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

"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.

"Soup and dumplings," he agrees. Food worth eating on a night worth remembering - better this one than all the worst of their lives, when she was abducted and when she was comatose, when she was dying and when the in vitro failed. Mulder's not about to bury the bad times, but if he's going to commemorate anything, it's going to be something good. "And telling you I love you. I'll tell you every day if that's what you want."

Of course, that assumes they can say it every day without getting tired of it - or worse, without having to stop for Scully to sob into his chest. His fingers play with the hair at the nape of her neck. "Think you can stand a bad movie tonight? Or should we move straight to the part where I try to sweet-talk you into bed with me?"

You could make some argument that they couldn't have gotten here without the bad times, but this isn't the right moment for introspection. She doesn't want to think; she has her hands full with feelings.

The flood of tears is finally abating, thank God. She rests her head against him with a little sigh. Maybe she's not quite ready to say it every day, but she's determined not to let him forget she loves him.

"I like the idea of a movie. I can't swear I won't doze off."

"If you do, I'll pinch you." He demonstrates, hand dropping to her ass for it. "Give me a second to change."

This shirt needs a wash, thanks to the snot. He pulls it off as he walks away toward the bedroom, balling it up so he can sink a basket in his laundry hamper. When he comes back, it's dressed, and he takes the opportunity to move the food out of the way, too. "You want anything? Don't move a muscle, I'll get you whatever you need."

She swats at him, far too lightly to seem even remotely annoyed. God, she missed him so much. Sitting up, she runs her hands through her hair, which is about the only thing she can do to neaten herself up; the blotchy post-crying complexion will need time, and the worst of the mess is on his shirt, really.

"I need you to come back," she says with a coy smile. "But... maybe some water."

"Your wish is my command." Even blotchy, she looks good. He wasn't kidding about trying to seduce her later, uncertain though he is whether she'd be up for it. For the moment, he piles the remaining food into the fridge and fills a glass with water.

The glass, he hands to her, before he goes in search of his videotapes. They're all neatly lined up, more neatly than if he was the one keeping track of them, and eventually, he pulls the one he wants. Pop it in the VCR, grab the remote, and they're in business.

"I'm back," he tells her, sliding his arms around her as he sits back down on the couch. "Did you miss me?"

She drinks about half of it-- crying does a number on you-- and sets the glass on the table, then watches him shuffle through the tapes. It feels so ordinary and so extraordinary at the same time; movie night wasn't exactly a regular occurrence, but she's dozed off on his couch before. But Mulder is fresh from the grave, and she's brought an extra guest. It sounds unreal. If it isn't-- she doesn't want to know.

"Terribly," she says, snuggling in, curling around his arm. She presses a kiss to whatever bit of him she can most easily reach, and decides it's worth another.

"I love you."

He's waited so long to hear it at all, and she did probably ruin that shirt.

He pauses for a moment as an FBI warning comes up onscreen - don't steal this movie! - and looks down at her in surprise. Hearing it once in a night is a surprise; twice feels like its own kind of miracle.

But she's not crying, and if he doesn't make too big a deal about it, maybe she won't start again. At some point, she's going to give herself a headache.

He can't resist answering, though, rewarding her just as the Mystery Science Theater 3000 theme song starts playing. (Who, after all, would bother watching Manos without a few robots?) Mulder kisses her forehead. "I love you, too, Scully."

Don't get too used to it, Mulder. A lifetime of careful repression is not so easily undone-- just set aside in the heat of the moment. (She'll try. Because she loves him, and he should know it. Because William should know how much his parents love each other. Because she wants to be the sort of person to whom it comes easily.)

With a soft sigh she relaxes against him, and apart from the prolonged crying jag that's left her eyes faintly itchy, everything in the world is perfect.

"This is a really bad movie," she murmurs after a bit, quietly delighted.

Tonight's special. Nothing about it has to carry forward beyond this moment (though if it does, he certainly won't complain). Scully curled up beside him, murmuring that she loves him, the child she's carrying resting against his side - he couldn't ask for more.

"Terrible," he agrees. He's slumped down some, his feet on the coffee table, and onscreen, Torgo's theme music plays. "One of the worst I've ever seen, if you want to know."

[ 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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