He lets her stay snuggled in close, keeping an arm around her as they look down at Emily's smiling face. Maybe there was a moment, back when it happened, when Emily looked that happy, but all he can remember is the sickly, serious little girl and the smell of hospital hallways. He's never begrudged Scully the desire to be alone in those final moments, but he's wished more than once that she hadn't felt the need to send him away.
You have your chance now, he can't help but think. Make it good.
"You loved her," he says, because the tragedy of Emily is that there's not much to say about her. They'd barely known her, and yet they'd both loved her desperately. Even if it was for what she could have meant, the future that could have happened, they'd loved her. "Even if you'd only known her for an hour, you would have loved her. And I...have to believe, Scully, that she knew it."
As he talks, he slowly moves through the stack of objects Scully's kept in that envelope. The secret heart of a secret box, the things that pain her more than anything else could. He lingers on the few photos; he moves past the funeral card more quickly. Telling her that her daughter is dead is bad enough. Telling her it's going to happen in less than a year is going to crush her.
When he reaches the sonograms, his grip on the stack tightens for a moment. He could let her believe it's all one child, but that, too, seems cruel. To whom, he's not sure - but he can't lie about their son's existence. After everything he failed to do for him, the least he can do is acknowledge him. "And this is William."
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You have your chance now, he can't help but think. Make it good.
"You loved her," he says, because the tragedy of Emily is that there's not much to say about her. They'd barely known her, and yet they'd both loved her desperately. Even if it was for what she could have meant, the future that could have happened, they'd loved her. "Even if you'd only known her for an hour, you would have loved her. And I...have to believe, Scully, that she knew it."
As he talks, he slowly moves through the stack of objects Scully's kept in that envelope. The secret heart of a secret box, the things that pain her more than anything else could. He lingers on the few photos; he moves past the funeral card more quickly. Telling her that her daughter is dead is bad enough. Telling her it's going to happen in less than a year is going to crush her.
When he reaches the sonograms, his grip on the stack tightens for a moment. He could let her believe it's all one child, but that, too, seems cruel. To whom, he's not sure - but he can't lie about their son's existence. After everything he failed to do for him, the least he can do is acknowledge him. "And this is William."