"Torrenting anarchist manifestos and cruising pornography subreddits," he teases, poking the slight curve of her belly. "The usual stuff. But I can probably make time for foot rubs."
And a truly insane amount of research on the minutiae of pregnancy and childbirth. There's a fake Facebook profile out there of a woman named Samantha Luder, with a stock-photography photo to identify herself and a due date that happens to match Scully's; Mulder's been using it to lurk in groups for first-time mothers, having discovered that the social media market for new (well, new-with-an-asterisk) dads is comparatively lacking.
Hell, Scully'd probably get a kick out of it. Maybe he'll show her later. For now, he gives her a more serious answer, fishing his phone out of a pocket and opening the app in question. When he hands it over to her, everything's organized into little boards with names like DAD STUFF, NURSERY, TIPS, FUN FACTS and also, maybe inevitably, UFO MEMES. "Just trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing."
"Where would gonewild be without your thoughtful mentorship?" she says with a little laugh. "I didn't think I'd have to worry about parental controls on our wifi this early."
But she takes his phone, delighted at this trove of research. It's another little clue to how invested he is; he's not just falling down rabbit holes but making maps of them, saving the best and most intriguing leads, though she's willing to bet there are some absolutely awful old wives' tales mixed in that they'll eventually have a companionable argument about.
She leaves DAD STUFF untouched and dives into NURSERY, scrolling through the images that have caught his eye. They're all polished, staged, perfect and beautiful, and-- already touched as she is-- she feels her breath catch a little at the thought of working side by side, crafting a space to welcome their child. She might not be feeling many effects yet but now and then the overwhelming emotion creeps up on her; she backs out and switches over to FACTS, which seems a little less likely to make her cry.
This is less fraught if only because it's more familiar; half of it the same infographics that pop up when she's online, the expectant mother e-mail lists that have hardly changed in the years since she had William. But she still feels it, that swell of affection too intense to contain, and her hand wraps around his arm, squeezing maybe too hard.
"Have you..." She's not really ready for this one, but what are they doing if not jumping in head-first? "Thought at all about names?"
He'd like to think he's been able to spot some of the questionable stuff on his own, dismissing most of the is it a boy or a girl folk myths; as tempting as it is to put a ring on a chain and see which way it spins over her belly, it seems unlikely to get them anywhere compared to the creepy-looking 3-D imaging available these days. But if there's one thing he's learned while trawling through the endless resources for new parents, it's that he doesn't really know a goddamned thing about parenting.
The NURSERY photos are mostly variations on how do you make a room look like it's not a room. Murals of trees, silver stars dotting a ceiling in an accurate representation of the night sky, little stuffed animals dressed to sit around a campfire, play tents that run suspiciously close to cultural appropriation. He's hesitant to make demands, if only because all of William's things ran towards white and pastel, but his own inclinations are someplace else.
He's also hesitant to make demands when it comes to naming rights; he's at a strange place, diving in headfirst and still not quite sure how much input's allowed him when it comes to the things that actually matter. Scully won't argue over the results of a Google search like watermelon safe pregnancy, but when they move from the realm of fact to opinion, some part of him still feels like a stranger. It'll pass, probably, as they figure out the new rhythm of their lives together.
So there's a silent moment or two, Mulder looking at their hands, before he says, "If it's a girl, Samantha - as a middle name, not a first name. Otherwise? No idea."
Harmless divination, she'll give him the benefit of the doubt on. Which is to say she'll roll her eyes and argue statistics, but won't stop him if he's enjoying himself. The bigger issue is whether he really wants to know, more than she wants to not know.
"I like that," is the right place to start. If it's a girl-- and there's a part of her that hopes it is-- she'd have asked if he wanted to call her Sam, or if it would be too painful, but a middle name seems about right. I chose William so early, she can't say. Because I knew you'd have argued if I tried to call him Fox, but I needed to remember you. If he'd objected-- she would have taken it seriously, but maybe she should have tried harder to bring him into it, then. Things had been so strange-- there's no question she did a hundred things wrong, but maybe this time at least they can find new mistakes to make, and sort out some of the old ones.
"Does not knowing bother you? We could find out-- if you really wanted." It would make the name question easier to resolve, maybe. "I liked the idea of being surprised."
"Why bother? We're not going to cover the house in pink and blue." Mulder shrugs off the question of finding out the sex with a kind of disinterest he's discovered isn't matched by most of his mom-board acquaintances. Gender reveal parties have been another strange discovery of modern parenthood, and unlike thematic room decisions, he has absolutely no interest. Slyly, he adds, "Besides, you'll probably figure it out just looking at the ultrasound. You can tell me, if you know."
William had exactly the kind of plausible deniability necessary to make the Mulder of twenty years ago accept it; these days, if her heart was set on Fox, he'd be willing to consider. It'd probably be more trouble than it's worth, to have two Fox Mulders in one house, but it's not like he uses his given name where he doesn't have to.
But Samantha's still easy to talk about and painful to miss, and he'd actually worked this particular wrinkle out in therapy a week or two ago, because it's a question that's been nagging him since Scully mentioned. (Therapy, it turns out, is incredible. Sometimes it sucks - frequently, in Mulder's case - but most of the time, someone listens to what you say and gives a damn in a way that makes a difference. It took a long damned time to find someone who made it anything but agony, but at this point, he's hooked. Being able to talk about things, after a lifetime of secrets and subterfuge, has changed his life.) He wants to remember his sister, to know someone will remember her after he's gone, but not to put all the weight of his grief on a kid.
And then it occurs to him that they don't, necessarily, have the problem of two Fox Mulders living under one roof. Something something patriarchal assumptions, et cetera, et cetera. "Is this one a Scully or a Mulder, Scully? What's its last name?"
"I'm trying not to peek." It's harder than it should be. "I'd tell you if I did. But for now I'd be guessing."
She looks down at their hands, at the slight curve of her stomach. Hardly anything yet; that's the marvel of it, how swift and slow it is at once. There'll come a day soon when she starts to find nothing fits-- she'll have to go shopping.
And that question takes her by surprise again-- though for the opposite reason; it had been logistically self-evident with William that he'd be a Scully, but that... doesn't really apply this time around.
"Is that something you'd want? To give it your name?"
It makes a certain amount of sense. Bill and Tara are doing their part to repopulate the world with little Scullys already.
If William hadn't been William Scully, then they'd have had to give everything else up. It had seemed earth-shattering then, to drop the fig leaf keeping their relationship anything more than an open secret; now, it's just one more option in a sea of options, since no one at the Bureau's going to get on their case for fraternization.
He hasn't considered this with the same intensity as he has the Samantha question, though, and when he answers, it's with the slow words of a man thinking aloud. "I'm not sure how much it matters. Believe it or not, I'm not actually that attached to the name Mulder - it's just better than Fox."
This, wryly. How much does a surname mean in the twenty-first century? It might tell someone who your father is, or it might not. It might bind a family together, show who belongs to whom, but it's not like the two of them have matching surnames. What's he going to do, ask her to drop all her professional credentials and become Dr. Dana Mulder? "It could have both of them, I guess. Whatever Samantha Scully-Mulder. Mulder-Scully. Mulder y Scully, if we're willing to move to Spain."
It's hard to believe in retrospect that they tried so hard to hide things-- or maybe more aptly, that they ever imagined it could work. For so long they'd tried to stay apart so they wouldn't be a liability to one another-- but it's not as though their partnership was ever superficial. Her abduction had been proof of that.
He is, after all, the last Mulder. Even if he's not attached to the name, she's attached enough to him that she wouldn't mind it.
"It doesn't hyphenate very well," she muses. Of course she isn't going to change her name-- it would be terribly impractical, professionally, and after all he's spent decades calling her Scully. They can't both call each other Mulder.
"We'll pick a name for it first," he says, amused by the idea and - for the moment - uninvested in the details, "and then whoever's name sounds better wins. At worst, we flip a coin in the delivery room."
There's no doubt that he'll get obsessed with the matter of naming the kid at some point, but it's still too theoretical. They need more to go on than they have, right now - or he does, at least. The occasions he's attempted to search baby names have given him a weird mix of random syllables (Taylee? Oaklynn? Abcde?) and words straight out of the dictionary, or possibly off a stripper pole. Research will not, he suspects, help with this particular problem; they'll pick something they both like, and that'll be that. If theirs is a Jane in a sea of Ryleighs and Velvets, so be it.
There's another question at hand, the one behind what's the kid's last name?, and if they're already here, he might as well ask. At the moment, he feels like he could say anything without too much regret. "You ever think of getting married?"
Really she hasn't hit on anything that feels right, not yet. She's not inclined to suggest Melissa; in some strange way, Emily was tied to her; and it would be too much for a little girl's shoulders to carry two lost aunts. Samantha, though, feels suitable.
"I-- hmn. Not in a long time," she admits. That's an answer that might sting, and she squeezes his arm. By now, she hopes, her commitment shouldn't be in question; they are after all having their second child together. "After all our time on the road it felt superfluous."
"Mortimer Ambrose Scully." Their own little accountant - they can decorate his room with old tickertape and tax returns. But if they're giving the kid an embarrassing name, he's leaving Scully holding the bag on the surname front.
Her answer isn't a surprise, but the fact that it doesn't sting much is. Maybe it would have pained him at one point - but her suspicions are right.
"I always figured we were," he admits. Out loud, it sounds silly, but it's true; his devotion to her was unquestionable, even when he was a black hole of misery threatening to pull them both under. "In all the ways that counted, anyway. If we made it official, Uncle Sam's the only person it'd change things for."
Oh, that's a fantastically awful name. Definitely not on the real list, but a potential nickname for their apple for the rest of her pregnancy. In spite of the seriousness lurking at the edge of this conversation she laughs.
She'd be lying if she said she never thought about marrying him, but most of it was idle daydreaming-- young and impossibly naïve, in retrospect. The necessary secrecy of their relationship at first had made it impossible; and after, it's not like they ever had the time, the peace.
"It felt that way," she agrees. "And all those years-- well, everyone assumed." She'd gotten used to that. It was different, when they were fugitives-- under false names, they were married enough, then. They'd sold the illusion because it wasn't an illusion; just a question of formalities.
"And I still feel that way-- though I guess it might be logistically easier. Not exactly romantic, though."
"Yeah." It's bizarre to look back on those days as Anthony Blake and think, those were happy times, but they frequently were. Living in fear and paranoia, always glancing back over one shoulder, and yet - there they were, kissing each other openly, walking hand in hand along foreign beaches. For the first time in their life together, they'd been able to live as a couple. All it had cost them was every other part of their lives.
These days, he's not sure they need any more validation than they already get when they're out and about. People still assume they're together, especially now that it's obvious they are; add a stroller, and there'll be no question. Is it worthwhile to rush through the legal side of things just so the kid isn't technically a bastard?
"I don't think it'll make your brother any happier I knocked you up," he says, and it's one of those jokes with a little too much truth to it, "even if I make an honest woman of you this time."
Who else is even left who'd care? It's really just Bill and Tara and their kids. Skinner'll be happy for them, Charlie'll be impossible to reach, and there's not a Mulder or Kuipers alive that would know who he was, let alone give a damn.
After a few moments' thought, he asks, "What if we wait a couple years? Go to Vegas, get married by the King. We can bring the apple with us."
The haze of hindsight doesn't hurt, looking back on those years. There'd been something simple about that life, avoiding their past and unable up build a future. They'd had each other. They'd had nothing else. And maybe she'd gotten used to that. (Maybe she'd already been used to it; their time on the X-Files had seen so much loss for them both.)
She'd gotten used to not batting an eye when people referred to her husband, and though she's never called him that, even after they came back here she rarely corrected anyone who assumed. For the first time she wonders if it's the same for him, if he felt misplaced guilt letting it slide when people call her his wife.
"Of course that's what you suggest." Do they not do weddings at Graceland? She's afraid to ask, though amused by the suggestion. There's certainly not any real rush-- these days plenty of parents stay unmarried for one reason or another, and Bill's disapproval isn't even on her radar.
Even if it's a little silly-- his suggestion is a good balance. Festive enough to feel worth it emotionally, low-key enough not to be burdened by the ghosts of everyone who can't come.
You're supposed to have wild weekends in Vegas before the kids. But they've done everything out of order so far, why stop now?
"Good thing you're asking in person, I'm not flying out for a phone call again."
If they aren't worried about offending God's sensibilities - and the fact that Scully's pregnant suggests that isn't a concern - there aren't too many reasons left to get married, in Mulder's mind. Societal approval, anthropomorphized in the form of Bill, Jr. - more the stuff of jokes than anything. Tax breaks - and since he outsources his paperwork to a CPA in town, he doesn't actually know whether it'd make a difference. Relationship legitimization - obviously unnecessary. Legitimization of the kid - an offensive idea on the face of it.
All that's left is because it'd be fun, and there's no real argument to that. It'd be a blast, the perfect excuse to elope someplace - even a non-Vegas place! - and indulge in each other. But in that case, why rush it? The minute they drop everything to get hitched, it looks like one of the other reasons - and there's an actual legacy to worry about if the kid ends up thinking they were worried about how things would look. (It seems unlikely, given everything else they've done without regard for what others think, but even the appearance of worrying about impropriety seems like too much. His childhood was marked by his parents' secrets, and all their shameful actions; this kid's won't be.)
"I'd get down on one knee," he says, fingers tapping idly at her side, "but Scully, will you marry me in a couple of years after we've grown our own wedding attendant isn't much of a proposal."
At this point, if her relationship with God is thrown off by this baby, a marriage license isn't going to fix it-- and, more importantly, she's not bothered by the notion. She's drifted closer and further from the church over the years; these days her spirituality is personal, idiosyncratic; she hasn't got the energy to worry about dogma. Way back when, she worried more for her mother's sake than anything-- but, truth be told, she doesn't think her mother really minded. She'd have accepted Mulder as her son in a heartbeat.
And Bill-- well, he'll deal with it. He doesn't like Mulder any more than he used to, probably, but for the sake of family he'll hold his tongue. If she's happy, he'll be (grudgingly) happy for her, she thinks. They don't talk as much as they used to, but her long absence has made him a little fonder. Maybe she can convince them to watch the apple, after the wedding, so they can take a honeymoon.
"Mulder," she says, sounding flattered and thrilled and on the verge of laughter-- though genuine, too. Because she loves him, because if he wants to marry her-- well, they're married already in all the ways that matter, but who can say no to a blessing from the King?
"Good. I wasn't about to take no for an answer." Mulder's grin is broad as squeezes her, simultaneously unable to pull her any closer without yanking her onto his lap and desperately wanting more of her. He's going to have to try and get a hand up her shirt, at this rate.
"I think I still have my great-grandmother's ring someplace. Give this to the girl you're going to marry, they told me." Of course, it might take until the apple arrives to actually find it, but he's sure it's in the house. "We'll just have a very long engagement."
Though, as he thinks on it, it'll be nothing compared to the twenty-five-year journey to this point. What's another few years?
The world worries less about decorum than it did in the nineties, she thinks. Or maybe it's just that the two of them are getting old. Too pleased to care, she shifts so she can slide a leg over his knees in case he does want to pull her up to straddle his lap; otherwise she'll sit sort of sidesaddle, content to stay draped over him.
"I think we can be patient." Hasn't it been a long engagement already, in a sense? Since that first day in the basement. Since Oregon, at least; something about that first case had tied them together in strange and intimate ways they've been untangling ever since.
That's not to say it doesn't matter. In spite of how entangled their lives are, the prospect of getting married appeals more to her the more she thinks about it-- especially if they're not rushing out, if they're making it something to look forward to, something to enjoy. Maybe no one, no matter how pragmatic, is totally immune to being told I want to marry you. Even when they're sharing a bed, a home-- technically two homes-- even when she's carrying their second child. (Or third, if you count Emily; which you shouldn't, but somehow she always, privately, does. The little girl that should have been theirs, if the world had worked right.)
"I love it," she says, satisfied with the plan.
And then-- impulsively, quickly-- like she's hoping no one will notice her saying it-- "I love you."
Scully says she loves him all the time, but it's usually not in words. The fact that she's here is all the proof he needs, really, but if it weren't...well, there's all the ways she's supported his theories, even when she hasn't believed them; the time she was charged with contempt of Congress in order to keep him safe; the near-death experiences and productive disagreements and sleepless nights when her nearness was the only soothing thing left in his world. Hell, she's most of the reason he manages his life as well as he does these days. Mulder doubts he would have ended up in counseling or on medication without her efforts.
But saying it is something else for Scully. She's always kept her own counsel on some things, many of them the feelings that cut too close to the bone. She acknowledges things through action rather than conversation, or she intellectualizes conversations so completely that the subjects at hand feel more like distant theories than anything. Their lives have been fractious and marred by tragedy, enough that anyone would probably lose their taste for admitting how much someone mattered to them. After William, after Emily - who'll always count, even if Mulder might never feel like he can claim her himself - and everyone else who's been ripped from them, talking about love might feel like jinxing it. Especially for someone who'd rather keep her feelings to herself instinctively.
Mulder pulls her into his lap, letting her straddle his hips, and looks up at her.
"I love you," he agrees, deliberate about it in a way she isn't. Using the words doesn't come naturally to him, either - the Mulders weren't big on these kinds of displays of emotion - but feeling a thing that strongly makes it easier for him to say it out loud. He loves her so much it hurts; it's always there, never wavering, and it's simply more acceptable to say it now that they're together again. So hell, why not? "You and the slippery little fish inside you."
The habit of expressing affection through action rather than words is an old one. They spent too long in circumstances that couldn't permit that declaration; they're so accustomed to the threat of surveillance, to wondering who might overhear any given conversation, no matter how private. She's always tried to offer him plenty of evidence. (At the moment she thinks it's fairly definitive.)
But she's well aware that her discomfort with saying it isn't entirely healthy; it's an understandable reluctance, given everything she's lost, everything they've seen, the many times they've been pulled apart. Maybe that only makes it more crucial to push through her discomfort, now and then. To state it plainly, not because he doesn't know but because he deserves to hear it so much more than he does.
(And there are so many opportunities that have been taken from him. He never heard her say it when she found out she was pregnant with William; never had their son clumsily hug his father. There's a lot of lost time; sometimes the weight of it is overwhelming enough to spur action.)
He answers, and her face breaks into a smile so bright it aches; she leans in swiftly to kiss him, her arms falling to his shoulders.
"Easy to say now," she teases. "Not when they're screaming at three A.M....."
But her tone is light and fond, heavy with love and anticipation, with a little bit of old grief-- the husky nostalgia that always creeps in when she thinks of William as a baby. It will never be fair, the things he missed, but at least this time they'll get to share it. Good and bad, but really all good, because they'll be together.
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And a truly insane amount of research on the minutiae of pregnancy and childbirth. There's a fake Facebook profile out there of a woman named Samantha Luder, with a stock-photography photo to identify herself and a due date that happens to match Scully's; Mulder's been using it to lurk in groups for first-time mothers, having discovered that the social media market for new (well, new-with-an-asterisk) dads is comparatively lacking.
Hell, Scully'd probably get a kick out of it. Maybe he'll show her later. For now, he gives her a more serious answer, fishing his phone out of a pocket and opening the app in question. When he hands it over to her, everything's organized into little boards with names like DAD STUFF, NURSERY, TIPS, FUN FACTS and also, maybe inevitably, UFO MEMES. "Just trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing."
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But she takes his phone, delighted at this trove of research. It's another little clue to how invested he is; he's not just falling down rabbit holes but making maps of them, saving the best and most intriguing leads, though she's willing to bet there are some absolutely awful old wives' tales mixed in that they'll eventually have a companionable argument about.
She leaves DAD STUFF untouched and dives into NURSERY, scrolling through the images that have caught his eye. They're all polished, staged, perfect and beautiful, and-- already touched as she is-- she feels her breath catch a little at the thought of working side by side, crafting a space to welcome their child. She might not be feeling many effects yet but now and then the overwhelming emotion creeps up on her; she backs out and switches over to FACTS, which seems a little less likely to make her cry.
This is less fraught if only because it's more familiar; half of it the same infographics that pop up when she's online, the expectant mother e-mail lists that have hardly changed in the years since she had William. But she still feels it, that swell of affection too intense to contain, and her hand wraps around his arm, squeezing maybe too hard.
"Have you..." She's not really ready for this one, but what are they doing if not jumping in head-first? "Thought at all about names?"
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The NURSERY photos are mostly variations on how do you make a room look like it's not a room. Murals of trees, silver stars dotting a ceiling in an accurate representation of the night sky, little stuffed animals dressed to sit around a campfire, play tents that run suspiciously close to cultural appropriation. He's hesitant to make demands, if only because all of William's things ran towards white and pastel, but his own inclinations are someplace else.
He's also hesitant to make demands when it comes to naming rights; he's at a strange place, diving in headfirst and still not quite sure how much input's allowed him when it comes to the things that actually matter. Scully won't argue over the results of a Google search like watermelon safe pregnancy, but when they move from the realm of fact to opinion, some part of him still feels like a stranger. It'll pass, probably, as they figure out the new rhythm of their lives together.
So there's a silent moment or two, Mulder looking at their hands, before he says, "If it's a girl, Samantha - as a middle name, not a first name. Otherwise? No idea."
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"I like that," is the right place to start. If it's a girl-- and there's a part of her that hopes it is-- she'd have asked if he wanted to call her Sam, or if it would be too painful, but a middle name seems about right. I chose William so early, she can't say. Because I knew you'd have argued if I tried to call him Fox, but I needed to remember you. If he'd objected-- she would have taken it seriously, but maybe she should have tried harder to bring him into it, then. Things had been so strange-- there's no question she did a hundred things wrong, but maybe this time at least they can find new mistakes to make, and sort out some of the old ones.
"Does not knowing bother you? We could find out-- if you really wanted." It would make the name question easier to resolve, maybe. "I liked the idea of being surprised."
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William had exactly the kind of plausible deniability necessary to make the Mulder of twenty years ago accept it; these days, if her heart was set on Fox, he'd be willing to consider. It'd probably be more trouble than it's worth, to have two Fox Mulders in one house, but it's not like he uses his given name where he doesn't have to.
But Samantha's still easy to talk about and painful to miss, and he'd actually worked this particular wrinkle out in therapy a week or two ago, because it's a question that's been nagging him since Scully mentioned. (Therapy, it turns out, is incredible. Sometimes it sucks - frequently, in Mulder's case - but most of the time, someone listens to what you say and gives a damn in a way that makes a difference. It took a long damned time to find someone who made it anything but agony, but at this point, he's hooked. Being able to talk about things, after a lifetime of secrets and subterfuge, has changed his life.) He wants to remember his sister, to know someone will remember her after he's gone, but not to put all the weight of his grief on a kid.
And then it occurs to him that they don't, necessarily, have the problem of two Fox Mulders living under one roof. Something something patriarchal assumptions, et cetera, et cetera. "Is this one a Scully or a Mulder, Scully? What's its last name?"
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She looks down at their hands, at the slight curve of her stomach. Hardly anything yet; that's the marvel of it, how swift and slow it is at once. There'll come a day soon when she starts to find nothing fits-- she'll have to go shopping.
And that question takes her by surprise again-- though for the opposite reason; it had been logistically self-evident with William that he'd be a Scully, but that... doesn't really apply this time around.
"Is that something you'd want? To give it your name?"
It makes a certain amount of sense. Bill and Tara are doing their part to repopulate the world with little Scullys already.
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He hasn't considered this with the same intensity as he has the Samantha question, though, and when he answers, it's with the slow words of a man thinking aloud. "I'm not sure how much it matters. Believe it or not, I'm not actually that attached to the name Mulder - it's just better than Fox."
This, wryly. How much does a surname mean in the twenty-first century? It might tell someone who your father is, or it might not. It might bind a family together, show who belongs to whom, but it's not like the two of them have matching surnames. What's he going to do, ask her to drop all her professional credentials and become Dr. Dana Mulder? "It could have both of them, I guess. Whatever Samantha Scully-Mulder. Mulder-Scully. Mulder y Scully, if we're willing to move to Spain."
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He is, after all, the last Mulder. Even if he's not attached to the name, she's attached enough to him that she wouldn't mind it.
"It doesn't hyphenate very well," she muses. Of course she isn't going to change her name-- it would be terribly impractical, professionally, and after all he's spent decades calling her Scully. They can't both call each other Mulder.
"Either way it's going to confuse people."
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There's no doubt that he'll get obsessed with the matter of naming the kid at some point, but it's still too theoretical. They need more to go on than they have, right now - or he does, at least. The occasions he's attempted to search baby names have given him a weird mix of random syllables (Taylee? Oaklynn? Abcde?) and words straight out of the dictionary, or possibly off a stripper pole. Research will not, he suspects, help with this particular problem; they'll pick something they both like, and that'll be that. If theirs is a Jane in a sea of Ryleighs and Velvets, so be it.
There's another question at hand, the one behind what's the kid's last name?, and if they're already here, he might as well ask. At the moment, he feels like he could say anything without too much regret. "You ever think of getting married?"
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Really she hasn't hit on anything that feels right, not yet. She's not inclined to suggest Melissa; in some strange way, Emily was tied to her; and it would be too much for a little girl's shoulders to carry two lost aunts. Samantha, though, feels suitable.
"I-- hmn. Not in a long time," she admits. That's an answer that might sting, and she squeezes his arm. By now, she hopes, her commitment shouldn't be in question; they are after all having their second child together. "After all our time on the road it felt superfluous."
And he must know, now-- she isn't going anywhere.
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Her answer isn't a surprise, but the fact that it doesn't sting much is. Maybe it would have pained him at one point - but her suspicions are right.
"I always figured we were," he admits. Out loud, it sounds silly, but it's true; his devotion to her was unquestionable, even when he was a black hole of misery threatening to pull them both under. "In all the ways that counted, anyway. If we made it official, Uncle Sam's the only person it'd change things for."
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She'd be lying if she said she never thought about marrying him, but most of it was idle daydreaming-- young and impossibly naïve, in retrospect. The necessary secrecy of their relationship at first had made it impossible; and after, it's not like they ever had the time, the peace.
"It felt that way," she agrees. "And all those years-- well, everyone assumed." She'd gotten used to that. It was different, when they were fugitives-- under false names, they were married enough, then. They'd sold the illusion because it wasn't an illusion; just a question of formalities.
"And I still feel that way-- though I guess it might be logistically easier. Not exactly romantic, though."
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These days, he's not sure they need any more validation than they already get when they're out and about. People still assume they're together, especially now that it's obvious they are; add a stroller, and there'll be no question. Is it worthwhile to rush through the legal side of things just so the kid isn't technically a bastard?
"I don't think it'll make your brother any happier I knocked you up," he says, and it's one of those jokes with a little too much truth to it, "even if I make an honest woman of you this time."
Who else is even left who'd care? It's really just Bill and Tara and their kids. Skinner'll be happy for them, Charlie'll be impossible to reach, and there's not a Mulder or Kuipers alive that would know who he was, let alone give a damn.
After a few moments' thought, he asks, "What if we wait a couple years? Go to Vegas, get married by the King. We can bring the apple with us."
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She'd gotten used to not batting an eye when people referred to her husband, and though she's never called him that, even after they came back here she rarely corrected anyone who assumed. For the first time she wonders if it's the same for him, if he felt misplaced guilt letting it slide when people call her his wife.
"Of course that's what you suggest." Do they not do weddings at Graceland? She's afraid to ask, though amused by the suggestion. There's certainly not any real rush-- these days plenty of parents stay unmarried for one reason or another, and Bill's disapproval isn't even on her radar.
Even if it's a little silly-- his suggestion is a good balance. Festive enough to feel worth it emotionally, low-key enough not to be burdened by the ghosts of everyone who can't come.
You're supposed to have wild weekends in Vegas before the kids. But they've done everything out of order so far, why stop now?
"Good thing you're asking in person, I'm not flying out for a phone call again."
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All that's left is because it'd be fun, and there's no real argument to that. It'd be a blast, the perfect excuse to elope someplace - even a non-Vegas place! - and indulge in each other. But in that case, why rush it? The minute they drop everything to get hitched, it looks like one of the other reasons - and there's an actual legacy to worry about if the kid ends up thinking they were worried about how things would look. (It seems unlikely, given everything else they've done without regard for what others think, but even the appearance of worrying about impropriety seems like too much. His childhood was marked by his parents' secrets, and all their shameful actions; this kid's won't be.)
"I'd get down on one knee," he says, fingers tapping idly at her side, "but Scully, will you marry me in a couple of years after we've grown our own wedding attendant isn't much of a proposal."
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And Bill-- well, he'll deal with it. He doesn't like Mulder any more than he used to, probably, but for the sake of family he'll hold his tongue. If she's happy, he'll be (grudgingly) happy for her, she thinks. They don't talk as much as they used to, but her long absence has made him a little fonder. Maybe she can convince them to watch the apple, after the wedding, so they can take a honeymoon.
"Mulder," she says, sounding flattered and thrilled and on the verge of laughter-- though genuine, too. Because she loves him, because if he wants to marry her-- well, they're married already in all the ways that matter, but who can say no to a blessing from the King?
"Of course we can. Of course I'll marry you."
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"I think I still have my great-grandmother's ring someplace. Give this to the girl you're going to marry, they told me." Of course, it might take until the apple arrives to actually find it, but he's sure it's in the house. "We'll just have a very long engagement."
Though, as he thinks on it, it'll be nothing compared to the twenty-five-year journey to this point. What's another few years?
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"I think we can be patient." Hasn't it been a long engagement already, in a sense? Since that first day in the basement. Since Oregon, at least; something about that first case had tied them together in strange and intimate ways they've been untangling ever since.
That's not to say it doesn't matter. In spite of how entangled their lives are, the prospect of getting married appeals more to her the more she thinks about it-- especially if they're not rushing out, if they're making it something to look forward to, something to enjoy. Maybe no one, no matter how pragmatic, is totally immune to being told I want to marry you. Even when they're sharing a bed, a home-- technically two homes-- even when she's carrying their second child. (Or third, if you count Emily; which you shouldn't, but somehow she always, privately, does. The little girl that should have been theirs, if the world had worked right.)
"I love it," she says, satisfied with the plan.
And then-- impulsively, quickly-- like she's hoping no one will notice her saying it-- "I love you."
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But saying it is something else for Scully. She's always kept her own counsel on some things, many of them the feelings that cut too close to the bone. She acknowledges things through action rather than conversation, or she intellectualizes conversations so completely that the subjects at hand feel more like distant theories than anything. Their lives have been fractious and marred by tragedy, enough that anyone would probably lose their taste for admitting how much someone mattered to them. After William, after Emily - who'll always count, even if Mulder might never feel like he can claim her himself - and everyone else who's been ripped from them, talking about love might feel like jinxing it. Especially for someone who'd rather keep her feelings to herself instinctively.
Mulder pulls her into his lap, letting her straddle his hips, and looks up at her.
"I love you," he agrees, deliberate about it in a way she isn't. Using the words doesn't come naturally to him, either - the Mulders weren't big on these kinds of displays of emotion - but feeling a thing that strongly makes it easier for him to say it out loud. He loves her so much it hurts; it's always there, never wavering, and it's simply more acceptable to say it now that they're together again. So hell, why not? "You and the slippery little fish inside you."
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But she's well aware that her discomfort with saying it isn't entirely healthy; it's an understandable reluctance, given everything she's lost, everything they've seen, the many times they've been pulled apart. Maybe that only makes it more crucial to push through her discomfort, now and then. To state it plainly, not because he doesn't know but because he deserves to hear it so much more than he does.
(And there are so many opportunities that have been taken from him. He never heard her say it when she found out she was pregnant with William; never had their son clumsily hug his father. There's a lot of lost time; sometimes the weight of it is overwhelming enough to spur action.)
He answers, and her face breaks into a smile so bright it aches; she leans in swiftly to kiss him, her arms falling to his shoulders.
"Easy to say now," she teases. "Not when they're screaming at three A.M....."
But her tone is light and fond, heavy with love and anticipation, with a little bit of old grief-- the husky nostalgia that always creeps in when she thinks of William as a baby. It will never be fair, the things he missed, but at least this time they'll get to share it. Good and bad, but really all good, because they'll be together.