"The regular one-- I think it's mintier," she decides. It's not a serious proclamation-- she'd be happy with either-- but considering the enormity of his current project, maybe a few manageable, small goals sprinkled in are a good call. She sometimes feels selfish, taking advantage of his eagerness to please her; but really, he wants to be involved, and that warms every part of her whenever he shows it.
Mulder never does anything by halves, and he's thrown himself into getting ready for a baby with the same enthusiasm as chasing Sasquatch, albeit with less travel involved. She kind of loves seeing him like this-- animate and impassioned, excited about their future. Not that he hadn't been supportive with William-- newly back from the dead, haunted by experiences she'd never quite dared ask about, he'd done his best for her.
For so long they didn't really talk about William-- couldn't, when the memories were so painful, when they had no option but to cling to each other and couldn't risk the hurt. She'd spent most of that pregnancy thinking her unborn son was the very last of Mulder-- the only chance she might have, if she was lucky, to see the color of his eyes or a hint of his profile. Of course, in her mind-- in her heart-- he had every right to his son, to his grief. To hate her, even, for sending him away.
And maybe if their time together hadn't been cut short again they would have found a better rhythm-- maybe everything would be different.
It would be naive to imagine those wounds are healed, but they're less acute. William is still an unanswered question, but they're used to living with those. If nothing else, this new child makes it easier to live in the moment than dwell on the past.
She arches a brow at him, but pats the cushions anyway. He's seen through her out-of-tea gambit to give her what she really wants: him, here.
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Mulder never does anything by halves, and he's thrown himself into getting ready for a baby with the same enthusiasm as chasing Sasquatch, albeit with less travel involved. She kind of loves seeing him like this-- animate and impassioned, excited about their future. Not that he hadn't been supportive with William-- newly back from the dead, haunted by experiences she'd never quite dared ask about, he'd done his best for her.
For so long they didn't really talk about William-- couldn't, when the memories were so painful, when they had no option but to cling to each other and couldn't risk the hurt. She'd spent most of that pregnancy thinking her unborn son was the very last of Mulder-- the only chance she might have, if she was lucky, to see the color of his eyes or a hint of his profile. Of course, in her mind-- in her heart-- he had every right to his son, to his grief. To hate her, even, for sending him away.
And maybe if their time together hadn't been cut short again they would have found a better rhythm-- maybe everything would be different.
It would be naive to imagine those wounds are healed, but they're less acute. William is still an unanswered question, but they're used to living with those. If nothing else, this new child makes it easier to live in the moment than dwell on the past.
She arches a brow at him, but pats the cushions anyway. He's seen through her out-of-tea gambit to give her what she really wants: him, here.
"I'm not sure you meet the dress code."