?"

"My birthday?" she asked happily.

It annoyed the burly Assistant Director that he could neither confirm nor
deny that point.  "Okay, then who's the president?"

Scully thought about it.  "Willy Wonka."

He sighed wearily.  "I'll give you partial credit for 'Willy'.  Goddammit,
Sabold, how much of this did you *give* her?... How many fingers am I holding
up, Agent Scully?"

Oh, it didn't matter how many he was holding up, just that one of the three
was covered in Magic Shell.  He howled when she bit him, the big baby.

She'd liked it better on the bananas.

+++++
That's the last time I eat marzipan fruit before bedtime.  Feedback?