Right now I think I could eat anything but the great thing about pregnancy is, at any second that could change and I'll find everything revolting. But she's been behaving this week.
Don't underestimate yourself, Scully. Pregnant mothers have been shown to be connected to the developing fetus in more than just physical ways. You might just know.
That much I can believe. Given everything we've seen... There's something to say for intuition. Or maybe I just feel bad saying 'it' about a person I spend so much time with. If I'm wrong, that's all right, too. But it feels right.
[ And so all the windows get opened, some flank steak gets marinated for tacos, and a bottle of Martinelli's gets stashed in the fridge. Real date-night stuff, especially once he's set up some logs in the fire pit. ]
[ There are any number of reasons Scully is determined to work through as much of her pregnancy as possible. The biggest one admittedly might be sheer stubbornness. For now it really hasn't been an issue-- no one can really tell, and she isn't sharing; she's taking it fairly easy, but staying occupied keeps her from fretting too much. Very little about their lives is normal, and she's come to cherish that; especially their unexpected tendency towards miracles. But work is a little corner of normalcy that keeps her grounded.
Maybe, though, the biggest advantage to working is that it means she gets to come home every day, cruising down their endless driveway to a house that again feels like theirs-- maybe now more than it ever did before. It's not just Mulder's relentless nesting and his newfound interest in cooking-- though she never could've imagined him doing either. Something about committing to a future, however she's sidewound her way to doing it, has finally let her relax a little. She's stopped pretending she's only staying over a while, started folded clothes in the drawers, put her little collection of old books back on a shelf.
Setting her purse on a table and hanging her coat, she heads toward the nursery-to-be. ]
[ He meets her at the nursery door, swinging it open after he pecks her hello. After she enters, he pulls on a pair of violet-lensed glasses and follows. Without them, the room is a muddy mush of browns and olives, with some blue thrown in for good measure; with, he doubts he sees exactly the same as, say, Scully, but he can at least tell the different layers of paint apart.
Mulder's never been known for artistic talent, and that probably won't be changing any time soon. He's spent hours on YouTube and Pinterest tutorials, though, not to mention leafing through various books from the library and projecting various shapes on the walls to trace; at this point, he's pretty sure he's at least hit "mediocre imitation of Grandma Moses" levels of skill. Which, as far as he's concerned, is pretty good.
He's cleared the drop cloths away, so the hardwood floor is once again visible. Painter's tape still protects the baseboards and window casement, but the general effect is basically complete. Long, thin pine trees encircle the room, with slender trunks that get feathery green needles about halfway up. A thin brown layer of earth wobbles around the bottom of the wall, in a way he's hoping reads as realistic rather than sloppy. In one corner, the trees form a familiar shape at their crowns, and a UFO floats lazily in the air, missing only an I WANT TO BELIEVE amid the foliage. In another corner, two stiff figures, each the length of his forefinger, stand beneath the heavy green canopy in suits; one has red hair, the other brown, and neither has a discernible face. A silhouette of the Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot hides between a few tree trunks, a red-eyed face peering around another. A little flock of V-shaped bird silhouettes fly above one copse of tree tops, just visible against the sky, which starts out a sunset-y orange and becomes blue, and then black - to match the ceiling, where constellations are daubed out in silver.
None of it is in proportion, but it's not really supposed to be. The feeling of it is what he wants, and to the best of his knowledge, he's gotten that: out in the woods on a nice night, the whole world beckoning. ]
[ Once, Dana Scully imagined her life would go this way: she'd come home from a long, challenging day at her high-profile job, she'd greet her handsome professional husband with a quick kiss, and they'd spend their evening alternating between intellectual conversation and the sort of obnoxious all-consuming affection only young people imagine is sustainable.
She'd given up on those daydreams early-- and in her thirties, having found and lost and found the love of her life, having borne and given up a child, standing on the precipice of an uncertain future on the run-- she'd thought, then, that she understood life, and love. She'd looked back on those naive dreams of youth with a rueful laugh. She'd let them go.
But here she is-- home from her interesting, challenging job; kissing her brilliant, handsome-- well, Mulder-- and looking at what he's done for their baby.
She gasps in surprise as she steps into the room, hand falling to her stomach as though to get their turnip's attention-- to show her what her father's been up to.
He'd mentioned a sky of stars, and somehow that's what she'd gotten stuck on-- and left him to it in peace, aside from a standing offer to help if he wanted. And though she'd thought he'd do something wonderful-- though she really hadn't known what to expect-- she hadn't expected this. ]
Mulder-- you could get lost in here.
[ Without turning back to him-- she's craning her head back to look at the stars-- she reaches out blindly for his hand. ]
[ Having essentially declared a leave of absence from the Bureau - a test retirement, as though that wasn't what he'd done with himself for years before he went back - Mulder might not count as a brilliant professional at this point. But at the moment, her reaction is enough to cement him as at least a little brilliant. It's gratifying, not least because it's classic Scully: effusive by her standards, easily read if one knows her, maybe less so if one doesn't.
She likes it, that much is clear. She likes it, and she really wasn't expecting what she got. Those sleepless nights spent watching tutorials on his phone with his airpods in clearly paid off.
Stepping a little closer, he slips his hand into hers, squeezing lightly. He touches her, and she touches the turnip - a hand at her belly and everything sloshing around under it - and in that moment, it's nearly like touching the kid himself. See that, he thinks at it, just in case there's something to be said for paternal psychic ability as well. I did this for you. ]
Tell me the colors are right. [ And, teasing (but also, seriously, it was necessary) - ] I made the guy at Home Depot match paint to a photo of your hair.
[ If her hand weren't so much smaller than his, her answering squeeze might be too tight. Lately it's easy for anything to overwhelm her feelings, if it catches at the right moment-- but this, there's no way she wouldn't be awestruck at what he's done. It's everything he was denied with William-- a testament to his hopes, his love for their unexpected and perfect little family. A reflection on the life that's brought them to this moment, together.
She's keenly aware of their daughter's presence, in this room-- to an extent she nearly always is, but dreaming and unconscious as she is, Scully knows when she thinks back on this moment she'll remember Katherine here with them, the child they haven't yet met.
(It's still so strange, the second time around, to think of it-- how this handful of cells is on its way to becoming a person, a being with thoughts and wants and immeasurable potential. In a couple of years they'll get glimpses at her perspective on all this, and everything else; she can't wait.)
She shifts closer so she can lean her head against him, with a wavering little laugh and a delicate sniff to hold off overwhelmed tears. ]
Did you really? [ Of course he would. ] It's incredible. It doesn't feel like a room in our house.
[ This is the ego stroking he's been waiting for, the reaction he's been jealously guarding against for...what, two weeks now? It feels like he's been painting the damned room half his life, at this point; it's been the unshakable focus of his days for a long time, the door gently but firmly shutting whenever he hears Scully's car in the driveway. If the results were garbage, he'd reasoned, he wanted to figure that out without showing off just how much time he'd wasted - and otherwise, he wanted to take her by surprise.
He tilts his head down, kissing the top of her head, as his arms slide around her. The turnip's a felt thing, not yet overly visible until Scully's stripped out of her work clothes, but with his hands settling around her middle, he can feel it. Her. Katherine - or Katie, or whatever they end up calling her. If there's a god, that's not Fox Junior in there, and even then, he won't be convinced. ]
[ An accomplishment like this certainly deserves a little preening. Not that she minds stroking his ego under other circumstances-- but this is, well, a work of art, literally and figuratively. It's unexpected and personal and, to her mind, perfect. ]
I can't argue with that.
[ It feels like it hits her at least once a day: God, they're really doing this. Whether it's a moment in the morning realizing her slimmest skirt won't button, or a trip to retrieve something from her near-abandoned condo, or the careful way she's quietly wrapping things up in the office, trying to make it ready for someone else to pick up-- every day the fact of their little family becomes a little more concrete. She curls her hand around his forearm, sinking against his warm embrace.
All those years ago, who could have imagined this?
But it feels like all those years are in this room at once, wild and dark but with a clear path through-- crowned with stars to show them the way home. ]
I'd say you could hire your skills out, but I don't want anyone else to have this.
[ She twists a little, arches her neck to look up at him, but he'll have to meet her in the middle for the kiss she's angling for. ]
[ He dips his head to kiss her, neither willing nor able to withstand that particular look she's giving him. In all honesty, there's something about impregnating a woman that makes it difficult to say no to her in just about anything. Scully's doing all the hard work here, after all. His contribution comes mostly in the form of handyman work and backrubs, both of which he'd be willing to do anyway.
That'll change, he's betting, once three AM diaper changes are a thing, but he's willing to accept that fate. "Stay-at-home dad" isn't a role he ever imagined for himself, but he's warmed to the idea incredibly fast. Getting to focus all your time on a kid, making sure it has all the best parts of your childhood and none of the worst - or, at the very least, making sure it actually gets to talk about its missing siblings - has its appeals.
(Besides, if you're the one home with the kid, you get first crack at shaping its opinions on the paranormal. A significant consideration, under the circumstances.) ]
I only take payment in sex and arguments about the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. [ Another kiss, ignoring the way his back twinges. ] So I think this is a one-and-done project, unless you want the rest of the house painted.
[ Even before knocking up his ex, she's pretty sure she could've gotten him to do nearly anything, batting her eyes the right way. It would feel unfair, but she's never had much resistance for him, either. ]
I'll have to think about it. Maybe I should build up some credit, just in case,
[ she teases, pressing herself against him; she's not actually necessarily looking to start anything-- though, God, that's one of the weird parts of this, the way her hormones have gone into overdrive. The last time, she'd been too busy to even register how frustrated she was; it's infinitely better having him here beside her.
She twists so she can kiss his jaw. ]
It's probably a piece of driftwood, you know. [ The infamous photograph. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Sometimes I still can't believe we're doing this.
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Me, too. It doesn't seem real, even though I'm covered in paint.
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Let's have a fire tonight. Maybe you can drink a glass of wine on my behalf.
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I think there's some of that sparkling apple juice in a cupboard somewhere. We'll suffer sobriety together.
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I can work with that.
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How's the nausea? Think you can eat a steak?
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You really have a feeling about the turnip, don't you? I'll have to stop calling her "it."
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If I get any odd cravings I'll let you know. We can make a chart. It wasn't too bad last time-- I don't think I'm at risk for pica.
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If I see you eating gravel, I'll intervene.
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At least make sure I've got nice gravel.
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Bright blue, fresh from the aquarium.
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That's the stuff. I think I can head out in another half hour or so-- need anything on the way?
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[ it's not, actually, but who's going to correct him. ]
Just you. I think I'm ready to hang up the paintbrush, but I want your opinion first.
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Then I'll see you in a while. Open the windows to air out a little, ok?
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[ And so all the windows get opened, some flank steak gets marinated for tacos, and a bottle of Martinelli's gets stashed in the fridge. Real date-night stuff, especially once he's set up some logs in the fire pit. ]
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Maybe, though, the biggest advantage to working is that it means she gets to come home every day, cruising down their endless driveway to a house that again feels like theirs-- maybe now more than it ever did before. It's not just Mulder's relentless nesting and his newfound interest in cooking-- though she never could've imagined him doing either. Something about committing to a future, however she's sidewound her way to doing it, has finally let her relax a little. She's stopped pretending she's only staying over a while, started folded clothes in the drawers, put her little collection of old books back on a shelf.
Setting her purse on a table and hanging her coat, she heads toward the nursery-to-be. ]
Are you ready for us?
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[ He meets her at the nursery door, swinging it open after he pecks her hello. After she enters, he pulls on a pair of violet-lensed glasses and follows. Without them, the room is a muddy mush of browns and olives, with some blue thrown in for good measure; with, he doubts he sees exactly the same as, say, Scully, but he can at least tell the different layers of paint apart.
Mulder's never been known for artistic talent, and that probably won't be changing any time soon. He's spent hours on YouTube and Pinterest tutorials, though, not to mention leafing through various books from the library and projecting various shapes on the walls to trace; at this point, he's pretty sure he's at least hit "mediocre imitation of Grandma Moses" levels of skill. Which, as far as he's concerned, is pretty good.
He's cleared the drop cloths away, so the hardwood floor is once again visible. Painter's tape still protects the baseboards and window casement, but the general effect is basically complete. Long, thin pine trees encircle the room, with slender trunks that get feathery green needles about halfway up. A thin brown layer of earth wobbles around the bottom of the wall, in a way he's hoping reads as realistic rather than sloppy. In one corner, the trees form a familiar shape at their crowns, and a UFO floats lazily in the air, missing only an I WANT TO BELIEVE amid the foliage. In another corner, two stiff figures, each the length of his forefinger, stand beneath the heavy green canopy in suits; one has red hair, the other brown, and neither has a discernible face. A silhouette of the Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot hides between a few tree trunks, a red-eyed face peering around another. A little flock of V-shaped bird silhouettes fly above one copse of tree tops, just visible against the sky, which starts out a sunset-y orange and becomes blue, and then black - to match the ceiling, where constellations are daubed out in silver.
None of it is in proportion, but it's not really supposed to be. The feeling of it is what he wants, and to the best of his knowledge, he's gotten that: out in the woods on a nice night, the whole world beckoning. ]
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She'd given up on those daydreams early-- and in her thirties, having found and lost and found the love of her life, having borne and given up a child, standing on the precipice of an uncertain future on the run-- she'd thought, then, that she understood life, and love. She'd looked back on those naive dreams of youth with a rueful laugh. She'd let them go.
But here she is-- home from her interesting, challenging job; kissing her brilliant, handsome-- well, Mulder-- and looking at what he's done for their baby.
She gasps in surprise as she steps into the room, hand falling to her stomach as though to get their turnip's attention-- to show her what her father's been up to.
He'd mentioned a sky of stars, and somehow that's what she'd gotten stuck on-- and left him to it in peace, aside from a standing offer to help if he wanted. And though she'd thought he'd do something wonderful-- though she really hadn't known what to expect-- she hadn't expected this. ]
Mulder-- you could get lost in here.
[ Without turning back to him-- she's craning her head back to look at the stars-- she reaches out blindly for his hand. ]
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She likes it, that much is clear. She likes it, and she really wasn't expecting what she got. Those sleepless nights spent watching tutorials on his phone with his airpods in clearly paid off.
Stepping a little closer, he slips his hand into hers, squeezing lightly. He touches her, and she touches the turnip - a hand at her belly and everything sloshing around under it - and in that moment, it's nearly like touching the kid himself. See that, he thinks at it, just in case there's something to be said for paternal psychic ability as well. I did this for you. ]
Tell me the colors are right. [ And, teasing (but also, seriously, it was necessary) - ] I made the guy at Home Depot match paint to a photo of your hair.
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She's keenly aware of their daughter's presence, in this room-- to an extent she nearly always is, but dreaming and unconscious as she is, Scully knows when she thinks back on this moment she'll remember Katherine here with them, the child they haven't yet met.
(It's still so strange, the second time around, to think of it-- how this handful of cells is on its way to becoming a person, a being with thoughts and wants and immeasurable potential. In a couple of years they'll get glimpses at her perspective on all this, and everything else; she can't wait.)
She shifts closer so she can lean her head against him, with a wavering little laugh and a delicate sniff to hold off overwhelmed tears. ]
Did you really? [ Of course he would. ] It's incredible. It doesn't feel like a room in our house.
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He tilts his head down, kissing the top of her head, as his arms slide around her. The turnip's a felt thing, not yet overly visible until Scully's stripped out of her work clothes, but with his hands settling around her middle, he can feel it. Her. Katherine - or Katie, or whatever they end up calling her. If there's a god, that's not Fox Junior in there, and even then, he won't be convinced. ]
To the contrary, Scully, I think it's the most our-house room there's ever been. [ Look, you make your girlfriend...sort-of fiancée...common-law wife? You make Scully get all sniffly, and even if they're good tears, you should probably rescue the mood if you can. ] I've been all over the internet, and no one has anything like it. Apparently the big new thing is beige. This is pure Scully-and-Mulder.
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I can't argue with that.
[ It feels like it hits her at least once a day: God, they're really doing this. Whether it's a moment in the morning realizing her slimmest skirt won't button, or a trip to retrieve something from her near-abandoned condo, or the careful way she's quietly wrapping things up in the office, trying to make it ready for someone else to pick up-- every day the fact of their little family becomes a little more concrete. She curls her hand around his forearm, sinking against his warm embrace.
All those years ago, who could have imagined this?
But it feels like all those years are in this room at once, wild and dark but with a clear path through-- crowned with stars to show them the way home. ]
I'd say you could hire your skills out, but I don't want anyone else to have this.
[ She twists a little, arches her neck to look up at him, but he'll have to meet her in the middle for the kiss she's angling for. ]
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That'll change, he's betting, once three AM diaper changes are a thing, but he's willing to accept that fate. "Stay-at-home dad" isn't a role he ever imagined for himself, but he's warmed to the idea incredibly fast. Getting to focus all your time on a kid, making sure it has all the best parts of your childhood and none of the worst - or, at the very least, making sure it actually gets to talk about its missing siblings - has its appeals.
(Besides, if you're the one home with the kid, you get first crack at shaping its opinions on the paranormal. A significant consideration, under the circumstances.) ]
I only take payment in sex and arguments about the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. [ Another kiss, ignoring the way his back twinges. ] So I think this is a one-and-done project, unless you want the rest of the house painted.
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I'll have to think about it. Maybe I should build up some credit, just in case,
[ she teases, pressing herself against him; she's not actually necessarily looking to start anything-- though, God, that's one of the weird parts of this, the way her hormones have gone into overdrive. The last time, she'd been too busy to even register how frustrated she was; it's infinitely better having him here beside her.
She twists so she can kiss his jaw. ]
It's probably a piece of driftwood, you know. [ The infamous photograph. ]
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