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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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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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?
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.