"Or swimming laps constantly," he suggests, his hand settling low on her belly, "and we just don't know it."
Sure, there's probably scientific reason to think otherwise, and if anyone could cite the realities of fetal development off the top of her head, it'd be Dana Scully. But Mulder's an avowed layman - emphasis on the lay, under the circumstances - and he's willing to allow for flights of fancy.
And maybe he likes the idea of a kid who already loves the water, even if it's just amniotic fluid at the moment. He still has both his parents' homes and the summer house, having lived off rental fees - minus a property management service's cut - for years after Scully left. Maybe they can reclaim one of them, fill the space with memories that aren't bitter and edged with the scent of Morleys. Teach the kid to swim, tell it the good stories from childhood, look for constellations and wonder which star Aunt Samantha's soul lives on in.
He's confided none of these ideas to Scully just yet. He's not sure when's going to be the right time to suggest any of it. It's enough to know that they can start out here, that there's space for three and backyard to spare. (That still seems vital to him, yard space. Whatever else is true, they're not going to hand the kid an iPad as soon as it's old enough to know what its hands are for. He'll be damned if he's one of those parents who goes to restaurants and props a cell phone in front of his kid.)
"What do we do now, Scully?" It's a question he hasn't dared ask before this moment, one that's been rattling around in his head for a while. Part of the problem is the question's breadth; he could clarify, try to nail down just what he means, but the reality is, he means everything. How do they rearrange their lives to fit in someone who's going to rely on them for everything?
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Sure, there's probably scientific reason to think otherwise, and if anyone could cite the realities of fetal development off the top of her head, it'd be Dana Scully. But Mulder's an avowed layman - emphasis on the lay, under the circumstances - and he's willing to allow for flights of fancy.
And maybe he likes the idea of a kid who already loves the water, even if it's just amniotic fluid at the moment. He still has both his parents' homes and the summer house, having lived off rental fees - minus a property management service's cut - for years after Scully left. Maybe they can reclaim one of them, fill the space with memories that aren't bitter and edged with the scent of Morleys. Teach the kid to swim, tell it the good stories from childhood, look for constellations and wonder which star Aunt Samantha's soul lives on in.
He's confided none of these ideas to Scully just yet. He's not sure when's going to be the right time to suggest any of it. It's enough to know that they can start out here, that there's space for three and backyard to spare. (That still seems vital to him, yard space. Whatever else is true, they're not going to hand the kid an iPad as soon as it's old enough to know what its hands are for. He'll be damned if he's one of those parents who goes to restaurants and props a cell phone in front of his kid.)
"What do we do now, Scully?" It's a question he hasn't dared ask before this moment, one that's been rattling around in his head for a while. Part of the problem is the question's breadth; he could clarify, try to nail down just what he means, but the reality is, he means everything. How do they rearrange their lives to fit in someone who's going to rely on them for everything?