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

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."

"I know you knew," she murmurs. Or at least she assumed. It had been easy and unspoken, back then-- before he was taken. She'd known he loved her, at least; if she hadn't been confident of that they never would have fallen into bed.

But saying it-- it feels different. There's a part of her, she thinks, that has always feared admitting her feelings. And another part of her that's faintly, irrationally superstitious; but surely they're past the point of worrying, there. She's already lost him and been lucky enough to find him again.

"But you deserve to hear it."

The longer things went on, the less certain it might have felt - if he hadn't been abducted, anyway. They'd loved each other, sure, but they didn't talk about it. They messed around, but she didn't always stay the night. Maybe the baby would have changed that; he's sure she wouldn't have waited to tell him. But if it hadn't -

It doesn't actually matter, this theoretical world that never was. He'd been taken and tortured for samples, and she'd been tortured, too, if in a different way. That time will never come back, and he might always regret it, but they're here now. And

"Well," he points out, tapping his fingers idly on her belly, "you have plenty of time now. Anything you want to get off your chest, Scully?"

Well, that's not fair-- she just said it. Or close enough, isn't it? She loves him. She loves him. She has loved him for long enough that she can't quite remember what it's like not to love him.

But after everything-- he deserves better than the assumption, the hint of it.

"I love you," she says, before she loses her nerve. "More than I know what to do with. I thought-- I spent so long trying to understand how I could go on without you."

It's not fair in the slightest. It's terminally unfair, arrestingly unfair, and he doesn't regret asking, because hearing it like this is everything. Mulder realizes he's grinning, a stupid wide smile that's reserved only for Scully and when the Knicks beat the Bulls.

And since she's been willing to say it, the whole thing, the exact phrase they've skirted around for years of their lives, he rewards her in turn. "You know what I thought when you first came down to the basement, Scully? Why couldn't they have found an ugly spy? Instead, they found a genius with great legs and banished her to my office.

"I'm not going to lie to you and say I loved you even then, but it wasn't that long after." He'd been drawn to her back then, and maybe that wasn't too far off. Fascination turning to love, given time and a few well-placed near-death experiences. More seriously, his gaze turning intent: "I'd say it every day if I thought you'd want that. I love you. I love you, and the thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me alive some days."

Telling someone you love them should feel better than this. She's come close to saying it to him but always been scared off by the queasy feeling of vulnerability; even now, after miracle upon miracle, curled in his arms and the feeling obviously mutual, it's enough to leave her half-sick with formless worry.

But the world doesn't end. Mulder doesn't disappear.

His words make a fresh round of tears well up, and she sniffles. Not the demure, half-choked polite sniffs from before but a godawful, just-on-the-wrong-side-of-controlled, wet snort. If she were any less a master of ironclad self-control, she'd be wailing. She feels like her heart could break, or burst-- but below that she feels, miraculously, safe. Mulder is one of the only people left who she can trust will put her back together if she falls apart.

"I'm sorry-- everything sets me off these days," she murmurs, scrubbing at her eyes with a sleeve.

"Oh -" He's sitting up a little straighter, hands a little lighter on her form, halfway concerned she might run off. Shit, Scully, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - But she has an explanation at hand, and he accepts it, settling back in and holding on just a little tighter. "That's okay. I hear your hormones are completely out of whack these days."

Telling her the kinds of things he's always longed to, how much he loves her and all the ways he does, probably doesn't help. Mulder pecks her head, trying for levity. "Want a tissue, or is my shirt good?"

If the goal is to get her to stop crying, declarations of love definitely don't help. But they do a lot to soothe the raw edges of grief she never figured out how to deal with it. Funny, that she can't just be rid of it, now that he's here again-- but the loss was real, even if it wasn't permanent.

"I knew it was going to happen but I still wasn't ready for it," she admits, with another sniffle. "And today has been--"

A lot. A lot.

"Yeah." Today's really been something, and he's not sure how to fathom it, either. Mulder's swallowing back another round of tears of his own, not out of any kind of shame, but from a vaguely shaped desire to let Scully get it all out without distraction. He rubs her back, letting her sniffle into the wet patch on his shirt, wondering how much William's felt his mother cry. Is this kind of new? Tell me this hasn't been the last six months.

Even if it has been, though, it won't be the future. Scully's not going to have reason to weep, from here on out; however close Mulder's allowed to be, he'll be. Theirs might be a lopsided little family, a secretive one, but William's going to grow up with both of them ready to do anything they have to for him. "See, this is why I only tell you I love you on special occasions."

She gives up, utterly, on trying to be collected and calm about this; the tears have been held back too long, and he's here with her-- her, the size of an elephant and covered in snot-- holding her like she's precious, teasing her like they haven't spent months apart and hours locked in misunderstandings.

God, she loves him. If she made herself say it a thousand times it would still feel like an understatement.

"Holidays are special occasions." She's crying, and she's laughing a little, an odd sound like a hiccup. "Not near-death experiences."

That's the thing. Even the size of an elephant - a baby elephant, the cute kind that keep tripping over their own trunks - and covered in snot, she's the most precious thing in the world. Beautiful, brilliant, and so brave, and now she doesn't have to be. Even if it's just for the night, they're safe, and they're together; after everything she's given him, he wants to be able to provide her with that certainty.

"This is a holiday," he insists, because making her laugh in the middle of a crying jag might be the only real way to deal with anything. They've both come through so much, all for this moment. "We'll celebrate it every year from here on out: Mulder Comes Home Day. There'll be an exchange of gifts in the traditional location, my living room. You and me and William and the fish. And then we'll watch Manos: The Hands of Fate on TV."

It's hard not to feel enormous when she's usually so slight; the truth is it doesn't bother her. Scully has a streak of vanity, now and then, but pregnancy is something different. It's victorious-- each inch, each pound she's gained proof of the life she's creating.

The crying part, that she's less enamored with, but right now she lets herself sob and laugh against him, letting it out.

"And eat soup and dumplings?"

She'll call this a holy day, easily. They could fill a calendar with remembrances-- the day he first called her a spy, the months she spent wasting away, the moment they first kissed. The day she asked him to give her a child and the day he agreed. When he was taken, and when he returned, and when he was resurrected; there are dark days, after all, fasts and solemn remembrances.

"I like it," she mumbles, looking up at him, red-eyed but somehow still beaming. "You can say it more often than that, though."

She'll try not to cry every single time.

[ 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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