jowls | open post.

He smiles back at her, and if a few tears sneaked out while her face was pressed up against his shoulder, so be it. It's not like they've never talked about William or Emily before, but it's never quite felt like this. Somehow, it leaves him feeling relieved, baffling as that is.

"You're going to need some Gatorade to replenish your electrolytes if I keep making you cry," he says wryly, as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket, "but you don't have to picture a sonogram."

Sliding William's photograph out of its slot, he hands it over to Scully. After this, they're taking a break from the future-past, but this is the one and only chance he's ever had to show off his son's picture. That it's to his mother is immaterial.

Again, words desert her entirely; she makes a soft sound of surprise and joy and grief, all rolled into one. The baby-- William-- their son-- is just a baby in the picture; tiny fat cheeks and long lashes and perfect. She holds the photograph delicately, like the treasure it is-- without having to be told she understands that this must be it, this collection of little images; the only trace they have of their babies.

"He's perfect," she says, which is what you say about babies but she has the conviction of maternal faith. She's certain of it. "Oh, Mulder," she murmurs, grabbing at his arm-- seized by a wild desire to get out of here, to get in the car and go find him now, with nothing at all to guide her, just desperation to see her impossible future.

She shuts her eyes again, but doesn't cry this time. They deserve better than this grief-- all of them. But she's still too stunned to do more than cling to him, tracing the edge of the photo with her thumb.

He wants her to have everything he can give her, paltry as it is. To have this hope, even knowing how it turns out - it has to help, doesn't it? When she's going through the worst that the cancer can throw at her, she'll know that William's still on the horizon. Everything that happens to her, she survives. Not unchanged, but she survives...and sometimes, she's happy.

There's more he can say about William than Emily, at least. And he does, in a low, soothing voice, wrapped up with her in this sad little embrace. "You told me you named him after my father, but I think we both knew better than to believe that. He was a good baby - big eyes. Observant, just like you. Your mother was over the moon when you told her."

What else? All the things he's imagined but never done, all the things he missed. Abduction and death kept him from her, and then his own desire to lead their enemies' attention away from their vulnerable little family. He can't share that; he's never shaken his regrets about the time he missed, or the shame of having abandoned her for what amounted to no reason whatsoever. If he'd stayed, if he'd stayed and fought - maybe it would have been worse, he knows that. But sometimes, when he's been awake too long, he thinks he could have kept them safe.

"It was...a strange situation," he admits, his eyes on her hands. She strokes the picture like he might feel her caress. "I don't think we ever figured out what we were going to tell him. Why his mother's friend Mulder hung around so much."

It's profoundly strange to have any knowledge of the future; even this, as big and important as it is, is only a glimpse. There are a thousand questions she wants to ask, but doesn't know where to start; some of it, she thinks, she can probably guess. If Mulder didn't want to be on the birth certificate-- they wouldn't be able to work together, probably; it makes some sense, even if the idea makes her oddly uneasy.

"You don't really think we could've kept that a secret?"

From a child of theirs? His father's curiosity, his mother's hunger for proof? Surely he'd have figured it out.

Mulder shrugs. It's an intellectual argument at best, at this point, but it's another one he never actually got to discuss in any detail before now. Now that he has tacit permission to talk about it - about William, about everything - he can't stop.

"I'm sure it was an open secret at best," he answers, since that's the first concern. The work, how it would have affected the work, who would have seen it as an opening to get to him. Saving the world seemed so much more important before 2012 ended. "But making it official could have been...dangerous. I guess we both figured we had time to find a way to tell William."

And then it became a moot point. William knows nothing about either of them now; he's probably not even called William anymore. Mulder tries not to think about that, generally.

"Sometimes I thought I'd propose, once I knew it wouldn't put the two of you in more danger." Saying it aloud sounds absurd now. They never quite got that far. "Or that we'd tell him when he was old enough for school, if it seemed like he could keep a secret. But even if I spent his whole life living in Alexandria, being Mom's friend Mulder, I would have taken it. He needed you more than he needed me."

Edited (when you edit part of a post but never actually finish the job) 2024-09-24 22:30 (UTC)

For years, they've been mistaken at hotels and crime scenes and diners; she's known they call her Mrs. Spooky behind her back. Of course, if she were to have a baby without some very conspicuous other candidate, people would assume it was Mulder's. Honestly the only surprising thing is the notion that leaving it unsaid would be enough to get away with it.

And the rest-- she's still piecing bits of it together. Something happened, and William had to go-- somewhere? Adopted, probably. Mulder keeps alluding to danger, which isn't a total shock-- their lives have never been simple-- but there must have been something truly dire, if they decided to give up their child.

"I don't know if I believe that," she says softly, sliding her hand along his arm to thread their fingers together. She can't imagine a world where she'd have someone else's child-- she can't imagine a world where she wouldn't want Mulder to be a father, not just an undefined friend.

There's just enough plausible deniability - she's been trying, he was merely a convenient sperm donor - that they could have gotten away with it, provided they were subtle. Whether anyone actually believed them would have been immaterial, after a point; the possibility of a lawsuit over EEOC violations could have been a powerful deterrent regardless. Shining a spotlight on the X-Files in court wouldn't have benefited the Bureau, especially if they were retaliating against a working mother.

Scully's hand is gentle, reassuring. Mulder can't help the sensation that he doesn't deserve this affection, even though he can already hear her replying, I don't believe that, either. He sighs, leaning his cheek against her hair. "I couldn't be what either of you needed. When you get there, you'll understand."

It's barely lunchtime, and he feels overwhelmingly like he wants to crawl into bed and stay there. He's trying to stay on his best behavior, though; when he changes the subject, it's with the idea that he'll be exploring the wild world of Scully's couch. "Let's stay here tonight. It'll give us time to keep looking around, and you can take advantage of that bathtub. If she were here, I think she'd want you to have some time to relax."

He can't imagine Scully begrudging herself a bubble bath, especially knowing just what she just learned.

She can't imagine herself begrudging either of them a little respite. Granted-- as he points out, there are things she doesn't understand. There's a serious rift, here, though she still doesn't understand why. But unless she's become a person she doesn't recognize at all, she'd want to offer him shelter, safety, when he needed it.

And if she's become the kind of person who doesn't... well, to hell with herself. As the current resident Dana Scully she gets to make decisions.

So there.

"Good idea," she says, not quite keeping in a sigh. She feels wrung out-- and can't deny a long bath would do a lot to improve the world. This place feels like a luxury hotel, so why not treat it like one?

"It's... it's a nice house," she says, sounding a little perplexed in spite of the words.

"Nicer than mine," he says, and it's a half-assed attempt at a joke, but there's some levity in his voice. He gives her a little squeeze. "You upgraded, Scully."

And maybe she deserves that, too. Following him led her to heartbreak and desperation; it left her so drained that she couldn't look at him any longer. Why not live somewhere with neighbors? Fridges that leave their own notes? HOA squabbles and koi ponds and dramatic architecture - she should have the petty normalcy of a life surrounded by other lives, if that's what she wants.

All the evidence suggests she does. Seeing just where she's been living since she left is like being socked in the face with it: This is what she wanted, not the dark rooms and dark moods of Fox Mulder.

"Maybe," she says, doubtful. It's hard to look around this place and think that anyone lives here-- much less her. Granted, her apartment has always been pathologically neat, but this feels... She can't quite explain it. It's not merely the contrast between the clutter of Mulder's home and the neatness; it just feels....

Well, like a hotel. Like it could be temporary.

She almost tells him they should go back to his place out of sheer stubbornness-- but she thinks they both need the rest, and selfishly, she does want to try out that tub.

"We should come up with something to tell her job," she muses. It's a task she'd really rather not contemplate, which... probably means they should stop letting it slide.

"Well," he says, "you're the doctor. We need something that's serious enough that you can't come into work, but not so life-ruining that you'll never come back."

He pauses a moment, letting go of her solely so he can find the envelope and slip the photos back inside. She can keep hold of the picture of William as long as she wants to; he's half-tempted to get a copy made, just for while she's here. Just in case it's longer than either of them expects. And if it somehow goes back in time with her, an object that shouldn't exist, so much the better.

"Or we could admit that you disappeared, but I don't think we want any police involvement here." As though this isn't complicated enough.

"Car accident is too dramatic," she muses. "A really bad flu? Doesn't totally explain why she didn't call earlier... Wrong time of year to get snowed in on a weekend skiing trip."

Not that she's ever been the weekend skiing trip type, but how well do her coworkers really know her? She's betting not that well. And anything too medically intense will lead to follow-up questions.

"Do they know I was a Federal Agent? We could say she's in protective custody, someone with a grudge broke out of prison?"

"That's probably our best play." They have her CV, after all. With close to a decade of field work in her past, someone coming after her wouldn't be impossible. It's sensitive enough a concern that the hospital probably won't try to verify independently, and if they do, they have someone to fob them off onto. "I'll call them. Can you call Skinner and let him know the plan?"

Technically speaking, Mulder could do that, too. He just doesn't want to - especially now that William's at the forefront of his mind. It'll leak out somehow; the hospital hearing emotion in his voice will sell the story, but Skinner hearing it feels like walking into the Bureau naked, somehow. After all this time, Mulder's not actually sure how to talk to the man.

Of all their options it seems both the most outlandish and the most effective. If anyone else tried it, it would sound insane-- but they've already dealt with some intense cases, and she can't imagine their lives get easier from here on out. Better to have Mulder explain it-- she doesn't think she can impersonate herself, for one thing, and they want to give the impression that she's truly out of commission.

"I'll let him know," she says, nodding. Mulder's reluctance to interact with Skinner is still unexplained, but she's not going to press it. He doesn't seem to distrust their-- well, his-- former supervisor, at least, so it's worth asking him to help.

"Let me just... get a glass of water, first." It won't take too long to get herself back under control, but it'll be easier to do it if they step away from each other for a moment, first. She looks down at the photograph of William, and then back at Mulder, holding it out silently for him to take. Better to have him keep it safe, as he's done for-- however long.

"Of course." He takes the photo back from Scully, watching her with a slight crease to his brow. "I'll, uh - I'll put this stuff away."

Truthfully, he'd like to follow her, to keep holding onto her. It's hard to believe just how long it's been since he last touched her, and giving up the privilege is difficult. But he also wants to make sure they don't lose anything they've looked at. Keeping the children's pictures in a lock-box might be depressing, but they're safe there - easy to grab, if something goes wrong.

While Scully's in the kitchen, he slips the pictures back in their envelope and the envelope back in the box, along with all her cash and IDs. He tries to ignore the way his heart aches when the lock catches. Once everything's shut up in the closet again, and he's glanced into what looks like Scully's dream bathroom, he heads out to the living room and pulls out his phone. Time to order them some lunch, since there's nothing edible left in the house.

Mulder is one of very few people she can let her guard down around-- but the other edge of that is, once she's let herself be vulnerable and open, it's not so easy to button back up in his presence. That doesn't mean it's easy for her to tear herself away-- and her fingers itch to take the picture back and study it more, looking for traces of one or the other of them in his pudgy features.

And it's strange to be apart from him, after finally getting close to him. But once she's out of the room-- once she figures out how to let the refrigerator give her the drink it so desperately wants her to have-- it's easier to catch her breath. She can't talk to Skinner as Future Bereaved Mother; she has to get back to responsible time-traveling Agent Scully mode.

Might as well get it over with-- Skinner is businesslike but clearly glad to hear from her, asking in carefully vague terms about their investigations. She fills him in on their plan, and he grudgingly agrees to back them up if the hospital needs proof. They hang up-- she promise to send updates if they find anything-- and she goes off to find Mulder again.

"Skinner's on board." So that's good news.

It takes a few tries, but he eventually gets connected to the right person and explains the situation. Fox Mulder - yes, like the animal - I think I'm probably still her emergency contact? What's happened is... He sounds suitably concerned, he thinks, and the woman on the other end seems relieved to know just where Scully's disappeared to.

"Same address," he's saying, when the young Scully comes into the room. "The one in Farrs Corner. If you send the paperwork there, I can make sure she gets it. Yes - thank you - goodbye -"

Once he hangs up, he looks up at Scully. "The hospital is, too. Now all that's left is figuring out what happened."

That's all good, then. She probably should've thought of this sooner-- made some attempt to salvage her own career-- but in Scully's defense it's been a few strange days. She hums thoughtfully, crossing the room to come sit by him.

Part of her still feels oddly shy about coming too close-- not because she doesn't want to, but because she's half convinced she'll scare him away. But it's not as daunting a prospect now, so she's less particular about personal space.

"I'm not sure if there's anything here to explain it," she admits. "But we can keep looking around."

He has no idea that she's approaching him with the idea that he might startle and run off, like a deer in the forest - and that's probably most of the reason he doesn't. Though he doesn't put his arm around her at the moment, his attention has shifted to rest entirely on her, in a way that feels all too familiar for him.

"In that case, we'll just look around to be nosy," Mulder replies, keeping his voice light. So far, he hasn't seen much to contradict Scully. The hints that she might not be as exhausted with him as he'd thought are like catnip, though; if he can find more information on anything here, he'll take it. "Have any working theories for what caused this? Maybe we can do a little more research while we're here."

In contrast, it's funny how careful he's been with her; it throws into contrast how careful he isn't, at home. And though she's always faintly aware of the fact that they're a little more cozy than coworkers ought to be... Knowing where it's headed, and experiencing his company without that aspect, it makes everything feel so much more obvious. It's no wonder people talk.

"It still feels almost arbitrary," she says around a sigh. "Why it would happen now.... Either definition of now." She hesitates, considering.

"Maybe there's some reason she'd be more useful to someone in 1997? Or-- vice versa, but that feels less likely, somehow."

Somehow, it had felt natural. It still does, when he can touch her - and now that they've closed off conversation about the kids, that closeness feels closed off to him, too. This Scully has never been with him; he has no more right to her than the one who disappeared.

"If I remember that part of '97 well," he starts, adding dryly, "and based on the amount of ketamine I did, I doubt I do...you were everything I needed. Maybe the next case..."

He spends a moment putting old memories in order, and then his face falls. "Damn it. It's about you, isn't it? Your cancer."

That answer seems likelier than some of the others she's entertained. It's chilling, and she can't entirely keep the dismay off her face.

"Do you think so?"

He'd know better than she would. Obviously, she knows things are going to get worse for her-- she's a doctor; her prognosis was never a question until she arrived here and found herself, impossibly, still alive.

"It's a lot of effort to go to," she adds, frowning. "If they just... wanted me out of the way."

"That's what I don't understand," he says, brow furrowing. "Why bother with time travel, when a gun works just as well? Are they trying to keep me from getting to them in the past?"

If his Scully is there, her Mulder will undoubtedly be doing everything in his power to solve this mystery, too focused on it to attend to anything else. If they want to keep him away from the specimen they find under the ice, this wouldn't be a terrible way to do it. But it's needlessly complicated.

She's going to need to know more, even if it's irresponsible of him to share. If she doesn't hold the same cards as he does, she's not going to be able to help him make sense of it. There's no denying that he'll need her brain on this as much as he needs his own; she's the most brilliant person he's ever known.

"You and I...we're going to fake my suicide." He makes a face, knowing just how awful it might sound to her. "While you handle the feds, I'm going to find you a cure. There's more to it than that, a lot more, but those are the pieces that matter. I don't think my trip to Canada is what they were trying to stop."

What a bleak line of thought. It would be much more efficient to just shoot me.

His explanation explains very little, which is at this point not terribly surprising. She's getting somewhat used to it, having to roll with wild ideas that lack context. Because she trust Mulder; he'll tell her what she needs, and try to spare her what she doesn't for as long as possible.

"We'll call it a possibility-- a strong one," she concedes. "But I'm not totally convinced. Time travel can't be that easy to set up."

Her suspicion that it has something to do with their relationship, or the rift between them, feels too silly to voice... Though being here hasn't done anything to dissuade her.

"She must have an office, or a desk, at least-- that feels like the next place to look."

"There must be one here," he agrees. If not a desk, at least something they can work with - a filing cabinet, a laptop with an external hard drive. "Failing that, I'll go to the hospital. They probably don't remember me all that well, but if I say I'm getting things you need, I might be able to get to her papers."

But she has to have documents here someplace. The doorbell chimes just as he's about to say something more about the possibilities.

"I took the liberty of ordering us some lunch," he informs her as he gets up. "We can figure it out after lunch."

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