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

"Oh, good. I was hoping for those," he jokes. None of those little black and white images are going to really capture him, the fact that he is a little person (or will be, anyway), but he's kind of fascinated by the idea. A hand raised, feet tucked together, a bulbous head - it's possible to imagine, especially since every sonogram he's ever seen has looked like the baby in Eraserhead to him. Generic, but with room for him to imagine Scully's little mouth, maybe his nose. Anything's possible right now.

And beyond this part, the visual, there's so much more to know. "What's it like? Having him in there?"

"Uncomfortable," she says immediately, but with a sort of beaming pride that takes any sting out of the answer. She reaches for his hand to drag it down with hers, so they can sit with hands clasped over the miracle they've made together.

"It's... strange. For the longest time it felt almost theoretical-- knowing he was there but being unable to feel it, or see much change. When he got big enough to move around..." She frowns faintly, looking for words; but there's just nothing that does it justice.

"At first it was-- startling. It's hard not to feel like there's something wrong when it's sudden, but. After a while-- he made me feel less alone."

He's not about to quibble over whether it ought to be comfortable to haul several extra pounds of baby around with her, let alone feel bad about it. Even if he was gone, something of him remained - delighting her on some occasions, probably driving her crazy on others. Exactly what Mulder would have done, more likely than not, if in a (very slightly) less intimate way.

William moves under their hands, shifting like he's trying to figure out how to get comfortable, and Mulder can't help but feel a swell of pride. The longer they're here, the more he sits with the idea of fatherhood, the more it feels like it could be a part of his life. For the first time since his return, he feels something like hope.

"Not so theoretical now," he murmurs, his gaze still on their hands. "And not so alone. What's his middle name?"

Even the discomfort is, in its odd way, a triumph. She remembers trying to swallow back bitter jealousy when Tara was pregnant and grousing about stretch marks-- knowing her sister-in-law was in the midst of something she couldn't have. The truth is she'd always wanted children in a vague, unhurried way-- until it stopped being an option. That had been the worst time to try and grieve possibility, when she should have been overjoyed for her brother. (And she was, truly. Scully has always been good at compartmentalizing. But, God, there had been some difficult nights.)

William shifts and settles, and she feels her eyes well up again-- happy tears she doesn't shed, just a product of the overwhelming sense of being home, here in Mulder's arms.

"I hadn't decided," she admits. "Couldn't exactly call him William William to honor both sides of his heritage."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he says lightly, fingertips tapping against what he's chosen to assume is William's head. "It seems to work for Billy Dee Williams."

William William Scully, though, might be a little much. William William Mulder Scully? It couldn't be on the birth certificate, he assumes, but it'll be there.

At this angle he can't see the way her face scrunches up, but surely he can guess. The dubious little hum certainly gives it away.

"But-- now that you're back..." she bites her lip, a smile in her voice. She's so grateful she could burst. "We can decide on something together."

He huffs out a little laugh. Okay, no William William. Her next suggestion, though - he likes that one. "I've never really thought about it. It didn't seem -"

Like something that would ever be relevant to their lives, after their first effort.

"Probable," he finishes. One more reason to wonder at the flesh beneath his hand, the fact that there's another life, another consciousness in there. "A girl would be easy, but a boy? Huh."

After the IVF failed, she'd had every reason to resign herself to never having this moment. She could have tried again, with a donor egg-- or adopted-- but after she'd asked him, while they were trying, it had been impossible not to get attached to the idea of a baby that was a little piece of each of them, something that was theirs and no one else's. He'd told her not to give up on miracles, but she'd never expected one, either.

At the time it hadn't felt possible to ask Mulder how he felt about it-- what he'd wanted from it. The way he's warming to the idea now makes her think, one way or another, they'd have figured it out.

"We have a little time to think on it." Not... that much, in the long run, but still. She's certainly ruminated on it-- trying to decide who else they might want to honor, coming up with nothing but restless uncertainty.

Secretly, he'd been glad she didn't keep trying. Scully would have been good to any child - if Emily hadn't been related to her at all, she still would have been a great mother to her - but but egg donors and adoption and all the other choices out there still came with the possibility of hurting her. Someone changes their mind and wants the kid back. The kid grows up and wants to find its "real" mom. And it's not like her - their - luck had been anything but bad so far. Seeing her devastated, over and over, in pursuit of a family to love would have killed him.

Maybe this is how it was supposed to be, in the end. Letting go of the possibility made it happen.

"If we can't come up with anything else, we'll call him William Bernard," he says, as though this is the obvious choice, some elephant in the room they've both simply been ignoring.

It had been a turning point, if nothing else. A closed path that made her stop and consider her choices, her next steps. A change in their relationship, if not their circumstances. Her inclination has always been to soldier on through everything- this had forced her to stop, to grieve and heal.

She's quiet a moment, trying to figure out where he's gone with that.

"Bernard?"

"King," he supplies, seeing the uncertainty in her. "One of the greatest basketball players of all time. The fact that they haven't retired the number 30 is a crying shame, Scully, I'm telling you."

"Mulder!"

The scolding is not particularly convincing because she's laughing, swatting lightly at his arm.

"I guess it's better than Melvin."

Exactly the response he'd been hoping for. Mulder grins, shifting a little so he can make a show of rubbing at his arm where she smacked him. "If we name the kid after Frohike, we'll never hear the end of it."

Scully is remorseless. He deserved it, obviously.

"We couldn't do that. And going for three middle names is too much." Worse than William William.

In a deathly serious voice, he intones, "William Ringo Melvin John Fitzgerald Mulder Scully."

Absolutely not, and they both know it. But it does bring up the problem of the fact that there isn't really anyone else in his life worth naming a kid after. At that point, they're back to what sounds good, and Mulder's not really sure. Something boring, he guesses - Frank or George or Bill or Tom, anything but Sue.

"Oh, that's terrible." Her tone is serious though of course she's not taking it as a serious suggestion. Much as she cares for Mulder's trio of odd friends, somehow she's not sure it's the right fit. Besides, they're paranoid enough that it might rub them the wrong way if they did go for it.

"I thought about William Fox." It's a slightly uneasy admission. William after him is subtle, Fox would have left no doubt. With him gone, there might have been plausible deniability-- she could've just been honoring a close friend, her lost partner. But now-- well, it feels obvious.

Recording their names on a birth certificate is too close to identifying them. What the Social Security Administration would be expected to do with that information, Mulder's not sure, but he has no doubt that Langly, Byers, and Frohike would come up with some kind of dire threat.

And anyway, even as a middle name, Ringo's too much.

"William Fox," he repeats softly, thinking about it. It's not nearly as bad as Fox William, that's for sure, and there'd be no mixing the two of them up. But putting Fox anywhere in there is going to make everyone's ears prick up. William was her father's name, and it's a hell of a lot less embarrassing than sticking the kid with Ahab; there's a reason to use it that has nothing to do with him.

Which, he has to admit, gives new shine to the possibility of getting the middle name to himself. It's a bad idea, not least because he doesn't even like his name, but it's an irrefutable connection to him. He shouldn't want that. He can't put Scully's career in jeopardy that way. "We'd have to give up the game if we did that."

After everything, she's not sure what's more surprising-- how easily she accepts so many outlandish conspiracy theories as plausible, or the fact that the Gunmen still manage to stretch that credulity.

"It's a little obvious." Which-- though it could cause problems-- is part of what she liked about it, before. Plausibly a tribute, but almost explicitly a statement of what they'd shared. Her only real worry was that it meant she was putting too much of her grief on their son.

Now, there's no question of grief; but there's no reason she'd need to commemorate him.

"Reynard?" she suggests, tone teasing, thinking of various cover identities and pseudonyms through the years.

He snorts. Not that much more subtle, when you get down to it - and it does give him an idea, one he has the feeling she'll reject out of hand. "William Dana."

Dana Carvey's still relevant, they could still get away with it. No need to put Mulder into the name at all.

"Ugh-- that sounds terrible." To say nothing of how odd she'd feel naming a son after herself; not that it's inherently more narcissistic than naming a boy after a father, but somehow it feels stranger. Maybe only because their connection doesn't need to be named; his presence is a constant and a comfort, an impossible, undeniable bond.

"We'll have to keep looking. We could get a name book to look through."

"Oh, I don't know. William Dana Scully? I've heard worse." It has a cheekiness beneath the staid, William F. Buckley feeling to it, all in the knowledge that he'd be named after his mother. Who could ask for a greater namesake than Scully? Stronger and brighter than anyone else he's met, small and terrifying and infuriating even as she's perfect. The movie credits are running on the screen, but he's too lazy to grab the remote. "If we don't find anything in a name book, we can get an encyclopedia of animals. William Rhinoceros will throw them off, if William Fox won't."

"William Wolf, for the alliteration." Pitching bad ideas suits her just fine. They'll figure something out-- eventually, after all, they'll hit a deadline.

(None of the other people who've helped her-- Skinner, of course, and John, much as Mulder doesn't want to hear that-- feel quite right. She's sure they'd be touched, but it would be awkward.)

"We'll need something unimportant to argue about, after all."

"I'm not naming a kid after my great-grandfather," Mulder says, brushing the very thought of it away. No ancestors, no relatives - not if he didn't know them, anyway. William Walter, he'd consider, but naming a kid after your boss is probably asking for a whole new kind of speculation about his father.

But she's right. They'll figure it out eventually, or they won't. "Maybe when we see him, we'll be hit with inspiration."

"Maybe."

The thought fills her again with a swell of giddiness-- that William will have the chance to meet his father after all, even if they're keeping it more or less on the down-low.

"Or we'll call him William P., for Placeholder."

Mulder laughs. "William Perhaps-We'll-Get-Around-To-It Scully. Very Puritan."

But for now, it's all a moot point. He reaches for the remote and flicks off the VCR and TV in quick succession; whatever interest he had in filling the awkward spaces with background noise has evaporated. Things are less awkward now, if still uncertain in places. Everything he needs to know - well, for this very minute, anyway - has been laid out before him, and all of it feels right.

He's left with a Pandora's box worth of emotions: amidst the uncertainty, beside his own concerns with what kind of father he can and will be, there's hope. And that's what he has to hold onto right now. (That, and the fact that he's gotten away without having to explain Great-Grandpa Wolf.) Mulder hefts himself to his feet and holds out a hand to Scully. "On a scale one to ten, how bad is getting off this couch?"

[ 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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