When she'd suggested-- at first somewhat obliquely-- that they try a version of getting back together, it had been a hesitant, uncertain, low-key thing. Sometimes she'd stay with him, sometimes he'd stay with her, and if they didn't spend all their time in the same place it didn't have to mean anything was wrong. They'd work together-- just like old times-- but they'd stop pretending they only worked together. Simple, slow-- no demands, minimal expectations, an open mind to the possibility that it might work out to more than casual without pinning all their hopes on it.
As hard as the years have been, they've been good for both of them. If she's honest, she thinks it's Mulder who's truly grown. He's found a measure of peace on his own she hadn't quite expected he could; the best she can say for herself is she's got enough of a competitive streak to see his healthy attitude as a challenge. Their rough edges have been worn down, and it makes for a better fit.
But she'd never imagined-- couldn't have imagined-- this. After she gave up William, she stopped letting herself imagine this. In a moment of weakness, in the darkness, she'd asked him about it. Alluded to the things they couldn't have-- the family he might want, the children she couldn't give him. In retrospect it smacks of self- sabotage, a logical assertion that even if he forgave her-- if, if, if; why should he, when she never quite forgave herself-- of course she couldn't ask him to settle for her, to give up all chance at a future, a legacy beyond dusty boxes of forgotten mysteries.
You don't get second chances at miracles, she'd sensibly told herself, over and over.
And yet: here she is.
It's early enough yet that she's not really showing, to the untrained eye. She can tell, though-- and she has no doubt Mulder can see it, the change in the curve of her body, at once familiar and new. It's not a difficult pregnancy-- at least not yet; she knows she might not stay so lucky-- but she finds herself craving comfort, and so more often than not she's in the house she's almost back to thinking of as theirs, in thick socks and with a pile of almost-too-overstuffed pillows cluttering the sofa. But the truth is it's less about the space, and more the company. With William, Mulder had missed all this: the slow shifts, the silly milestones-- size of a pea, a walnut, an apple. He'd come back to find her roughly the size of a planet, carrying a son who was a stranger to him. This time she wants to share as many of those moments as possible.
(So much for casual. For once, their plan has fallen apart for the better.)
"Can we add mint tea to the shopping list?" she calls out, though to be honest it's halfway a reminder to herself. Saying it aloud means half a chance of remembering it. Also, she just wants to pester Mulder, it's a transparent excuse. "I think this was the last of it."
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As hard as the years have been, they've been good for both of them. If she's honest, she thinks it's Mulder who's truly grown. He's found a measure of peace on his own she hadn't quite expected he could; the best she can say for herself is she's got enough of a competitive streak to see his healthy attitude as a challenge. Their rough edges have been worn down, and it makes for a better fit.
But she'd never imagined-- couldn't have imagined-- this. After she gave up William, she stopped letting herself imagine this. In a moment of weakness, in the darkness, she'd asked him about it. Alluded to the things they couldn't have-- the family he might want, the children she couldn't give him. In retrospect it smacks of self- sabotage, a logical assertion that even if he forgave her-- if, if, if; why should he, when she never quite forgave herself-- of course she couldn't ask him to settle for her, to give up all chance at a future, a legacy beyond dusty boxes of forgotten mysteries.
You don't get second chances at miracles, she'd sensibly told herself, over and over.
And yet: here she is.
It's early enough yet that she's not really showing, to the untrained eye. She can tell, though-- and she has no doubt Mulder can see it, the change in the curve of her body, at once familiar and new. It's not a difficult pregnancy-- at least not yet; she knows she might not stay so lucky-- but she finds herself craving comfort, and so more often than not she's in the house she's almost back to thinking of as theirs, in thick socks and with a pile of almost-too-overstuffed pillows cluttering the sofa. But the truth is it's less about the space, and more the company. With William, Mulder had missed all this: the slow shifts, the silly milestones-- size of a pea, a walnut, an apple. He'd come back to find her roughly the size of a planet, carrying a son who was a stranger to him. This time she wants to share as many of those moments as possible.
(So much for casual. For once, their plan has fallen apart for the better.)
"Can we add mint tea to the shopping list?" she calls out, though to be honest it's halfway a reminder to herself. Saying it aloud means half a chance of remembering it. Also, she just wants to pester Mulder, it's a transparent excuse. "I think this was the last of it."