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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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."
no subject
"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.