Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diana had vanished from the frame like a breath on cold glass, quickly, without warning, without explanation. One day, they were aligned, orbiting the same strange center. The next, she was gone. A plane to Berlin, not even a forwarding address scrawled in a rushed hand. There’d been hurt, of course. Questions that lingered longer than they should have. Had he missed something? Or had the whole thing simply thinned out over time, stretched too far until it tore without warning? He didn’t talk about it. Not really. He filed the pain away like any other unsolved case, unfinished, unresolved, but shelved all the same. Almost four years had passed since Diana’s departure. Whatever they’d been, whatever unfinished business lingered between them, it had long since faded into background noise. So when word of her finally came, it landed like a stone in still water, sharp, sudden, wholly unexpected. And it was the last thing he ever thought he’d hear.

Diana was dead. A car accident, sudden and senseless, the kind of tragedy that didn’t come with answers, only the blunt fact of absence. One moment she existed in the world, somewhere out of reach. The next, she was gone. Just like that. And though it had been years since her name last passed his lips, the news still landed with a hollow weight. But it wasn’t just her death that shook him. It was what she’d left behind. A little boy. Three years old. Her son. His son. Mulder hadn’t known, not a whisper, not a clue. No letters. No calls. Nothing in her handwriting that might have warned him. And yet the boy carried his name. Max Mulder. As if somewhere, at some point, Diana had made a decision. A quiet declaration. No legal tie bound them, his name was missing from the birth certificate, but the choice of surname was unmistakable. A truth she never told him, but one she’d documented all the same.

The X-Files were gone, boxed up and buried beneath layers of bureaucratic dust. Scully was back at Quantico, trading fieldwork for lab coats and lecture halls. And Mulder, he was stuck. Drifting through a parade of meaningless assignments, answering to Skinner like some half-forgotten errand boy. The leash had shortened. The purpose had thinned. He was tired. Tired of chasing shadows without the freedom to follow them. Tired of pretending any of it mattered. He already had one foot out the door. Halfway to resigning, halfway to disappearing. He told himself he was just waiting for the right excuse. And then it came. Word of a child. A son. His. What else could he do? The DNA test left no room for doubt. Max was his. Flesh of his flesh, blood of a bloodline already frayed and thinned by too much loss. This was his responsibility now. And whatever doubts or fears he carried, walking away wasn’t an option. Not when the boy had already lost so much. Not when he was all that remained.

And God, he looked like him. There was no denying it. The boy’s eyes struck him the hardest. Those unmistakable eyes. Teena had them, same shape, but sharp and storm-grey. Samantha too. He’d seen them in the mirror most of his life. And now, impossibly, they looked back at him from the face of a child he hadn’t known existed. Max. Just three years old. So small. So serious. Still stunned by the loss of his mother, still learning how to grieve in that open, unguarded way only children can. Mulder saw it in him, that ache, that confusion. The silent question behind his every glance: Why did she go? Why didn’t she come back? Mulder knew the weight of that question. He’d carried it himself for most of his life. And so no, he couldn’t leave. Not this boy. Not his son.

A year had passed since Max’s sudden arrival. Twelve months of upheaval and adjustment, of learning how to be something new, how to be someone's father. And in that time, Mulder had made changes. Big ones. Necessary ones. The kind that didn’t just alter his routine, but his identity. There was no way around it, he remained with the FBI, but couldn’t stay in the field. Not with Max. Not as a single parent. The court had been clear, and CPS hadn’t left much room for negotiation. Long hours, high risk, unpredictable travel, it wasn’t compatible with raising a child who had already lost so much. Max needed stability. Presence. A life that didn’t run on adrenaline and disappear at a moment’s notice.

So Mulder did what he never thought he would. He sat down with Skinner, hat in hand, and made a case for something different. Something quieter. A way to stay inside the Bureau without being pulled into the chaos that had once defined him. The result was a return to where he started: Behavioral Sciences. Now, his days were spent behind a desk at Quantico, reviewing case files stained with the worst of human behavior. He analyzed crime scene photos instead of walking them. He profiled killers without chasing them. He consulted from a distance, on serial offenders, evolving patterns, violent compulsions hiding in plain sight. It was all familiar, muscle memory in a different form. And while it didn’t carry the same fire as the field, it allowed him to be home for dinner. To read bedtime stories. To sit with Max during night terrors and reassure him that no one else was going to disappear.

There were two reasons why Mulder didn’t mind being anchored to Quantico. The first was Max. The child development center sat just down the road from the Academy, barely a two-minute drive, nestled behind a line of pines and a weathered chain-link fence. It was structured, secure, and well-staffed, but more than that, it was close. He could drop Max off in the morning, linger a minute if needed, and still make it to his office with coffee that hadn’t gone cold. On bad days, when Max clung to him a little tighter, eyes wide with something he didn’t yet have words for, Mulder could be there before nap time if he had to be. It gave him peace of mind. A luxury he didn’t take for granted. The second reason was Scully. Different departments, different work. She instructed the new recruits on forensics, ran labs, advised on complex cases that passed through her orbit, but they were in the same building. That mattered. They didn’t see each other in the trenches anymore, not the way they used to, but they met for lunch more often than not. A quiet booth in the cafeteria, or a walk to the benches when the weather held. It was steady. Familiar. Something that hadn’t slipped away when everything else had shifted.

Once, they’d been partners. Day in and day out, side by side in the dark, chasing the unexplainable and holding each other up through every bruised truth and near miss. Now, they weren’t that anymore, not officially. But Mulder had come to count her as something just as rare. A friend. A good friend. Probably the best one he’d ever had. When the X-Files were shut down and the ground shifted beneath them, she hadn’t let him drift. Even when they were reassigned, scattered to opposite ends of the Bureau, she refused to let silence settle between them. She didn’t say much, never did, but she made it clear, in her Scully way, that she wasn’t going anywhere. That he could count on her. And he had. Through the meetings. The hearings. The sudden reality of fatherhood dropped in his lap like a live wire. Scully had stayed. She didn’t flinch. Her friendship didn’t waver when things got hard, or messy, or unbearably quiet. Since Max’s arrival, she'd shown up in ways he never had to ask for. A sounding board. A steady voice in the static. Someone who could read the shadows behind his eyes and never look away. He hadn’t told her, how much that meant. He wasn’t sure he knew how. But he felt it, every day.

As the year wore on, she’d become something of a comfort to Max too. He was only just four now, still so small, still learning how to shape his world into words, and grief was a language he hadn’t yet mastered. But it was there, written all over him. In the way he sometimes woke from dreams crying for a voice he could barely remember. In the way he clung to routine, to rhythm, to the few faces that had stayed. He missed his mother. Missed that specific kind of closeness Mulder couldn’t quite replicate, no matter how hard he tried. That softness. That instinct. That tether only women seemed to know how to hold.

Mulder was learning. Slowly. But there were gaps. And somehow, quietly, without ever meaning to, Scully had stepped into them. She didn’t overdo it. That wasn’t her way. She didn’t coo or crowd or speak to Max like he was breakable. She simply showed up, with steadiness, with patience, with the kind of presence that didn’t ask anything in return. And Max, without even realizing it, leaned into her. It was there in the way he reached for her hand without thinking. In the way his face lit up when Mulder told him they’d see her soon. In the way he cradled the phone some nights, tucked beneath blankets too big for him, while she spoke to him in low tones that soothed the fear out of his bones. She didn’t seem to know what it meant. What she was giving. But Mulder saw it. Every time. She was a natural with him.

Thanksgiving descended like a cold front, uninvited, unwelcome, but impossible to ignore. The invitation came from his mother. A carefully worded message that made it sound like tradition instead of obligation. His father had been invited too, though no one said it out loud. They wanted to see their grandson. That was the line. Mulder didn’t know why they bothered. Two people who couldn’t stand to be in the same room, let alone look each other in the eye, pretending for the sake of a holiday neither of them had ever managed to get right. It was exactly the kind of theater Mulder had spent his adult life avoiding. His parents had perfected the art of estrangement, cold silences, clipped small talk, long dinners full of things unsaid. His father could barely stand to look at him. His mother, always half-present, would overcompensate in that vague, distracted way she had, hovering without ever quite landing.

He caught an early flight out the next morning. Left the too-still house behind, along with the ghosts pacing its hallways. Max didn’t need that version of family. Not now. Not ever. They’d done fine on their own for Halloween. More than fine, actually. He’d carved pumpkins with Max, let him eat too much candy, walked him through the neighborhood at dusk in a tiny astronaut suit. Scully had come too, dressed, predictably, in scrubs. “I’m a doctor,” she’d said flatly, as if it wasn’t already her full-time identity. He gave her grief for it, and she took it with a smirk. What she hadn’t mentioned was that she was bringing her sister. Mulder had never met Melissa Scully before. But apparently, the words “trick-or-treating” had been enough to summon her, dressed in full witch regalia, all sweeping sleeves and dramatic eyeliner, handing out candy like it was a sacred rite. He was pretty sure Max fell in love on sight. As much as a four-year-old could. Melissa had crouched down to his level, cackled playfully, and offered him a gummy eyeball in her palm like a spell. Max hadn’t let go of her hand for the next three blocks. Mulder couldn’t really blame him. Melissa was easy on the eyes. That much was obvious. Seemed to be a Scully trait, grace worn effortlessly, beauty that didn’t announce itself but was impossible to miss.

When they arrived home from the Vineyard that morning, Mulder took Max to Upton Hill Regional Park to hit the batting cages. The sun was just starting to break through the clouds, the cold of fall settling into the trees. Mulder showed him how to hold the bat, how to square his little shoulders and keep his eye on the ball. Max was small, the bat a little too big, the helmet slipping low over his forehead, but he was game. Eager. That same stubborn streak Mulder recognized all too well flashing behind his eyes. When they hit the first ball together, Mulder guiding his hands, bracing him gently from behind, Max lit up. The sound alone seemed to crack something open in him. He laughed, startled and delighted, eyes going wide as the ball clattered off the cage wall. After that, there was no stopping him. Each time the bat made contact, Max beamed, grinning so hard he nearly lost the mouthguard they made him wear. There was joy in it. Not just in the hitting, but in the doing. In the being seen. In the way Mulder cheered, low and proud, every time the ball flew even a few feet. They stayed until the tokens ran out and Max’s arms were aching in that good, used way. He didn’t want to leave, not right away, clinging to the bat like it was a trophy, already asking when they could come back. Mulder promised soon.

They got home just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow through the windows. Mulder nudged Max toward the bathroom with a grin. "Time to hit the showers," he said. "That’s what all the top athletes do after a game."

Max hesitated for a moment but then scampered off, the bathroom light flickering on behind him. Mulder checked the water temperature and settled against the doorframe, keeping a casual watch. From the shower came the soft splashes of water and the occasional question, breaking the quiet with a small, curious voice.

“Daddy, why do players always wash up after they play?”

Mulder smiled. “Well, kiddo, it’s not just about smelling good. It helps your muscles relax, washes away the sweat and dirt, and gets you ready to recover for the next game.”

Max’s voice was thoughtful, almost serious for a four-year-old. “Like a reset button?”

“Exactly,” Mulder said, proud. “A reset button.”

The questions kept coming, how fast a ball could go, why bats were different sizes, how to know where to stand, and Mulder answered every one like he was teaching a pro in the making. The simple joy of it filled the quiet home, wrapping around them both like a soft, steady comfort. By the time Max was in his pajamas, hair still damp and spiked from the towel, feet tucked into cozy socks, Mulder was staring blankly into the refrigerator, one hand braced against the door, the other on his hip. Nothing inspired confidence. A few condiments, half a carton of eggs, leftover soup he didn’t entirely trust. He nudged the door closed with a sigh.

“Takeout tonight?” he asked over his shoulder.

Max, curled on the couch clutching his favorite toy train, didn’t hesitate. “Yes, please.”

Mulder reached for his phone, finger hovering over the pizza place in his contact list, when a knock sounded at the door. It wasn’t sharp or insistent, more of a light tap, low to the ground, like someone had used their foot instead of their hand. He paused, set the phone down, and glanced at Max, who sat up straighter on the couch, eyes wide.

“Wow! That was fast!” Max said, clearly impressed.

Mulder raised an eyebrow. “Unless the delivery guy’s developed psychic abilities, I don’t think that’s the pizza.”

Max shrugged, already sliding off the couch, ready to follow. Mulder stepped toward the door, the faintest edge of caution threading through him. He looked through the peephole and caught a glimpse of auburn hair, just the crown of it, tilted slightly forward like she’d leaned in after knocking with her foot. Scully. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, the corner of his mouth already lifting. She was standing there with her arms full, bags upon bags of food balanced precariously against her chest. Thanksgiving leftovers. A lot of Thanksgiving leftovers.

Mulder blinked, holding the door open. “You robbed a buffet?”

Scully breezed past him with a half-smirk. “No, but my mother might have.”

Max’s expression lit up even as he hovered there next to his father, unsure, a little bashful.

“Scully,” he said softly, like he wasn’t sure if he should run to her or wait to be invited.

She had been introduced to him as Dana in the beginning, sweetly, carefully, with a smile and a tilt of her head, but it hadn’t stuck. Daddy called her Scully. So Max did too. The name came out gently, shy around the edges, but full of quiet affection. Like it meant something more than just a name. Like it meant safety. And for Max, it did. She caught sight of him and her face warmed with an easy smile.
“Hungry?” she asked, entering the kitchen. “My mom sent this especially for you.”

Max took a tentative step forward, still holding back a little, like something about her presence made him shy in the best way. He glanced at the bags, then up at her face, his voice small but hopeful.

“Is there pie?”

“There’s three kinds,” she grinned, setting the bags on the kitchen counter. “And rolls. And stuffing. And something Missy swore was sweet potatoes, but I have my doubts.”

Mulder closed the door behind them, his home already warming with presence of Scully and home-cooked comfort. He joined her in the kitchen, Max trailing close behind, one hand brushing the back of Mulder’s shirt as he moved, his quiet way of staying tethered. Scully had already started unpacking the bags, lining the counter with Tupperware in all shapes and sizes.

Mulder lifted a lid and gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Your mom doesn’t mess around.”

Max edged up beside them, wide-eyed, watching as dish after dish appeared like magic. He pointed to one with mashed potatoes packed nearly to the top. “Is that the good kind?”

Scully smiled. “You mean the kind with extra butter? That’s the only kind my mom makes.”

He gave a quiet, approving nod and leaned a little closer, just enough to rest his chin against Mulder’s side as he watched. It was the kind of scene that asked for nothing but gave a lot, warm light, good food, quiet company. Something soft and steady. Something that felt more like family than the day he’d spent with his grandparents.

Mulder crouched down, ruffling Max’s hair with a grin. “I’m gonna light the fire, kiddo, make sure it’s nice and cozy in here tonight. You wanna stick around and keep Scully in check? Make sure she doesn’t eat all the mashed potato before I get back.”

Max beamed up at Mulder, eyes bright and wide, nodding with a quiet confidence. He climbed onto the stool by the counter, planted his small hands firmly on the surface, and gave Scully a steady look.

She smiled, leaning in just enough to tease, wafting the container under his nose. “What if I share with you?”

Max grinned, sneaking a quick glance at his father, then back to Scully.

“Okay, I won’t tell.” He said brightly.

Mulder shook his head, stepping into the living room with a grin. “Traitor.”

As Mulder built the fire, stacking the logs with practiced ease, a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. From the kitchen came the low hum of the microwave and, beneath it, the sound of Max’s small voice, quiet but animated, as he told Scully all about his day at the batting cages. Mulder paused for a moment, letting the warmth of it settle. The click of the microwave door, Max’s laughter, the gentle rhythm of Scully’s replies, it all drifted into the living room like something familiar and fleeting. Something he hadn’t known he’d been missing while he was gone, until it was right there. The food, her timing, the fact that he hadn’t even met her mother and yet her mother was sending holiday leftovers, it all said something. About Scully. About the kind of friendship she offered without asking for anything in return. It wasn’t loud or overly sentimental. It was just there. Reliable. Quiet. Unshakable in a way he hadn’t expected.

He still didn’t know why she’d stuck it out back then, why she hadn’t walked away from the X-Files when it would’ve been easy to do, why she hadn’t let him fade into the margins after the lights were shut off and the work was stripped away. Why she was here now, slipping into Max’s world with a gentleness Mulder knew the child was craving. But he felt the weight of it. The goodness of it. When Max had landed in his life, Scully hadn’t hesitated. Just quiet help. A steady presence. The kind of support that wove itself in without demanding space. She’d gone above and beyond, and she probably didn’t even realize it. But Mulder did. And he was grateful. More than he could say. It was all in the small things, the way she showed up without being asked, the way she listened without interrupting, the way she looked at Max like he was something she already cared about. Mulder sat back on his heels, watching the fire catch, flames curling slow around the logs, heat just starting to push into the room. He rubbed his hands together absently, not because he was cold, but because the quiet of the moment left space for feelings he wasn’t always sure what to do with. Scully had even helped him find this place. He’d been scrambling, on the hunt for something with two bedrooms, in a hurry to meet the requirements for Max, juggling it alongside the thousand other things suddenly piled on his plate.

“Leave it to me,” she’d said, calm and no-nonsense, like she was just adding it to her list.

The next day, she had four listings printed and highlighted, appointments already scheduled. It had only taken one viewing. This place. It had been the first on the list, a quiet ground floor apartment tucked into a tree-lined block in Glover Park, just a stone’s throw from her, situated right on the border of Georgetown. Technically two bedrooms, but there was also a bay window nook just off the living room, not quite a room, not quite nothing, just enough space for his computer desk and narrow bookshelf. A place to work. To think. The bedrooms were modest, but the layout was clean, the light warm and generous. The kitchen faced a small private courtyard, overgrown in places but full of potential. Mulder had known then. She hadn’t said much, just glanced at him with that quiet look of hers, the one that meant she’d already known he’d pick this place before he had. It wasn’t just good enough for Max. It felt like the start of something solid. Something his.

In the kitchen, Max was still talking, his little voice soft and eager, full of scattered details, how many balls he’d hit, how loud the cage was, how the mouth guard felt weird. Scully’s laughter came easy, low and warm, followed by the sound of her pulling something from the microwave, footsteps padding across the tile. It felt… good. Safe. That was something he couldn’t ignore. Not anymore. For so long, safety had been a fleeting thing, an illusion that dissolved the moment he reached for it. So he stopped reaching. But this was different. This was real, because it was ordinary. A kid at the counter. Leftovers in Tupperware. The sound of a familiar voice coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t what he’d imagined for himself, not even close. But somehow, it was better. The questions, Samantha, the X-Files, it all still burned deep inside him. That part hadn’t gone quiet. Probably never would. The need to know, to chase what others turned away from, was still there, lodged somewhere just beneath the surface. But his rational side, the part that had been forced to grow louder over the last year, knew he was living a healthier life now. Not easier. Not simpler. But healthier.

There was structure in his days, a rhythm shaped by small hands and early mornings, by bedtime stories and daycare pickups, by lunches packed and laundry folded and the quiet, steady weight of being someone’s only parent. And somehow, without meaning to, that structure had started to hold him up too. He was sleeping more. Eating better. Showing up. Not just for Max, but for himself. He missed the work, the X-Files, the digging, but he didn’t miss the way it had consumed him. Not really. Not now that he had something else. Someone else. And somewhere in the mix of it all, Scully. Still there. Still steady. Willing to show up with leftovers and warmth and the kind of presence that didn’t need an explanation. He wasn’t fixed. But maybe, finally, he was healing.

Mulder stepped into the kitchen, the fire crackling softly in the background, warmth beginning to fill the apartment. The smell of rosemary and roasted vegetables hung thick in the air, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it in, his son perched on a stool, chatting between bites of a dinner roll, Scully moving with quiet ease as she unpacked the last of the food. She glanced up and caught his eye.

“Figured you’d show up once the hard work was done,” she said, reaching for a plate.

Mulder smirked, stepping up to the bench.

She handed him a plate, already piled high, turkey, stuffing, roasted carrots, mashed potatoes smoothed into a soft hill, just enough gravy to pool without spilling over the edge.

“Your mom officially wins Thanksgiving,” he said, taking it from her.

“She’d be pleased to hear that,” Scully replied, settling onto the stool beside Max with her own plate.

Max had already dug in, fingers curled around his fork, cheeks full. He looked over at Mulder with a grin, then back down at his plate like he didn’t want to waste time talking. Mulder sat across from them, setting his plate down and reaching for a fork. For a few minutes, the only sounds were quiet chewing, the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic, and the occasional satisfied hum from Max when something hit just right. It was simple. Easy. The kind of dinner that didn’t need much talking. Just shared space, warm food, and the comfort of being together. He couldn’t remember the last holiday that had felt like this. Maybe he never really had one. But this, whatever this was, felt a hell of a lot closer than anything he’d known before.

Mulder and Max had gone a little overboard. By the time they leaned back on their stools, plates nearly licked clean, both wore the same full-bellied look of contentment, shoulders slouched, stomachs distended, satisfied smiles stretching across their faces. Max let out a dramatic sigh and dropped his fork with flair, patting his belly through his pajama shirt.

“I think I’m full forever.”

Mulder chuckled, doing much the same. “We may have made tactical errors.”

Scully, still nursing her smaller portion, gave them both a look over the rim of her glass. “You think?”

Max nodded solemnly. “Too much stuffing.”

Mulder pointed his fork toward Scully. “Tell your mom she’s dangerous.”

Scully smirked. “She knows.”

The warmth of the food, the fire in the next room, and the glow from the overhead lights all seemed to soften the edges of the day. The bench was cluttered with used napkins, empty containers, and one small boy slumped sideways against Scully’s arm, sleepy and warm and entirely at peace. She wrapped her arm around him and pulled him in close, tucking him gently against her side. Max didn’t resist. He melted into the hug without hesitation, cheek resting against her sweater, limbs heavy with fatigue and too much dinner. His eyes blinked slow, lashes low, a little sigh escaping as he settled into the warmth of her. Mulder watched from across the bench. There was something about the ease of it, the way Max leaned into her like it was the most natural thing in the world, that got him in the chest. Scully glanced up and met his eyes, her hand smoothing gently over Max’s dark hair, her expression unreadable but soft. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The quiet held. And in that moment, Mulder couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Max stayed tucked under her arm, his small body warm and still. Scully didn’t shift or speak, just let him rest there, her fingers tracing slow circles against his back, the gesture instinctive and steady. Mulder leaned forward on his elbows, elbows on the bench, chin in his hand.

“Careful,” he said softly, voice threaded with something that wasn’t quite a joke. “You keep that up and he’s gonna ask if he can come live with you.”

Scully looked over at him, eyes amused but tender. “I might say yes,” she said without missing a beat.

He believed her. And something in him loosened at the thought.

Outside, the evening deepened into quiet. The last streaks of daylight long since faded, and in here, under the soft kitchen lights, things felt settled. Mulder leaned back again, watching the two of them, and felt it, clear and quiet and full. Whatever this might be becoming, it was already something he didn’t want to lose.

Chapter Text

Scully wasn’t sure when the ground beneath her had started to shift, only that lately, nothing felt entirely solid. Mulder with a child, this version of him, was unfamiliar terrain, a landscape she hadn’t mapped, and it unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. He laughed more now, softer around the edges, the sharp corners worn down. And while he bore the same face, the same haunted eyes, something fundamental had changed. He was still Mulder. But not quite. She found herself standing at the threshold of something she couldn’t name, caught between instinct and emotion, trying to decipher whether she was simply being a friend, offering presence, support, a steady anchor, or if it ran deeper, into quieter places she wasn’t ready to look. Maybe she already knew the answer. Maybe that was what unsettled her most of all.

At thirty-one, parenthood had never been a pressing thought for her. It wasn’t that she had ruled it out entirely, just tucked it away, somewhere vague and distant, the kind of possibility reserved for quieter years. Later, she’d always told herself. Her path had been clear, lined with purpose, driven by precision and discipline. There hadn’t been room for strollers or lullabies, no time to imagine small hands reaching for hers in the dark. She hadn’t missed it. Not then. Not really. But now, in the periphery, watching Mulder navigate fatherhood with cautious grace, something stirred. Something in her couldn’t stay away. It tugged at her, subtle but steady, drawing her in close enough to see the contours of their bond. She lingered there, on the fringe, unsure of her place in it.

She kept telling herself she needed to take a step back. Just a little space. A breath or two of distance between herself and whatever this was. Not to shut them out, God, no, not that. She couldn’t bear the thought. Just... ease off. Let them find their rhythm without her standing too close, without her shadow falling over something that felt tender and new. She told herself it was the right thing to do, the rational thing, the kind of boundary she’d always been good at keeping. But even as she thought it, even as she rehearsed the distance in her mind, she never quite moved. There was always one more reason to stay a little longer. One more question from Max. One more look from Mulder she couldn’t quite decipher. One more moment that made her feel, without meaning to, like maybe she was already part of it.

It was a dangerous place to stand, too close, too invested, and yet still just on the outside. Because at the end of the day, they were just friends. Mulder could meet someone. Maybe a single mother, someone who understood the tangled mess of parenting on her own. Maybe he’d want to grow his family someday, build something new. Where would that leave her then? Mulder had always been warm, tactile, flirtatious in his own way. But she never took it seriously. She’d met Phoebe. Seen a photograph of Diana. Noticed the subtle glance he couldn’t quite hide when a woman caught his eye in passing. He had a type, she knew it, tall, leggy, dark-haired. Scully didn’t wrestle much with self-esteem. She was steady, neat, professional, a quiet presence that preferred to blend in rather than stand out. She wasn’t tall or leggy, and her hair was red. She doubted, quietly but firmly, that Mulder had ever truly looked at her that way. They’d known each other for some time now. Long enough for the easy moments, the silences that never felt awkward, the kind of trust that settled in over time. If there had been any real interest on his part, in something more than friendship, she was certain it would have shown by now.

She cared for Max, deeply, instinctively, but there were times she questioned whether she was doing the right thing by staying so close. By letting herself become someone he leaned on. Someone he trusted. It was clear he missed the shape of a mother in his life. She saw it in the way he gravitated toward her, seeking her gaze first when he needed reassurance, her hand when the room felt too big, her voice when the shadows stretched long. And when the night terrors came, sharp and sudden, it was her name he called. He was already attaching. Already reaching. And she was letting him. But what if things changed? What if someone else entered the frame, someone Mulder chose to build something lasting with? A woman who fit into their lives. If Max had come to see her as something more, something maternal, what would that shift do to him? The confusion, the pull between old comfort and new reality, it could splinter something in him too young to name the break. And it wouldn’t just hurt him. It would hurt her too.

She was grateful for Christmas. A brief reprieve, a few days carved out of the noise, away from the pull of things she hadn’t yet found words for. Time with her own family, familiar rhythms, conversations that didn’t require second-guessing. It gave her space to breathe. To think. And to begin the slow, necessary work of detaching, carefully, gently, like easing her hand out of warm water. A quiet withdrawal. One that wouldn’t leave a mark, at least not outwardly. She didn’t know exactly how she’d do it yet, how she’d shift the boundaries without drawing attention to the line, but the time away gave her room to imagine it. A softer exit. Before anyone, including herself, got pulled in too deep.

Late Christmas night, after the noise had settled and her mother’s house had exhaled into stillness, Scully sat curled at one end of the living room couch, legs tucked beneath her, a cooling mug of cocoa resting in her hands. The fire had burned low, more ember than flame now, casting a soft orange glow that flickered against the walls and made the ornaments on the tree shimmer faintly. Upstairs, doors had clicked shut one by one. The old floors had creaked with the weight of feet retreating into bedrooms, and now the silence felt deeper, more complete. She hadn't meant to stay up. But the quiet was comforting. And she wasn’t ready to go to sleep. Not yet. She stared into the fire, not really seeing it. Her thoughts were far, turning in slow, deliberate circles. The couch dipped slightly beside her, and she didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“I figured you’d still be down here,” Melissa said softly, tucking her legs up, mirroring her. She held her own mug, the peppermint tea she always swore helped her sleep.

Scully didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch a little longer between them, unpressured.

Melissa glanced at her sideways. “You want to talk about it?”

Scully gave the barest shake of her head, but it wasn’t a no. Not exactly.

Melissa waited. She was good at that, waiting people out without making them feel cornered.

Finally, Scully exhaled. “I thought the time away might help. That it might give me a little perspective.”

“Has it?”

“I’m not sure.” Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I told myself I’d start pulling back. For his sake. For mine.”

Melissa nodded slowly. “Mulder?”

Scully hesitated. “Max.” A pause. “Both. I don’t know.”

She looked down at the cocoa in her hands, turning the mug slowly. “It’s complicated. I’m not part of their life, not really, but... I’m also not not part of it.”

“And you think you’re in too deep?”

Scully didn’t answer, but something in her expression flickered, just enough to be read by someone who’d known her all her life. Melissa leaned back into the cushions, her tone gentle.

“You’ve always had this way of standing just outside your own life. Watching instead of stepping in.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not criticism,” Melissa said. “It’s just what you’ve had to do.”

Melissa set her mug down on the coffee table, the quietest little clink. “Sometimes the only way out is through.”

Scully gave a soft, tired laugh, eyes still on the fire. They sat together in the quiet after that, the flames dimming further, the house wrapped in warmth and hush. The tree lights blinked lazily in the corner, and upstairs, someone turned in bed, the floorboards giving a soft groan. Scully let herself lean sideways, just slightly, against her sister’s shoulder. Melissa stayed there beside her, steady and still. They sat in a long stretch of silence, the kind that didn’t ask to be filled. The fire had dwindled to soft embers, glowing low in the hearth, and Scully’s cocoa had gone lukewarm in her hands.

Beside her, Melissa shifted slightly, her shoulder nudging against Scully’s with playful familiarity.

“Listen, I know you don’t put much stock in the things I tell you…” she said lightly, with the trace of a smirk.

Scully glanced sideways, faintly amused, but said nothing.

Melissa continued, her voice quieting, slipping into something more deliberate. “But I think I’m pretty good at reading people. And I only spent a few short hours with you all on Halloween, but I can tell, this man has lived in a dark place for a long time.”

Scully’s breath caught, barely. She looked back to the fire.

Melissa gave a small smile, her tone softening further. “You’ve been a light in that darkness.”

The words settled in the air, gentle, but unmistakable. Scully didn’t move, didn’t speak, but her grip around the mug shifted.

The next morning came softly, wrapped in gray skies and the scent of pine needles still clinging to the living room air. Scully packed her overnight bag without fuss, careful hands folding sweaters, tucking away the wrapped leftovers her mother insisted she take. The house stirred gently around her, voices low, dishes clinking in the kitchen, the TV murmuring faint Christmas reruns in the background. Melissa hugged her at the door a little longer than usual, said nothing more about Mulder or Max. She just held her, warm and solid, and Scully let herself rest there for a moment before pulling away.

When she finally stepped into her apartment, it greeted her with its familiar stillness. Neutral. Tidy. Just as she’d left it. The faint smell of pine from the small tree she’d decorated earlier in the month lingered in the air. A single strand of lights blinked lazily along the windowsill, their rhythm slightly off from the one she remembered setting. She stood there for a moment, suitcase still in hand, coat unbuttoned, just letting the silence settle back around her shoulders. There was comfort in the order. In the solitude. And yet, something about it felt... thinner now. She set her bag down beside the door and walked slowly through the apartment, fingertips brushing the back of a chair, pausing at the window to glance out at the overcast sky. Everything was where it had always been. Still, untouched. But she wasn’t. Not quite. She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the warm mug, her gaze unfocused. She had told herself she would pull away. Begin that slow, necessary untethering. But all she felt now was the ache of something already missing.

The tea had gone lukewarm by the time her phone rang. The sound startled her, not loud, but unexpected. She reached for it instinctively, thumb hovering over the button when she saw the name. Mulder.

Her first instinct was hesitation. Just a second. A breath. But then she answered.

“Scully.”

There was a pause, then his voice came through, softer than usual. “You home?”

She glanced around her apartment, at the quiet corners and still air. “Yeah. Just got in a little while ago.”

“How was Christmas?” he asked.

“Quiet. Nice.” She shifted to the couch, pulling the throw blanket tighter around her shoulders. “How about yours?”

There was a sound on the other end, a muffled thump and then a little voice in the background.

Mulder’s voice returned. “We had a bit of a situation here earlier.”

Scully’s brow lifted. “Situation?”

“Yeah. Turns out Santa made a minor delivery error.”

She leaned back into the couch, amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. “Did he now?”

“Mmhmm. Big logistical operation, bound to be some mix-ups,” he said. “Anyway, a package showed up here with your name on it.”

Scully smiled, soft and involuntary. “And what does this misdelivered gift look like?”

Mulder paused for dramatic effect. “Well, I haven’t opened it, obviously. That would be a federal offense. Max says you should come over and get it.”

She could hear Max shouting something about Santa in the background, the words half-garbled with excitement. Her laugh was quiet, caught at the edge of her throat. Max had a Christmas present for her. Scully loved Christmas presents. Always had. Even now, as an adult, even after the years when belief had given way to logic, there was something about a carefully wrapped box, ribbon slightly crooked, corners softened by eager hands, that still made her heart catch for just a second. She pictured Max, wide-eyed and over-sugared, holding it out to her like it was treasure. Maybe the pull back could start tomorrow. Or the day after. Or in the new year. It was the holidays, after all.

“Tell him I’ll be there soon.”

She hung up the phone without saying goodbye, as was their way. Some part of her had always found comfort in that quiet shorthand between them. A pause, a breath, a click. Nothing final. Just a continuation left hanging in the air, like they’d pick the conversation back up mid-sentence whenever they saw each other next. She set the phone down slowly, fingertips lingering on the edge of the table. Outside, the sky had deepened into that blue-gray stillness particular to late December, the kind that made the world feel momentarily suspended. She let herself sit there for a moment longer, the corners of her mouth curled into the faintest smile. Then she stood, poured the rest of her tea down the sink, and went to pull her coat back on. There was a present waiting for her.

When she pulled her car up in front of Mulder’s building, they were already outside waiting for her, bundled up against the cold, red-cheeked and grinning, locked in the middle of a snowball skirmish. Max was half-hidden behind the trunk of a bare tree, laughing uncontrollably as he launched another lopsided snowball in Mulder’s direction. Mulder, crouched behind the hood of his car, lobbed one back with exaggerated dramatics, feigning injury when it exploded harmlessly near his boot. Scully sat for a moment behind the wheel, watching them through the windshield, the defroster humming softly. The street was quiet, save for their laughter. The snow was fresh and powdery, the kind that made everything seem softer, quieter, almost untouched. She didn’t honk. Didn’t call out. Just watched, her fingers resting loosely on the keys, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth despite herself. Then Max spotted her. He straightened, immediately abandoning cover, his little gloved hands flailing in the air as he ran toward her.

“She’s here! She’s heeere!”

Mulder stood up behind him, brushing snow from his coat, his eyes already on hers. Scully killed the engine and stepped out of the car, the cold wrapping around her immediately, crisp and clean. Max was already bounding toward her, a bundle of movement and excitement in too-big mittens and a puffy coat. The mix of snowballs, sweets, and holiday magic had chipped away at his usual reserve.

“Merry Christmas!” he shouted as he barreled into her, nearly knocking the keys from her hand. “We tricked you!”

Max’s hug was only brief, he grabbed onto her hand and tugged her toward the front door, eager to get her inside. Scully let herself be led, her coat still half-buttoned, gloves barely off.

“What do you mean you tricked me? There better be a present in there,” Scully teased as they stepped into the building, her tone mock-stern.

She followed Max down the hall, turning left toward Mulder’s door. Mulder trailed behind them, one hand catching the door before it shut, watching the pair of them with something that looked a lot like quiet contentment. The apartment was warm, lived-in, the faint scent of cinnamon and coffee lingering in the air. A small pile of wrapping paper still littered one corner of the living room, and the tree lights blinked steadily from their perch beside the window. On the dining table, spread out in cheerful disarray, was a half-assembled model train, tracks curving loosely around an opened but as-yet untouched LEGO set, its colorful bricks still waiting to be brought to life.

Max made a beeline for the tree the moment they stepped inside, diving beneath the lowest branches with practiced familiarity. He emerged with a soft package hanging limp in his arms, an envelope taped carefully to the top, just slightly off-center. Scully watched him with a quiet smile, already guessing it might be something fabric, or at least something soft. He held it out to her with both hands, grinning wide, eyes bright.

“Santa didn’t bring this for you. Me and Daddy did,” Max declared, beaming proudly as if he and Mulder had just pulled off the greatest heist in history.

Taking the present, she raised an eyebrow, amused. “Seriously? You two pulled one over on me?”

Max giggled, the sound light and bright in the cozy room. Mulder settled onto the couch and lifted Max onto his lap, ruffling his hair gently.
“Instructions. Remember?” Mulder prompted with a knowing smile, eyes twinkling.

Max nodded eagerly, already bouncing with excitement, ready to dive in.

“You gotta open the present first and the envelope second,” Max said with a serious nod, as if laying down the law.

“Okay,” Scully said slowly, as if the whole thing was wrapped in a little too much mystery.

She sank onto the couch beside them, carefully peeling the envelope from the gift and setting it aside on the armrest. Sliding a finger under the tape, she began to unwrap the paper slowly. Max’s eyes stayed locked on the gift like it held a secret waiting to be uncovered. The paper slipped away to reveal a Knicks t-shirt, royal blue with the classic team logo stretched confidently across the front in vivid orange and white. The material appeared plush and comfortable, the kind of shirt you’d reach for again and again. Echoing Mulder’s own shirt, alongside the miniature one she knew he’d bought for Max awhile back. She wasn’t sure what to say, or even what to make of it. She wasn’t sure how to respond, but she smiled warmly and told Max it was wonderful.

Mulder chuckled softly under his breath, a knowing glint in his eye as if he held a secret just out of her reach.

“Go ahead, open the envelope,” he said.

She glanced between them, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. Sports merchandise, of all things, for Christmas, no less, and for a team she didn’t even follow. She peeled open the envelope and peeked inside. Tickets stared back at her. She threw Mulder a quizzical look before pulling them free. January 10th. Madison Square Garden. Knicks vs. Pacers. Three tickets.

“We figured if you’re rolling into NYC with the Mulder boys, you’re gonna need some merch,” Mulder said with a grin.

Max beamed, bouncing slightly on Mulder’s lap. “It’s gonna be awesome!”

Scully’s smile grew softer, the unexpected gift nestling like a quiet flame within her chest. So much for the careful retreat she’d planned once the new year arrived. She knew she should probably find a way to say no, to keep some space between herself and them. But the thought was fleeting, too fleeting to hold on to. Not tonight. Not with Max’s bright eyes and Mulder’s knowing grin. Those tickets, that shirt, they were hers now. And you’d have to pry them from her cold, dead fingers before she’d let go. The invitation felt like crossing a threshold she hadn’t quite anticipated. It wasn’t just a simple outing, it was an opening into a small, private world that belonged to Mulder and Max. It unsettled her, that feeling of being pulled closer, included in something so personal. The confusion swirled deep inside her, a mix of hope and hesitation. And suddenly, the line between what was right and what she wanted felt dangerously thin.
“It’s gonna be awesome,” she echoed Max softly, then added with a teasing lilt, “I’m only coming because your dad’s probably going to pee his pants when Ewing steps onto the court.”

Her words were light, but beneath the humor, a quiet acceptance lingered. Max giggled, his laughter bright and unrestrained, filling the room with a warmth that needed no words. Mulder reached down, ruffling his son’s hair with a gentle smile. When his gaze met hers, his eyes held a tenderness, so unexpectedly gentle, that it made her heart flutter, catching her completely off guard. Another reminder of just how far over her head she truly was. She took a slow breath, letting the warmth of the room and the quiet laughter between father and son settle around her. This complicated, unpredictable, tender moment was something she hadn’t planned for, hadn’t dared to imagine. And yet, here she was, caught in the pull of it all, unsure how to step back when every thread seemed to weave her closer in. She told herself again that she needed to keep some distance, to protect Max and herself from getting tangled in something that might unravel. But it seemed her rational side had tuned her out, drowned beneath the steady pull of a moment like this, warm, real, and impossible to ignore.

“I can’t stomach any more of my own cooking,” Mulder said, cutting through the heaviness. “Wanna stick around for some Kung Pao Chicken?”

His tone was casual, easy, but she caught the hope tucked just beneath it.

“Sure.” She nodded, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Max’s face lit up instantly. “Can we all wear our Knicks shirts?” he asked, practically bouncing with excitement.

Mulder raised an eyebrow at Scully, already reaching for the drawer where the takeout menus lived. “You heard the man.”

She sighed, mock-dramatic. “I knew there was a catch.”

She took the shirt from the couch and disappeared down the hall, the grin tugging at her lips impossible to fully hide. The bathroom light spilled out beneath the door as she closed it behind her, the faint sound of Max’s chatter still drifting in from the living room. When she slipped the shirt on, it was softer than she expected, clinging lightly to her skin like it already knew her. She caught her reflection in the mirror and laughed under her breath. Not her team, not her style, but somehow… it felt right. Like it had been waiting for her.

When she rejoined them, Max was halfway through pulling his Knicks shirt over his head, arms tangled as Mulder stood by the phone, rattling off their usual order. Scully crouched beside him without a word and gently helped guide his arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over his small frame. Once the shirt was on and straightened, he looked up at her, grinning wide. She smiled back, their matching shirts drawing a quiet laugh from both of them.

“Does it look alright?” Scully asked, brushing a hand over the front of her shirt as she looked down at Max.

He gave her a solemn once-over, lips pursed in exaggerated thought, then broke into a wide grin.

“You look like part of the team,” he declared proudly.

Mulder hung up the phone, a smirk already tugging at his mouth. “With those little legs? Not likely.”

Max gasped, full of mock offense. “Hey!”

Scully raised an eyebrow at Mulder. “Careful, he’s got a pretty solid snowball arm. You might be provoking a rematch.”

Mulder leaned back against the counter, all faux-casual. “Bring it.”

Max grabbed his coat from where it was slung over the back of the dining chair and started tugging it on, sleeves twisted, half the zipper caught. He looked more like a bundled whirlwind than a threat, but the determination on his face was unmistakable. Mulder’s eyes sparkled, arms crossed as he watched him fumble.

“You got nothing on your old man, son,” he called, voice rich with teasing challenge.

Max huffed, coat dangling from one shoulder, the other arm flailing as he charged toward the door. “I’ll show you!” he shouted, already halfway to the hallway like a soldier heading into battle.

Scully laughed softly, shaking her head as she reached for her own coat. “This I’ve gotta see.”

They both slid their arms into their coats, the familiar rustle of fabric and the bite of winter air greeting them as they stepped outside. Max was nowhere in sight, at first. Then a soft thwump broke the quiet, and a snowball landed a few feet in front of them, spraying a puff of powder across the sidewalk. Mulder scanned the area, already grinning.

“He’s behind the car,” he murmured, amused.

Scully followed his gaze. Sure enough, a small shape crouched behind the rear bumper, barely concealed by the drifting snow.

Mulder leaned in, eyes dancing. “You take the right,” he whispered, nodding toward the opposite side of the car. “I’ll flank him left.”

Scully raised an eyebrow. “This feels like cheating.”

Mulder gave her a crooked smile. “I prefer to call it tactical parenting.”

Scully smirked, the cold nipping at her cheeks as she turned to her right, boots crunching softly through the snow. Across the car, she caught a glimpse of Max’s beanie bobbing as he ducked down again, clearly gearing up for round two. Mulder moved in tandem on the other side, silent but grinning, his breath visible in the air. They closed in slowly, step by step, like agents on a stakeout, if their suspect was three feet tall and armed with packed snow.

Just as Scully reached the passenger side, Max popped up, another snowball in hand, ready to fire, until he saw her.

His eyes went wide. “Ambush!” he shouted, twisting to run.

Too late.

Mulder scooped a handful of snow and lobbed it gently, hitting Max in the back with a satisfying poof. Max squealed, laughing as he tried to scramble away, tripping into a snowbank with exaggerated flair. Scully walked around the car, arms crossed, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

“Guess your old man’s still got it.”

Mulder dusted snow from his gloves, smug. “Told you.”

Max flopped onto his back in the snow, panting dramatically. “You cheated.”

Scully knelt beside him. He blinked up at her, then grinned. And just like that, Scully felt it again, that slow, unexpected warmth blooming beneath the cold. In their matching Knicks shirts, lobbing snowballs beneath the streetlights, breath fogging in the cold, they looked, just for a moment, like any other family on the day after Christmas. Just a father, a son, and someone who wasn’t sure if she belonged…but somehow did.