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His fingers curled under her knees, lifting them to his shoulders as he groaned into her mouth, licking, pressing harder into her, feeling her whimper and shake against him. She clenched her thighs, dipped her middle finger between their bodies to feel the place where they met, urging an “oh fuck” from his mouth before the pad of her fingertip slipped upward to her clit.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh Mulder right there, yes.”
He bent his weight to rest on his forearm so he could free his right hand to hold her breast, and he was still kissing her when she came, squeezing around him and pulsing her hips. At the first drawn out “ohhh,” he let himself go, coming with her and around her as he thought please please please.
They were breathing heavily, but quiet, listening for the tell-tale signs that they’d woken William, but the boy was silent, dreaming happily in his room. When Mulder didn’t move off of her quickly enough, Scully pushed at his shoulders.
“Hmmph, Mulder,” she said. “I need air.”
He lifted slightly, but wouldn’t let her roll away from him, keeping her knees pressed up and back.
“Mulder, what—?”
“No, stay like this for a little while. Better chance this way.”
She looked down at their bodies and noticed he’d slipped a pillow under her hips. She dragged her eyes back up to his, confused for a moment… and then realization dawned.
“Mulder.” She said it in that way that he’d come to know so well: exasperation, mild disapproval, and, he liked to think, at least some affection.
“What?” He asked, mock-innocent.
“I’m not… we’re not… what the hell?”
Her cheeks were flushed with orgasm and frustration and it was the hottest, sweetest thing. He bent to place kisses at the curve of her neck, still holding her in place. “I love you,” he mumbled into her skin. “We make beautiful babies. I want another one.”
Her hands came to either side of his face, and she lifted it to look at him. “First,” she said, eyes shining with what he hoped was happiness, “that is almost certainly impossible. Second… don’t you think you should have, I don’t know, asked me about it first?”
He smiled, shrugged. “Want to make another baby?”
She scowled, but there was no malice in it. “I… how do you even know if—“
“I marked it on a calendar. You should be ovulating this week.” The eyebrow: achieving new heights. If there was a facial expression for crossed arms and an incredulous sigh, she was making it now. “I hope it’s a girl,” he said. He watched her watching his face for several moments before she took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling his weight back down on top of hers.
“Oh, Mulder.” In those words were all the things she didn’t say: her certainty that pregnancy was impossible, her fear of his inevitable disappointment, her traitorous inclination toward hope anyway, and most of all, her love for his optimism, for him.
Later, she would swear it was his sheer force of will that made it happen. When he brought home the slim pink box three weeks later, when he ushered her toward the bathroom, when she rolled her eyes and took the box, shut the door in his face, she never would have thought. Five minutes later, when she was staring at two fuzzy faint lines and listening to him pound on the door saying “Scully! Scully, what does it say,” she could only unlock the door and let her face fall into her hands, shaking her head, laughing.
“Why do you always have to be right?”