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.
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