Chapter Text
It’s cracking cold. So cold that his coffee cup isn’t sufficiently warming his fingers, so he passes it from one hand to the other as he alternates burying his fist in the pocket of his wool coat. Scully is prattling away beside him, seemingly unbothered by her wind-whipped cheeks and cherry red nose. She’s wearing a burgundy beanie pulled down low to cover her ears, and she’s telling him about some article she read, or maybe a segment she saw on the news, he’s not entirely sure. He just keeps looking over at her as they meander down the sidewalk near her apartment, nodding along, completely transfixed by the developing roundness in her cheeks and the way the corners of her mouth seem to be perpetually upturned.
He still can’t quite believe that she’s here, that she’s healthy. In some ways, life returned to normal shockingly quickly after her miraculous recovery. In other ways, he feels like he’s been completely changed, like he’ll never be the same again. Having confronted the possibility of spending the rest of his life mourning her—while carrying the weight of the knowledge that she’d still be here if she’d never met him—has turned him into a disturbingly fearful person.
It’s not death that he fears. He is no more afraid to put his own safety at risk than he’s ever been, and he knows well enough at this point not to try to dictate to Scully what risks she should or should not take with her own life. What terrifies him, what keeps him awake at night, is the prospect of living. Really living, which he only recently realized is something he’s not very good at. Not living to find Samantha, or to avenge her, or to hold accountable the men and women who destroy families the way they destroyed his. Just living for the sake of being alive, enjoying crisp late-fall days with the only person who you’ve ever truly loved, opening your heart despite the possibility of it being crushed right before your eyes because you believe that the risk is worth the potential rewards.
Scully is so incredibly brave. His throat closes up just thinking about how strong she is, how fearless. Even her vulnerability is courageous, her willingness to risk her heart so devastatingly admirable. And he hates himself for being so afraid, for pretending not to notice the ways she’s softening towards him, slowly unfurling like a late-spring bloom. She’s brave enough to face death, to defy it, to realize that we only have one chance at life and decide that it’s best lived fully. He feels her newfound zest for living radiating off her in waves, sees it in her easier smiles and her recent proclivity towards inviting him to spend time with her outside of working hours, like she did today.
He wants to follow her, wants to tip his face up to the sun and feel the warmth he sees her feeling, but he can’t. Every time a little sliver of joy slips into his heart, he panics and snuffs it out before it can spread. He sees how his little rejections hurt her, and he knows that she will eventually give up on him, but he just can’t bring himself to push through his fear.
Maybe it’s more than the fear. Maybe it’s the secret that’s been burning a hole in his gut, slowly eating away at him from the inside out. When she was dying, it felt like a kindness to keep it from her. What good would it have done to tell a woman who wouldn’t live long enough to experience motherhood that she may not even be capable of it? Why add to the long list of ways that her autonomy and her body have been violated? But she didn’t die, she survived, and this happy news came with the sobering realization that he would have to tell her. She has a right to know.
She’s smiling now, gesturing with her free hand while her neglected coffee grows cold in the other, and she’s just so beautiful it makes his heart ache. He wishes she could always be this way, carefree and unburdened, and the last thing he wants is to be the person who brings the reality of her ruined life crashing back down. He’s going to tell her, he has to. But maybe another day, when the sun isn’t so bright and her mood isn’t so cheerful. Someday soon.
“That reminds me, I’m going to miss the division meeting on Wednesday due to an appointment. You’ll have to take notes for me,” she says, running her finger under her nose to verify that it’s not running, or perhaps not bleeding. Old habits die hard.
“You realize it’s just going to be a page of doodles and maybe an offensive limerick about Skinner, don’t you?” he quips, and she flashes him a cheeky grin that makes his heart stutter.
“There once was a man from the Hoover,” she says. “I might only miss half of it, depending how long the appointment takes. Maybe I’ll swoop in and save you.”
He looks to the sidewalk ahead, and then back at her. They’re only half a block away from her front door, and he concurrently hates to end their visit on a sour note and knows that he’ll lose sleep if he doesn’t ask.
“Everything okay? Just a checkup?” He tries to keep his tone light. Tries to sound like he’s not terrified every second of every day that she’ll be snatched away from him again.
“Yes, I think so,” she answers quickly, which is instantly reassuring. “Without sharing too much, I’m seeing my gynecologist per the recommendation of my oncologist. Cancer treatment is often damaging to the reproductive system, and given my age and my desire to have children someday, he felt like it would be wise to understand what, if any, impact the treatments had.”
His blood runs cold and his hearing cuts out, then slowly fades back in with a high-pitched ring in his ears. He realizes he’s stopped walking and jogs the few steps to catch up with her.
“Ah,” he says flatly, eyes on the concrete in front of him.
“I have to admit I’m a little nervous,” she continues, and her vulnerability cuts through him like a knife. He doesn’t deserve it. “If it’s bad news…I guess I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.”
They’ve arrived at her front steps, and he feels like he might throw up. He needs to tell her. He has to. But he hasn’t allowed himself to think about how to say it, and he has no idea where to start.
“Do you want to come in?” she asks hopefully, and although he feels like the last person on earth she should be gracing with her time and attention, he nods mutely and follows her inside.
After the chill of the outdoors, her apartment feels like a furnace and they both quickly strip off their coats and shoes, and then Scully disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes. While she’s gone he paces in her entryway, scrambling to think of some way to introduce the topic, but every idea he has makes him feel like dying.
When she returns, she walks straight to the kitchen and climbs up onto the countertop, then begins rifling through the cupboard while balancing on her knees.
Mulder smiles, letting himself off the hook for now. He’ll tell her soon, before her appointment. He’ll tell her when he’s had a chance to think about how. He crosses the room and steps up beside her, pushing up to his tip-toes in order to see into the same shelf she’s digging through.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks, and she gives him a wry glance over her shoulder.
“I’m fairly certain there’s a bottle of whisky somewhere in here, and I intend to drink it,” she says resolutely.
“Want some help? I know a tall guy who lives for fetching things off high shelves,” he teases, bumping her hip playfully with his elbow.
“Thank you, but I’m more than capable of reaching my own high shelves,” she says tartly, and then presents a bottle of amber liquid that is three-quarters full. “Ta-da,” she sings with a triumphant smile, then closes the cupboard and turns around to sit on the countertop.
Mulder grabs two water glasses and fills them with ice, and she pours them each more than a few fingers worth of liquor, then takes a healthy gulp without so much as a wince.
“Whoa, what are we drinking to?” He asks, raising his glass, and she pulls an embarrassed grimace as she lifts her half-drunk tumbler.
“To…” she begins, contemplating. She considers his face, her eyes lingering on his mouth for long enough that he feels a little flutter in his belly. “To us,” she finally says, lifting her eyes to meet his.
“To us,” he agrees, and they clink their glasses together with a crystalline tinkle.
He takes a sip from his drink and the alcohol scorches a trail down his throat before heat diffuses in his stomach. Scully drains her glass and pours another, and he shakes his head when she offers him a top-off.
She clears her throat in a way that he’s learned often precedes something that she finds difficult to say, so he sets his glass on the counter and waits as her eyes scatter around the room, searching for courage.
“I, um…” she begins, then heaves a sigh.
Mulder steps closer, close enough that one of her knees brushes against his hip.
“Are you okay?” He asks, though his instincts aren’t warning him that she’s about to say something devastating. In fact, he feels oddly excited.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she says on an exhale, her hands clasped around the edge of the counter on either side of her thighs. “I just…I’ve been thinking. About a lot of things, really.”
She won’t meet his eye, and he doesn’t try to force it.
“I imagine that you would be, after what you’ve been through,” he offers with what he hopes is a sympathetic tone.
Slowly, her eyes shift over to meet his, and her expression is open and searching. Longing.
“You’ve been through something too, Mulder,” she says softly.
He nods, fingering the condensation that wets the side of his glass. Her eyes are bluer than ever, blinking slowly at him as they both wait for something nameless that never seems to arrive. Their eye contact stretches on, and a steady ache takes root in his chest. The wanting has become so painful since he was forced to consider a world where she doesn’t exist, and he wonders if she sees it on his face. Unable to take it any longer, he looks away, shame blasting through him for letting his fear win again.
Her fingers are warm against his whisky-chilled hand, and he sucks in a little breath in surprise. He turns his palm up and her fingers slide through his, and his heart feels like it’s breaking. Why can’t he just let go?
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she whispers, and his head snaps up, finding her eyes wet and mournful.
“What are you afraid of?” He asks stupidly, convincing himself that she’ll say death.
“Mulder,” she squeaks out as her mouth contorts.
It’s an accusation. A plea. An expression of just how terrified she is, how desperately she needs him to meet her halfway. He knows it just as surely as he knows that he would do absolutely anything for her, but somehow he can’t bring himself to do this.
He steps into the space between her knees and wraps his arms around her waist, and her hands cover the back of his neck, fingernails gently scratching. She smells like heaven, feels like home, and he hopes she can hear in his heart beating against her ear how completely he loves her.
“I’m scared too,” he forces out, and she sucks in a huge breath to fuel her relieved sigh.
He holds her for timeless minutes, long enough that the cortisol spiking against his ears begins to subside. He imagines getting to hold her like this every day for as long as he wants to, and the fantasy calms him.
Scully lifts her head and pulls away a little so she can see his face, and he dares himself not to look away, to find out what happens if he holds the line. The hands on his neck slide around to his jaw, cradling his face like a treasure, and he lets just one blink linger for a few seconds so he can savor it. Before he has the chance to open his eyes again, he feels the soft press of her mouth against his, and the world tilts on its axis.
Scully is kissing him. It’s both cataclysmic and entirely predictable, like the slowly descending sun finally touching the horizon. He feels his bones settle into place, his heart soften in his chest, and he kisses her back.
The way she kisses is beautiful: earnest and tender, confident and intentional. His hands find her waist, his thumbs skimming her rib cage, and she hums in a deliciously satisfied way. He is brave enough to peek his tongue out to taste her lips, and she is daring enough to open her mouth and accept him hungrily, her fingers tugging at the lobes of his ears. She shifts her hips forward, pressing the heat between her legs against his belly, and he becomes startlingly aware of the erection straining against the fly of his jeans.
Oh god. Oh god, no. He can’t do this to her. She’ll hate him. He needs to tell her. He has to.
He breaks away abruptly, catching sight of her closed eyes and puckered lips before her eyes fly open and she regards him with surprise.
“Mulder?” She asks, and the self-consciousness in her voice twists his gut.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers, taking one step back. “I’m sorry, Scully, I—”
“No, I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, her face instantly turning bright red as she averts her eyes to the floor. “That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, Mulder.”
No, no, no, no, fuck .
“No, Scully, it’s not that,” he implores, stepping close again and grabbing both her hands. “It’s not that I don’t want you to—I do. I just…there’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve been putting off.”
She lifts her head and her eyes widen fearfully. He has the impulse to reassure her that she doesn’t need to be afraid, but that would be a lie.
“What is it?” she asks, the corners of her mouth sinking.
He already misses the version of her on the sidewalk, the one with a heart full of hope and possibility. He hates himself for extinguishing that light.
“Scully…” he tries, his eyes scanning the doors of the cupboards above her head, searching for words. “When you were abducted, when they took you, they took…” Again he stops, frustrated by himself as much as the situation.
“Whatever it is, just say it,” she begs, her voice quavering.
“They took your ova. Your eggs,” he spits out. “I don’t know if it was all of them or just some of them, but they were taken. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but you were so sick and I wasn’t sure…I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. I’m sorry.”
The color drains from her face, the embarrassment from moments before replaced with abject terror. Her lips are slightly parted, her unfocused eyes fixed on his chin. He still has her hands wrapped up in his, but they are limp and clammy.
“Where did you get this information?” she asks in a whisper, and her chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, her breath coming out in panicked little pants.
“Associates of Dr. Scanlon’s,” he says, deciding that the fact that they were clones isn’t relevant. “I was able to gain access to a research facility, and these associates of Dr. Scanlon’s brought me to a room full of ova under refrigeration. Not just yours, Scully, there were thousands of women’s eggs stored there. Including Betsy Hagopian and Penny Northern’s.”
Her eyes snap up to meet his, and for a moment, he just watches as she assembles this information in her mind, her pupils expanding and contracting unnaturally.
“Why? For what purpose?” she asks, and a wave of nausea rolls from his belly to his throat. He swallows and squeezes her hands, feeling reassured when she squeezes back.
“To create alien-human hybrids,” he says carefully. “These associates of Dr. Scanlon’s are themselves such hybrids.”
Her mouth falls open, the pink tip of her tongue rooting for words. He would give anything to take this from her, to make her burden his own.
“Children?” she finally chokes out, and he nods once.
“I don’t have any information regarding the existence of children created using your ova, but that is the intent of the program, yes,” he says gently.
“Oh god,” she keens, and tears pool rapidly in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. He couldn’t say it enough to demonstrate how deeply sorry he is even were he given the rest of eternity to do so.
She scoots forward on the countertop, touching the back of her hand to his chest to move him aside before she slips down to the floor and walks toward her bathroom, one hand held over her mouth. He watches her disappear, feels the thunk of the door slamming shut vibrate in his feet, and then hears the high pitch of an agonized wail.
He needed to tell her. He had to. So why does he feel like he just made a terrible mistake?