Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Emily was the beginning of Dana Scully’s unexpected entry point into motherhood. It happened fast, faster than anyone could have prepared for. Practically overnight, she had to find a bigger place, trade her high-risk, high-stakes assignment to the X-Files for something safer with more predictable hours, and before any of that, the little girl had to survive. She had to find a way to cure Emily of the disease that had been given to her, deliberately, by people who saw her as an experiment instead of a person. Motherhood didn’t arrive gently. It came with urgency, with sacrifice, with impossible choices. And somehow, she met it head-on.

She knew she couldn’t have done it without Fox Mulder. He’d been afraid, rightly so. Afraid of what it meant to take Emily out of the hands of the people who saw her as property. Afraid of what they’d do in response. But despite those fears, he never wavered. He was all in from the moment Scully made the choice. He threw himself into the search for answers, into the science and shadow and silence that surrounded Emily’s origins. He hunted the cure like it was a personal vendetta, which, in a way, it was. He placed himself squarely in the line of fire, knowing full well it might cost him. But he never hesitated. Not when it counted. He stood beside her, through every unknown, every risk, every sleepless night. Steady. Committed. Unflinching in the face of forces they still don’t fully understand. And for all her strength, Scully knew: she didn’t do this alone.

Mulder was simply always around somehow. He had a rotation of valid enough reasons: dropping something off, checking on the furnace, swinging by to get Scully’s thoughts on a case he was working. But they were just that, excuses. Thin covers for something deeper he hadn’t quite let himself name. He wasn’t ready to face it head-on. Not the fact that something was growing inside him. That in the middle of all the mess, all the fear, there was something steady taking root. That there could be healing in this strange little family, this unexpected domestic orbit he found himself pulled toward.

He’d carried the weight of his sister’s loss since he was twelve years old. A wound that never closed, a guilt that never quieted. And while Emily would never replace Samantha, nothing and no one ever could, she had given him something he hadn’t realized he still needed: a second chance. He couldn’t save his sister. But he’d saved this little girl, Scully’s daughter, and that mattered. More than he could say. It was something solid in a life of shadows. A lift beneath the burden. A crack of light in the long dark.

They made quite an unconventional trio. The unwilling and unknowing egg donor, thrown into the deep end, learning on the fly how to be a mother to a traumatized three-year-old medical experiment. And then there was their friend, the emotionally stunted lone wolf who hovered on the periphery, circling them both with quiet devotion but never letting himself drift too close. It shouldn’t have worked. None of it made sense on paper. But somehow, amid the broken pieces and half-healed scars, they held. Not perfectly. Not always gracefully. But they held.

December rolled around again, quiet and cold, marking one year since Emily’s presence had first made itself known, one year since everything changed. She was four now, sturdier in every way, her voice louder, her steps more confident, her place in their lives no longer a question but a given. In those early days, she’d asked often about her adoptive parents. The questions came without warning, small and piercing: Where did they go? When are they coming back? And every time, Scully gave the same gentle answer, her voice even and soft. That they loved her. That they had gone to heaven to be with God.

Over time, the questions came less and less. Emily stopped looking to the door like she expected someone else to walk through it. Somewhere along the way, “Dana” quietly became “Mommy,” and Scully held onto that word like it was sacred. She didn’t fool herself into thinking it meant the past was gone. But she prayed, quietly and fiercely, that Emily’s memories would blur at the edges. That she’d forget the sterile rooms and shadowy figures. That she was young enough for peace to overwrite the pain. She prayed that Emily Christine Sim, the name tied to needles and secrets, to loss and confusion, would quietly fade into the background. She prayed instead for Emily Melissa Scully to take root and flourish. A child with a new name, a new home, a new history being written day by day.

In the hush of a cold December evening, they had just returned from dinner at Margaret Scully’s house, an early Christmas celebration for the girls, since Maggie would be flying to San Diego for the holiday itself. The air in their home still carried the faint scent of gingerbread and pine, and Emily was humming a half-remembered carol under her breath as she mimicked Scully and kicked off her shoes by the door. She’d grown comfortable with her new grandmother in a way that had surprised Scully at first, quick to offer help in the kitchen, eager to learn the words to old rhymes and songs, her small hands confidently shaping cookie dough with Maggie’s guiding touch. There was no hesitation now when she leaned into hugs, no stiff uncertainty when Margaret crouched down to brush the hair from her face or kiss her forehead goodnight. The bond forming between them was unmistakable, natural, unforced and it filled Scully with a quiet, anchoring satisfaction. Emily was settling in. Not just surviving this new life, but living in it.

As Scully built and lit the fire in the hearth, the soft crackle of kindling catching filled the room with a comforting sound. Behind her, Emily sat cross-legged at the base of the twinkling Christmas tree, the multicolored lights reflecting in her eyes as she studied the neatly wrapped gifts piled beneath the branches. Her small hands hovered, not quite touching, but clearly itching to poke and prod. Her gaze was intent, filled with the quiet concentration of a child trying to crack the code of ribbon shapes and package weights. Scully watched from the fireplace, a soft smile playing at her lips. She remembered doing the same as a child, mentally cataloguing each box, weighing it in her hands, trying to divine the contents without tearing a single scrap of paper. That same eagerness now lived in her daughter, and it warmed her more than the fire behind her. It was a simple moment. Quiet. Whole. And in its simplicity, it felt like a small kind of miracle.

Together they changed into their pajamas, this time the matching set, soft pale blue cotton printed with tiny silver stars. Each of them wrapped in a thick white terry cloth robe, feet tucked into sheepskin slippers, warm and snug against the chill that crept through the old narrow townhome. When Scully caught their reflection in the hallway mirror, she couldn’t help but smile. Same pajamas. Similar chin-length haircuts. The unmistakable blue eyes that Margaret had passed down like a family heirloom. They didn’t look exactly alike, but in so many ways, she was her miniature. Her mirror, but softer, rounder, still untouched by the harder edges of the world. There was no mistaking them for anything but mother and daughter.

Scully settled her at the dining table, spreading out coloring books and a tin of crayons. Emily set to work with practiced concentration, already narrating her latest masterpiece. In the kitchen, Scully filled the stovetop kettle for cocoa, the sound of water and rustling crayons mingling into something comfortingly familiar. It was Friday night. No work tomorrow. No preschool. And Scully had a hunch they might be expecting company. So when she looked at the clock, she decided bedtime could wait a little while longer. As a special treat.

Within the hour, the warmth from the hearth had spread through their cozy little home, and Emily had a new brightly colored masterpiece hanging proudly on the fridge. It was Mulder who had found this place. Scully had been scouring listings for practical two-bedroom apartments when he quietly slid the row house across her radar. An old home, modest in size, but full of charm, two bedrooms and one bathroom upstairs, and a finished basement with a half bath. It was shaping up to be a perfect space for a home office, maybe even a guest room. She was still weighing the possibilities. Out back was a small, enclosed courtyard, walled high in old brick. Private. Safe. A patch of sunlight during the day, and always within view of the kitchen window. It wasn’t much, but it made a difference when raising a child in the city.

And the price? It was a steal. Which meant, of course, there had to be a catch. Mulder had explained, a little sheepishly, that the property had been difficult to rent out, a homicide on-site, recent enough that it lingered in people's minds. The landlord had lowered the price in hopes of drawing interest, but most turned away. Scully didn’t flinch. Death didn’t scare her. What mattered was what the house could become, not what it had been. A house in Georgetown, within budget, with enough space for her and Emily to build a life. She didn’t need any more convincing. She jumped on it before another interested party could show up.

They were ten minutes into Babe, the living room aglow with the soft, golden light of the fire and the twinkling strands wrapped around the Christmas tree, when a quiet knock came at the door. Emily’s head snapped around so fast her hair bounced, eyes going wide with sudden anticipation. There was only one person who ever came by at night. And he’d been out of town on a case for the past five days. He’d called earlier, checking in with Scully, his voice low and tired but steady, letting her know he’d be back in D.C. by evening. He hadn’t said he’d drop by, but Scully had a feeling, five days away from his little buddy was about five too many.

“Wanna go ask who it is?” she whispered, nudging Emily with her elbow.

Without hesitation, Emily launched herself off the sofa and bolted toward the door.

“Who is it!?” she called through the wood, bouncing on her toes.

A beat passed, then the voice from the other side: “Mr. Potato Head.”

Emily shrieked with delight and turned to beam back at her mother. “Mommy! It’s Mulder!”

Scully grinned and tilted her head. “Hmm... I dunno, Em. Should we let him in?” she teased.

Emily nodded furiously.

“Yes!” she declared, already fumbling with the door knob.

Scully chuckled softly and flipped the deadbolt with a quiet click. Emily, practically bursting, turned the knob and flung the door open with both hands.

It was snowing. The soft kind, steady and slow, dusting the front steps and settling in Mulder’s hair like powdered sugar. He stood there, bundled in his coat but still shivering, his cheeks pink from the cold. Despite the long day and the late hour, he wore a tired, happy grin that deepened when he saw them both framed in the warm glow of the doorway.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low and familiar.

Emily didn’t wait for an invitation. She launched forward and wrapped her arms around his legs, her small face tilting up with joy as if he’d been gone a year instead of a few days. Scully stayed a few paces back, one hand resting on the edge of the door, quietly watching. He had no obligation to be there, but he always showed up anyway. Mulder caught Scully’s eye as he stepped inside, the snow clinging to his coat beginning to melt in the sudden warmth. He gave her a little wink, then turned his attention back to the child hanging on to him like a barnacle. He bent down and swept her up effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his torso, her arms flung tight around his neck. Her cheek pressed against his, soft and warm against the cold of his skin. Neither said much. They didn’t have to. The grins said enough: relief, joy, familiarity. Both quietly delighted by the reunion.

Scully closed the door behind them, sealing out the cold. For a moment, it felt like this was exactly where all three of them belonged. She knew better than to get used to that feeling. It was too easy to fall into, the warmth, the ease, the way Emily fit so naturally in his arms and how the little house seemed fuller the moment he stepped inside. It poked at something deep within her, something that wanted to believe this could last, that it could be this simple. But simplicity had never been their story. So she held the moment lightly, like something fragile. She watched them with a quiet smile and let herself enjoy it for what it was: a brief, perfect flicker of peace.

Emily wasted no time. Chattering at full speed, she filled him in on all the latest preschool gossip, who cried during naptime, who ate paste again, who got in trouble for using the wrong scissors, who said a bad word. He listened with the same focused intensity he gave to a task force briefing. Then came the art show, a parade of brightly colored drawings she’d made that week. He admired each one like it belonged in a museum, nodding solemnly at rainbows and oddly proportioned cats, until he came to a drawing featuring a suspiciously tall stick figure labeled “MUDLER” in blocky preschool scrawl. That one made him pause. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he held it up, eyebrows raised. His eyes flicked over to meet Scully’s across the room.

“I like it,” he said. “It’s surprisingly accurate.”

Finally, she dragged him to her room to see her stuffed toy animals. He greeted each one by name, remembering all of them, as if meeting with dignitaries at a formal event. There was something quietly wonderful about the way he gave himself fully to these moments. The way he remembered the names of her toys, the way he crouched to her level, completely present. No eye-rolls, no half-listening. Just Mulder, making a four-year-old feel like the center of the universe. Scully would never admit it out loud, but she found it just as charming as Emily did. Maybe more.

They made their way back out to the living room, Mulder pausing to slip off his coat. He hung it on the rack with deliberate care, and Scully noted the gesture. He wasn't planning to leave right away. He sank into the sofa beside Emily, who, without hesitation, climbed into the crook of his arm like it was the most natural place in the world. Scully, now in the kitchen, turned the burner under the kettle, the familiar tick of the igniter oddly grounding. Their voices carried in softly. Emily was in full storytelling mode, her small voice lilting through the living room, animated and full of purpose. She was explaining the plot of her latest literary obsession: We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. A father and four children, armed with bravery and repetition, venturing out into the great unknown. Grass, mud, snowstorms. No turning back. She had most of it memorized.

“We can’t go over it,” she recited solemnly. “We can’t go under it…”

Scully smiled faintly as she reached up for a mug for Mulder. Then the rhythm faltered. A pause. The kind that doesn’t register until it lasts a second too long. Emily’s voice came again, quieter this time, thoughtful in the way only young children manage, completely unaware of what they’re about to detonate.

“Mulder, are you my daddy?”

The mug very nearly slipped from Scully’s fingers. She gripped it harder, standing completely still in the quiet kitchen, kettle beginning to hiss behind her. She fought the instinct to intervene, to stride back into the room and rescue them both from the moment. But that wasn’t the right thing. Emily hadn’t asked her. She had asked Mulder. This was about their relationship and perhaps, the right thing, was to allow him the space to answer.

From her vantage at the kitchen bench, just beyond the fringe of their small domestic scene, she watched as he stilled. He looked up then, seeking her across the room as though her gaze might offer him shelter or instruction. There was a flicker in his expression, uncertainty, maybe even something close to panic, but it passed like a ripple across the surface of water. When he turned back to Emily, his voice was steady.

“No,” he said at last, his voice warm and low. “I’m not your daddy.”

Emily didn’t flinch. She seemed to be measuring the shape of his words, the space they left behind.

“But,” he continued, “I’d like to be your friend. If that’s okay with you?”

A beat of quiet followed. The kettle began to whistle behind her, high and insistent, but Scully didn’t move. Not yet.

Then Emily gave a soft, satisfied nod.

“Okay,” she said happily, and just like that, the air in the room seemed to lighten.

In the kitchen, Scully exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She could just make out the soft curve of a smile on Mulder’s face, not triumphant, but relieved. Somehow, impossibly, he’d known exactly what to say. No awkward dodging. Just honesty, offered with care. She turned back to the kettle, though her hands trembled a little against the ceramic mug. The cocktail of emotions was sharp and immediate, relief chief among them, but shadowed quickly by disappointment, and something quieter still: longing. She held fast to the relief, the only one among them she could justify. The rest were indulgent, unhelpful, best left unexamined. They belonged to another version of her, one she didn’t have the time or permission to be.

She poured the water slowly over the powdered cocoa, then added the milk, watching as it darkened and swirled. She dropped two marshmallows into the center. They bobbed, pale and expectant, softening almost instantly. She stepped back into the living room and handed him the mug. He looked up, accepted it with both hands, and gave her a half-smile when he noticed the marshmallows. She didn’t take hers with marshmallow, never had, but he did, and so did Emily, so she always kept them in the cupboard. Emily was now flopped sideways on the couch, her legs over Mulder’s lap, clutching the bear book like it was part of her. Scully watched her for a beat, this strange little creature who had come into her life like a sudden, miraculous storm.

“Alright, Em,” she said, stepping forward, her voice light but decisive. “Time to brush your teeth.”

Emily groaned, a soft and theatrical sound. “But we were just getting to the part with the mud—”

“You can tell him about the mud after you brush your teeth,” Scully said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Emily looked up at Mulder as if to confirm this. He gave her a nod and raised his mug for a sip.

“I’m sticking around for a bedtime story. Go do your teeth.”

That earned him a big grin. She uncurled from the couch and padded off toward the staircase, the book still clutched to her chest. Scully lingered, watching her disappear up the stairs, then looked back at Mulder. He was sipping again, eyes on the stairs too, his expression unreadable. Something in her chest softened at the sight.

“So,” Scully said, lowering herself onto the far end of the sofa. Unlike her daughter, she kept a respectable distance, legs tucked neatly beneath her, mug in hand. “How was the case?”

Mulder glanced at her over the rim of his cocoa, a half-smile twitching at his mouth. The marshmallows had collapsed into a pale foam.

“Cold,” he said, drawing the word out. “Wet. A waste of time. The usual.”

She gave him a dry look over her mug, but there was the ghost of a smile behind it. “Anyone try to shoot you this time?”

He shrugged lightly. “Not on purpose.”

That earned a soft snort. “Progress.”

They shared a companionable silence, the kind that had come easily between them over the years. Still, as it stretched on, Scully felt its edges begin to fray into something bordering on awkward. She shifted slightly, the warmth of the mug dimming between her hands.

“Mulder, about before.” Her voice was soft, deliberate. He looked over, attentive in that way he had when he sensed something mattered. “Emily… she’s confused. She had parents, and then she didn’t. Now she’s got me, and you’re around, and you’re great with her.”

She hesitated, watching the flicker of something indefinable pass through his expression.

“I think she’s just trying to figure it all out,” she said. “Where she fits. Where you fit.”

He didn’t answer right away, but that was Mulder. He never rushed the things that counted. He nodded and slowly drummed his fingers against the side of his mug. He shifted slightly, his cocoa balanced carefully on his knee.

“She’s trying to make sense of things, Scully,” he said after a pause. “Kids… they need to understand their world in order to feel safe in it. That’s how they build security. Structure. A sense of self.”

She nodded, her expression open.

“When someone disappears, or a new person enters the picture, it’s like shaking up their entire foundation. They don’t just feel it. They try to map it. Who’s still here? Who loves me? Who do I belong to?”

Scully listened, the insight landing with quiet clarity.

“It’s her way of checking the borders.” Mulder continued. “Trying to figure out the edges of her world. Who am I to you? What can I count on? And when the answer is solid, even if it’s not what she expected, it helps her feel safer.”

She gave a small, thoughtful nod, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Sometimes that psychology degree of yours actually comes in handy, huh?” she said, attempting a little levity to ease the lump forming in her throat.

Mulder smiled, eyes still on the cocoa in his hands. “Once in a while,” he murmured.

She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time, just wrapped in understanding. And it wasn’t long before the sound of little feet stomping down the stairs shattered it.

“I brushed real good,” Emily declared. Jumping off the bottom step. “Two times! Even the back ones.”

Mulder gave her an approving nod. “That’s some solid dental hygiene.”

She beamed, then turned to her mother. “Can Mulder stay for a sleepover?”

Scully rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “I know what you’re doing, Emily. You’re trying to get out of going to bed.”

“No I’m not,” Emily insisted, but the giggle that slipped out gave her away entirely.

Mulder chuckled.

Scully gave him a look, amused but mock-stern. “Don’t encourage her.”

Emily climbed up next to Mulder and tucked herself into his side, small hands pulling the throw blanket over her lap. She tilted her head, eyes wide with hope and mischief.

“Can we watch another movie?”

Scully watched the scene from the other end of the couch, arms loosely crossed. The way Emily leaned into him, the ease with which she sought comfort in his presence. That kind of trust was fragile. Precious. And Emily gave it to him without hesitation. Scully’s instinct was to say no. But they’d barely gotten through ten minutes of Babe. She exhaled, already feeling herself give in.

“I suppose,” she said slowly. “What movie would you like to watch?”

Emily didn’t miss a beat. She threw her fist in the air with triumphant glee. “Jurassic Park!”

Mulder glanced sideways at Scully, brows raised in disbelief. “Isn’t she… a little young for that one?”

Scully gave a small shrug, the corner of her mouth twitching. “It was on TV last week. She’s completely hooked.” She turned to her daughter. “Go on, tell Mulder what you want to be when you grow up.”

“A paletologist,” Emily said, with perfect confidence and not a hint of doubt.

Mulder raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “A palaeontologist, huh? That’s a pretty big word for someone your size.”

Emily grinned, undeterred. “I like dinosaurs. I’m going to dig them up and find the biggest one ever.”

Mulder laughed and looked at Scully fleetingly, something warm flickering in his eyes. He leaned back slightly, watching Emily animatedly describe the difference between a Brachiosaurus and a Diplodocus with all the authority of a tiny scientist.

“In twenty years,” he murmured to Scully, “remind me to take her to Heuvelmans Lake. Big Blue is still out there.”

Scully gave him a sidelong glance, trying not to smile. “Really, Mulder? You’re still hanging onto that?”

He shrugged with a half-grin. “Seems like something Dr. Stegosaurus over here might be into.”

Scully tousled Emily’s hair gently. “Go grab your pillow, sweetheart. I’ll cue up the movie.”

Emily beamed and took off toward the stairs again with a bounce in her step, thudding her way up with enthusiasm only a child could muster. Mulder watched her go, that soft, faraway look still in his eyes. Scully slid Babe out of the VCR and popped in Jurassic Park.

“Look at that.” He said softly. “Another budding scientist in the Scully bloodline. Tuition’s going to be daylight robbery by the time she gets there.”

Scully smiled as she pressed the tape into place, the familiar whir of the VCR kicking in. “Don’t remind me,” she said, settling back on the sofa. “I’m already mentally preparing to sell a kidney.”

“Speaking of the Scully gene pool, how’s your mom doing?” Mulder asked, casual but with interest.

“She’s well,” Scully said. “She’s heading out to see Bill and Tara soon. Told me to pass on a Merry Christmas.”

Mulder smiled, a flicker of something thoughtful behind his eyes. “Still one of the few people in the world who doesn’t think I’m completely insane.”

“Oh, she thinks you’re insane,” Scully replied, her tone dry with a playful glint. “She’s just polite about it.”

Mulder laughed, and the sound was easy, unguarded. Scully caught herself smiling, a quiet little victory blooming in her chest. It felt good to make him laugh. Emily thumped back down the stairs, pillow clutched under one arm like a prized possession. She marched over and climbed onto the couch again, wedging herself between them. Scully accepted the pillow and placed it on her lap. Emily curled up, resting her head softly on the pillow while her little slippered feet found the top of Mulder’s thigh. He draped the throw blanket over her and gently tucked it around her, making sure she was warm and cozy.

The movie rolled on, the Christmas lights casting a soft shimmer around the room, and the fire’s crackle adding a gentle rhythm to the quiet. Slowly, the warmth and the calm pulled at them all, tugging them toward sleep. Mulder was the first to give in. Unintentionally. Usually, restless nights stole his peace, nightmares, insomnia, and a racing mind kept him on edge. But here, nestled in Scully’s warm home with both of them close and safe beside him, the fatigue finally claimed him, and he slipped into a rare, deep sleep. Head thrown back, feet propped up on the coffee table, he was out before he even realized it. The tension that usually clung to him had melted away, his features soft in the flickering light. There was something almost boyish about him in sleep, unguarded, quiet, at ease in a way that was rare. Scully glanced over drowsily and found him that way.

She didn’t have the heart to wake him, not when he looked so peaceful. Outside it was snow and silence and the cold kind of dark that lingered. In here, it was warm and still and soft around the edges. Sending him home now felt wrong. He was too tired, the roads were too frozen. She couldn’t bring herself to disturb the peace of it. Mulder, sound asleep with his head tipped back, his breathing slow and even. Emily, curled into her side, limbs limp with the full weight of sleep. Scully shifted slightly, just enough to reach the remote and turn down the volume. Emily didn’t stir. Neither did he. So she stayed where she was, the movie flickering quietly in front of her, the fire painting shadows on the walls. Eventually, her body relaxed into the cushions, her eyes too heavy to keep open. Sleep pulled at her gently, and she let go. The three of them remained like that, one tangled heap of quiet comfort, until the first pale light of morning slipped through the curtains and gently kissed the edges of the day awake.

When Scully’s eyes finally fluttered open, the first thing she registered was the soft crackle of the fire. The second was the empty space beside Emily. Mulder was gone. Emily still lay curled against her, warm and peaceful, the throw blanket tucked securely around them both now. Not how they’d fallen asleep, he must’ve adjusted it before he left. The fire, too, had been tended. Two new logs glowed in the hearth, fresh embers dancing in the grate. Quiet, considerate touches. His touches. Scully blinked slowly, eyes settling on the space where he’d been. The dent in the cushion, the warmth still faintly lingering in the fabric. For a long moment, she just stared at it. He could’ve stayed. She’d wanted him to stay. And even though he hadn’t said goodbye, somehow, the small kindnesses he’d left behind made her feel like he had.

She remained still, Emily’s slow, rhythmic breathing anchoring her in the present while her mind drifted elsewhere, toward the door he slipped out of, toward the snow-covered street beyond it, toward him. He didn’t want this life. Not really. Not the quiet mornings and the child-sized slippers by the door, not the grocery lists or the steady domestic rhythm she was slowly falling into. He wasn’t built for it. He was driven by a need to chase the unknown, to confront the mysteries that haunted him. She understood that. She respected it. But understanding didn’t make the ache any less. She had built a life for herself, a life she was proud of. But when Mulder was there, when he was present in her world, it felt like something more. It felt like possibility.

She wished for a world where Mulder could be part of this life, where he could find peace in the quiet moments, where he could stay. But she knew that wasn’t their reality. She had learned long ago that love wasn’t about possession. It was about understanding, about letting someone be who they were. His bones were shaped by the weight of questions no one else could carry. He didn’t know how to stay still when the truth was always somewhere else. The ache that curled in her chest was a mix of longing and clarity. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe a single night could rewrite the rules he lived by. There were truths Mulder still had to chase, shadows he hadn’t stopped running toward. And as much as she hated to admit it, that pursuit was part of who he was, one of the reasons she loved him.

Chapter Text

Within the sprawl of Marine Corps Base Quantico, framed by orderly pines and the hum of military life, the FBI Academy rises with quiet authority. Just down the road, near the edge of a cul-de-sac softened by fog most mornings, sits the Child Development Center. It is unremarkable from the outside, low-roofed and practical, but inside, it holds the most precious part of Scully’s world. Each morning, before the sky fully lightens, she drives the familiar route with Emily in the backseat. The girl’s soft breath fogs the window, her small voice sometimes offering a song, sometimes a sweet conversation. Scully walks her daughter inside, signs the clipboard with a practiced hand, exchanges a few words with the staff, and watches as Emily disappears into the warm, bright rooms where children’s laughter echoes like birdsong. Then she turns, draws her coat tightly across her chest, and drives the short distance up the hill toward the Academy, toward a different kind of duty.

Only two names are permitted to sign Emily out. Hers, of course. And Mulder’s. It was like trading apartment keys, or feeding his fish when he was out of town, or sitting across the table as witnesses to each other’s wills. Quiet, unceremonious exchanges that marked a kind of trust neither of them ever needed to define. It just felt right somehow to share this responsibility too. And over time, it settled into place the way certain things do, without ceremony, without question. It worked out to be a convenient arrangement. Practical. Reliable. Every now and then, if she needed to stay behind, and if Mulder was in town, he would make the drive out to Quantico to fetch Emily. No questions asked. No need to explain.

He would arrive a few minutes early, lean against the frame of the front door, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The staff knew him by now. So did the children. Some days Emily would be painting or listening to a story read aloud in a circle of cross-legged knees. Other days she would be already waiting by the window, her backpack on, a paper crown askew on her head, face lighting up when she saw him. He would kneel to zip her jacket, adjust her scarf, murmur something only she could hear. Then they'd walk together toward the parking lot, her hand wrapped tightly in his, her small voice spilling into the dusk.

To strangers unaware of their history, they appeared every bit the picture of a father and daughter. No one questioned it, not the woman at the grocery store who handed Emily a sticker at checkout, not the attendant at the service station who smiled when they walked in, not the clerk at the video store who remarked on how much she resembled him. She didn’t. But, Mulder never corrected them. He’d smile politely, nod, maybe make a joke. But inside, something warm and sharp would twist in his chest. And in those moments, he didn’t need the world to understand the truth. He wasn’t pretending. He just wasn’t explaining. His relationship with Emily lived in that gray space where feelings outpaced facts.

The night before Christmas Eve they returned to the narrow row house just as the evening deepened, the winter sky darkening to a deep slate gray. Emily was quiet in the back seat, thumb tucked near her mouth, her energy fading after a full day. Mulder unlocked the door with practiced ease and ushered her inside, the familiar creak of the old hinges greeting them. He moved through the front room, flicking on the lamps one by one, their amber glow filling the space. The string lights draped over the windows blinked to life next, followed by the tree in the corner. Mulder knelt at the hearth and coaxed the fire to life. The logs caught quickly, crackling and popping, the scent of woodsmoke curling into the room. The warmth crept in with it. Emily had already kicked off her shoes by the door and was climbing out of her jacket, her movements slow and content.

Mulder hung Emily’s jacket on the rack and slung her small backpack over his shoulder, heading up the stairs with her trailing behind him, soft-footed and humming under her breath. At the top, he turned into her room, the familiar creak of the floorboards under his steps. He hung the backpack neatly on the hook behind her door, just like always. Scully’s touches were everywhere in the room. Not just in the framed prints and soft furnishings, but in the quiet order of things. Maybe it was the military upbringing, or maybe it was just who she was, but she was an organized mother, intentionally, quietly, lovingly so. At the foot of the bed, a fresh pair of pajamas was already laid out, small and soft, printed with little green and blue dinosaurs. Folded neatly on top were clean white socks, and just beneath them, her slippers waited on the floor, lined up perfectly toe to toe.

Mulder paused for a moment, taking it in, the care in the details, the routine. The quiet kind of world Scully had built, one where a kid could grow up safe and certain, where bedtime was soft and the dinosaurs were friendly. She was quite exceptional at all of this, managing her career, her daughter, her home, with a quiet efficiency that bordered on awe-inspiring. And he admired the hell out of her for it. No one was perfect, human beings were far too complex for that kind of symmetry, but if anyone ever approached such impossible grace, it was Scully. He was certain that to be welcomed fully into the quiet intricacies of her life would be nothing short of transformative. And yet, there was no one, no presence lingering in the corners, no name ever spoken with familiarity. At times he wondered why. Was it that she guarded herself too well, her reserve a barrier few could breach? Or was it that the men who had glimpsed the truth of her turned away, unable to bear its weight, too weak, perhaps, to stay?

Selfishly, he was relieved there was no one. He feared that man, the one capable of being what she needed, who would see her fully and not falter, who could stand beside her and be a father to her child. He didn’t want that man to exist. Because he was still trying to figure out how to become him. He knew he could be part of what she needed, he could offer pieces of himself, the ones shaped by loyalty, by care, by love. But not all. Not with the X-Files still woven into the core of who he was, still demanding everything he had to give. For years, nothing else had truly mattered. Then she had started to. And now, Emily. They mattered just as much. Maybe more. There was a constant war inside him, a ceaseless pull between two worlds. The unrelenting draw of his files and the unyielding gravity of the little family he yearned to call his own.

He didn’t see himself as a coward, but in this situation he was frozen, held captive by a fear that rooted him to the spot. He didn’t want to lose them, didn’t want to be edged out by another. Yet, he couldn’t imagine letting go of his files, his relentless hunger for truth. To move even a single step in either direction felt like risking the other, one would have to give way for the other to thrive. He couldn’t have both. That knowledge weighed on him like a silent burden, pressing down with a relentless heaviness. Every time he looked at them, the quiet strength of the family he longed for, the soft laughter that filled spaces he hadn’t realized were empty, he felt the ache of what might slip through his fingers. But every time he turned back to the files, to the shadows that whispered secrets only he seemed destined to chase, the call was just as fierce, just as unforgiving. He was trapped between two lives, each demanding everything he had to give, neither willing to loosen its grip. And in that standoff, he remained motionless, caught between fear and desire, between loyalty and obsession.

From where he stood in the doorway, half in shadow, he watched Emily pull toys from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. First came the new T-Rex. She set him down with care, his plastic jaws forever open in a frozen roar. Next came Barbie, her hair a riot of tangles and old glitter. Emily smoothed her dress, then leaned her up against the toy chest. Finally, Mr. Potato Head emerged, his features slightly mismatched: one ear askew, a grin just shy of centered. He watched her arrange the three in a neat row, then sit cross-legged before them. They formed a strange trio, prehistoric predator, battered doll, lopsided spud, but in her world, they made perfect sense. Emily looked up then, caught his eye and grinned hopefully.

“Wanna play?” she asked, holding up Mr. Potato Head like an offering.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He stepped into the room instead, lowering himself slowly to the rug.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I do.”

Downstairs, the fire crackled with easy cheer, sending waves of warmth through the cozy, charmingly creaky old house. It seemed to ready itself for her return, every flicker of flame a hush of anticipation. Fairy lights blinked softly, their glow catching on tinsel and glass baubles, casting little stars across the walls. The mantle stood dressed for Christmas, stockings hanging with quiet hope above the hearth. The little house, like everything else, waited for Scully to complete the picture. Mulder and Emily had long since tumbled headfirst into the land of make-believe, their laughter rising and falling like music as they built stories from mismatched toys. Their joy filled the room, loud and bright, a warmth all its own. So lost were they in each other’s company, in the unspoken magic of shared imagination, that neither heard the sound of the key finally sliding into the lock, or the quiet turn of the doorknob that meant she had come home.

She stepped over the threshold and gently pushed the door closed behind her, careful not to disrupt the warmth that met her like an embrace. She shrugged off her coat, hanging it beside the smaller, puffier one that belonged to Emily and the slightly worn, familiar one that was unmistakably Mulder’s. Their voices floated down from upstairs, bright, animated, threaded with laughter, and she felt the tension of the day begin to loosen. Sliding out of her heels by the door, she flexed her tired feet against the wooden floor. Her blazer followed, slung neatly over the back of a dining chair as she inhaled deeply. The scent of home wrapped around her, fresh laundry and lavender softened beneath the spice of pine and fireplace. This was the best part of her day.

Barefoot, she padded quietly up the stairs, drawn by the sound of Emily’s delighted squeals. At the top, she paused just outside the doorway, her hand brushing the frame, listening.

“Then Mr. Chips, the potato-eating T-Rex,” Mulder was saying, voice pitched with dramatic weight, “finally got his claws into Mr. Potato Head, turning him into a packet of chips, and eating him!”

“No!” Emily shrieked through a fit of giggles.

“But everyone in Potatopia knew that was a terrible crime,” Mulder went on. “So they called in the hero.”

Scully watched, quiet, unseen for the moment. Mulder crouched in the middle of the room, one hand walking Barbie forward with exaggerated purpose. His voice shifted into a high-pitched falsetto.

“Stop right there! I’m Agent Barbie! FBI! Princess of Potatopia. And I’m a medical doctor. You, sir, are under arrest!”

Emily doubled over laughing as Barbie launched herself at the plastic T-Rex’s belly. Jumping up and down on it.

“You give me back Mr. Potato Head, you lawless beast!”

Mulder made retching noises, and with theatrical flourish tossed Mr. Potato Head onto the rug beside Mr. Chips, as though freshly vomited. Emily gasped, then dissolved into hysterics.

“Mr. Chips, you’re going downtown for questioning. Mr. Potato Head, you’re going to the hospital.”

Scully cleared her throat gently, and Mulder turned, startled. She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded loosely, that small, unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Agent Barbie forgot to read Mr. Chips his rights,” she said, voice soft with amusement.

Mulder grinned sheepishly. “She’s still new to the Bureau.”

Emily launched herself into Scully’s arms with all the force and trust only a child could give, her face lit up like the twinkle lights downstairs.

“Mommy’s home!” she cried, wrapping her arms around Scully’s neck as Scully picked her up for a cuddle.

“Did you have fun with Mulder?” she asked, her voice quiet and full of affection.

Emily pulled back just enough to nod, her whole body bobbing with the force of it, eyes wide with joy.

“Are you guys hungry?” Scully asked, shifting Emily a little on her hip as she glanced toward Mulder, her tone casual, but her eyes searching, curious to see if he’d linger or make his usual quiet exit.

Mulder leaned back on one hand, the other still resting near the discarded Mr. Potato Head. Their eyes caught and held for a moment, longer than casual, just shy of deliberate. Something unspoken passed between them, as it so often did: familiar and quietly charged.

“I could destroy a pizza,” Mulder said.

Emily lit up, “I could destroy a pizza too,” she echoed.

Scully looked between them, her lips twitching. She met Mulder’s eyes again and they both laughed under their breath.

“Well,” Scully said, setting Emily gently on her feet, “I guess that settles it. Pizza it is.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Mulder offered, already rising to his feet with a stretch and a quiet grunt. “You handle bath time.”

Scully gave a mock sigh, but her eyes were fond. “Deal.”

She turned to Emily and gave her a gentle, playful smack on the backside. “All right, stinky butt, let’s move it.”

“I’m not stinky!” Emily scampered off toward the bathroom, her giggles trailing behind her like breadcrumbs. Scully followed, shaking her head with a small smile, while Mulder headed for the stairs, already pulling out his phone.

He called Scully’s go-to place without needing to think, ordering an extra-large half cheese for Emily, half pepperoni and mushroom for Scully. He didn’t even have to check. The familiarity of it all settled around him like a second skin. In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and set it on the stovetop, not for now, but for later, something warm to cap off the night. It felt like the kind of thing people did in homes like this, ones filled with bath time routines and fairy lights, where comfort wasn’t rare or borrowed. At the door, he kicked off his shoes, lining them up beside Scully’s and Emily’s. His looked ridiculous next to theirs, oversized, clunky, heavy. He smirked, picturing Emily as an adult, her feet just as small as Scully’s. Probably inheriting her mother’s height and her stubborn streak, too. He tugged off his tie, slipping it from his collar with an easy motion and hung it over the coat rack alongside his jacket. Then came the top button, then his cuffs, undone and rolled to the elbows. The layers of the day peeled back with each movement.

Scully padded down the stairs, her hair slightly damp from bath steam and sleeves rolled to her elbows. Mulder caught the distant look in her eyes, there was something weighing on her mind. She paused in front of the fire, letting the warmth seep into her, as if trying to pull herself back from wherever her thoughts had drifted.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Mulder said gently, his voice threading through the quiet. She blinked, drawn out of her reverie, and watched as he lowered himself onto the couch with the ease of someone trying not to push too hard.

“No, nothing,” she replied too quickly, then caught herself. “Actually… it’s not nothing.” Her eyes flicked away, then back. “I didn’t have a late meeting. I had a medical appointment this afternoon.”

He felt it, a flicker of unease tightening his chest, but he kept his voice even. “Is everything okay?”

She nodded, the movement small but deliberate. “Yeah, Mulder. I’m fine.” She held his gaze as if to anchor the truth there, steady and unshaken.

He exhaled softly. “Good.”

For a moment, he just watched her, trying to read the rest of it. “So what’s up?”

She hesitated, then met his eyes. “I took the stolen ova you found… to a fertility specialist. Someone I trust.”

Mulder’s breath caught just slightly, his posture tightening. “What did they say?”

There was the smallest shift in her expression, grief, hope, something unspoken, and then she smoothed it away.

“Most of them aren’t viable,” she answered softly. “But… two show promise.”

Mulder nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. He searched her face, measuring the quiet resolve there.

“And this is something you want to do?” he asked gently. “Fertility treatment?”

“I’m considering it,” she said, her voice low but certain.

Before he could respond, a knock sounded at the door, sharp and timely. The pizza.

Mulder started to rise, but Scully reached out with a quiet gesture, stopping him mid-motion.

“Please,” she said, with a small, almost wry smile. “I’m buying.”

She crossed the room toward the door, pausing just briefly to glance back over her shoulder.

“Thanks for watching Emily.” The gratitude in her tone was soft, but unmistakable.

She pulled her purse from the handbag that rested neatly on the small entry table by the coatrack and stepped toward the door. With a smooth motion, she opened it, letting in a rush of cold air and the unmistakable scent of melted cheese and cardboard. The delivery driver stood on the other side, box in hand, haloed by street light and December chill. She paid him quickly, murmured a quiet thanks, and took the warm box from his hands. The door closed behind her with a soft thud, shutting out the cold and sealing the cozy hush of the house around them once more. For now, the conversation was clearly over. The soft finality of the deadbolt sliding into place seemed to seal the moment, marking the end of it. Mulder felt relief prick at the edges of his nerves, and then guilt for feeling it. He didn’t understand why it sat so oddly in his chest, the news, the idea of her moving forward with something so personal, so hopeful. Maybe it was the reminder of everything she’d lost. Or maybe it was that strange ache, quiet, persistent, that he might not be part of whatever came next.

Scully set the pizza box down on the kitchen bench and vanished upstairs to fetch Emily. Mulder rose from the couch, moving into the kitchen with easy familiarity. He pulled three plates from the cupboard, then found knives and forks for himself and Scully. Emily, of course, could use her hands, part of the joy of pizza when you’re a kid. He set everything down on the table. The aroma of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the room. He glanced toward the stairs, hearing Emily’s bright, eager footsteps. She dashed into the kitchen with Scully on her heels, her laughter bubbling like sunshine. Her hair was still damp, freshly towel-dried. She was more than ready to dive into a cheesy slice of pizza, eyes shining with the simple thrill of the moment.

The three of them settled around the table, the warm scent of pizza rising between them, filling the quiet with something comforting and familiar. Emily chattered happily, her words tumbling out in a joyful stream, about school, about her toys, about absolutely nothing and everything all at once. Mulder and Scully listened, exchanging the occasional smile over her head. Mulder nodded along, occasionally tossing in a well-timed “No way!” or “You don’t say,” as Emily’s stories twisted and turned from playground dramas to her firm belief that Mr. Chips the T-Rex could, in fact, be trained to use a litter box. Scully listened with that soft, half-focused look she wore when her heart was full but her mind was still quietly circling something else. Every so often, her eyes would drift to Mulder, lingering a second longer than necessary. He caught one of those glances and offered her a small smile. She returned it, just barely, then reached for another slice.

Emily took a giant bite of her pizza, cheese stretching in long strands, and declared, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a dinosaur doctor AND a dinosaur trainer.”

Scully arched a brow. “Ambitious.”

Mulder grinned. “She gets it from her mother.”

Scully gave a soft huff of amusement and shook her head, but didn’t deny it.

Emily was on a roll now, eyes bright and hands animated as she spoke between enthusiastic bites.

“And I’m going to be Princess of Potatopia and an FBI Agent,” she declared proudly, “and I’m gonna train Mr. Chips to help me catch bad guys with Mulder.”

Mulder raised his brows. “Wow, that’s quite the résumé. I could use a T-Rex on my team.”

Scully, sipped from her glass of water. “That’s assuming Mr. Chips passes his background check.”

“That was just a misunderstanding,” Mulder said with conviction, shaking his head. “Mr. Chips is working on his anger. He’s in therapy,” he added matter-of-factly, reaching for another slice. “Barbie takes him every Tuesday.”

Emily sat there with a mouthful of pizza, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, chewing happily. She watched them go back and forth, not understanding half of what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. She was beaming, caught in the glow of their soft laughter, loving every second of simply being part of the moment. Dinner wound down in a comfortable hush, the kind that settles in when bellies are full and hearts are light. Emily nibbled the last of her crust before declaring herself full, then slipped off her chair and scampered toward the stairs at Scully’s gentle nudge. In the bathroom, she stood on tiptoe at the sink, her small hand gripping her toothbrush, scrubbing with the intensity of someone preparing for battle. Mulder leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her like she was some rare, wild creature, part hurricane, part heartbreaker.

“Don’t forget the back ones,” he said, and she responded with a foam-muffled, “I know, Mulder,” without missing a beat.

When teeth were brushed and pajamas were straightened, she crawled into bed with Mr. Chips tucked under one arm and her blankets nestled over her legs. Mulder plucked a book from the shelf, something soft-spined and familiar, and took a seat beside her.

“Storytime?” he asked.

Emily nodded, her voice a whisper. “The bunny one.”

Mulder smiled, flipping open The Velveteen Rabbit. His voice fell into a steady rhythm, low and warm, weaving the story like a spell. Emily blinked slowly, fighting sleep, her fingers curling into the comforter. By the time the Rabbit began to turn Real, she was nearly gone, breath soft and even, her little body still beneath the blankets. Scully stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded, watching them. The overhead light was off, only the hallway glow spilling in, catching the soft lines of Mulder’s face as he read the last few paragraphs. He closed the book gently, set it on the nightstand, and brushed a stray lock of hair from Emily’s forehead. Then he looked up at Scully, and for a long, silent moment, they just stared at each other, two people too afraid to face what they both already felt.

Mulder rose to his feet with practiced care, mindful not to stir the bed or the small girl sleeping soundly in it. He moved past Scully in the narrow hallway with a quiet glance, and she turned to pull the door gently halfway closed, letting a sliver of hallway light spill inside, just enough in case Emily woke in the night. She lingered for a moment, eyes on her daughter’s still form, soft and small beneath the covers. Then, with a sigh she didn’t quite mean to let out, she followed Mulder down the stairs. He was already gathering his things, coat slung over one arm, tie still off, sleeves still rolled. He bent to slide into his shoes near the door. He tucked his tie neatly into the pocket of his trousers, then slid his arms into his coat, the movements slow, deliberate. At the door, he turned back to her, offering a small, tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was polite. Familiar. And just a little too careful. Scully stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression unreadable. Neither of them spoke right away.

Scully had been planning to ask. The question was there on the tip of her tongue. Any plans for Christmas? Though she already knew Mulder didn’t really do Christmas. It was just another holiday to him, one he seemed to mostly ignore, for reasons he never offered and she never pressed him to explain. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was habit. She had rehearsed the invitation in her head, something casual and low-pressure, an open door for him to spend Christmas Eve with her and Emily. Nothing dramatic. Just... space at the table. A chair beside Emily. But as she stood there watching him tug on his coat and offer that too-neutral smile, something in her hesitated. The tone between them had shifted suddenly, subtle but noticeable. Not tense exactly, but cautious. Uncertain. Now didn’t feel like the moment. Scully was many things, and one of them was a woman who could read a room. And this room, right now, was telling her to wait.

“Thanks for the pizza,” Mulder said at last, his voice low, almost too casual. He shifted his weight, hand already on the doorknob. Not cold, just careful. Like he wasn’t sure what to say next, or if he should say more at all. “I should get going.”

Scully gave a small nod, her expression carefully composed, smooth, unreadable, practiced. She masked the flicker of disappointment with ease.

“Goodnight, Mulder,” she said softly, her voice even, offering him nothing more than what was safe.

He pulled the door open, and the cold met them like a wall, sharp and immediate, curling around their ankles and cutting straight through the warmth they'd built inside.

“Goodnight, Scully,” he said, voice quieter now, something almost reluctant tucked inside the words.

Then the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

She stood there a moment longer, the silence pressing in, the fire casting flickering shadows against the walls.

Alone again, with only the quiet crackle of flame and the echo of things left unsaid.

Chapter Text

There were only three things Mulder was certain of now. The first had never changed: he needed to know what happened to Samantha. That ache, muted some days, sharpened on others, still lived inside him like a splinter just out of reach. The second was newer, quieter, but no less resolute, if Scully was to have another child, he wanted to be the father. He wanted to be there, in the choosing, in the becoming. Wanted something whole to emerge from all they had lost. The third was Emily. He wanted to be her father, truly, not just in the quiet moments when no one was watching. He wanted to adopt her, give shape to what already lived in his heart. Make it official, as if paperwork could sanctify what had long since rooted itself in him. The problem was trying to reconcile the second two with the first. Wanting a future didn’t erase the past. But having one, building one, meant he couldn’t keep living inside the questions. At some point, he’d have to let go. Not of memory, but of the hold it had on him.

Late at night, when the world went still, he could almost picture it. A life not driven by the chase, but by presence. By choosing to stay. Scully would never ask him to stop. Not the search. Not the need that had carried him this far. She understood it in a way few ever had, not just the facts, but the feeling beneath them. And she respected that. If he was going to walk away, it would have to be his own doing. His choice. His desire. Not for her. Not even for peace. But because something inside him was finally ready. He didn’t know if that moment had come. But something was changing. The edges of the grief weren’t as sharp as they once were. The questions still lingered, but they no longer drowned out everything else. It wasn’t a decision he could make all at once. Not cleanly. The past had roots in him, deep and tangled. But he could feel the ground softening, the grip loosening.

Mulder was beginning to consider what he could offer, what he had, here and now, that might matter. His father had built his wealth carefully, methodically, and in the end, it had all come to him. Properties scattered up the coast. A solid stock portfolio. A savings account that had quietly grown over the years. It was substantial. The kind of inheritance that could shift the course of a life. But he’d never touched it. Hardly looked at it. It had always felt detached from the path he chose for himself, like it belonged to someone else's idea of purpose. Now, though, something had changed. He had a reason to turn toward it. To see it not as a relic of a strained relationship, but as a resource. A tool. Not for indulgence, but for building something better. For the first time, the weight of that legacy felt like it could mean something.

The little girl who had been brought into the world not to be loved, not to be wanted, but to be tortured and studied, to be used, deserved more than the story she was given. She deserved a future shaped by choice, not circumstance. He could give her that. He could make sure she walked the halls of the best private schools, that she graduated from an Ivy League without debt, without burden. He could ensure that when Emily stepped into adulthood, she did so with every advantage. He had no doubt Scully could give Emily a bright future on her own. She was capable, determined, ready to work hard for it. But he also knew the cost. The long hours. The sacrifices. The way she'd carry the weight quietly, without complaint. All he had to do was cash out some stock. A few signatures, a transfer of funds. Money that meant little to him, but could mean everything to Emily and her future.

The more he thought about it, the more it felt like the right place to start. A trust fund for Emily. Quiet, practical, unassuming. Not a sweeping confession. Not the kind of emotional leap that might leave them both unsteady. Just a step, one that meant something. It wouldn’t change everything, not all at once. But it could show her that he was finally moving, however slowly, toward something real. That he wasn’t standing still. And maybe, if she understood what it was, what it meant, she’d be willing to wait. To let him come to it in his own time. To trust that he was getting there. He wanted to be the man who could stand still, stay present, offer more than just the search. He wasn’t sure how long it would take, or what it would cost him to arrive, but the want was there. Steady. Unshakable. And for now, that had to be enough.

He felt a pang of guilt about rushing out on Scully the night before. But after she dropped that fertility treatment grenade on him, he realized there was a lot he needed to process, things he hadn’t been ready to face all at once. It wasn’t about shutting her out. It was about needing space to sort through the chaos she’d stirred up, to find a way forward that made sense. And so, on Christmas Eve, he found himself alone in his apartment. The city outside buzzed with celebration, but inside, the quiet settled around him like a weight and a comfort all at once. The faint glow of a single lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the silence gave space for the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Here, away from the noise and the expectations, he could feel the distance between where he was and where he hoped to be. But more than that, he could feel the first stirrings of something else, a fragile hope, quietly growing in the stillness of the night.

It wasn’t too late. Christmas Eve stretched ahead, and Emily would still be awake. He pictured them both, clad in garish Christmas pajamas, mugs of eggnog in hand, settled in front of the fire. The tree’s blinking lights casting a gentle glow, filling the room with a quiet, familiar warmth. He wanted to be there. He wondered, not for the first time, if she wanted him there too. He hesitated, caught between the pull of hope and the weight of doubt. He glanced at his phone, fingers hovering over the keypad. Their gifts were wrapped and stashed in the trunk of his car. Nothing flashy, just something, waiting quietly for the moment he decided to grow a spine and show up.

He stood, slipped his phone into his pocket, and took the keys from the coffee table. Better to move than to sit here and let his thoughts tighten their loop. The leather jacket went on with a practiced motion, heavy and familiar. He pulled on his boots and laced them with more resolve than care. The hallway outside was still. The door clicked shut behind him, lock turning with a muted finality. Beyond the building, the city lay cold under a soft layer of snow. Christmas lights blinked from windows across the street, casting fractured color onto the sidewalk as he walked to the car. The cold bit at his fingers when he opened the trunk, metal stiff with frost. He checked to make sure everything was there. It was, the gifts, modest but thoughtfully chosen, stacked with quiet intention. He slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key.

By the time he stood in front of the row house, its windows glowing warm against the cold, the doubt had returned and deepened. The lights strung along the windows blinked cheerfully, casting soft reds and greens onto the snow-dusted steps. The air smelled faintly of chimney smoke. He stood there, motionless for a moment, the wrapped gifts tucked under one arm like something he wasn’t quite sure he had the right to give. This was Scully’s first Christmas with Emily in their home. He knew why they’d stayed here. California held too many landmines, memories, flashpoints, old shadows lurking in familiar corners. Scully didn’t want to risk it. Not this year. Not when Emily was just beginning to feel like her life belonged to her again.

And now here he was, standing on the edge of that choice with wrapped boxes in his arms. This was supposed to be their holiday. Their beginning. Maybe what Emily needed tonight was the steadiness of her mother, the quiet rituals of just the two of them, learning how to be a family without anyone else folding into the space. Maybe there was bonding to be done he didn’t belong to. Maybe his being here was less a gesture of love than an intrusion. He looked up at the door. The wreath hung slightly crooked, a child’s hand likely responsible. Light flickered faintly behind the curtains. He shifted the weight of the gifts in his arms and let the cold settle through his jacket, into his bones. No one had seen him yet. He could still leave. The street behind him was still. He could knock. He could turn around. The choice hung there, suspended in the glow of snow and blinking lights, and for a moment, he didn’t move at all.

The choice vanished the instant the door opened. Light spilled across the snow-covered sidewalk, warm and inviting, and there she stood, Scully, framed in the doorway in red pajamas so loud they practically lit the house on their own. Reindeer, candy canes, something that might’ve been holly or mistletoe scattered across the fabric. A Santa hat slouched over one side of her head, defiant against gravity, the white pompom resting just above her temple. She looked ridiculous. She looked beautiful. The kind of beautiful that hit him without warning

“I was wondering if you were going to stand out there all night,” she said.

He swallowed, shifted the weight of the gifts in his arms, something awkward fluttering in his chest. Warm air curled out past her, cinnamon and woodsmoke, and the faintest sound of Emily’s voice from somewhere deeper in the house. He looked past Scully to the softly lit living room, where the tree blinked steadily and stockings hung from the mantle. He looked back at her. She was still watching him, eyes a little too bright, lips parted like she might say something more but didn’t need to.

“I brought presents,” he said, quietly, as if that explained everything.

She glanced down at the packages, then up at him again. Her smile widened just slightly, more in her eyes than her mouth. “Is one of them for me?”

It was meant to be light, maybe even teasing, but there was something else underneath it, uncertainty, maybe. Possibly hope.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Maybe…”

She said nothing at first, just stepped back to let him in. And as he passed, she brushed the edge of her hand against his sleeve, barely there, but enough.

“Good,” she said, amused and clearly lying. “Cos I didn’t get you anything.”

Mulder grinned as she took the gifts from his hands, her fingers grazing his just slightly, deliberate or not, he couldn’t tell. She turned without ceremony and carried them to the tree, crouching to slide them into the small cluster already waiting beneath the branches. The lights blinked lazily above her, casting slow-moving color across her back, the Santa hat dipping with her movement. He watched her in the quiet. The way her shoulders moved. The way she adjusted one of the packages to make room, unnecessarily but carefully. Like it mattered where it went. He felt the doubt ease, like a tide finally starting to go out.

There was a soft creak on the floorboards, then the whisper of socked feet sliding to a stop. Mulder turned just as Emily appeared in the living room, one hand still clutching the edge of the wall, the other wrapped around a half-eaten cookie. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing with a kind of exaggerated scrutiny. Her arms crossed loosely over her chest, perfect imitation of her mother, cookie forgotten.

“Aww,” she said, voice half-excited, half-not. “I thought you were Santa.”

Mulder blinked. “Disappointed?”

She shrugged, but the corner of her mouth curved.

He nodded toward the tree. “Mulder Claus might have left something for you.”

Her eyes lit up, brighter than the tree behind her, and before either of them could say another word, she was running straight at him, arms lifted, no hesitation. Mulder chuckled and stooped to scoop her up, her arms wrapping loosely around his neck, cookie crumbs brushing against his jacket.

“Tell me all about your day,” Mulder said warmly.

He eased onto the couch and propped Emily up on his knee. “Did you do anything fun?”

Emily didn’t hesitate. “We went ice skating!” she declared, bouncing slightly as she spoke.

Mulder’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

He glanced toward Scully, who stood a few steps away near the tree, watching them with a softness he rarely saw outside the quiet edges of moments like this.

“Is your mommy good at skating?” he asked, eyes twinkling. “Or did she fall on her butt?”

Emily dissolved into a fit of giggles, shaking her head so hard her reindeer antlers slipped sideways. “Mommy is good at it,” she said between laughs. “She can do spins!”

Mulder turned his gaze back to Scully, clearly impressed. “Wow… Spins, huh?”

Scully shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I had a childhood,” she said. “It involved winter.”

“She didn’t fall at all,” Emily added proudly. “She even helped a little boy who was scared.”

Mulder looked at Scully again, longer this time, something soft in his eyes. “Of course she did.”

Emily leaned back against his chest, all snug and warm, her small hands clasped loosely in her lap. The weight of her felt natural there, like she’d always belonged.

“You should come with us,” she said, voice soft now. “Mommy can teach you.”

Mulder smiled into her hair, the scent of sugar and shampoo clinging faintly to her. “Sure… as long as nobody expects me to do any spins.”

From near the fireplace, Scully let out a low laugh. Mulder grinned, resting his chin lightly on top of Emily’s head.

Emily reached for his hand and laced her tiny fingers through his without thinking.

“You can hold my hand if you get scared.”

That did something to him, something simple and unspoken.

“Deal,” he said softly.

Scully added another log to the fire, the wood catching with a quiet pop as the flames stirred back to life. The warmth breathed back into the room behind her as she stepped into the kitchen. She reached for the carton of eggnog, and poured it carefully into three fresh mugs, then dusted the tops with cinnamon. The scent was familiar. Sweet, spiced, comforting. Her heart felt so full it could’ve burst all over the kitchen. He had shown up. Not because she’d called, or asked, or made it clear that she wanted him to. He’d simply come. Cold and quiet, standing out there on the street like he didn’t know if he should knock. She set the mug gently on the tray beside hers and Emily’s. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and she looked down at the counter to steady herself. He wasn’t made for this kind of life, had never asked for it, but there were moments, fleeting, quiet, when he wore it like it fit. And in those moments, she almost let herself believe that maybe it could.

She balanced the tray carefully as she stepped back into the living room. Emily was curled up under a blanket now, one foot poking out, while Mulder sat beside her, half-turned, listening intently to whatever story she was telling. He looked like he belonged there. Not in some grand, sweeping way, but in the quiet, ordinary sense that sneaks up when no one’s paying attention. She set the tray down on the coffee table and handed him a mug.

“Eggnog,” she said simply.

This time, it was his fingers that brushed hers as he took the mug. His hand lingered, just a second longer than it needed to. His thumb grazed the side of hers, slow, deliberate. She felt the warmth of it through her skin, through the quiet, through everything unspoken that had been hanging between them since he walked through the door. Her breath caught, not visibly, not audibly, but inward, a shift she felt in her chest and nowhere else. He looked up at her then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes steady on hers. Not questioning. Not asking. Just there, open in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

The fire crackled softly nearby. Emily murmured something about Mr. Chips. Scully let her fingers fall away first. Slowly, carefully, like the contact meant more than either of them wanted to admit. And maybe it did. Maybe it always had. She sank onto the edge of the couch beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from where his leg brushed hers. Neither of them spoke. There was no need. They both felt it, like embers beneath ash, quiet, glowing. Ready to ignite, if either of them dared to strike the match.

Emily, unaware of the delicate tension strung taut between the two adults, tugged lightly at Scully’s sleeve, her voice bright with anticipation. “You said we could open one tonight,” she reminded her, eyes wide with the certainty that a promise, once made, must hold. She looked down at Emily’s small face, so open, so expectant, and nodded, just once, slowly, though a part of her still lingered in a moment not yet spoken, a question not yet asked.

"One," she said quietly, a ghost of a smile forming. "But first let’s give Mulder the one you picked for him."

Emily’s face lit with quiet pride, as though entrusted with a mission of great importance. She slid off the couch and turned toward the modest stack beneath the tree, hands moving with the deliberate care of someone much older, guided by the memory of her own small choice. The wrapping paper she had insisted on, covered in lopsided stars and faint glitter, caught the lamplight as she lifted it, clutching the corners to her chest.

She crossed the room to him with all the solemnity of a child presenting a treasure. “It’s the one I picked,” she said, holding it out with both hands, her voice quiet but firm.

He took the gift gently, as though it might bruise. “Then I already know it’s perfect,” he said, his voice warm, even as something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

Scully wrapped her arms around herself, not from cold, but from the fragile sense that something important was being carefully held between them all, something tender and tentative, trying to become real. It was too much to hope for, yet she could feel it anyway, like the faint pulse of a whispered promise just beyond reach, fragile as the first thaw of winter light breaking through long-held shadows. Her breath caught briefly, a quiet surrender to the possibility that, for a moment, they might find something like peace beneath the weight of loss and longing. And though the air remained heavy with what was unspoken, that small spark persisted, delicate, luminous, waiting to be coaxed into life.

Mulder peeled back the edges of the wrapping paper with slow, deliberate care, as if each crease might hold a secret not to be disturbed. He spared the paper the harshness of rough hands, folding it back gently, mindful of the effort it represented. Inside, nestled snug, was a pair of men’s Christmas pajamas, bright green, patterned with rows of jaunty Mr. Potato Heads. He laughed then, a deep, genuine sound that rolled through the room like a warm breeze, unexpected and full of lightness. The sound caught Emily’s attention, and her face brightened with quiet delight, her small chest puffing out with pride.

Holding the pajamas up, Mulder shook his head with amused disbelief. “These are something else,” he said, voice soft but full of humor. “Nice pick, kiddo.”

Emily beamed, her small arms slipping around his waist in a quick, earnest hug. Mulder returned it without hesitation, the faintest crease of warmth softening his features. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and she grinned.

“Thank you,” he grinned back, “They’re awesome.”

His eyes found Scully’s across the quiet flicker of the tree lights. “Whose turn is it now?” he asked, voice low, the echo of amusement still lingering there.

Her gaze caught his, steady and shining with mischief. “No one’s opening any more presents until you put your pajamas on,” she said, the faintest curl of a smirk playing at her lips.

Emily let out a burst of delighted giggles, the sound bright and unrestrained. “Yeah! Put your jammies on, Mulder!”

Mulder’s eyes flicked between them, Scully with her raised brow and barely concealed smile, Emily practically vibrating with glee. He knew then there was no way out, no loophole clever enough to spare him. With a dramatic sigh, equal parts surrender and theatrical flair, he rose to his feet, pajamas bunched in one hand like a flag of reluctant defeat.

“All right, all right,” he muttered, shaking his head as he turned toward the staircase with a soft smile.

Emily’s giggles followed him like a trail of sparks, light and uncontainable, chasing him step by step up to the second floor. The sound lingered even after he disappeared from view, curling into the quiet like a promise of something good. Inside the bathroom, he pulled the door shut behind him with a click. He leaned down, tugged off his boots, and left his thick socks on, the warmth a small comfort against the cool floor. His jacket came next, then the rest, layers peeled away slowly, deliberately. He folded each item with care, smoothing out creases, placing them in a neat stack on the counter.

He pulled the pajamas on, pants first, the flannel soft and warm against his skin. The top followed, Mr. Potato Heads grinning up at him from the mirror with absurd confidence. Mulder stared at his reflection for a long beat. And then he grinned. The image staring back at him was ridiculous, full-grown man, government badge somewhere in that folded pile, now dressed like he belonged in a Saturday morning cartoon. But it was warm. And it was silly. And somehow, it felt exactly right. He stepped out of the bathroom and crossed the hall to Scully’s room, the quiet creak of the floorboards marking his passage. There, he dropped the neatly folded stack of clothes onto the chair near the window and nudged his boots beneath it with the side of his foot, as if tucking away the last remnants of the man he’d been a few minutes ago.

Then he turned, padded softly to Emily’s room, and without hesitation, plucked Mr. Chips the T-Rex from where he lay on the bed. He tucked the dinosaur under one arm with a solemn nod, like retrieving a trusted companion for battle. And then, he stomped. Loud and theatrical, down the stairs like an overgrown child unleashed, socked feet thudding just enough to echo. At the bottom, he didn’t pause. He slid into the living room with a flourish, the dinosaur tucked tightly to his ribs, his momentum carrying him past the tree and into full view. Scully and Emily were already laughing, the sound bubbling up in anticipation.

He gave them what they wanted, strutted like a runway model, swinging his hips with exaggerated flair, turning on his heel, and giving a ridiculous butt wiggle as he went. Emily collapsed into giggles, breathless and delighted. Scully’s hand covered her mouth as she watched him, her own giggles escaping into her palm. He paused mid-strut, one hand on his hip, the other still clutching Mr. Chips like a prized accessory. His expression was all mock seriousness, brows raised, lips pursed as if daring them not to applaud. Mulder gave one last spin, then bowed deeply, as though accepting some imaginary award for Outstanding Ridiculousness in a Lead Role. He collapsed onto the floor beside Emily, grinning, Mr. Chips flopping into her lap. She hugged him close and leaned against Mulder without a word, her small frame fitting easily at his side. She was still giggling.

“Okay. Pajamas are on. Who goes next?” Mulder asked, his voice low and laced with amusement.

He absently rubbed warm, comforting circles on Emily’s back. She was still giggling, her face half-buried in Mr. Chips, the dinosaur tucked close like a co-conspirator. His touch soothed even as it stirred her laughter. Scully rose from the couch with a smile tugging at her lips. She crossed to the tree and settled beside them on the floor.

She leaned slightly toward Emily, her voice gentle. “Emily can go next.”

Emily’s face lit up, eyes wide and bright in the shimmer of the tree lights. “Can I open Mulder’s present?”

“Sure,” Scully said, the word carrying a quiet warmth.

Mulder reached beneath the lowest boughs of the tree and drew out a red box, square and simple, topped with a silver bow that caught the light just so. He handed it to Emily with both hands, his expression unreadable but soft around the edges. “You don’t need to unwrap this one,” he said, voice low. “Just take the lid off.”

Emily took the box carefully, resting it on the floor in front of her like something precious. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she lifted the lid, eyes wide and sparkling. Inside the box lay two treasures: a thick, colorful dinosaur encyclopedia, its pages bursting with illustrations and facts that promised endless bed time reading, and beside it, a decent-sized stegosaurus tucked neatly in its own packaging, a perfect companion for Mr. Chips. Her breath caught, a soft gasp of wonder slipping from her lips. She lifted the stegosaurus carefully, turning the box over in her hands as if greeting an old friend. Mulder smiled, watching her with something warm and tender behind his eyes.

“Looks like Mr. Chips finally got a partner,” he said, voice low but full of quiet delight.

Scully watched Mulder from under the tree, her gaze steady but heavy with emotions she kept carefully guarded. The soft glow of the Christmas lights caught in her eyes, and for a moment, the careful calm she wore cracked, just enough for a flicker of something raw and vulnerable to slip through. She blinked quickly, as if trying to swallow the weight pressing against her chest, but the truth had already betrayed her, caught in the slight shimmer that danced unbidden across her lashes. Mulder caught the glance, the subtle shift, and something softened deep in his eyes. He didn’t say a word, but in that silence, a conversation passed between them, one filled with all the complexity and tenderness they couldn’t put into words, all the ache and hope tangled together beneath the surface. Scully looked away slowly, drawing a steadying breath, but the moment lingered, warm and fragile.

Emily climbed into Mulder’s lap, the oversized encyclopedia clutched awkwardly in her arms, its weight nearly too much for her but held tight all the same. The book was clearly meant for older kids, dense with detail, full of long names and longer explanations. He adjusted her gently, steadying the book across both their knees, one arm around her middle. In his mind, there was nothing out of place about her eagerness, no reason to shield her from things simply because they were complex. She was curious, sharp, endlessly drawn to the world’s mysteries, and he saw no harm in feeding that spark. Emily nestled deeper into Mulder’s lap as they flipped through the thick pages together, the book sprawling open across their legs like a map to some forgotten world. She turned the pages quickly, her small fingers brushing vibrant illustrations of towering sauropods and sharp-toothed predators, too excited to linger for long. Mulder smiled as he watched her eyes widen, her lips parting in quiet wonder.

“We’ll read some at bedtime,” he promised, voice low and steady in her ear. “The whole chapter on stegosauruses. Deal?”

Emily nodded solemnly, as if agreeing to something sacred.

He closed the book gently, smoothing the cover with one hand before setting it aside. “But for now,” he said, glancing toward Scully, his grin returning, “I think it’s Mommy’s turn.”

Mulder felt a faint twinge stir in his belly, a flutter of nerves he hadn’t expected. The gift he’d chosen wasn’t flashy or grand. It wouldn’t dazzle at first glance. Wrapped in plain green paper and topped with a lopsided gold bow, it looked unassuming, the sort of thing one might set aside and forget. But not to him. To him, it meant something. It was quiet, personal, an offering layered with memory and intention. And now that he was about to hand it over, he found himself holding his breath, just a little. He picked up the skinny cardboard tube from beneath the tree and turned it over in his hands once, then again, as if steadying himself. Then he offered it to her with both hands, careful and solemn, like he was passing her something sacred. Scully’s eyes lit with amusement at first, her smile teasing. But something in his expression caught her. She rubbed her hands together, almost ceremonially, before reaching forward and taking it from him.

“It’s just a little something for your basement,” Mulder said, voice lighter than before, a faint edge of self-consciousness creeping in as he shifted where he sat.

He tried to downplay it, shrink the moment a little, suddenly unsure of how much weight he'd handed over with that simple tube. His fingers tapped absently against his knee, and he looked anywhere but directly at her, as if giving her the gift had made him suddenly too visible. But Scully was already peeling back the paper with slow, curious fingers, her smile lingering, not because of the wrapping or even the promise of what lay inside, but because she knew him. And she could feel the weight he was trying to brush off, the meaning that clung to the edges of this “little something.”

Once the paper was gone, she popped off the round plastic cap with a soft snap and tipped the tube upside down. A roll of glossy paper slid into her waiting hand, smooth and cool against her fingers. She unrolled it slowly, the paper crackling faintly in the quiet as it gave way. And then, there it was. The poster. Achingly familiar. Haunting, even. The same one that had hung in the cluttered shadows of his basement office for years, its corners curled, its colors faded by time and lamplight. But this one was new. Pristine. The whites brighter, the sky deeper, the outline of the flying saucer crisp. And beneath it, in bold, unwavering type: I WANT TO BELIEVE. She stared at it, a quiet unfolding happening behind her eyes. All the years it had watched over them. All the doubt and faith and fire wrapped up in those four words. She said nothing at first, but her fingers gripped the edges just a little tighter, her eyes locked on the image.

It certainly wasn’t the kind of decor she would have chosen for her office, too earnest, too bold, too Mulder. And yet, as she stared down at it, the corners still resisting the unroll, she knew it was perfect. It wasn’t just a poster. It was memory. Two people, often at odds, but never apart. It spoke of the hours spent shoulder to shoulder at his cluttered desk, the stale smell of government buildings, the hum of old lights overhead. It spoke of dark roads at midnight, cheap coffee in strange towns, the glow of dashboards in the dark, the sound of their voices rising and falling in endless debate, two people circling the same mystery from opposite ends. It spoke of all their arguments, the endless tug-of-war between science and fantasy, between evidence and instinct, doubt and faith, stubbornness and trust. It was a hundred small moments stitched together by something larger than either of them could name.

It felt almost like an acknowledgement, unspoken but unmistakable, that even though she was no longer officially tied to the X-Files, they were still a team. Still bound by the same thread that had pulled them together. Only now, the mystery wasn’t etched in case files or hidden in grainy photographs. It was smaller. Quieter. More personal. They were still circling it, still seeking. But this time, the truth wasn’t out there. Maybe, it was here. She looked up at him then, the poster still held between her hands. Her expression softened, the edges of it caught somewhere between a smile and something else, something deeper.

“It’s perfect,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a breath. “Thank you.”

Their eyes held, suspended in that small, delicate space between words. Something passed between them, warm, unhurried, and full of meaning. But before it could settle into something too heavy, too exposing, Emily gave the Stegosaurus box an emphatic shake, the plastic rattle breaking the moment like a pebble tossed into still water.

“Thank you!” she chirped brightly, echoing her mother’s sentiment in her own delighted way.

Mulder smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he took the box from her small hands. He worked the plastic tabs loose, grateful for the distraction, for something to do with his fingers and his thoughts. He set the open box on the floor in front of her, careful and deliberate, and from her perch on his lap, Emily leaned forward with all the focus in the world. She reached in and gently pulled the stegosaurus free, cradling it like something precious. The toy was sturdy and green with wide, flat plates down its back and a cheerful lack of menace, more companion than predator. Emily turned it over in her hands, studying every inch as if the right name might be hidden in the curve of its tail.

Mulder watched her, his voice soft. “What are you going to name it?”

Emily didn’t look up. Her brow furrowed slightly, all seriousness.

“Dunno,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “Gotta think about it.”

Mulder nodded solemnly, as if she’d just told him something very important. “Fair,” he said. “Big decision.”

Emily placed Mr. Chips and his new buddy side by side on the floor, lining them up with care. The T-Rex leaned ever so slightly into the shiny bulk of the stegosaurus, as if already familiar. She smiled at them, wide and certain, her voice gentle but full of promise.

“We’ll go on lots of adventures,” she said, nodding once, as though sealing a pact between them.

Scully smiled faintly as she rolled the poster with practiced fingers, smoothing the edges before slipping it gently back into the tube. She set it beside her, careful, like it was something more than paper and ink, something meant to last. Mulder said nothing. He sat with Emily still nestled in his lap, her dinosaurs arranged at their feet like they were already mid-journey. But his eyes were far away, unfocused. He could see her. Not as she was now, small and bright with a laugh always just beneath the surface, but older. Grown. Standing in the glow of a research lab, the sharp white of a coat buttoned over her frame. She leaned forward under a hanging lamp, gloved hands turning an ancient fossil gently beneath the light, part bone, part mystery. A stegosaurus vertebra, maybe. Her eyes, Scully’s eyes, studied it with calm, practiced precision, but there was wonder there, too. That quiet kind Mulder recognized.

He blinked, returned to the soft murmur of the living room, the rustle of wrapping paper, the weight of Emily still warm against him. He knew, whatever she wanted to be, it didn’t matter. Paleontologist, lawyer, accountant, hairdresser. The title was hers to choose. The dream, hers to build. What mattered was being there. He wanted to be the steady hand beside her, one half of the team that helped carry her forward, through questions, through failures, through every sharp turn and shining moment. He wanted to give her everything. Because love, he had learned, wasn’t always complicated. Sometimes it was a man in ridiculous Mr. Potato Head pajamas holding a dinosaur box, watching a child build a world on the floor in front of him, and knowing, without doubt, that he would follow her into it.

It wasn’t instinct or certainty that carried him. It was hope. The quiet, determined kind that lived somewhere just beneath the doubt. He wanted to believe. And maybe, Scully wanted to believe it too. That’s why he’d chosen the poster. Not for nostalgia. Not for irony. But as a marker. A small, almost private reminder that he was still trying. Still becoming. Still on his way. Mulder reached out slowly, his hand brushing against Scully’s. A flicker of soft surprise crossed her face, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers curled gently around his, returning the quiet squeeze with a touch of her own. He laced his fingers through hers, careful and steady, as if anchoring himself in the moment. They sat like that, hands entwined, the only sound the soft rustle of paper and Emily’s whispered play. The glow of the Christmas tree wrapped around them, warm, steady, unspoken. Each lost in their own thoughts, yet somehow together. Watching Emily, watching the promise of something still unfolding before them.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, back in his Oxford days, Mulder had lived through what some might call a pregnancy scare with Phoebe. It had been brief, tense, and oddly clarifying. He’d known, instinctively, immediately, that he wasn’t ready to be a father. Not then. Not at twenty-one, when the world still felt like something he could outrun. But even in the haze of youth and uncertainty, he’d also known he wouldn’t walk away. He cared for her, had even called it love, back then, before he understood how deep and complex that word could really be. Whatever it was, he’d meant it in the way that counts when things get real. He wouldn’t have let her face it alone. Still, when the results came in, just a late period, likely stress and finals, they were both relieved. No child. No shift in course. Just a quiet return to normal, the moment passing like a shadow in the hallway.

Now that he was ready to be a father, Mulder felt more grateful than ever that it had been a false alarm. He couldn’t even imagine the life that would’ve followed if the test had come back positive. A version of himself anchored in England, tethered to Phoebe and her insufferably polished, socially ambitious family. Dinners with people who judged your worth by your lineage, weekends spent pretending to care about titles and old money, a career chosen more for appearances than passion.

He could see it now, hazy but horrifying: pressed suits, strained smiles, a flat somewhere in London, maybe even a cottage in the country for the holidays. The occasional headline about some charity gala he’d attended with Phoebe, their marriage already starting to fracture under the weight of all the things they’d never really shared. No baseball. No basketball. No NFL Sundays. He’d have to pretend to care about soccer scores and learn the rules of cricket. Rugby. God help him. It would’ve been a completely different life. One built on obligation instead of choice.
And as chaotic and unpredictable as this one was, he knew without a shadow of doubt: this was the life he was meant to have. And Scully was always destined to be in it.

Christmas had rolled into New Year, the days folding softly into one another, full of quiet moments and the lingering warmth of shared space. And somewhere in that gentle lull between holidays, Scully found the courage to ask. Would he be willing, to be the donor, to take that step with her, to become part of something she wasn’t even sure she should hope for. The odds weren’t good, but she wanted to try. She had asked it carefully, measured and calm, like she always did when the stakes were high. And of course, he’d said yes. Without hesitation, without needing to be convinced. Because in the end, there was only one good reason that mattered. He loved her. And he wanted to be a part of this. Of her hope. Of her future. Of whatever might come next.

He waited on her sofa, the television remote resting loosely in his hand as he flicked through the channels with no real intention of landing on anything. The soft murmur of shifting voices and canned laughter filled the space, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting. On the floor in front of the coffee table, Emily was stretched out on her stomach, legs crossed at the ankles, fully absorbed in the world of coloring. Her brow was furrowed in quiet concentration as she filled in the petals of a too-big flower. Mr. Chips, all teeth and plastic bravado, loomed protectively over the crayons like a prehistoric bodyguard. Dr. Spuddy the stegosaurus took her place just beside him, calm and resolute, the steady anchor to Mr. Chips’ jittery alertness.

Soon, Scully would walk through the door, with the answer, good or bad, to a thousand quiet hopes. And of all days, it had to fall on her birthday. Outwardly, Mulder looked calm, even casual. For a man who didn’t really do birthdays, he was surprisingly prepared. Chinese takeout was en route, a small cake, chocolate, her favorite, tucked away in the fridge. He’d picked Emily up early from preschool and taken her shopping, letting her choose a gift for her mother. She chose a large lavender candle in a glass jar, picked for the smell. Emily had been confident: “Mommy will like this.” Mulder thought he did okay. Maybe even good. But inside, he was pacing. Quietly, invisibly pacing. This was her one shot. Appointments, injections, bloodwork, all narrowing to this single moment. He knew how much she had poured into it, not just physically, but emotionally, financially, completely invested. He wanted the result to be positive.

He looked up at the sound of her key turning in the lock, his body going still, remote forgotten in his hand. The door eased open, letting in a gust of late winter air before closing again with a soft thud. Scully stepped inside, her coat wrapped tightly around her, cheeks flushed from the cold, or maybe something else. She moved with that familiar, composed grace, but he watched her closely, every detail under quiet scrutiny. The way she exhaled, the way her fingers lingered as she dropped her keys on the hall table. And then her eyes met his. That was all it took.

There it was, the unmistakable sparkle. The kind of quiet, glowing joy she never wore loudly, but he knew it when he saw it. It was written in the faint curve of her mouth, in the soft light behind her gaze. She was happy. And that could only mean one thing. Before he could speak, Emily scrambled to her feet, crayons forgotten, and dashed across the room to her mother. Scully bent to kiss the top of her daughter’s head, steadying herself against the small, sudden weight of love. Mulder rose slowly, eyes still locked on hers.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low, careful, not wanting to give anything away, not yet.

Emily didn’t know, not about this. This was still a secret held delicately between them. Scully gave the smallest nod, her eyes shining. And just like that, the weight in his chest lifted. He stepped toward her, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth, and raised his hand for a high five.

“Go team,” he said, just as her palm met his with a sharp, satisfying slap.

It was simple, light, almost absurdly understated for what the moment meant, but it was them. A quiet celebration wrapped in humor, humility, and the kind of partnership that had weathered more than most. She smiled up at him, eyes still bright, and for just a second, the world felt perfectly still. This was it. This was the moment. The beginning of something real, something he didn’t want to lose, didn’t want to pause, didn’t want to overthink. And it was shattered by a knock at the door. He glanced down at Emily, who was now peeking up at him from where she clung to one of Scully’s legs, her little arms wrapped tightly around her mother.

“Dinner time,” she declared happily.

Mulder chuckled, the sound low and warm.

“Let the birthday festivities begin,” he said, giving her a wink before turning toward the door.

As Mulder paid for and accepted the food with a nod of thanks, Emily released her grip on Scully and took off up the stairs, her footsteps loud and fast, each one echoing with purpose. Scully slipped out of her coat, the weight of the day finally falling from her shoulders. She hung it carefully on the rack beside Mulder’s well-worn trench coat and Emily’s tiny purple parka, the three of them lined up like a quiet snapshot of everything they’d become. A moment later, Emily came bounding back down the stairs, her grin impossibly wide, both hands clutching a brightly wrapped present that was nearly the size of her torso. She held it out like an offering, eyes shining.

“For your birthday!” she announced proudly, as if the gift had been conjured entirely by her own magic.

Scully sat at the dining table, her fingers gently peeling back the tape on Emily’s proudly wrapped gift, the paper crinkling beneath her touch. Across from her, Mulder moved with easy rhythm, unpacking the food, arranging cartons in the center of the table like a makeshift feast. The warm scents of sesame and soy filled the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of birthday cake still sealed in its box. The whole thing felt almost surreal. She couldn’t have imagined, on her birthday last year, that the next one would look like this. That she’d be sitting in a quiet, lived-in home with a child wrapped around her leg minutes earlier, and another growing steadily beneath her ribs. That Mulder would be standing in her kitchen like he belonged there. Because he did now. So much had shifted in just one orbit around the sun.

Emily was settled, secure in ways Scully had once only hoped for, laughing more, asking questions that came faster than answers, already preparing for kindergarten at Holy Trinity in the fall. And the baby… the baby was real now. Not a wish or a plan or a stack of paperwork at the fertility clinic, but real life, growing quietly inside her. By the time the leaves turned and the days shortened again, there would be another heartbeat in this house. Another chapter unfolding. Even Mulder hadn’t been spared by the year’s current. He’d always lived on the edges of things, on the fringe, in the shadows, chasing the extraordinary. But this past year had asked something else of him: presence. Stability. A kind of quiet courage that wasn’t found in dark woods or government secrets, but in early morning pancakes, in preschool pickup lines, in the weight of a small hand trusting his. And he’d risen to meet it. In his own way, in his own time, he’d grown too. They all had.

She reached for Emily without thinking, pulling her onto her lap. The swell of emotion came fast, unbidden, a warmth in her chest, a prickle at the corners of her eyes. She closed them for a moment, pressing her cheek to Emily’s hair, breathing her in. Vanilla shampoo and something faintly like glue. Scully held her close, pressing her lips gently to the top of her daughter’s head, and let the feeling rise. She had made so many decisions in the wake of Emily’s arrival, some logical, some instinctive, all of them seismic. Her job, her address, her future. She had rewritten the framework of her life, not out of obligation, but out of something deeper. Something rooted in love and fierce determination. And somehow, Mulder had been woven into all of it. He wasn’t just present, he was foundational. He hadn’t just helped build this life with her; he had helped create the one growing within her now.

Mulder set three champagne flutes on the table with exaggerated ceremony, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. Scully arched an eyebrow, already opening her mouth to remind him, gently, that alcohol was off the table for her now. But before she could get the words out, he reached into the paper bag beside him and produced a bottle of sparkling apple cider, holding it up like a magician revealing the final act.

“Non-alcoholic,” he said, tone mock-serious but eyes warm.

Scully grinned, warmth blooming behind her eyes as he popped the cap and poured, the bubbles rising cheerfully in the flutes. He handed the first glass to Emily with a quiet reminder, “Two hands, kiddo. This is the fancy stuff.” She nodded solemnly and took the flute with both hands, her little face full of responsibility. Once everyone had a glass in hand, Mulder straightened, turned toward Scully, and cleared his throat in dramatic fashion.

“A birthday toast,” he announced, “for the brilliant and still-enigmatic, Dr. Dana Katherine Scully.”

He raised his glass with a grin and Emily mirrored him immediately, her arms shooting up with enthusiasm, nearly sloshing cider over the rim. Scully chuckled softly and lifted hers too, the glass catching the firelight from the hearth. As they ate, it was Emily who kept the conversation afloat, chatting between bites, her stories tumbling out one after the other with the effortless enthusiasm only a four-year-old could sustain. She talked about her preschool friends, the art project she’d started but didn’t finish, and how she was pretty sure dogs understood English, especially when it came to snack time. Scully nodded along, offering the occasional “Really?” or “He did?” with practiced attentiveness, while Mulder chimed in just enough to keep the rhythm going.

Emily was, of course, completely oblivious to the weight of the moment quietly sitting between the two adults at the table, the life-changing news that had arrived that day, and everything it meant for them. For Scully and Mulder, dinner wasn’t just dinner tonight. It was the beginning of something. But for Emily, it was just Tuesday. Her mom’s birthday. A good excuse for cake and a fancy glass of apple juice. And somehow, that innocence grounded them. Kept it all from tipping too far into the surreal. She talked, and they listened. They smiled, shared glances across the table, and let the weight of the moment settle gently.

Afterward, Scully took the reins on bath time, her quiet laughter echoing faintly from upstairs as Emily splashed and chattered behind the closed door. Mulder stayed behind, sleeves rolled up, methodically clearing away the remnants of dinner. Once the counters were wiped down and the table cleared, he turned his attention to the cake. He arranged the candles in a neat circle across the frosting. Not too many, just enough to make a wish feel official. He heard them before he saw them, Emily’s feet pounding down the stairs, pajama pants flapping as she ran. He struck a match and lit the candles just in time, the soft glow bouncing off the kitchen walls.

Emily cheered with delight as he brought the cake out to the dining table, now cleared and waiting. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, hands clapping with excitement as she bounced in place. A moment later, Scully appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair damp, sleeves pushed to her elbows. She moved slower, softer, her gaze catching the sight of them below, her daughter bright-eyed, her partner holding a cake lit with flickering light, and something in her chest tightened, full and quiet. She descended the stairs with a small smile, and together, they gathered around the table, candlelight dancing between them.

They launched into Happy Birthday with Emily leading the charge, her voice high and earnest. Mulder, naturally, took the opportunity to butcher the melody with dramatic flair, singing off-key on purpose, dragging out notes, and tossing in a few theatrical vibratos just to see if he could get a reaction. It worked. Emily collapsed into giggles halfway through. By the final "to you," Emily was laughing too hard to sing, and Mulder gave a mock bow as if he'd just finished a sold-out performance at Carnegie Hall. The candles flickered in the afterglow of the song, and Scully looked at them for a long second, one arm still curled around her daughter.

“Make a wish,” Mulder prompted, quieter now, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced by something gentler, something that felt like reverence.

Scully stared at the candles for a moment longer, their flames small but steady, casting golden light across Emily’s face, across Mulder’s. She had made so many wishes over the years. For strength. For answers. For time. For healing. Tonight, she didn’t need to wish for any of those things. Not really. In so many ways, she had everything she once thought she might never have. But still, there was one thing. The one piece that remained just out of reach. She closed her eyes for half a heartbeat, breathed in the sweetness of frosting and candle smoke and apple cider. And wished. Then she leaned forward and blew the candles out in one slow, even breath, steady, sure.

When her eyes opened again, the room was dimmer, the candles reduced to thin trails of smoke curling toward the ceiling. Mulder was watching her. And for a brief second, she wondered if he knew. If he could feel it, what she had wished for. His gaze didn’t press, didn’t ask. It simply held hers, steady and quiet. But the warmth in his eyes didn’t flicker. If anything, it deepened. Maybe he did know. And maybe he’d wished for the same thing. Or maybe the hormones were just working in overdrive. Scully blinked, looked away. Her eyes settled on the cake instead, on Emily’s small fingers already inching toward a corner of frosting with the stealth of a sugar-loving thief. Maybe the hormones were in overdrive. Or maybe, for once, she was just letting herself feel something without needing to rationalize it. Either way, the moment lingered, quiet and full. And she didn’t mind that he was still looking.

When they finished their slices of cake, it was Mulder who scooped up Emily and took her upstairs to wash the frosting from her fingers and brush the chocolate from her teeth. Scully lingered downstairs, giving them time to finish up. Then she made her way to the bedroom, gathering her pajamas and robe before retreating into the bathroom for a long, steaming shower. The hot water cascaded over her shoulders and neck, drawing the tension out in slow degrees. It had been a good day, unexpectedly emotional, quietly monumental, but it had still been a long one. And then, almost without thinking, her hands moved, slipping down to her belly. Still flat. Still unchanged, at least outwardly. But different. She could feel it. The knowledge of it buzzed quietly beneath her skin, something new and unspoken. It felt impossible and certain all at once.

By the time she emerged, her skin was flushed from the heat, and the scent of lavender soap still clinging to her. She moved through the house in slippered steps, wrapped snugly in her robe, and paused outside Emily’s bedroom door, the faint murmur of Mulder’s voice drifting out to meet her. She peeked in. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon. Emily was tucked beneath her blanket, her head nestled between the ever-faithful Mr. Chips and Dr. Spuddy, their plastic vigilance never waning. One of her small hands clutched the edge of her pillow; the other rested on Mulder’s forearm as he sat at the edge of the bed. He was reading from her dinosaur encyclopedia, his voice low and steady, shaping facts into something that sounded like a bedtime story.

“Triceratops had over 800 teeth,” Mulder read softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But they weren’t for biting, they were for slicing through tough plants, like prehistoric lawnmowers.”

Emily didn’t respond, her eyes half-lidded, breath slow and even, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Scully watched from the doorway, the scene gently etched into her memory. Her hands, once again resting over her belly, unconsciously pressed a little closer. One day, this new life inside her would join them here, tucked beneath the covers with a dinosaur under each arm, wide-eyed with wonder at walnut-sized brains and slicing teeth. Finally, Emily’s eyes fluttered closed for the last time, her lashes still against her cheeks, her breathing deep and even in that unmistakable rhythm of true sleep. Mulder watched her for a beat longer, just to be sure, then gently closed the encyclopedia and set it aside. When he looked up, he found Scully leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, wrapped in the soft comfort of her robe. Her expression was quiet, touched with something tender and tired and impossibly full.

He rose without a word, moving with the kind of practiced care that came only from long nights and soft exits. He returned the book to its place on the low shelf, fingertips brushing the spines of a few others. Then he tiptoed out, pulling the door half-closed behind him. They stood there for a moment in the hush, face to face in the quiet glow of the hallway. He reached out and took her hand, his fingers sliding easily between hers, warm and sure. She followed without question, letting him lead her down the stairs, their steps slow, quiet, in sync. The living room waited below, dim and peaceful, still holding the glow of the fire. It all felt suspended somehow, like time had slowed to a gentler pace.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she expected him to let go. To head toward the kitchen, maybe, or to start gathering his belongings. But instead, he turned toward her and pulled her into his arms without a word. It surprised her, not in a jarring way, but in the way something tender always does when you weren’t quite braced for it. He held her close, one hand splayed gently across her back, the other resting just above her waist. Scully closed her eyes, pressing her cheek lightly to his chest, and let herself feel the full weight of the day, the joy, the nerves, the impossible stretch of emotion. Her body fit easily against his, the damp ends of her hair brushing against the cotton of his t-shirt, the familiar scent of him, clean soap, warm skin, cologne faintly earthy, settling into her senses. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

He held her there, his arms wrapped securely around her, the slow rhythm of his breathing brushing against the top of her head. Scully didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The silence between them felt full, not empty. Something settled and sacred. Then, gently, he shifted just enough to press a kiss to her forehead, soft and deliberate. His lips lingered there for a beat, like a promise. When he pulled back slightly, his voice was low, roughened by emotion he didn’t try to hide.

“Congratulations,” he said, his eyes steady on hers.

Scully blinked, caught somewhere between a smile and something deeper. Her fingers tightened around his shirt, her heart thudding a little louder in her chest. There were a hundred things she could’ve said in response, and none of them felt quite right. So she didn’t say anything. She just nodded, her smile quiet and full, and let him hold her a little longer. When he finally stepped back, his hands slipping gently from her, he gave her a small, almost shy smile. One of those rare ones, soft around the edges, a little uncertain, like he wasn’t quite sure what came next.

“I guess I should go,” he said quietly, his voice low, reluctant. His eyes flicked toward the coat rack near the door, but he didn’t move. Not really.

“Stay,” she said, the word gentle but certain.

Mulder looked back at her, caught off guard, not by the offer, but by how much he wanted her to mean it.

She nodded toward the couch, “I’m too wired to sleep. Watch a movie with me.”

There was a quiet beat between them, unspoken questions, unspoken answers. But then he smiled, that same shy curve of his mouth softening into something warmer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low, almost a breath. “Okay.”

Scully was already walking toward the couch, grabbing the remote and pulling the throw blanket off the back. When she looked over her shoulder, he was still watching her. She gave him a look, mildly amused, a little fond.

“Well? You picking the movie or am I?”

Mulder grinned. “That depends. Are you going to make me watch something with subtitles again?”

Scully arched an eyebrow. “That depends. Are you going to fall asleep halfway through again?”

He chuckled quietly, wandering over to her video shelf while she settled in on the couch. With a playful scowl, he glanced back at her and started rattling off titles he’d never sit through.

“Scully, you’re brilliant, but your taste in films? Absolute garbage.”

She gave him a sharp look, but his grin only widened as he pulled a tape from the shelf and held it up triumphantly.

“Rosemary’s Baby, seems oddly fitting,” he teased.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Something light.”

He gave a dramatic shudder. “No way I’m watching Babe again. You’ll have to chloroform and cuff me first.”

She laughed quietly as he pulled another tape from the shelf. “How about The Exorcist?”

Scully raised an eyebrow. “I said light.”

He smirked. “This is light.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Fine,” she said, like she was doing him a great favor, though they both knew she didn’t really mind.

He slid the tape into the VCR and crossed the room to join her on the couch, sinking down beside her with a smug grin.

“This is like porn for Catholics, right?” he teased, elbow nudging gently against hers.

Raising the remote like a crucifix between them, he dropped his voice into a deep, dramatic cadence. “The power of Christ compels you.”

Without missing a beat, Scully snatched the remote from his hand, aimed it at the VCR, and hit play.

“Shut up, Mulder. Your invitation is about to be rescinded.”

He grinned, utterly unfazed, and settled deeper into the couch. The opening credits flickered across the screen, casting soft light over the living room walls. The room was quiet now, save for the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of the blanket as Scully shifted beside him. Mulder stretched out a little, his knee brushing against hers under the throw. She didn’t move away, just let out a small sigh as she settled more comfortably into the cushions. For a while, neither of them spoke.

The familiar scenes played out, fog curling through Georgetown streets, the solemn toll of church bells, the looming façade of the McNeil house. Scully’s eyes were fixed on the screen, but Mulder glanced at her from time to time, quietly studying the way her expression shifted with the beats of the film. She wasn’t scared. She’d seen it before. Probably a dozen times. But there was something thoughtful in her gaze, like she was watching it through a new lens this time. Maybe she was. Her daughter was enrolled to begin school at Holy Trinity Catholic School, the small, ivy-covered schoolhouse attached to the the oldest Catholic parish in Georgetown.

Mulder leaned his head back against the couch and tilted his eyes toward the ceiling for a moment. “You know,” he said, his voice low, “the exorcist steps are just off Prospect Street. Practically in your backyard.”

Scully didn’t look at him. “I know.”

He smirked. “Ever walk them?”

“More times than I can count.” A pause. “They’re worse going up.”

“I bet.” He glanced sideways at her, voice a little quieter now. “Do you think Karras would’ve been based at Holy Trinity?”

That made her smile. “Possibly. Jesuit priest, Georgetown faculty, it would’ve been his parish. It’s where a lot of them go.”

He nodded thoughtfully. On screen, Regan screamed again, another moment of chaos, another bit of fiction that felt uncomfortably real. He shifted a little, letting his arm settle along the back of the couch behind her. She didn’t lean into him, not quite, but she didn’t move away either. Mulder smiled, content to let the film play on. For all its theatrics, the horror on the screen felt far away. Here, in the quiet house, things felt grounded. Real. Present. As the movie played on, the flickering images casting shadows across the room, Scully’s eyelids grew heavy. Slowly, her head tilted sideways, coming to rest gently against Mulder’s shoulder. This time, instead of moving away, he wrapped his arms around her carefully, as if afraid to break the fragile moment. The weight of her settled into him, familiar and comforting.

The movie’s eerie soundtrack played on in the background, but he didn’t really notice it anymore. Mulder simply held her until the final credits rolled, the room bathed in the soft glow of the screen’s fading light. Mulder gently shifted, careful not to wake her. But even as she slept, he made no move to leave. Instead, he pulled the blanket up around them both and settled back into the couch. The night stretched quietly ahead, and he welcomed the stillness, content to stay by her side until morning.

Mulder knew they were doing this all backward. A child growing inside her, his child, without so much as a shared kiss. It should have felt upside down, out of order. But it didn’t. Not to him. It didn’t feel strange. It felt strangely right. Because what they were building wasn’t rooted in impulse or fantasy. It was slow. Steady. Earned. He needed to know he could be trusted with the big ticket stuff, the messy, unglamorous parts of life. The weight of parenthood. The daily grind of partnership. The promise of presence. He needed to prove that to himself before he could even think about basking in the sweetness of something more. With Scully, there was no margin for recklessness. She wasn’t a phase or a fling or a whim. She was it. The single most important person in his life.

He tightened his arms around her gently, careful not to wake her. The steady rise and fall of her breathing against his chest grounded him, soothed the ever-turning wheels of his mind. Now that they’d reached this point, this quiet, hard-won moment of trust and something beginning to bloom, Mulder knew what came next. A trip out to the vineyard. A meeting with the family lawyer. There were things he needed to know. Legalities, procedures, paperwork. Steps to take, quietly and carefully, before he ever brought the idea to Scully. He wasn’t rushing it. He just wanted to be ready. Because he’d already made up his mind: he wanted to adopt Emily.

He wanted it spelled out, every step from start to finish. Not to convince Scully, but to show her he wasn’t approaching this lightly. He was serious. Prepared. Committed. One thing was certain, he never wanted Emily to feel like she was different somehow. Like she was on the outside of something. Like she didn’t belong. Not in this family. He closed his eyes then, letting his thoughts drift toward the future. A future he hadn’t dared to imagine a few years ago, now slowly taking shape in quiet, steady lines. And it looked brighter than he ever thought possible.

Chapter Text

Mulder hadn’t expected adopting Emily would be easy, but without a marriage certificate, without his name inked beside Scully’s on some legal form that declared them a unit, a family, the burden of proof felt tenfold. And yet, despite the obstacles, the pieces were slowly beginning to fall into place. Mulder had cut the check for Holy Trinity, tuition for the coming year paid in full. He’d opened a college fund next, a seed planted with every intention it would grow. He kept records of it all, every receipt, every form, every bit of evidence of his presence, his care, his commitment. He was investing in more than just today, he was building a case for permanence, for belonging. Not because anyone had asked him to. But because, one day, when the time came, when a judge or a social worker or some well-meaning stranger raised the inevitable questions, he wanted to be ready. To point to something solid. Something that said: I chose her. I showed up. I laid the foundation. Long before anyone asked me to prove it.

His involvement in Scully’s fertility treatment, the decision to have a child together, was another detail that worked in his favor. It said something real, something binding. That they had chosen, together, to create life. But the clincher, the thing that would cut through doubt and scrutiny and the soft-voiced skepticism of bureaucrats, would be something harder to argue with: a title deed. Not a lease. Not a temporary arrangement. Ownership. Stability. Something that said: This is our home. This is where we’re raising our children. It was about security, about making sure that when someone came looking for proof, for a traceable line between him and the little girl asleep upstairs, he’d have something real to show them. Not just a checkbook. Not just intention. But a home. A choice made official. A stake in the life they were building together.

He hadn’t exactly pictured his life going this way, fatherhood, a home with crayon marks on the walls and juice boxes in the fridge. But if he had let himself imagine it, even once, it had always looked a certain way. Quiet. Rural. A little off the grid. Someplace where the nights were dark and the stars were bright, where you could hear yourself think and maybe grow a beard that didn’t look like a cry for help. Flannel shirt, an axe, the whole rugged domestic fantasy. But reality had a different shape. Scully could hold her own out there, he had no doubts about that, but at heart, she was a city girl. She needed the purpose of it, the rhythm. She’d built a life here, carved out a career that had become part of her identity. And Emily was thriving. Soon to attend one of the best schools in the district, the kind with a direct pipeline to Georgetown University if the stars aligned. She had her grandmother, structure, a future here. Uprooting that for a porch swing and a wood-burning stove was impractical.

Mulder knew this thing, this life they were building, was going to go down here, in the city. Among the sirens and traffic, the overworked schedules and late-night grocery runs. It wasn’t the life he’d once imagined in those rare, quiet moments of hope. But it was real. It was full. And it was theirs. He could live without the beard. He could live without the axe. He couldn’t live without them. Even the X-Files, his life’s work, his obsession, the thing that had driven him through years of darkness, was something he was slowly, quietly coming to terms with leaving behind. It wasn’t easy. Letting go of the thing that had defined him for so long felt like peeling off a second skin. But for the first time, there was something more important. Someone more important. Three someones, really. He knew he couldn’t keep them safe, not truly, if he kept one foot in that world. As long as he remained actively involved, the target would never come off their backs. There would always be eyes watching, listening. Waiting. So he was learning to let go. Not of the truth. Not of the fight. But of the need to be in the center of it. Of the compulsion to chase every lead, to rip open every old wound.

He knew the conversation with Skinner was inevitable, and it was coming fast. No cryptic half-measures. No vague allusions to needing a “change of pace.” Just the truth. That he was ready to step away from the X-Files. That it was time. He’d ask for reassignment. Maybe a return to Behavioral Sciences, back to where it all started. It wasn’t a thrilling prospect, but it made sense. Based out of Quantico, he wouldn’t be working directly alongside Scully, but they’d be in the same building. Close enough. The return of the Bureau’s prodigal son was bound to rattle a few cages. Some would be furious, the ones who’d written him off years ago, who resented his freedom, his chaos, his refusal to play by the rules. But others would be pleased. Vindicated. They’d wanted this for a long time: Spooky Mulder, tamed and returned to the fold. Back in a cubicle. Back on the leash. Back in the mainstream, so to speak. But that was a headache for another day.

Today, he’d ducked out of the Hoover Building just after lunch. He had a listing he wanted to check out. A house that had been sitting on the market just long enough to make it interesting. He’d been circling it for days. And now, finally, he was going to see it in person. He would deal with Skinner when he was ready. Today, he was chasing something else. Something real. Something that looked a lot like home. He turned onto 35th Street, the tires crunching gently over the uneven pavement, and pulled up in front of the house. Just a few blocks from Georgetown University, and only moments from M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, everything was within reach, groceries, coffee, bookstores, and that little park where he'd once watched Emily chase pigeons.

The house sat quietly, unassuming, nestled between two older townhomes with ivy crawling up one side like it had always belonged there. A worn brick walkway curved gently toward a narrow flight of stone steps, leading to a dark green door set beneath a modest overhang. The paint was chipped at the edges, the brass mail slot dulled by years of weather and time, but the place had a kind of quiet dignity to it. Nothing flashy. Nothing trying too hard. Just solid, lived-in charm. Mulder sat there for a moment, taking it in. The windows were tall and narrow, their frames thick with decades of paint, and he could see the outlines of built-in shelving through the front room. He reached for the folder on the passenger seat, the listing printout, the photos, the notes he’d scribbled in the margins, and exhaled slowly. This place had potential. Not just structurally. But for the life they were trying to build.

Beyond the interiors, a private alley led to two dedicated parking spaces, an invaluable luxury in the heart of Georgetown. Inside the realtor led him through, the home was understated with a nod to elegance. Custom crown moulding throughout, newly sanded pine floors, the dining room opened directly onto a small walk-out deck overlooking the fenced in backyard, not large by any measure but more spacious than Scully’s little courtyard. Room for the kids maybe a dog. The living room was anchored by a handsome wood-burning fireplace, one of two in the home. Upstairs, three sun-filled bedrooms, the master with its own en-suite bath, and a full bathroom tucked between the other two bedrooms.

The attic was a quiet surprise, finished, but not overly polished, like someone had taken the time to make it livable without sanding down all the charm. The original beams still crossed overhead, low and wide, darkened with age but sturdy. The ceilings sloped gently on either side, creating a cozy, tucked-in feeling, the kind that made you lower your voice without quite knowing why. Wide-plank hardwood floors stretched the length of the space, worn smooth, their imperfections adding to the warmth. A dormer window faced the street, its frame slightly uneven, the glass thick with age. It caught the light just right, casting soft shadows across the angled walls. There was a built-in bench beneath it, the kind he could imagine a child curling up on with a book, or maybe even Scully. The space definitely had home office potential. It offered just enough separation from the rest of the house to feel removed.

Finally, back downstairs, the basement unfolded like a quiet bonus, a fully finished guest suite tucked neatly beneath the house. The ceilings were lower, but not oppressively so, and recessed lighting gave the space a soft, welcoming glow. There was a window, high and narrow, bringing in a sliver of natural light and a reminder of the world above. Down the line, maybe it would be a haven for Emily’s independence as she grew, close, but separate. Hers. It felt like a promise of flexibility. Of future plans quietly waiting their turn. The price, on the other hand, was higher than Mulder would have liked. Georgetown property values were climbing fast, faster than seemed reasonable, even by D.C. standards. But this wasn’t out of reach. It was a stretch, yes, but not a reckless one. With a solid down payment, the monthly repayments would stay manageable. Tight, but not suffocating. He’d run the numbers more times than he cared to admit, and every time, the math came back with the same answer: doable. And beyond that, years down the line, he knew the return on investment would be staggering.

The following day, he scheduled a second showing and brought Scully with him. She moved slowly through the house, one hand resting just beneath her jacket, where the curve of her belly had become unmistakable. Five months along now, and every bit the skeptic. Her expression didn’t give much away, but he knew that look, the raised brow, the slight purse of her lips. Mulder trailed a few steps behind, watching her take it in.

“What’s with the face?” he asked finally. “You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that…” She turned to face him, one hand still resting lightly on the slope of her abdomen. “It’s a beautiful house. It has a lot of character. Plenty of room.”

Her voice was even, measured, but he could hear the hesitation tucked just beneath the surface.

“But?” he prompted, already hearing it coming.

“Mulder, the houses in this area cost upwards of—”

“I know,” he cut in, hands spreading wide in mock surrender, like what do you want me to say?

“And we haven’t really talked about—”

“I know that too,” he said, again interrupting, this time with a grin that aimed to soften the edge in her voice. The kind of grin that had gotten him into trouble more than once.

“The way I see it, this is your hood, Scully,” he said, glancing out toward the street beyond the front windows. “Emily’s going to be at school just a few blocks away. I need to present a rock solid case for her adoption.”

He paused, letting the words settle between them.

“This feels like the right place at the right time,” he added, softer now. “And you know my gut is never wrong.”

She gave him a look, part amusement, part sure, Mulder, and turned back toward the kitchen. It really was a beautiful old house. She couldn’t deny that. The kind of place that carried its years with quiet grace, steeped in the same charm that had kept her anchored to this part of the city for so long. Georgetown had always felt like home. Still did. And while her desire to build a life with him had nothing to do with money, she couldn’t ignore the math. If she were trying to buy a place like this on her own, it wouldn’t be possible, not on a Bureau salary. Not without walking away from the FBI and finally putting her medical degree to work.

If she agreed to this, if they bought the house together, it would mean she could remain in Georgetown, raise the children in a real family home, and stay in her current job. Hold onto the routine, the stability. And the convenience of the child development center, just a short drive from her office. That alone was no small thing. Having Emily there was a blessing. They accepted infants as young as six weeks, not that she had any intention of going back that soon. But still, it was reassuring to know that when the time came, decent childcare would be there. In-house. Familiar. Safe. She was entitled to twelve weeks of unpaid leave, and she’d banked enough vacation to stretch it further. Realistically, she could take a few months without putting her position at risk. The logistics were manageable. The support was there. All things considered… it made sense.

She turned back to face him. He was already scanning the built-in shelving, as if mentally arranging which alien artifact might claim each spot. She knew it was completely insane. They hadn’t really talked it through, this was just the rough shape of an idea, a step toward the adoption. She wasn’t sure if Mulder intended to live here too, or if this was just for show, something to satisfy the court. Would he keep his apartment? Everything was still up in the air. But even so, when she looked up at him, she smiled. She’d taken many leaps of faith with this man. What was one more?

“Okay.” She nodded, steady. “I’ll sign off on it.”

“Alright.” Mulder responded with a slow-motion fist pump, and a smug grin.

“Helen,” he called to the realtor, and she stepped into the kitchen from wherever she’d been lurking. “Let’s do this thing.”

Helen smiled, clearly pleased. More commission in the bank for her.

“Excellent,” she said brightly. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

As they drove toward her mother’s house to pick up Emily, Scully felt a buzz of energy moving through her. Jittery, but in the best possible way. She glanced over at Mulder behind the wheel. He was a complicated man, always had been. Selfish, pig-headed, infuriatingly sarcastic. Too good at dodging questions. Too quick to bury what mattered under a joke. His mind often somewhere else entirely. And yet. Underneath all that noise, beneath the sharp edges and the damage left behind by a childhood that had never made space for safety or softness, was a good man. A deeply good man. She couldn’t picture anyone else as the father of her children. Or anyone else to be walking this uncertain path beside her, no matter how ambiguous things could get between them. He was bold enough to buy her a house, just so he could adopt her child, while, on paper, they were still “just friends.” It was strange and unconventional, a move that defied logic and expectation. Yet beneath it was a fierce kind of loyalty. A silent vow made without needing words. Crazy, absolutely. But also beautiful. Wildly, quietly beautiful.

Mulder pulled into Margaret’s driveway and cut the engine. Before either of them could reach for their seatbelts, the front door flew open and Emily came charging out, grinning from ear to ear, a bright green plastic triceratops clutched in one hand.

“Look what Grandma got me!” she shouted, loud and breathless with excitement.

Mulder stepped out of the car and bent to scoop Emily into his arms, lifting her easily and settling her on his hip. She giggled, clutching his shoulder as he took the plastic triceratops from her outstretched hand. He turned it over in his palm, inspecting it with mock gravity.

“Well, would you look at that,” he said, nodding. “Another new recruit for the team.”

Emily beamed, clearly pleased with the assessment.

“Does it have a name?” Mulder asked.

“Tater Tops,” she said, proudly, like it was the most obvious name in the world.

Another potato-themed dinosaur FBI agent, just what the Potatopia field office needed.

He gave the triceratops a respectful nod.

“Agent Tater Tops,” he said with a straight face. “Small but highly skilled. Welcome to the squad.”

Margaret had stepped onto the porch, quietly observing the exchange. Watching her daughter watch Mulder and Emily together, something soft and knowing in her eyes.

“Mulder,” her daughter said dryly, as they made their way up the steps. “New recruits can’t join the team before completing twenty weeks of intensive training at the academy. I haven’t seen this one in my classroom yet.”

Mulder paused, his eyes all too warm as he looked down at Scully. “He’s got good instincts. You can’t teach that.”

They reached the top of the steps, and Margaret pulled her daughter into a warm embrace. Scully leaned in, and Margaret felt the distinct, gentle pressure of the rounded belly pressing into her own. When she pulled back, she rested a hand lightly over the curve, her touch instinctive, maternal.

“You’ve well and truly popped,” she said, voice full of love.

“I know,” Scully muttered, rolling her eyes. “And if one more person mentions the word ‘glowing,’ I might puke.”

Margaret ushered them inside, giving Mulder’s forearm a warm squeeze as he passed by.

Trailing after her daughter with a grin, he teased, “You do look like you drank a cup of radium for breakfast.”

“Mommy looks beautiful,” Emily chimed in, her voice bright and sure, offering her mother a sweet reassurance, even though none was needed. “That means my little sister will be too.”

Mulder bounced her gently in his arms, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

“How do you know the baby’s a girl?” he asked, curiosity mixed with affection.

She smiled enigmatically, eyes twinkling with quiet certainty. “I just do.”

Scully caught her mother’s eye and nodded toward the bathroom down the hall, then headed in that direction. Her bladder felt barely bigger than a pea these days. Margaret began gathering Emily’s things, carefully tucking them into her little backpack as Emily chattered nonstop, filling Mulder in on their afternoon adventures. In that moment Margaret realized, the only time she’d ever spent with this man had been during crisis, moments thick with worry, her daughter caught in something dangerous, life threatening, or strange. She didn’t really know who he was when the world wasn’t falling apart. And yet, he’d been a steady presence in Dana’s life for six years now. A fixture, always just there. Now, he was the father of her unborn child.

Her son, Bill Jr., still couldn’t get past his grief over Melissa. Angry at Dana. Confused by her choices. He didn’t understand. For Margaret, every day without her daughter was a struggle. A quiet fight she carried alone. But she chose to let the anger go. She didn’t blame Mulder. She knew he’d have traded places with Melissa in a heartbeat if it meant she’d still be here. Like it or not, Mulder was family now. Dana had chosen him to father her child. And Margaret respected that choice. Fox was a good man. He cared deeply for her daughter and for Emily. That was what mattered. She didn’t claim to understand the terms of their relationship. Didn’t need to. All she knew was that it was strong. A bond that ran deep. A lifelong connection. As she passed Emily’s backpack to him, her fingers reached out to ruffle the little girl’s blonde hair, soft and fine beneath her touch. Mulder shifted slightly, leaning sideways to lower Emily just enough to press a tender kiss to her cheek.

“You take good care of Tater Tops for me,” Margaret said, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “I expect a progress report on my desk next week.”

“You better do what she says,” Mulder whispered, playing along with a mock-serious tone. “Deputy Director Grandma’s got her eye on you.”

Emily giggled, clutching Tater Tops tightly to her chest and giving him a big, heartfelt hug.

“I promise I’ll take extra good care of him,” she said, eyes shining with earnest conviction.

Scully stepped back into her mother’s living room and found them all packed up, ready to go.

“Thanks for taking Emily this afternoon,” she said softly, pulling her mother into a warm embrace.

“Always a pleasure,” Margaret replied, tucking a strand of Scully’s hair behind her ear and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “Let’s do dinner soon?”

Scully nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Sounds good. I’ll call you.”

Margaret stood by the door, watching them as they left. Emily waved happily over Mulder’s shoulder, her little hand bright and carefree. Mulder’s free hand stayed close to Scully’s lower back, hovering just in case she missed a step. Margaret smiled quietly to herself, touched by his quiet, steady care. Silent guardian of the life growing within. She knew Dana could handle this, blindfolded, one arm tied behind her back. Her baby girl was capable of anything. But clearly, she’d chosen to share this journey. And Margaret couldn’t help but feel that, despite the past, despite their dark and tangled history, her daughter was in the best of hands.

“Where to now?” she heard Scully ask.

Mulder opened the back door and helped Emily settle into her seat.

Before he could answer, Emily squinted against the afternoon sun and offered her own suggestion.

“Can we get ice cream?”

She looked up at Mulder with hopeful eyes, then added, just a little belatedly, “Please?”

Mulder glanced over the roof of the car as Scully opened the passenger door.

“I could go for some Jamoca Almond Fudge,” he said with a smirk.

“Butter Pecan for me,” Scully said without argument, sliding into her seat.

“Yesss!” Emily pumped her fist, a move that reminded Scully a little too much of Mulder.

She smiled at her daughter. “Let me guess. Strawberry Cheesecake?”

The car doors closed, sealing in their conversation as Margaret lingered by the doorway, watching the car ease backward onto the street. Mulder gave the horn a quick honk, and Emily’s grinning face appeared at the rear window, waving goodbye once more. Margaret watched as the car shrank, reaching the end of the street before turning left and disappearing from view. She stepped back inside, closing the door softly behind her, her heart full with a mother’s pride. Dana was happy. Healthy. Emily was too. That was all Margaret needed to feel her own quiet joy. On the busy streets, Mulder wove through traffic, fingers fiddling with the radio dial, sunlight beating warmly down on his face. Beside him, a pregnant Scully sat quietly, and in the back, four-year-old Emily bounced with excitement. Ice cream felt like the perfect way to mark their next huge step. With every step forward, they were inching closer to something real. Something whole. He didn’t just want to believe anymore. He did believe.

Chapter Text

It was late August, and summer had started its slow retreat, the light softer, the breeze carrying the first hints of change. Scully walked the length of Lambert’s Cove Beach at an unhurried pace, the sand cool beneath her feet, the tide whispering beside her. A few paces ahead, Emily danced along the shoreline, bare heels kicking up flecks of sand, her arms flung wide as she tried, and occasionally failed, to land a cartwheel. Her laughter came easy, bright and unguarded, and Scully soaked it up. It had been Mulder’s idea, one of those offhand suggestions that lingered until it quietly became a plan. Take Emily somewhere with sand between her toes and salt in her hair. Somewhere she could swim until her fingers pruned, build lopsided castles at the water’s edge, and eat her weight in lobster rolls before the rhythm of early mornings and school bells claimed her days. A last taste of summer, he’d said. A proper sendoff before real structure returned and the baby arrived.

She’d been caught off guard when he first suggested Martha’s Vineyard. Of all places. She’d never known Mulder to spend much time on the island where he was born, his visits, when they happened at all, were always brief. In and out. No lingering. Too many ghosts, too many memories. The kind that didn’t just haunt, but clung. His father’s murder had only deepened the shadow over the place, anchoring it more firmly in pain. So when they pulled up to the house in West Tisbury, the very house where it had happened, Scully braced herself for something cold, abandoned, untouched since that night. But what she found surprised her. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like any other summer home. Lived-in. Maintained. The lawn trimmed, the porch swept clean, the windows free of grime. Inside, the furniture remained, the framed paintings, the heavy bookshelves, even the faint scent of cedar lingering in the air. Nothing rearranged. Nothing discarded. It was clear Mrs. Mulder still had a hand in keeping the place intact. A yard crew, no doubt. A cleaning service on retainer.

West Tisbury was quieter than she expected. Quieter than most of the island, even. There was no boardwalk, no buzz of tourist chatter or neon lights. Just winding roads shaded by tall oaks, farm stands selling fresh produce and wildflowers, and the occasional cyclist gliding past with wind-tousled hair and nowhere urgent to be. It had a kind of stillness to it, not empty, but settled. Like it had nothing to prove. The house sat a little ways back from the road, tucked behind a screen of trees that turned golden in the evening light. The air smelled faintly of salt and something green, moss, maybe, or the ferns growing wild at the edge of the yard. Crickets hummed steadily in the background, a natural lullaby that carried from late afternoon into night. Scully hadn’t known what to expect from this place. Certainly not peace. But there was something in West Tisbury that allowed the edges of her thoughts to soften. The pace was slow, deliberate. Mornings began with herbal tea on the porch and ended with bare feet and sand still clinging to their ankles. Emily took to it immediately, asking questions about every new bird she spotted, collecting smooth stones in a tin pail, pointing out constellations with sticky fingers after s’mores by the firepit.

As the sun began to dip low, casting the beach in gold and shadow, they made their slow, sandy way up the winding path toward the house. Emily’s bucket was full of seashells she insisted were “treasures” and her flip-flops dangled from one hand as she skipped ahead, narrating their walk like a story she was telling only to herself. Scully followed a few steps behind, one hand at her lower back, the other brushing the tops of the tall grass that lined the path. The light filtered through the trees in slanted beams, warm on her skin, and the breeze had taken on that early autumn bite, just enough to raise goosebumps. She was tired in that full-body way that came with pregnancy and a day spent chasing an almost five-year-old through saltwater and sun. But it was a good kind of tired. The kind that settled into her bones without feeling heavy. As they rounded the last curve and the house came into view, she saw him. Mulder was sitting on the porch steps, elbows resting on his knees, an empty coffee mug dangling from one hand. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, first catching sight of Emily as she darted toward the house, then letting his gaze shift to Scully, softening as it landed on her.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice low and easy.

“Famished,” she replied, brushing a strand of wind-blown hair from her face.

“That’s good,” he said, a grin starting to form, boyish and a little enticing. “Jimmy Seas Pan Pasta isn’t just food. It’s… everything that’s good in this world, on a fork.”

Scully raised an eyebrow, half amused, half skeptical. “Big talk for a man who considers canned soup and sunflower seeds the pinnacle of culinary achievement.”

Mulder feigned offense. “Hey. That’s survival food. It’s minimalist. It's efficient.”

“It’s depressing,” she said, dryly.

He shot her a look as he rose from the step. “Which is exactly why I’m taking you to Jimmy Seas. Redemption by ricotta. Transformation by marinara.”

She had to admit, Italian sounded pretty good. And with a name like Jimmy Seas, Scully knew she didn’t need to dress up. No fancy tablecloths. No hushed tones. Just heavy plates, loud voices, and the kind of food that clung to your soul the way garlic clings to your fingers. She helped Emily get showered, and then dressed in the soft light of the bedroom, the little girl still buzzing from the beach and the promise of dinner out. A fresh pair of jeans, her favorite red Chuck Taylors, and the pink cable-knit sweater her grandma had bought her. She would remain nice and cozy as the Vineyard air cooled with the evening. Then came the finishing touch. Emily reached for the kids-sized Georgetown cap, navy blue, curved brim, the logo stitched in white. Mulder had given it to her a few weeks back, a miniature version of the one he often wore. She’d barely taken it off since. She insisted on wearing it tonight, adjusting it over her still-damp ponytail with the gravity of someone choosing an accessory for a royal portrait. Scully sent her downstairs to wait with Mulder while she got herself ready.

“Tell him five more minutes,” she said, smoothing the brim of Emily’s cap. “And not to let you talk him into dessert before dinner.”

Emily grinned, eyes sparkling. She turned and bounded out of the room, her sneakers making soft thuds on the stairs, fading as she disappeared down the hall. A moment later, Scully heard Mulder’s voice, low, teasing, followed by Emily’s uncontainable laughter. That sound, more than anything, made the corners of her mouth lift.

She opened the closet and eyed the clothes she’d brought with her, fingers drifting lightly over the hangers. Nothing called out to her. Not the maternity jeans she despised, the ones that always slid down no matter how tightly she adjusted the band. She wasn’t in the mood to fuss. Her eyes landed on the brown dress she sometimes wore to church, the soft one with the matching cardigan. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was comfortable, familiar. The fabric stretched just enough to still accommodate the curve of her growing belly without clinging too tight or riding up when she moved. Not really dressy, but dressy enough. Especially for a place with laminated menus and pan pasta served straight from the skillet.

Once dressed, hair dried and then tamed with a few careful passes of her straightener and a touch of lipstick softening her features, Scully paused in front of the mirror. Not for long, just a quick once-over to make sure everything was in place. The cardigan was smooth, the dress falling the way it was meant to, her belly rounding beneath the fabric. But then her gaze caught on the glint of gold at her neck. The crucifix. Her fingers lifted to touch it lightly, the metal warm against her skin from the heat of her body. It was identical to the one Emily wore, because it was Melissa’s. Her mother had given it to her when she officially adopted Emily. Said Melissa would have wanted her to have it. That it should be worn. That it was meant to be passed down, not tucked away in a drawer. And standing there, in the quiet of the room, she thought of Missy.

Melissa would have loved all of this. Emily, with her infectious laugh and wide-open heart. The pregnancy. The slow, hard-earned peace that had finally begun to fill the corners of Scully’s life. And, of course, the endless opportunities to tease her about Mulder, about how she’d known all along this was going to happen. About how she’d called it, long before Scully was ready to admit it to anyone, least of all herself. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and then a soft ache, deep and familiar, bloomed in her chest. She missed her sister. Some days the missing was sharp, sudden. Other days, it lived like background noise, constant, low, ever-present. But tonight, it was softer. Wrapped in memory and hope.

With a little sister on the way for Emily, she found herself praying, not in the desperate way she once had, not in grief or fear, but in that quiet, enduring way only mothers seem to understand. She prayed they would have each other. That they would grow old together. Laugh. Fight. Make each other birthday cards. Hold hands at funerals. Swap stories and secrets. That one day, long after she was gone, they’d still have someone to call who understood the shape of their childhood and the weight of their name. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, touched the crucifix one last time, and turned toward the stairs, ready now, in every way that mattered.

The drive to Oak Bluffs was quiet, with the soft hum of tires on old Vineyard roads and the occasional commentary from the backseat, Emily spotting deer out the window or asking if the restaurant would have lemonade. The sky outside deepened to navy, shadows stretching across the trees, the air tinged with salt and the faint, earthy scent of the island cooling after a long day in the sun. Mulder drove one-handed, his elbow propped casually against the open window, the wind tugging at his hair. Scully sat beside him, hand resting lightly on her stomach, eyes drifting over the darkened fields, the sleepy charm of West Tisbury slowly giving way to the brighter energy of Oak Bluffs. Neon signs flickered to life as they neared Circuit Avenue, voices spilling out of open doorways, music and laughter and late-summer buzz humming in the air.

Jimmy Seas was tucked just off the main drag, barely marked, just a small sign and the scent of garlic that hit them halfway down the block. Inside, it was exactly what she had imagined. No-frills. Loud. Cramped in the way only the best family-run restaurants are, where the tables are close, the air thick with steam and spices, and the floor creaks when the waiter slides by with another skillet of something bubbling hot. They were seated at a small table near the back, tucked between a group of locals arguing about baseball and a couple on a date sharing a bottle of red wine. The ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, and the walls were covered in old photos, mismatched artwork, and decades of stories told over Chianti and parmesan.

And the food? Mulder was right. The pasta arrived still sizzling in the pan, steam rising in fragrant clouds, the cheese golden and blistered at the edges, the sauce clinging thick to every forkful. Emily’s eyes went wide. Scully barely made it through the first bite before closing her eyes briefly, overcome by how deeply satisfying it all was.

Mulder raised an eyebrow at her across the table, smirking just a little. “Told you.”

She didn’t even bother with a comeback. Just reached for her water and then another bite, lips curled into a soft, silent smile that said everything. They ate slowly, not out of politeness but necessity. Jimmy Seas didn’t serve food you rushed through. Each bite demanded attention. The pan pasta was heavy with garlic and fresh basil, the sauce rich and deep, clearly simmered for hours. The cheese pulled in long strings, crisp at the edges where it had kissed the skillet. Scully alternated between quiet satisfaction and mild disbelief.

“This isn’t just pasta,” she murmured at one point, not even looking up from her plate. “It’s... engineered joy.”

Mulder leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like a man who’d just won a long-standing argument. Emily was too busy twirling noodles to join the conversation, her little chin just barely reaching over the rim of her plate. She had marinara on her cheek, her cap askew, and Scully felt a quiet warmth spread through her, not from the food, but from the way the scene around her settled in her bones. Waiters shouting over the kitchen noise, Sinatra playing low beneath the clatter of pans. Diners leaned in close to talk, laughter cutting through the clinking of silverware. There was something deeply human about it, warm, imperfect, and alive. They lingered after the plates were cleared, the cast-iron skillets still hissing faintly as they cooled. Mulder ordered a tiramisu “for the table,” though he handed the first bite to Emily, who accepted it like it was a sacred offering. Scully passed on dessert, too full and too tired, but content to sip her decaf and listen to the muffled joy of a restaurant in full swing.

When they finally stepped outside, the air had cooled considerably, crisp and fragrant with ocean breeze and late-summer roses. The streets of Oak Bluffs still hummed with life, but the night had begun to shift, slower now, softer. The drive home was quiet again, but this time it was the kind that follows fullness, not just of food, but of something harder to name. A kind of ease. A closeness earned slowly, built bite by bite, mile by mile. As they pulled back into the gravel drive in West Tisbury, Scully glanced over at Mulder, who was still humming Sinatra under his breath, one hand on the wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if anything louder might undo the fragile peace behind them.

“She’s asleep.”

Scully turned slightly in her seat, just enough to see Emily slumped against the side of her booster, one arm curled under her cheek, her Georgetown cap askew and her bangs escaping in every direction. The lull of the car and the weight of a full belly had done their work. She was out cold, her breath slow and even.

Mulder’s eyes flicked toward her, warm in the dim glow of the dashboard. “The magic of Jimmy Seas.”

Scully let her head rest back against the seat, gazing out at the darkened house ahead, the headlights cutting through the Vineyard’s sleepy countryside. Somewhere beyond the trees, the ocean whispered against the shore, quiet and constant. Everything had slowed. The island felt like it was exhaling around them.

“I can’t believe we have to leave tomorrow,” she said quietly, eyes still on the trees. “The rest of the world seems so distant here.”

“That’s the part I hated in my youth,” Mulder smiled, eyes still on her. “But I see the appeal now that I’m older. Tranquility is a good thing.”

Scully turned her head toward him, studying his face in the shifting light, faint outlines drawn by passing headlights. A man who'd run headfirst into chaos most of his life and was finally beginning to crave stillness.

“Let’s get her inside,” she said, unclasping her seatbelt with a soft click.

Mulder nodded, already killing the engine. The headlights dimmed, leaving them wrapped in the dark of the Vineyard night, crickets chirping in the tall grass, the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the ocean breeze. The house stood ahead of them, dark but welcoming, its silhouette softened by moonlight. Scully opened her door and stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath her flats. The night air had cooled considerably, but it felt good against her skin, clean, quiet, still carrying the scent of the sea and pine. Mulder came around the back of the car and opened the rear door with careful hands. Emily was still deep asleep, her head tipped to one side, cap slipping further over her brow. One arm dangled loose at her side, fingers sticky from the lollipop the waiter had given her as they left.

“She’s out cold,” he murmured, leaning in.

Scully hovered at his side. “She was practically sleepwalking by dessert.”

Mulder smiled, then reached in and gently scooped her up, moving slowly so he didn’t jostle her. Emily stirred only slightly, her face pressing against his shoulder, a sleepy murmur escaping her lips before she settled again, heavy and limp in his arms. Scully closed the door quietly behind them and followed him up the path toward the house, her hand resting lightly on his back. The porch light flicked on automatically as they reached the steps, casting a warm glow over the front door and the weathered wood beneath their feet. Scully paused just briefly at the threshold, glancing up at the sky. The stars were out in full, scattered across the black like salt on velvet. She breathed it in, this moment, this place, and followed them inside.

Upstairs, the house was dark and still, wooden floorboards creaking gently underfoot, the sound of waves distant and low through the open windows. Mulder carried Emily down the hall with care, her small form curled sleepily against his shoulder, her Georgetown cap hanging by a thread. He nudged the bedroom door open with his elbow and crossed to the bed, easing her down onto the cool cotton sheets. She stirred slightly, murmuring a wordless sound before turning onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. He pulled the quilt up to her shoulders, straightened the cap, then thought better of it and slipped it off, setting it gently on the nightstand beside her pink flashlight and her dinosaur trio.

Mulder padded quietly down the hall, feet soft against the worn floorboards, careful not to wake Emily. He ducked into the bathroom and flipped on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness. A quick pee, then he reached for the toothbrush he’d left beside hers, two matching brushes in the ceramic cup by the sink, hers blue, his green, a strangely intimate detail he hadn’t thought twice about until now. As he brushed, he stared absently at his reflection. The garlic was still there, clinging stubbornly to the back of his tongue, a reminder of dinner, of the laughter and sauce and shared looks and marinara-stained napkins. Of Emily’s delighted commentary, Scully’s rare, unguarded grin. He rinsed, spat, then reached for the towel hanging on the hook behind the door. He looked different here, less tired, maybe. Or just less haunted. He ran a hand through his hair, flicked off the light, and stepped back into the dim hallway.

He mostly avoided this place, only coming when he had to, when the will needed signing, when the lawyer had questions, when the accountant needed paperwork pulled from the old rolltop desk in the study. Every visit was transactional, clinical, like picking a scab and calling it maintenance. But the last time he came, something had shifted. He’d stood in the driveway after a long, quiet meeting, the lawyer’s voice still echoing in his ears about trust distributions and tax implications, and he’d looked up at the house, weathered, familiar, unchanging, and felt a pull he hadn’t expected. Something deep in his gut told him not to leave this place behind. Not entirely. Not anymore. He hadn’t said it aloud, not to Scully, not to himself, but something about the idea of her here, with him, with Emily, had made the edges of his memories soften. For almost two years now, he’d been rebuilding, one piece at a time, one breath at a time. The ache for what he’d lost hadn’t vanished, but somehow, in the quiet presence of Scully and Emily, that ache had found room to stretch out and rest. To stop being the only thing he felt.

And here, on this island, this strange little stretch of land where his childhood lived and died, he began to wonder if healing could mean more than just surviving. If maybe it could mean circling back, not to dwell in the past, but to make peace with it. To write new stories on old ground. He had loved this place once. Knew its beaches and hidden paths like extensions of himself. Most of his memories of Samantha were rooted in this soil, catching fireflies in the tall grass behind the house, daring each other to jump from the jetty into the cold, bracing water, whispering secrets under the porch light while the cicadas screamed. This land had carried his laughter and his grief, and now, for the first time in years, he could imagine it carrying something else, something gentler. The sound of Emily’s feet on the stairs. The rhythm of Scully’s voice in the kitchen. A life unfolding slowly, like mist lifting off the dunes in early morning light. He could only wonder what would happen if he brought the healing home.

He padded back down the stairs, the floor cool beneath his feet, the hush of the house settling deeper with each step. He didn’t sit. Not yet. Instead, he gathered the Sony Walkman from where he’d left it on the side table, the headphone wire tangled just enough to make him swear under his breath as he worked it loose with tired fingers. The tape inside was already cued up, rewound to the start. Moments later, he heard the quiet creak of the landing and the soft tread of bare feet descending the stairs. Scully appeared in the doorway, already changed into her soft cotton pajamas. As she moved, the faint scent of toothpaste and her favorite night cream followed her, clean and quiet and uniquely her. He watched her come closer, a warmth unfurling in his chest.

She clocked the Walkman in his hand and didn’t speak at first. Just gave him that look, the one that said you’re ridiculous, but I love you for it. A look threaded through with quiet understanding, amusement, comfort… all the things they rarely said out loud, but always seemed to understand. It passed between them like breath. Then, without a word, she eased herself down onto the couch with practiced grace, shifting the throw pillow behind her lower back. She pulled her pajama top up just enough to reveal the gentle swell of her belly, familiar now, solid and round, the smooth curve of a life steadily growing inside her. She did it like it was routine. Like this was something they’d done a hundred times before.

“What’s the baby listening to tonight?” she asked, voice light, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Mulder settled beside her, cradling the headphones like something precious. “Sticking with our Italian theme,” he said softly. “Vivaldi.”

Mulder was convinced that classical music did more than just soothe, it helped with brain development, shaping neural pathways even before the baby took its first breath. He’d read somewhere that the intricate patterns and harmonies of the great composers could stimulate the growing mind, encouraging early cognitive connections and maybe even sparking creativity down the line. So, without fanfare, he’d taken it upon himself to become the unofficial DJ for the baby bump. Carefully selecting pieces with rich melodies and rhythms that danced just right, he made it a ritual, an offering of sound and calm, a way to connect before words or touch were even possible. To Mulder, those moments felt like planting seeds of something beautiful, a quiet promise that this child was already being welcomed into the world. He gently settled the headphones over her stomach, adjusting them until they fit just right, secure but comfortable. Then, pressing play on the Walkman, he handed it to Scully. The faint strains of La Primavera, the hopeful, bright notes of Vivaldi’s Spring, just touching their ears.

“There’s a whole mind developing in there, Scully…” Mulder said quietly, his voice somewhere between awe and wonder. His hand rested over the soft rise of her stomach, fingers splayed like he could somehow feel thought itself pulsing beneath the skin. “Already starting to make sense of her little world in there. Already aware. She hasn’t even been born yet, and she’s learning. It’s…incredible, isn’t it?”

Scully didn’t answer right away. She shifted slightly against the couch cushions, her hand moving to cover his. Her thumb brushed gently over his knuckles.

“If she learned anything tonight,” she said at last, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth, “it’s that Jimmy Seas serves the best pan pasta in the Western Hemisphere.”

Mulder huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that stayed in his chest. He glanced at her, affection written plain across his face. Scully’s voice came softly as she continued, almost as if the quiet around them had coaxed it out.

“We’ve known each other a long time now,” she said, her gaze dropping to where their hands lay entwined, resting gently over the curve of her belly. “And you still manage to surprise me.”

Mulder turned his head slightly, searching her face. “I do?”

She gave a small, tired smile, the kind that came from deep affection and long familiarity. “Yeah… I think you might be more invested in this pregnancy stuff than I am.”

“Why is that a surprise?” he asked, his voice low, but not defensive, genuinely curious.

Scully tilted her head slightly, eyes still on their hands, thumb brushing absent circles over his skin.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I guess I just never thought the male of the species gave that much thought to the process of growing a baby.”

Mulder raised an eyebrow, lips quirking in amusement. “You mean besides the usual five minutes of participation at the beginning?”

She shot him a look, dry but fond. “Something like that.”

He smiled, but there was something quieter behind it, something softer. He didn’t joke this time.

“Well,” Mulder said, his voice low, thoughtful, “at the rate science is moving, I’m sure one day the male of the species might get a shot at experiencing it firsthand.”

He glanced at her, a flicker of a smile playing at his lips, but she didn’t interrupt, just waited, watching him with that quiet patience she reserved for moments like this.

“But until that day comes,” he said, eyes drifting down to their hands resting together, “it’s not something I’ll ever get to do. But what I can do is research. Learn. Keep up with what’s happening. Find ways to understand it all…”

He faltered briefly, as if weighing his thoughts, then let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle.

“I’ve never been abducted by aliens,” he admitted, glancing at her with a half-smile, “but some might say I’m something of an expert on the subject.”

He shook his head lightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “So, why not become an expert on growing a baby, too?”

Scully’s smile deepened, quiet and knowing, and her fingers curled a little tighter around his. Her eyes met his, steady and warm in the dim light.

“I think this child is very fortunate to have you for her father. Emily too.”

Mulder’s smile was slow to come, something soft and unguarded settling over his features. He squeezed her hand gently, the quiet between them fuller somehow. Mulder’s gaze lingered on her, the weight of her words settling deep in his chest. The room felt warmer somehow.

“I think I’m very fortunate that you gave me a chance,” Mulder said, his voice low, unguarded.

Scully’s eyes didn’t leave his. There was something in them, something quiet and steady in the blue depths, like twin pools of ocean just before dawn.

“You earned it,” she said softly. “Even when you thought you hadn’t.”

He looked down, not out of shame, but out of something deeper, something like reverence. “I wasn’t sure I ever would.”

A pause, full of breath and heart and years. “But, you did.”

“I don’t think I ever said thank you,” he murmured, his voice rougher now.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

But then, after a beat, her mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“But for what it’s worth…” she added, “you’re welcome.”

Without thinking, he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Scully’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a small sigh escaping her lips. He drew closer, pausing just for a moment, the weight of years tangled with ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes,’ fear and yearning settling heavy on his chest. But now, he was certain, he could trust himself with this. He had done nearly everything necessary to be ready, to be present for the long journey ahead. Slowly, he lowered his head, and their lips met, gentle, uncertain, like a fragile secret shared in the quiet darkness.

And in that kiss was everything: the sorrow of what they’d lost, the fierce determination to hold onto what they still had, the promise of a future that felt fragile but fiercely alive. Scully’s hands found their way to his chest, clutching at him as if to anchor herself, to make sure he was really there. Mulder’s arms tightened around her, holding her as if she might disappear if he didn’t. The kiss deepened ever so slightly, still careful, still slow, like discovering a language neither had spoken before but both longed to understand. When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts still racing. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. Because in that first kiss, they’d said everything. He lingered there, eyes closed, savoring the warmth of her minty breath against his cheek. When he finally opened them, Scully’s gaze met his, steady, soft, and unwavering. There was a quiet vulnerability in her expression, one that mirrored his own, a shared understanding passing between them like a fragile flame.

“It’s late,” he whispered. “We should probably head on up.”

But neither of them moved right away.

The air between them was thick with the warmth of what had just passed, years folded into minutes, hesitation unraveling into something steady. Outside, the wind shifted softly through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, the ocean rumbled. Scully nodded, slow and reluctant.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “We should.”

But even as they stood, neither let go. There was no rush. Just the quiet pull of two people who had finally stopped running from the past, from themselves, from each other. They moved together, not speaking, only the soft creak of the stairs beneath their feet and the whisper of the house settling around them. Upstairs, she didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, she drew him with her, slow and certain, past the familiar turn toward his room. Her fingers curled more tightly around his as she stepped into her own room, not looking back, not needing to. Mulder followed, heart thudding, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something deeper. He crossed the threshold behind her, letting the door ease closed on the quiet house, and on all the years they’d spent afraid to ask for exactly this.

Scully turned to him, eyes unreadable in the low light, but full, of trust, of knowing, of something that had taken years. And then she stepped into him, closing the last bit of space between them, her hands rising to his face, fingers threading gently into his hair. The second kiss came without hesitation. Deeper. Slower. It held none of the uncertainty of the first, just the heat of long-buried want, of comfort and ache meeting in the same breath. Her lips moved against his with quiet urgency, and he answered in kind, his hands finding her waist, her back, the curve of her spine. Outside, the wind picked up, rustling through the trees, and beyond that came the steady pulse of the waves crashing against the shore, distant, thunderous, rhythmic. Like a heartbeat too big for the room.

Fingers moved without urgency but with purpose, fabric loosening, layers falling away, one by one, soft piles of clothing against the floor as skin found skin in the quiet. They didn’t look away. There was nothing tentative now, nothing uncertain. Just the hush of breath and the warmth of touch, the silent understanding of two people who had already been through fire and come out the other side. She drew him down with her, into the softness of the sheets, the faint scent of salt air drifting in through the window. The ocean pounded just beyond the glass, wild and relentless, but inside, the world had narrowed to this, bodies unfolding into each other, slowly, lovingly. It wasn’t about surrender. It was about arrival. The simple, silent knowing that they had finally come home.

Chapter Text

November 27th, 1973. That was the day everything broke. The day his world, once small and safe, split down the middle. His sister vanished without a sound. No goodbye, no explanation, just gone. After that, nothing fit the same way again. His father turned to silence, a cold, distant figure who stopped looking him in the eye. His mother disappeared too, though not physically, she drifted inward, wrapped herself in layers of grief so thick they never really let him in again. And Mulder, just twelve years old, was left standing in the wreckage. A boy with no map, no guide, just a thousand unspoken questions and a hollow ache that never let up. No one was talking. No one was answering. But sometimes, in the spaces between years, the universe repays its debt.

On November 27th, 1999 his daughter was born. Her features were delicate, her skin still pink and new, and a fine dusting of dark hair clung to her small head like a promise of what was to come. She was tiny, no bigger than a whisper, but perfect in every impossible way. And she was loud. Her first cries rang out, full-throated and fierce, as if the whole world needed to know she was here. Announcing her arrival with a voice that refused to be ignored. With tears shimmering in her eyes, Margaret Scully whispered softly, as if sharing a sacred secret, that even God himself had heard. That gave Mulder pause. He didn’t need to flip through Scully’s well-worn baby name book to know the name Samantha meant God has heard. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Not after everything he’d seen, everything he’d lost. To him, names, moments, even the smallest details were never just random. They were pieces of something bigger, something waiting to be understood.

He didn’t need to explain any of it to Scully. She already knew, the weight of the date, the dark sweep of hair on the baby’s head, the meaning folded quietly into the name. Scully, who still believed in coincidences, could feel it too. This wasn’t random. This was something set apart. Something special. When he asked her, there in the quiet hospital room, eyes fixed on their tiny, precious daughter, what she planned to name her, Scully’s answer came steady and sure, warm with a quiet certainty that needed no explanation.

“Samantha.”

He knew he’d give everything for Emily, had already proven that, without question, without hesitation. But this… this was different. This was blood and bone. His sister’s name carried forward. A thread in the fabric of something larger than himself. He wouldn’t be the last. Not anymore. And while he was more than content for their children to carry Scully’s name, proud, even, he already understood that this new version of the Mulder family would bear little resemblance to the one he came from. The ghosts would stay behind. The silence would end with him. His children wouldn’t be left standing in the wreckage. Not if he could help it. Looking down at her, so small, so perfect, her breath soft and even beneath the folds of her tiny blanket, he felt something shift. A quiet reckoning. A chance to do it differently. To build something whole where everything had once been broken. A chance to make it right.

His mother came to the hospital. He found her standing alone at the nursery window, the soft hum of the hallway around her, distant and low. Her shoulders were stiff beneath her coat, but her hand trembled where it hovered near her mouth, fingers pressed just barely to her lips, as if steadying herself against the weight of what she saw. There were tears in her eyes. Quiet ones. The kind that came without warning, too long held back. She didn’t turn when she heard him approach. Just kept her gaze fixed on the rows of bassinets.

“Her name is Samantha,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a breath beside her.

His mother closed her eyes. The tears came quietly, without resistance, slipping down her cheeks in slow, steady lines. She didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, held in the moment, the name lingering between them like a prayer.

Finally, she turned toward him. Her voice was soft, a little unsteady. “Fox.”

At the same moment, he turned to her. “Mom.”

The shared breath of those words seemed to soften something between them. For the first time in longer than he could remember, they both smiled, tentative, a little unsure, but real. He gave a small nod and gestured for her to go first, the old tension between them eased for just a moment. Something unspoken passing quietly in the space where hurt used to live.

“I know you want answers… answers that…” she hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the tiny bundle behind the glass, “that I can’t give you.”

Her voice was low, worn at the edges, but steady. She looked at him then, really looked at him.

“But for the sake of this child, Fox… you need to leave the past in the past. Your sister is gone. She’s never coming back. What your father was involved in, the shadows he lived in, don’t follow him there.”

She swallowed, the weight of it all pressing between them. “Don’t make the same mistake. Don’t let it touch your family.”

Her eyes flicked back to the nursery, to the name card, to the quiet rise and fall of the baby’s chest. “Let that darkness end with you.”

Before he had a chance to respond, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled his attention down the corridor.
He turned and saw Margaret Scully coming toward them, her expression warm but purposeful, and just a step behind her walked Father McCue, the Scully family priest. Mulder recognized him instantly. The same man who had stood at Scully’s bedside during the worst of it, murmuring prayers as she fought through the quiet terror of her cancer, her body frail, her breath shallow, her future uncertain. He’d been a steady presence then, a quiet anchor when science had nothing left to offer. Now he was here again, this time, to bless mother and child. And for once, the moment wasn’t about fear or grief. It was about life. A fragile, fierce new beginning.

Mrs. Scully and Father McCue paused briefly beside them. There were warm greetings, polite introductions, Margaret’s voice gentle but sure, Father McCue’s presence quiet and respectful. Mrs. Mulder offered a small nod, composed as ever. And then, just as quickly, they continued down the corridor, headed toward Scully’s room.
Mulder watched his mother’s gaze follow the priest as he walked away, her expression unreadable.

“Your…” she began, the word slow, uncertain. She glanced toward him, searching. “Partner is Catholic?”

He nodded once, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything right away, just let the answer hang there between them.

“Please tell me,” she said dryly, one brow lifting ever so slightly, “she’s a distant cousin of the Kennedys?”

Mulder grinned, tossing his mother a knowing, affectionate glance.

“Not even close,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Her father was a Navy Captain. And a staunch Republican.”

His mother smirked, the unspoken humor passing between them like a shared secret.

“Well… a mother can only dream,” the warmth in her voice softening the tease.

She paused for a moment, then said softly, “She came to see me at your father’s funeral.”

He nodded, the memory settling between them. “I know.”

There was a quiet beat before she added, “I got the impression she was quite fond of you.”

Mulder’s smile was quiet, but it reached his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything.

Inside the nursery, a nurse had begun to gently wheel Samantha’s crib toward the door, the soft rattle of the wheels just audible through the glass. Mulder watched for a moment, then placed a warm hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“Come and meet your granddaughter,” he said softly. His voice carried something quiet and full, a bridge between past and present, loss and something new.

They gathered around Scully’s hospital bed, the room hushed but full of warmth, of breath, of something sacred. Scully looked pale but peaceful, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, yet soft with that fierce, quiet love that had become second nature. Samantha lay nestled against her chest, tiny and still, her breath rising and falling in rhythm with her mother’s heartbeat. Father McCue stood at the foot of the bed, his hands folded over a small worn book. The kind that had seen a thousand blessings and a thousand griefs. His voice, when he began to speak, was gentle and sure, as if he understood exactly what this moment held.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he murmured, tracing the Sign of the Cross in the air.

He stepped forward, placing one hand lightly above Scully’s forehead, the other hovering just above the newborn's dark crown.

“May God, the source of all life and love, bless this mother and child. May He grant Dana strength in body and spirit, and may He watch over Samantha all the days of her life. May this child grow in grace, in wisdom, and in peace, surrounded by love, protected by faith.”

Margaret stood beside her daughter, her eyes glistening. Mulder was on the other side of the bed, one hand resting lightly on the blanket near Scully’s hip, the other tucked into his pocket, as if to steady himself against the gravity of the moment. His mother stood just behind him, quiet and still, her gaze fixed on the child who bore the name of a ghost and the promise of something more. Father McCue took a small vial from his coat pocket, twisting it open. He dipped his thumb lightly in holy water and gently touched it to Samantha’s forehead, making the sign of the cross.

“The Lord bless you and keep you,” he whispered, voice steady. “The Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”

A stillness followed, deep and full and reverent. Not silence exactly, but a quiet that settled like a benediction. Then Father McCue stepped back, closing his book, offering a small, warm smile to Scully.

“She is already deeply loved,” he said.

Scully looked down at the baby in her arms, then up at the faces around her, her mother, Emily, Mulder, even Mrs. Mulder standing near the door, her expression unreadable but softened at the edges.

“I know,” she said softly. “I can feel it.”

She looked up again, eyes finding Mrs. Mulder standing quietly near the door. There was hesitation in her posture, hands clasped in front of her, unsure whether she belonged in this moment or was merely witness to it.

Scully’s voice was soft but steady, an offering of peace more than politeness. “Would you like to hold her?”

For a moment, Mrs. Mulder didn’t move. Her eyes dropped to the tiny bundle in Scully’s arms, her gaze flickering with something unreadable, grief, maybe. Wonder. Fear.

Then she nodded, just once. Slow. “I’d like that very much.”

Mulder leaned in carefully. With a soft word to Scully, he lifted Samantha from her arms, cradling her with the kind of reverence he’d never known he was capable of until now. His mother had settled into the chair near the bed, her posture composed but not rigid, braced, perhaps, for something she wasn’t sure how to feel. Mulder stepped forward and, with a tenderness that surprised even him, passed the baby into her waiting arms. Mrs. Mulder took her slowly, almost cautiously, as if the child might vanish like smoke if she breathed too hard. She stared down at the tiny, sleeping face, at the soft rise and fall of her chest, the downy dark hair. She drew in a slow breath, eyes shimmering.

“Hello, Samantha,” she whispered.

Mulder stood beside her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder, a steady presence, grounding them both. He looked down at the baby in his mother’s arms, then across the room to Scully. Their eyes met. No words passed between them. None were needed. He gave the smallest nod, just enough for her to see. Thank you. For the grace. For the trust. For this moment.

Emily stepped forward, her small footsteps light against the hospital floor, curiosity lighting her face as she stared up at the unfamiliar woman holding the baby.

“Are you Mulder’s mommy?” she asked, voice bright and innocent.

Mrs. Mulder blinked, startled for only a moment before something softened in her expression.

“I am,” she said gently. “You may call me Teena.”

“Hi, Teena,” Emily said with a shy smile.

“And what’s your name?”

“I’m Emily.”

“Well, Emily,” Teena said, her voice warmer now, “it’s very nice to meet you. What do you think of your little sister?”

Emily gave a practiced shrug, glancing at the sleeping bundle with nonchalance.

“She’s okay…” she said. “When she’s not crying.”

Laughter rippled through the room, quiet, genuine, needed. And just like that, the last of the tension gave way to something looser. Lighter. Something like family. When Mrs. Mulder left, Mulder walked her to her car. The late afternoon sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the hospital parking lot, the air cool and quiet around them. They paused beside the driver’s door, an awkward stillness settling for a moment before she turned and opened her arms. Mulder stepped into the embrace without hesitation. It was brief, but real, more than just politeness.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she said as she pulled back, her voice softer than he was used to. “I’d like to see more of you… and your family.”

Mulder nodded, his hands still in his pockets, a quiet promise in his eyes.

“You will,” he said.

And for the first time in a long while, he meant it.

The next day, he finally brought Scully and Samantha home. Their new home. It wasn’t just a house, it was a fresh start, a fragile promise wrapped in four walls. They’d only been there a month, but Mulder had thrown himself into the work like it was a lifeline. Every box unpacked. Every corner shaped into something familiar. He knew the baby wouldn’t wait for them to be ready. There would be sleepless nights and chaos soon enough. So he made sure the foundation was steady before everything else came crashing in. Between their two places, they’d gathered enough furniture to fill every room, more or less, pieces that told parts of their story. Some of it mismatched, some of it worn, but all of it holding weight. Under Scully’s sharp eye and quiet hand, Mulder arranged it with care, like they were piecing together a puzzle neither of them knew how to solve before. Their tastes were different, sometimes clashing, but somehow, together, they created something that felt whole. Unexpectedly harmonious. A space stitched from the fragments of their lives.

The Lone Gunmen arrived that afternoon, a little awkward, a little over-eager, each of them carrying something. Byers with a carefully wrapped box, Frohike with a stuffed animal tucked under one arm, and Langly holding a tiny black onesie that read I Hack Before I Crawl in blocky white letters. Mulder met them at the door, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, part affection, part disbelief that they were really here for this. He led them upstairs, their boots creaking softly, and paused outside the nursery like he was crossing some invisible threshold. Mulder stuck his head in first. Scully was in the rocking chair, Samantha curled against her, sleeping deeply. Her arms wrapped around the baby like a shield and a cradle all at once.

“Check it out, Scully,” Mulder said softly, glancing back toward the hallway. “Father McCue summoned the three wise men.”

Scully looked up, her expression warm and just a little amused. “Do they come bearing gifts or conspiracy theories?”

“Both,” Langly whispered appearing behind Mulder, holding up the onesie like a peace offering.

The men shuffled in, all elbows and hesitation, their usual swagger dimmed by the weight of the moment. Leather jackets, scuffed boots, and Langly’s faded band t-shirt made them look like they’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a dive bar, but here they were, standing in the middle of a softly lit nursery, surrounded by pale walls, plush toys, and the scent of lavender and baby powder. Holding gifts no less. The contrast was jarring, punk rock and paranoia pressed up against lullabies and rocking chairs, but these men knew something about loyalty. About showing up. And right now, that’s all that mattered.

Scully glanced up from the rocker, and smiled. She didn’t flinch at the sight of them. She just nodded once, slow and sure, as if to say: You belong here, too. In a strange way, they weren’t just Mulder’s friends anymore. Somewhere along the line, between the late-night phone calls, the impossible cases, and the moments no one else could witness, they’d become hers too. A strange, patchwork kind of loyalty, woven out of shared battles and unspoken trust. And Scully, looking at the three men, felt a flicker of something rare and steady: gratitude. Mulder had lost a sister, a wound that never fully closed, a grief etched into the shape of his life. But in a way, he’d gained three brothers. Not in blood, but in bond.

They didn’t stay long. Just long enough to bear witness to the tiny miracle resting in Scully’s arms, to murmur their congratulations in quiet tones. Each of them took one last look at the sleeping baby before slipping out, their usual banter replaced by something gentler, something almost solemn. Mulder walked them to the door, his voice low, full of quiet gratitude. No jokes, no lingering. Just a nod. A silent thank-you passed between old friends, the kind that doesn’t need to be said aloud to be felt. When the door clicked shut behind them, the house felt still again. Peaceful. A little fuller. Scully stayed in the nursery, humming under her breath, rocking slowly, her eyes half-closed as Samantha slept against her chest. Mulder stood in the entryway for a moment longer, hand on the doorknob, staring out at the old van as it pulled away. Then he exhaled, long and low, and reached for his keys from the hook by the door. Emily would be waiting at school. Pigtails probably crooked. Backpack half-zipped. Eyes scanning the crowd for him like they always did. And Mulder, still adjusting to what it meant to belong to someone, to several someones, knew he wouldn’t keep her waiting.

By the time he returned with Emily in tow, her small hand wrapped tightly in his, backpack bouncing against her back, Mrs. Scully was already there. She moved through the kitchen with practiced ease, the way someone does when they’ve done this kind of thing more times than they can count. Dishes wrapped in foil, labeled in neat handwriting, lined the counter like an army of comfort. Casseroles. Soups. Things that could be reheated in the middle of the night with one hand while holding a baby with the other. She was crouched in front of the fridge when Mulder walked in, tucking a container onto an already crowded shelf. She glanced up over the fridge door, catching him in that matter-of-fact, no-nonsense way only a mother can.

“This is the last thing you’re going to want to worry about right now,” she said, shutting the fridge with a quiet thud.

“Grandma!”

Emily’s voice rang out, high and clear, cutting through the soft hum of the kitchen. She let go of Mulder’s hand without hesitation and skipped across the tile, arms already outstretched. Margaret barely had time to turn before Emily wrapped herself around her waist in a hug that was all limbs and pure affection.

“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart,” Margaret said, the surprise in her voice quickly giving way to warmth. She crouched down to Emily’s level, smoothing a hand over her hair. “How was school?”

Emily beamed, all wide eyes and trust, already talking a mile a minute about her school day, the picture she’d drawn for the baby, how she hadn’t forgotten to bring her library book back this time. Margaret listened with the kind of attention that made a child feel important, like every word mattered. Mulder watched from the other side of the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, quietly beginning to pack away the rest of Margaret’s generous offerings. He worked around the steady rhythm of their conversation, Emily’s breathless retelling of recess adventures and snack-time politics, letting it fill the room like music. For a few precious minutes, the world felt small, contained, manageable. When Emily finally concluded her long report with a dramatic sigh and a very serious nod, Mulder closed the fridge and turned back toward them, his voice full of genuine warmth.

“Thanks for all of this, Mrs. Scully. It looks great. Really.”

Margaret stood, smoothing her jacket with one hand and patting Emily affectionately on the head with the other. She looked up at him then, her expression soft and a little amused, like she was watching something she’d seen coming a long time ago finally settle into place.

“Fox,” she said, her voice gentle but sure, “I think we’re beyond Mrs. Scully now. You can call me Maggie. Everyone else does.”

He gave a small nod, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. She smiled back, and just like that, something subtle shifted. Another wall down. Another thread tied. In a kitchen filled with the smells of home-cooked food and the laughter of a little girl, Mulder realized he wasn’t just visiting this life anymore. He was in it. He’d done it. Not all at once, not without mistakes, but step by step, he’d built something steady beneath them. Mulder’s voice was light when he said it, but there was a thread of something earnest beneath the joke, testing the waters, maybe, or trying to soften the edge of a truth that still felt fragile.

“I guess this means you approve of me living in sin with your daughter?”

She stepped closer, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“I approve of you loving her,” she said gently. “And taking care of her. And standing by her. Everything else?” She shrugged. “That’s between the two of you and God…and possibly Bill Jr.”

Mulder laughed under his breath, a little embarrassed, a little relieved. “Fair enough.”

They exchanged an amused, knowing glance, the kind that needed no explanation. Because, of course, Bill Jr. wasn’t exactly Mulder’s biggest fan. Maggie just smiled faintly, eyes sparkling with quiet humor as she reached out and gave Mulder’s arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. Then, without a word, she turned back to her task, peeling the lid off a container of chicken soup like she hadn’t just acknowledged a whole family undercurrent in a single look.
Mulder shook his head with a half-smile of his own, biting back a comment. They both knew it wouldn’t matter in the long run. Bill could grumble all he wanted from the sidelines, this life, this home, this family… they were real. And whether Bill approved or not, Maggie did. That was more than enough.

There was only one more thing to take care of. The papers were in order. The background checks, the interviews, the home study, every last bureaucratic hurdle had been cleared. He’d even sat through the parenting classes without rolling his eyes once. Almost every single step had been taken. The only thing left now was her. Emily. She wasn’t a baby anymore. She was old enough to understand what this meant, what it didn’t. And he didn’t want to move forward until she had the chance to say it out loud. Until the choice could be hers, too. That mattered more than any document ever could. If she wanted him to be her father, really wanted it, then the adoption application would go in first thing. Simple as that. And still, the weight of it pressed against his ribs, a quiet ache he carried in the best way. Because even with the nerves, even with the history and the first three years of her life he hadn’t been there, Mulder was more than certain her answer would be yes. He’d seen it in the way she looked for him in a crowd. In how her hand always found his when the world felt too big. In how she leaned into him when she was tired, without hesitation. Now it was just a matter of asking. And hearing her say what he already knew in his heart.

He would always remember November 27th, 1999 as the day everything changed, not in the way it so often had before, with loss or fear or another wound he couldn’t undo, but in a way that healed something in him. It had once been a date marked by absence. A number heavy with grief, circled quietly in his mind each year like a scar he’d grown used to tracing. But somehow, impossibly, the universe had rewritten it. Turned it into something whole. The birth of a daughter. The birth of a family. That day wasn’t just about his sister anymore. It wasn’t just about what had been taken. It was about what had been given. And now, that dreaded date, November 27th, no longer belonged to the dark. It belonged to them. To the light. To everything that would come after.

Chapter Text

It was midwinter, the snow piled high and heavy, yet the sky stretched wide and clear above them, a crisp, brilliant blue that seemed to hold a quiet promise. Mulder stepped out of the courthouse, hand firmly wrapped around Emily’s small one, his grip steady and sure. Behind them, Scully followed with Samantha snug against her chest, bundled in a soft blanket, a tiny beanie pulled low over her ears, her breath warm and even. As they carefully made their way down the steps, Mulder’s fingers tightened gently around Emily’s.

“You know what this means, kiddo?” he said, voice low but full of warmth. “I’m officially your dad now, just like Samantha. I get to ground you, and yeah, I get to beat up all your boyfriends…”

“No!” Emily shook her head, giggling, her boots crunching in the snow as she looked up at him, eyes bright.

“Yep,” Mulder said, nodding solemnly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “You better believe it. Me and Mr. Chips’ll be waiting on the porch with a flashlight and a list of questions.”

Scully let out a soft laugh behind them, adjusting Samantha’s blanket as the wind picked up slightly. Her hand came to rest gently between Mulder’s shoulder blades, a quiet, grounding touch, and together they moved forward, the four of them. Spiritually, emotionally, legally, they were a family now. No longer suspended in waiting. Just walking, step by step, back to the car, where the windows had already begun to frost and the future waited.

“I was thinking,” Mulder said as Emily clambered into the backseat, her boots leaving faint prints on the floor mat, “for our first official father-daughter appearance, we hit the Museum of Natural History.”

Emily blinked at him, head tilted, curious. “What do we do there?”

Mulder leaned against the open car door, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “We look at dinosaurs.”

Her eyes widened, round with wonder. “Real dinosaurs?”

Mulder grinned, closing the door with a soft thud.
“The bones of real dinosaurs,” he said, pulling open the front passenger door. “Giant ones. With huge teeth.”

Emily gasped, the sound full of delight, already bouncing in her seat. “Can we get one for the house?”

Mulder laughed and settled into the passenger seat. Once Scully had Samantha clipped in to her baby seat, she slid in behind the wheel, her movements smooth, familiar. She turned the key, and the engine hummed to life, the heater kicking on with a low rush of warm air. Outside, the snow caught the sunlight like scattered glass.

“Let’s go home and change out of our court clothes first,” Scully said, her tone practical but still light. “And Samantha needs a quick pit stop.”

In the backseat, Emily gave an exaggerated sigh, but she was smiling.
“Okay. But then, dinosaurs!”

Scully drove them toward home, the late morning sun casting long streaks of light across the windshield. Her two baby girls were tucked safely in the back, Emily humming softly to herself, Samantha quiet and content, and Mulder was at her side. She glanced over at him, just for a moment, and their eyes met. No words needed. Just warmth passed in a glance, steady and full. His hand reached across the center console, fingers resting gently just above her knee, grounding her in the quiet, still-new reality of it all.

“We did it,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Scully smiled, eyes returning to the road, the corners of her mouth lifted in something quiet and real. Her heart felt full in a way that was hard to name, full of motion, of weight, of grace. They truly had done it. In just over two years, their lives had shifted in ways she hadn’t thought possible. They’d saved Emily, pulled her back from the edge of something dark and irreversible. They had carved out a space for something new, something lasting. Pieces once lost had been reclaimed, reassembled. Her body, once spoken about in clinical terms and sterile absolutes, had done what she’d been told it couldn’t. And now, with Samantha sleeping behind her, and Mulder’s hand resting warm and steady on her leg, Scully couldn’t even imagine going back to the life that came before. The one in which they weren’t parents to two incredible little girls. A life without Emily’s curious questions or her uncontainable laughter, without Samantha’s soft coos and the weight of her tiny head nestled into Scully’s shoulder. That other life, so defined by loss, by searching, by waiting, felt distant now, like something seen through a window in another season.

Mulder had surprised her every step of the way. She’d loved him, trusted him, but deep down, she hadn’t believed he was built for this, not the day-to-day rhythm of parenting, not the patience it required, the steadiness. It wasn’t a lack of faith in his heart, he’d always had that in spades, but in his ability to stay, to settle into something so rooted, so ordinary, and make a home inside it. But as he had done so many times before, he proved her wrong. Not all at once. He approached it slowly, carefully, like a puzzle he intended to solve. Piece by piece, he found his footing, quiet mornings with bottles and lullabies, the way he listened to Emily’s endless questions without brushing her off, how he walked the halls with a fussy baby pressed to his chest until she slept. He hadn’t just stepped into the role. He grew into it. Covered the ground inch by inch, until there was nowhere left he hadn’t touched. Mulder, the man who once ran from everything, had stayed. Had shown up. And more than that, he’d made space for all of it, the mess, the joy, the responsibility, the softness.

There were rough days, of course, moments of doubt, of exhaustion, of frayed nerves. But he never disappeared into them. He stayed. He adjusted. He tried again. And Scully, watching him grow into the role neither of them had expected, felt something shift in herself, too. Not just love, but awe. Gratitude. A quiet pride that she carried with her through the long nights and early mornings. This wasn’t the life they’d planned. But as she glanced back at her girls in the rearview mirror and then over at Mulder again, his hand still resting gently on her leg, thumb tracing absent circles, she knew it was exactly the life they were meant to build. Together.

Later in the early afternoon, they found themselves at the Museum of Natural History, the stone facade rising up before them like something ancient and reverent, its steps worn smooth by generations of curious feet. Inside, the air was cooler, quieter, cavernous ceilings absorbing sound, a hush that settled over everything. Emily clutched the map they’d been handed at the entrance, folded and crinkled already from her eager fingers. Her boots squeaked faintly on the marble floors as she tugged Mulder’s hand forward, her eyes wide with possibility. Scully walked just behind them, Samantha cradled snug in the carrier strapped across her chest. The baby stirred a little, restless from the shift in light and temperature, but quickly settled again with a soft, sighing breath. Scully adjusted the strap with one hand and watched as Emily pulled Mulder toward the massive skeletons that rose up from the polished floors like ghosts of another world, jawbones wide and toothy, ribcages arching overhead like cathedral beams.

Emily stopped in front of a triceratops, her mouth parted in awe. “Is this one real?”

Mulder crouched beside her, his voice low. “Some of it. The rest they build to fill in the blanks. But the bones? Those are from the actual dinosaur.”

Emily leaned in close. “It’s huge.”

“Yep,” he said, nodding. “Used to walk right where we are, millions of years ago. Imagine that.”

Scully came up beside them, brushing a hand lightly over the back of Emily’s coat. The girl reached for her instinctively, curling her fingers around the edge of Scully’s sleeve, anchoring herself in the moment. For a long beat, they stood like that, held in quiet awe beneath the shadow of something impossibly ancient. It wasn’t just the bones, or the history, or even the wonder that made Scully’s chest feel suddenly tight with feeling. It was the stillness of it all. The way Mulder’s hand rested easily on Emily’s shoulder. The way Samantha shifted against her chest with a sleepy murmur. The way Emily’s voice rose just above a whisper when she asked her next question, as though afraid to disturb the silence around them.

“What happened to them?”

Mulder exhaled, slow. “The world changed. Too fast for them to keep up.”

Emily looked thoughtful. “But we’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Mulder said, smiling softly. “We are.”

And they stayed there a little while longer, all four of them, surrounded by bones and echoes and quiet, letting the weight of the past brush gently against the edges of their present. When they eventually moved on, they wandered slowly from one exhibit to the next, the museum unfolding around them like a story, time stitched into every hallway, every fossil, every faded diorama. Emily moved between them without hesitation now, hand in Mulder’s one minute, fingers wrapped around the hem of Scully’s coat the next. She was at home between them, safe, curious, unafraid. By the time they reached the Hall of Space Exploration, Samantha had drifted back into sleep, her breath warm against Scully’s collarbone, and Emily was starting to slow, her earlier excitement mellowing into something quieter, more contemplative. The lights in the space wing were dimmer, stars projected across the ceiling in soft constellations that moved ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. Emily stood beneath them, neck craned, mouth parted.

“Do you think aliens look like this?” she asked, pointing at a display that showed the various “possibilities” some cartoonish, others more plausible.

Mulder smirked. “I think they probably look more like your mom when she’s tired.”

Scully shot him a look, but it was mild, amused. “Keep talking,” she said under her breath. “See how that works out for you.”

Mulder’s hand found hers, fingers brushing over her palm before curling around it fully. He studied her for a long moment, thumb tracing a slow, absent line across her knuckles.

“I love you,” he said, not as a declaration, but like a fact. A fixed point in the universe. “You know that, right?”

She smiled, the kind of smile she only gave him, wry, warm, and wide enough to make him catch his breath. “I do,” she whispered. “I’m kind of fond of you too.”

He smirked, and for a moment, there in the quiet dark, with galaxies spinning above them and their daughter just steps away, they stayed like that, wrapped in something deep and certain and unshakably theirs.

A small voice called out from across the room.

“Mom? Dad? Come look, there’s a rock from the actual moon!”

They both laughed, and Scully pulled back, brushing a kiss to his cheek before they stepped back into the light. They didn’t stay in the planetarium much longer. Emily gave one last look up at the stars, then turned back toward them with a yawn she didn’t bother to hide this time, her energy finally beginning to ebb.

“Are we going home now?” she asked, though there wasn’t a trace of protest in her voice, just a gentle tiredness settling in.

“Almost,” Mulder said, glancing toward the exit. “But we’ve got one last mission.”

Emily tilted her head. “What mission?”

He smiled, brushing a hand down her back. “The gift shop.”

That got her attention.

The moment they stepped through the double doors into the small store nestled beside the museum entrance, Emily was alert again, eyes scanning the shelves like she was entering a sacred archive. The space was cozy, well-lit, and crowded with everything from science kits and star charts to books and glossy postcards, but she made a beeline straight for the toys. It was clear she’d already formed a plan.

“I think,” she said, fingers grazing the edge of a shelf stacked with dinosaur figures, “we might need someone new for the team.”

Mulder raised an eyebrow.

“They keep the room safe,” Emily said, as if it should be obvious. “Remember? You said Tater Tops handles surveillance. Mr. Chips does security sweeps. Dr. Spuddy’s head of first aid.” She paused, scanning the rows of plastic dinosaurs.

“But I’ve been thinking... we need someone fast. Someone who can chase bad guys and know when to hide.”

She stopped in front of a velociraptor figure, sleek and fierce, claws mid-strike, mouth open in a frozen snarl. Her eyes lit up.

“This one,” she said quietly. “She’s perfect.”

Mulder stepped closer, studying the raptor like he was trying to gauge her resume. “You think she’s ready for the job?”

“She was born ready,” Emily said with complete conviction. “Her name is Agent Sweet Potato.”

Scully smiled, rocking slightly on her heels as Samantha stirred softly against her. “Sounds like she’ll fit right in.”

“Yeah,” Emily murmured, cradling the velociraptor gently in both hands, all her earlier energy now focused into this one quiet moment. “She’s tough.”

Mulder exchanged a glance with Scully and pulled out his wallet. “Looks like we’re hiring her.”

At the register, Emily placed Sweet Potato carefully on the counter, murmuring introductions under her breath as if the raptor were already meeting the rest of the team back home. Mr. Chips, of course, would be suspicious at first, he always was, but Dr. Spuddy was good with new recruits. And Tater Tops didn’t say much, but Emily was sure he’d approve once he saw Agent Sweet Potato’s claws.

As they stepped back into the cold late afternoon, Emily walked between them, her new teammate tucked safely under one arm. The museum behind them, the snow still glittering under the golden edge of dusk, she turned to Mulder and asked, “Do you think we can make her a badge?”

He smiled. “Absolutely. No good security raptor goes without credentials.”

Scully laughed softly beside him, her hand brushing his as they walked. Emily began explaining Sweet Potato’s backstory in great detail, how she once escaped from a lab, survived in the wilderness, and was now using her skills for good, and neither of them interrupted. They just listened, steps slow and steady, as their little girl wove another piece of her world into theirs. And just like that, the team was complete.