what_wings_dare | 🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

"Well," he says, a little weakly, "the good news is, we have plenty of soup."

The rest still feels like a mystery, a difficult one. They have two apartments, two last names, two separate lives - even if they're as twisted up together as their hands right now, there's still a certain degree of separation. And it's not solely on his end of things; Scully's the one who had the occasional habit of disappearing in the middle of the night, leaving him to wake up alone.

He wants answers, the same insistent way he always does, but Scully seems comfortable with the ambiguity at the moment. He's ready to press for more, right up until she changes the subject to one that catches him up short.

"After your father," he says after a moment, because after me sounds so irrepressibly sad. She'd expected to raise this child alone, hanging the only respectable moniker he has on it as a memorial.

There's a lot to untangle-- more than they can figure out tonight, or tomorrow. It's not quite right to say she isn't worried. Some of it hinges on whether they can get him reinstated, on whether he can work with Agent Doggett while she's on maternity leave, whether they can picture a life less on a knife's edge.

And Scully hates not having control-- but right now, she's resolved not to care about anything for at least the next twenty-four hours.

"After his father." she insists. And, yes, hers. And Mulder's, she supposes, but maybe it's better not to mention that. "You'd have hated if I went with Fox, I figured."

The thought of it gives her body more gravity, drawing him into a new orbit around her. Not only his son, but his son, named for him. He's too much an iconoclast to allow himself to put stock in the idea of having a Junior running around, but there's something about it that makes him feel like he's been sucker-punched. But in a good way? He's pretty sure it's in a good way, right about now.

"You're right," he murmurs, a smile spreading over his face. "But I wouldn't have hated it nearly as much as he would. We're not going to call him Bill, are we? We already have three between us."

"Definitely a William, not a Bill." Her brother and everyone else can assume it's family tradition if they want. It felt-- it still feels-- like the right way to honor everything that makes him up. If he'd hated it, she would have reconsidered-- but it would be difficult, at this point. She's gotten comfortable with it.

"I know this is-- well, there's no way you could have been ready for any of it. But maybe this least of all," she murmurs. "I wanted so badly to be able to tell you-- when you were gone. I never thought it would be-- well, like this."

He laughs a little, self-conscious. "You didn't think I'd be dumb enough to assume Agent Doggett knocked you up."

Not that there was a good way for any of this to go. Welcome back, I'm about to have your baby was destined to be a shock no matter how it was presented to him. Imagine if she'd stayed away, with some idea of waiting until he'd healed - he'd have been half out of his mind, demanding to see her. Instead, he simply got the wrong impression, stunningly so.

She squeezes his hand again-- much too hard, overcome as she is by a rush of affection so intense it needs an outlet. There's a silly little part of her still indignant over that assumption-- but it's outweighed by how glad she is to be able to be annoyed at him over something so meaningless, to have him here to roll her eyes out.

"I really didn't," she says fondly.

A moment like this - when she's exasperated, but fondly so - feels so much like before the abduction that he could nearly start crying again. He doesn't, instead pressing a kiss to the top of her head. And because he's terminally incapable of leaving things alone, he asks, "So. Are you thinking about marriage?"

Maybe he won't cry, but it's within the realm of possibility that she might. (That's maybe the worst part of being pregnant; she can't control her feelings as well as she used to. There are unpleasant physical parts, but most of it, truth be told, she relishes; it's something that shouldn't have been possible, and she tries not to complain about a single second.)

"Mulder!" She's half exasperated and a little terrified and overwhelmingly, distractingly, hopelessly in love with him. The part of her that improbably wants to tear him away from dusty files and play house in some suburb where the sun shines and the monsters are imaginary is much louder than usual. Not a fair circumstance at all.

Should they be thinking about it? Is she supposed to take this as the world's worst proposal?

"I'm not sure you can legally marry anyone until your paperwork's fixed," she points out, which is definitely not her stalling. Nope, not a bit.

"What does that matter, Scully?" He'd like to think that this isn't the actual proposal, simply the recon mission. Does she want to be married? Should he be thinking about asking? He still has his mother's rings someplace in his bedroom, but that doesn't mean she's looking to get that quite entangled.

(She could be. She's been clinging to him like he might fade away if she doesn't keep hold of him. They both know she loves him, and vice versa, but she's independent. She's been planning motherhood as a personal project. She might say yes, but she might say no, and he'd like to be sure.)

His gaze is soft on her, a little sad. "If you're interested, you don't care about the paperwork. If you aren't, the paperwork's irrelevant."

He... has a point.

Enough of a point that, carefully, she moves; she lets go of his hand, she moves her whole body so she can face him. It's not so easy, right now, to turn, and it's essential that if they're talking about this, they talk face to face.

It's the kind of conversation she's not very good at having; they both know she loves him, but it's much harder to say that than to live it. But this is different, both more and less complicated; it's about them but not only about them. What's best for William? How can they balance their needs, and his needs, and the devouring needs of their work?

"The paperwork doesn't matter," she concedes, reaching up to touch his cheek-- the familiar bit of stubble, the faint scarring still there from his captivity. "I've been your widow for months."

Mulder tucks a leg under him as he turns to face her, too. Neither of them need to say why it is they need to see each other head-on. They just know: this can't be left to sideways glances and euphemism.

"I know," he murmurs, his cheek tilting slightly towards her fingertips. Instinctively, he reaches for her other hand; after so many months of pain, made more incomprehensible the longer he's back, he wants the comfort of her touch. "And - I'm sorry."

The one thing he's willing to apologize for is the thing he's pretty sure he couldn't have done anything about. But he hates the thought that she's been alone throughout this ordeal, carrying a child unlikely to know its father. Scully's had to be strong, stronger than he's ever asked her to be.

Of course, that sorrow doesn't actually give them an answer, only a place to start. "What do you want to do?"

He's more than welcome to her hand, and the rest of her. That much she thinks he knows by now, even if he has his moments of doubt-- doubt enough to think she'd take up with the first stranger she met.

"I don't know," she sighs, her fingers skimming up to brush away a strand of his hair, but not straying from his face. "I'm not sure wanting is the right question. Is it that easy-- could we just walk away, get married, get a dog?"

There's a wry note to the question; of course they can't. It wouldn't suit either of them, not after everything they've seen and done together.

"I've gotten everything that matters, and more. Am I being greedy if I say I want to--" Her breath stutters; it feels momentous to say this kind of thing aloud. Impossible. "To be a family?"

"I don't know." Is that greedy? Is it merely human? Mulder squeezes her hand, letting himself be petted and doted on. She's going to stay the night - another thing that, at this point, doesn't need discussion - and he's relieved, because he's not sure he's ready to be alone. (Between her breathing and the TV, it won't be too quiet. He's not convinced he'll be able to sleep, but it won't be for lack of sound.) And he asks himself if things could be that easy. Exactly the way Scully's always wanted, getting off the road and doing something else with their lives.

Again, he says, "I don't know," but this time, he chases it with, "I've solved the mysteries that mattered most to me. I've experienced some of the most extreme possibilities out there."

But he doesn't feel done, something he'd bet isn't the answer she'd like to hear. The compulsion to keep going, to seek more even when it might only cause them both heartache, is hard to refuse. The fate of the world still hangs in the balance. Can they really raise a child knowing that an invasion might be coming? "We'd have to leave it behind, Scully. All of it. Is that even possible?"

She just shrugs, her mouth twisting up. I don't know, but they've both said it already. Again, traitorously, her eyes sting with tears.

"I don't think-- I was going to take some time, but I don't think I would have quit." Even when his mystery had been solved, neatly wrapped up and buried six feet under, it felt like chasing secrets forever was the best way to honor him. Maybe someday she'd be able to explain it to their child.

"But how can we keep going, either? Both of us constantly in danger..." She sighs. "I don't know. We can't keep pretending there's nothing between us. Not with him."

"No," he agrees, looking down at her body. At him, the closest he can get right now. She must have those little black-and-white ultrasound pictures somewhere; sometime when he's actually in the mood to leave his apartment, maybe he'll ask. What does he look like? Is he the right size, the right shape? "I'm not going to tell you what to do, or try and be some kind of male chauvinist pig - do people still call them that? Feels like I haven't heard anyone say it since 1979. But - I know how much you've wanted this."

Which isn't really what he's trying to say, but it's getting close. Mulder tries to think of how to ask it without sounding like he's trying to push her toward the kitchen to make him a sandwich. "If you didn't have to work, would you still want to?"

It's hard to picture her dropping the Bureau in favor of being someone's full-time mother, but she has the chance, and they both know she's unlikely to get another. Maybe she could start wearing those weird jumpers that moms seem to acquire, the ones made out of denim with little embroidered animals and flowers on them. He'd be miserable without her, of course - Agent Doggett's still an unknown quantity, and the reality is that Scully's always more likely to get along with people than Mulder is, so her opinion of him doesn't help much - but he has to consider the possibility that the next chapter of Scully's life doesn't revolve around a basement office full of porn.

"I didn't really plan to stop when--" should she say we or I? When they'd tried. They'd never gotten far enough for the awkward talk about logistics, doing in vitro. "I would have taken some time, of course."

A few months. Maybe a year, she could have imagined that, and then her mother could have helped, and she'd had a folder of research on daycares and programs and pre- kindergartens. All of it long discarded.

And Mulder would have kept working-- maybe with a new partner, maybe just waiting. Maybe he would have found a better fit. That's always been a danger, but no matter what happened, they would have stayed close.

"We never had to talk about it then-- what you would have wanted. I think I was afraid to ask-- that maybe you wouldn't want anything at all."

Needless to say, it's different now. William may not have been planned, but he was the outcome of a sea change in their relationship; a product of particular evolution.

"I don't know if they'd let us work together, if we married. Even if we don't-- I can't imagine no one would guess you're his father. But I hate the idea of giving everything up."

"I wasn't sure what I was allowed to want," he admits, not quite meeting her eyes. It's obvious in retrospect, he's sure, that he'd been in love with her long before ever attempt a kiss. If things had happened the way they'd hoped, rescuing her eggs and implanting them with the help of science, he'd have wanted that child, too. But he hadn't had any real claim on the kid. No real claim on Scully, either.

Not that he does now, exactly - claim is simultaneously caveman and aspirational - but there's more room to talk about it.

"If you leave my name off the birth certificate, that'll get us a little further." It's no great loss, he reasons; he knows the truth, and he's not about to get bent out of shape by some incomplete record-keeping on the part of the Social Security Administration. When William's old enough, he'll know, and that's what matters. "Skinner'll go to bat for us, not that it'll matter much with Kersh on the scene. And I'll play the distantly appreciative coworker -" this with a tease of a smile - "if it keeps you on the X-files."

In retrospect it's almost embarrassing, how little they'd talked about trying to have a baby. What it would mean to each of them, and to them together. She'd been running on hope and desperation and pushing aside all the questions.

"If you hadn't come back, I would have left you off," she admits. It's not exactly a decision she's proud of, but it's the pragmatic one.

"I don't know what I want." Hasn't that always been her problem? She knows what she should want, but that rarely aligns with the hungers inside her. She wants to keep her job and she wants to keep him, to have everything, no matter how contradictory.

"I hate the thought of pretending he isn't yours. Even if that's the safest option, you shouldn't have to."

"I shouldn't have had to track down an overgrown liver fluke, either," he points out wryly, his hand coming to rest once again on her belly. William's in there, but he seems to have settled for the moment. This late in the game, it's possible to feel him pressing up against Scully's flesh, even when he's not kicking and shifting around inside her; briefly, mournfully, he wonders what it was like to touch her and only wonder where the baby could be, swimming fishlike inside her. "But you may have noticed, Scully, I'm willing to do a lot to get what I want."

It's starting to feel possible, or at least like something he could live with: help Scully from afar, dote on the boy in private, wait for the chance to be truthful about their relationship. If they could just secure the world's future, prevent colonization, end the Syndicate for good - if they could, nothing else would matter.

"And what I want is you," he goes on, his gaze catching hers again. "You and - and William, and to make sure there's someplace left for him to grow up. I think we have to do it, for his sake."

The not so pleasant memory makes her choke out a little laugh, her eyes shut as he touches her. Like if she doesn't look it'll last longer, like it will imprint the heat of his hands on her memory.

But she looks up at him again when he keeps talking. It isn't what she wants, not really-- but he makes it sound like it could be enough.

"Say it again," she demands, barely more than a whisper. That's what she's been aching for.

"Tell me you want this."

"Scully." He swallows, a new ache under his ribs. "How could I not?"

She's the only thing he remembers wanting, aside from an end to all the torture, while he was gone. She's the only thing he wants now - though even he might be able to acknowledge, privately, that it's easier to say that when he doesn't have access to the X-files. A kid, he's unsure about, but not for the kid's sake. He has no idea how to raise a child, what you should say to it and how old it should be before you let it stay up until nine PM.

But it'd be half Scully's, too, and she clearly knows what she's doing. He could be the fun dad, and he'd see every bit of Scully inside that boy and love him just for being part of her. He could do that, he thinks, whether it's from a distance or inside the same apartment. (House? A kid should have a house, it needs a yard to run around in.)

"It was the only thing I could think of right after. What you'd say if I could tell you."

And for a time she'd had hope of being able to tell him. When they'd found him dead to all appearances, she'd had to let the fantasy go, and try to face a future where all William would ever have were stories, newspaper clippings, the echo of his mother's loneliness.

She scoots closer again, wanting to be near him, to lean her head on his shoulder.

"Worrying that I'd wasted my last chances to tell you what you mean to me."

"It looks like we have time now." Nothing's really settled, but he's not sure anything can be. So much depends on the end of this pregnancy, and on what they'll be able to get away with under the Bureau's nose. When William's here, maybe they'll be able to say more; maybe they'll find a way to have everything they want.

In the moment, he's wrapping both arms around Scully, hugging her in against his side. She needs comfort right now, and so does he. Hell, maybe William needs this, too, the unconscious knowledge that his parents are safe and - for the moment - content. "Besides, you tell me every day."

It's an easy out, if she wants it; he knows perfectly well that asking her to shout I love you from the rooftops would be unfair.

This, this is how it should be.

She sinks against him, taking the comfort he's offering. Before losing him, it might not have been easy to be so vulnerable-- but everything since then has given her some perspective. You never know when your last chance is. She curls her hands around his arm.

"I don't know why it's so hard to tell you I love you," she says softly.

It's still a revelation, feeling her hands on him. Her touch is gentle without being too light; she's a solid form at his side, her hair tickling his jaw. He's come home to more than he could have imagined, even before he was taken. This isn't the Scully who took off while he was asleep in bed, unwilling to commit even to a night in his apartment.

"Because you couldn't," he murmurs back, his cheek pillowed against her hair. "And probably something to do with repressed Catholic guilt, or the phases of the moon. But you didn't have to say it out loud. I knew."

[ n a m e ; ]	Dana Katherine Scully
[ c a n o n ; ]	The X-Files
[ g a m e ; ]	spicy times in noctiumrp

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