JUST A FAN of FAN ART & FANFIC, XFiles

Scully caught Mulder’s gaze. “It’s his birthday,” he shrugged.

Things were changing, and William wanted to hold on to a time when life felt steady and normal. She could hardly blame him. 

And that was how they found themselves celebrating William’s 15th birthday—in an Applebee’s in Pentagon City—at a table with the small Mulder family, the Lone Gunmen, and Margaret Scully, who had ended up seated next to Langly, the pair of them as incongruous as a goth and a prep. Walter Skinner was out of town, much to Scully’s mother’s disappointment. 

There was a pile of gifts in the corner above the curve of the booth, and the young waitress was openly flirting with William.

“What can I get everyone to drink?” she smiled, eyes briefly scanning the table, but lingering on the birthday boy. 

Ever the gentleman, William immediately looked to Margaret Scully. “Grandma?”

Maggie didn’t look up from her menu. “I’ll go last,” she said. 

Mulder ordered a pint of Yuengling, to which Frohike held up two fingers, and then Langly, three. Byers tried to order an iced tea, was roundly chastised (“we’re celebrating,” Langly whined) and then relented to also have a beer. Scully said “Just a water,” but was spared the dragging, which miffed Byers, and then the waitress turned her gaze to William.

“What are we celebrating?” she asked. 

“My birthday,” William said, cocksure. “And I will have a top shelf Shirley Temple.” 

The waitress, who was probably still in high school and went by Audrey according to her nametag, giggled. She had long brunette hair pulled up into a messy bun and chipped nail polish. William sat forward. 

“You’re laughing at me,” he said, unphased. “Have you never had a Shirley Temple?” 

Audrey hooked her thumb to her left. “No, but I just served one to that seven year old girl.”

The table quieted, eyes raising from menus to watch the exchange. 

“Shots fired,” Frohike mumbled.

“Pity,” William said to Audrey, leaning back in the booth. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

The waitress’s mouth quirked up in a grin, and she shifted her attention to Maggie. 

“Have you decided?”

Maggie pressed her lips together. “I’ll have a glass of the Ferrari Carano Chardonnay.” 

The waitress winced. “Can I bring you a bottle? That one doesn’t come by the glass.”

“Well I can’t possibly drink a bottle,” Margaret said, ever so slightly offended. 

“I can get you a glass of our house Chardonnay?” 

Scully watched as her mother’s lips drew down distastefully. Margaret Scully had viticultural standards honed by two decades in her neighborhood book club. She might deign to drink a white other than Sancerre, but she would not drink swill.

“We’ll do the bottle,” her mother said, then patted Dana’s hand. “You can help me drink it.” 

Caught off guard, Scully floundered like a fish pulled into a boat. 

“I, uh—” she stumbled, which her mother clocked with a tilt of her head.

Of all people, it was Langly that came to her rescue. “I’ll help drink the cougar juice,” he said. “Cancel my beer.”

Audrey nodded and snapped her notebook closed. “I’ll go and get those for you. Would you like to start with any appetizers?” 

Will sat forward. “All of them,” he said, folding his hands on the table. 

The waitress’s eyebrows shot up. “All of them?” 

“One of each,” he smiled. 

Scully finally came back to herself. “William, that’s a tremendous amount of f—”

“Birthday!” Will interrupted her, pointing at himself. Scully’s mouth snapped closed. 

“I guess we’ll have all the appetizers,” Mulder said, smiling at the waitress and closing his menu. 

XxX

Their drinks got to the table just before a cadre of busboys started bringing the apps. 

Audrey set everyone’s drink before them with little fanfare, until she got to William. 

“Happy birthday,” she said with a small wink. “I gave you extra cherries.” 

Scully’s eyes would have snapped to the young woman if the smell of the appetizers hadn’t reached her first. The plates had barely touched the table before fryer grease, barbecue sauce, and jalapeño rolled together in a way that turned her stomach like she’d just opened a morgue door. Mulder caught her eye. She reached for her ice water and took a long drink, trying to steady herself.

Maggie set her wine glass down with calculated precision. “Dana?” she said. “Are you all right?” 

“Yes,” Scully breathed through her mouth. 

Her mother wasn’t buying it, and turned to Mulder with an exasperated, pleading look. 

“Fox?”

Reaching out a hand to squeeze Scully’s arm, he lowered his voice and addressed his wife. 

“I think the jig is up,” he said with a small smile.

Maggie swallowed hard. “Are you ill? Is it—”

“I’m pregnant,” Scully said, and could have sworn that the entire restaurant went quiet the moment before she said it. 

Langly reached forward to take a deep draught of wine, Byers looked down and smoothed his tie. Mulder’s gaze continued to rest on Scully, and their son snapped a maraschino cherry off its stem and chewed with a beatific smile. Only Frohike spoke, holding his pint aloft and giving a cheerful “Mozel tov!” 

Maggie blinked hard for several seconds, shock evident on her face. “On… purpose?” she said, baffled. 

Audrey slid inconspicuously away from the table. 

“Mother,” Scully said, mortified. 

A couple tables away, a man laughed loudly. A hostess walked by with a family of five trailing behind her like goslings behind a goose.

William tilted his head casually. “Don’t make it weird, Grandma,” he said.

Silence reigned. 

“Welllllll, I’m going to open some presents,” Will went on, reaching blindly behind him to grab one of the wrapped gifts. “Since no one is talking and this is super awkward.”

He opened the yellow envelope atop the box and pulled out the card, chuckling after a moment. 

“Heh. A cat on a skateboard,” he said. “This one’s from Langly,” he announced. 

He then tore into the wrapping paper—black, with silver stars—to unveil—

“Beats? Awesome!” 

A cellophane-wrapped box emerged, sleek black headphones pictured on the front.

“What do you say?” Scully said, still off balance but operating on maternal automatic. 

“Thank you!” Will said sincerely. 

Langley nodded. “I got a deep-cut Ramones album you gotta hear.” 

Conversation began again gradually, Langly and Will leaning toward each other to talk music. Mulder gestured to Byers that he had beer foam in his neatly trimmed mustache, but Maggie sat without moving, still stunned by the news. 

“Aren’t you worried about…” she trailed off, turning toward Scully, who sat on her other side. Maggie lowered her voice. “... isn’t it dangerous?”

Scully’s chin dipped. “A geriatric pregnancy?” she hedged. 

Maggie opened her mouth to say something, but Mulder butted in. 

“They don’t even call it that anymore,” he said. “It’s ‘advanced maternal age’ now. And they’re not too worried, right Scully?” 

“That’s not what I—”

Audrey reappeared at that moment, and they ordered, William opting for two portions of Bourbon Street Shrimp. Mulder collected menus and jogged them into a neat stack, which he handed over with a close-lipped smile. 

“Dana,” Maggie said as the waitress walked away, “that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you—”

“Are you worried about Grayskull?” Mulder asked, lowering his tone. 

“Nor precisely that,” her mother lifted her nose and sniffed. 

Scully reached forward and pulled off a piece of soft pretzel for something to do with her hands. 

“She’s worried about another Kentwood,” William said with his mouth full, pulling a mozzarella stick away from his face, a long string of cheese telescoping between it and his lips. 

Maggie dabbed her mouth with a napkin, though she hadn’t yet taken a bite of food, her eyes trained on the table in front of her. 

Mulder leaned in close to growl a quiet warning into his son’s ear. “Stay out of people’s head’s, Will.” 

“I’m remembering all those years ago, when Dana was pregnant with William.” 

The pretzel went dry in the back of Scully’s throat, a lump she couldn’t swallow down. Supersoldiers surrounding her birthing bed, then peeling out into the dusty Georgia night.

Byers cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing under his trim cinnamon beard. 

“That program has been discontinued. And, I believe,” he lowered his head, eyes darting around the table, “sanitized,” he said. 

“William is right about… Kentwood,” Scully’s mother went on. “Aren’t you worried people will be after you again? I can’t—”

“Maggie,” Mulder said calmly, reaching forward to rest his hand briefly on the woman’s arm. “The FBI maintains that was an isolated incident.”

“But you don’t,” she snapped. “I know you, Fox.”

“Mom,” Scully began, but William leaned forward, his clear blue eyes drawing his grandmother’s in. 

“I was little in Kentwood, Grandma,” he said. “I’m not little anymore.”

The lights overhead shined more brightly for a moment and Byers and Langly raised their heads, looking around in awe.

The older woman didn’t even seem to notice.

“People like that are still out there, though. What about that man who—” Maggie Scully swallowed, reluctant to finish. 

Everyone at the table knew who she was referring to—Tyrone Bailey, the only surviving assailant who hadn’t been killed at Kentwood.

“Bailey?” Frohike asked, reaching out to grab a jalapeño popper. “I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s currently enjoying three hots and a cot. And will be, for the rest of his life.”

Scully watched as her mother brought a hand to finger the delicate chain at her throat. “It’s not him I’m particularly worried about, it’s…” The cabal of men who’d hired him, Scully heard the words, though they hadn’t been said aloud. 

“No one knows yet except for the people at this table,” Mulder said, shooting his mother-in-law a sympathetic smile.

“And Dana’s doctor, I would hope,” Maggie said. “And the OB office staff. And the computer system, and—” 

“I’m seeing Lynn,” Scully said softly, naming a friend from medical school. “Everything is being done under an alias.” 

“That’s all well and good now,” her mother said, “but this isn’t something you can exactly keep secret forever, is it?”

“Grandma,” William said, but Maggie was fretting now.

As the occupants of the table focused on the small drama around them, no one noticed when Audrey and a busser approached the table, each carrying a tray laden with all the food they had ordered.

Margaret Scully seemed to be on the verge of tears. 

“Grandma,” William said again, this time with so much authority and gravitas that for a moment Scully thought Mulder had spoken. 

“Oh,” the older woman agonized, throwing up a hand. 

When she did this, several things happened at once: Her hand connected with the tray that Audrey was carrying, which bumped into the busboy’s tray before upending itself onto the large table in a cascade of food slop and dishware. The busboy’s tray tipped to a 45 degree angle, everything atop it sliding backward. For one suspended second, the whole dining room seemed to watch their dinner lose its fight with gravity.

Until it didn’t. 

The buser’s tray righted itself without losing its contents, while more immediately, three plates that had already fallen from Audrey’s tray landed on the table with barely a clatter. The food atop them, which had been sluicing free directly toward Maggie’s lap, landed on the plates they had slid off of with nary a drop slipping free. 

The entire restaurant was silent. Audrey stood, wide-eyed, staring down at the plates which had come off of her tray. You could have heard a pin drop. 

And then William, the only person at the table who seemed completely unphased by what had just occurred, said, “Impressive!” and then started clapping, nodding his head in admiration and elbowing his father, who sat next to him. 

Mulder snapped out of his shock and started clapping as well. “Well done!” he said. 

The rest of the restaurant joined in on the applause, while murmurs started up again, with several “can you believe that?” and “holy shit.” 

Audrey and the buser were still standing there, both a bit bewildered, when William reached out and pulled two of the plates on the table to himself. 

“Yay, my shrimp!” he said. 

Audrey came to herself and swung the rest of the food onto a tray stand she’d opened next to the table, passing out the rest of the dishes with a pale complexion. 

“Your balance is amazing,” Frohike said to her. “Do you do mixed martial arts?” 

She gave him a tentative smile, seeming to come back to herself as she carefully removed plates from the buser’s tray, passing out the last of everyone’s dinner. 

“Is there anything else I can bring you?” she asked with a wobbly smile. 

“More feats of strength and agility,” William smiled, and the girl’s shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. She grinned and pushed the tray holder closed against her hip. 

“Enjoy,” she said, and the restaurant seemed to fall back into an easy rhythm. 

“Things are different now, Grandma,” Will said, fork poised halfway to his mouth. “I don’t want you to worry.”

Margaret Scully nodded and took a long pull of chardonnay. 

“You’re right, William,” she said, setting down her glass with a small clink. “You’re right.”

“We’ll keep our ears to the ground, ma’am,” Byers said reassuringly.

“Now stop being weird,” Will said, “or I’ll use your car for driver’s ed.”

Maggie gave a watery chuckle and picked up her fork. A comfortable silence fell as everyone tucked into their dinner. 

Scully looked up to find William looking at her. He had planned this, she realized. This whole thing—getting all of these random people in a public place at the same time—was merely to break the news to her mother in a controlled environment armed with the three guys who would, however oddly, be able to put her mother’s mind at ease. If Walter Skinner hadn’t been out of town, it would have no doubt gone even smoother, her mother distracted by Skinner’s cologne, by the wide set of his shoulders. 

Will nodded at her, brisk as a navy salute, and Scully marveled at her son, at her first baby, who was becoming, before her very eyes, a man. 

“The rest of my presents before dessert!” William announced. “Just so everyone knows.”

As twilight fell, it was Stella that suggested they get some fresh air and make use of their sadly underused outdoor space and Hank readily agreed. She rifled through the cupboards to put together something to nosh on and he went up ahead to uncover the furniture and draw back the curtains of the daybed. Though it was still warm enough that the heat lamps weren’t necessary, he turned the fire pit on for ambiance and put a playlist they’d created many years ago called In the Mood on shuffle.

As Sade crooned softly from the hidden speakers strategically placed at the corners of the terrace, Stella finally joined him, somehow bracing a bottle of wine under one arm, an upside down wine glass locked between the webbing of her index and middle fingers, a small tray balanced on her hand, and a glass of whiskey for Hank.

“Cheers, Sherlock,” he said, tapping his glass with hers as they settled deep into the outdoor daybed, the tray of cut-up fruits, a few hunks of cheese, and a sleeve of crackers between them.

She took a sip of wine as she reached for a small cluster of grapes. Hank stole one off the stem, but then fed it to her before grabbing another. He sat back, sipping his whiskey as he put his arm around his wife and cupped her bare shoulder. He twisted the spaghetti strap of her tank top around his index finger.

“We need to try to work this into our schedules more often,” he said.

“Things have been rather hectic this year.” She reclined into his side and draped her arm over his thigh.

“I was wondering if I should retire, after this is all said and done.”

Stella craned her head back to look up at him. “Retire? Quit writing, you mean?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged.

“Why?”

“Feels as though the well has dried up.”

“You’re putting all your creativity into your show right now.”

“Yeah, but even before that came along I was feeling somewhat tapped out. I’ve lost the compulsion.”

“Perhaps it will return to you. When all is said and done.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged again and took another sip of his whiskey. “Is this that goat cheese we got at the farmer’s market?”

“What remains of it.”

He moved his arm up over Stella’s head so he could lean forward and grab a cracker and spread some cheese on it. He popped it in his mouth and then took another, speaking with his mouth full. “We’ll have to get more if they’re there next time.”

“I’ll check tomorrow after my meeting.”

He slumped back again, this time laying his head on the cushion to look at her. “You could retire too, Sherlock.”

She hummed softly, bottom lip touching the rim of her wine glass as she spoke. “I’ve not yet lost the compulsion, as you put it.”

“What do you think we’d do?” he asked, nuzzling her shoulder with the tip of his nose. “When we have nothing but time and each other.”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Never?”

“Have you?” She shook her head and reached for an apple slice. “Of course you have. What did you envision?”

“Obviously copious amounts of nudity.”

“Obviously.” She bit into the apple slice and it split with a satisfactory crunch. Hank bobbed his head to pluck the other half from her fingers with bared teeth.

“Maybe we travel the world a little.” He munched thoughtfully on the apple slice and then took a sip of whiskey. “Break the record for most countries one couple have fucked in.”

“Is there a record?”

“I hope so.”

“I believe I would like to go back to Africa one day.”

“When did you go to Africa?”

“My father took me with him to Nairobi once when I was small. I only have a vague memory of being frightened by a giraffe.”

“I can’t imagine you afraid of anything, Sherlock, let alone a giraffe.”

“Well, I was very small, and it was very-”

“Tall?”

“Frightening.”

He chuckled and sucked on a half-melted ice cube from his whiskey glass. “We’ll go to Africa and I promise I’ll protect you from the big, tall, scary giraffes.”

“My hero.” She brought her arm up so that the back of her index finger skimmed lightly across his cheek. He captured her hand and rotated it so that he could press his lips to the middle of her palm and down to the inside of her wrist.

They both did some shifting, angling themselves towards each other while trying not to knock the tray of food over or upset their drinks. Their lips connected amidst their quiet laughter and they both melted into drowsy, whiskey and wine soaked kisses. There was no urgency for them, no drive to escalate towards anything further. They’d spent the morning and parts of the afternoon wrapped up in the fervor of each other and these kisses were merely for the sake of kissing. Because they could and had nothing else they needed to do.

Hank’s thigh tingled with the sudden buzz of vibration and they both paused, opening their eyes in mid-liplock. He broke away and looked down as his pocket buzzed again and they maneuvered themselves free so he could pull out his phone. He stretched his arm out and tilted the phone down as he squinted. His reading glasses were downstairs, but he hadn’t thought to take his phone out of his pocket.

“It’s Becca,” he said. “Uh…can you read that?”

Stella took Hank’s wrist and turned it towards her, also squinting. “She’s downstairs and wants to know if we’re here.”

“I’ll tell her we fled the country and are currently living under assumed identities.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Stella pressed the voice transcription button to reply and pulled Hank’s hand closer. “We’re on the terrace, Darling, do you have your key?”

Seconds later, Becca replied in the affirmative and they both took a few moments to straighten up. Stella finished her wine in two swallows and Hank moved the fruit and cheese tray to one of the side tables. He opened an app on his phone that controlled all the sound and lighting in the outdoor space and turned on the twinkle lights that were wrapped around the bedframe and canopy while lowering the volume on the speakers just a little.

“Becca never just drops by,” Hank said. “Probably pawning the hairball off on us for the weekend.”

“She would message first, you know that.”

“Well, what do you think she wants?”

“A young woman showing up at her father’s unannounced, after dark on a Friday night…it’s probably not something she wants, but something she needs.”

“Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.”

Becca appeared at the top of the stairs only a few minutes later, overdressed for the weather in a long-sleeved black and white striped bodysuit, black jeans and boots. Her hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail, her long and tapered bangs framing her face and licking her chin.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter,” Hank said.

“Hello, Darling,” Stella added, reaching her hand out to take Becca’s and give it a squeeze. She then patted the cushion between her and Hank, shifting to make more space between them. “Come, sit.”

Becca crawled onto the daybed between her father and stepmother and sank back into the cushions with her arms crossed. Her demeanor and body language set off little signals to Stella that there was something there that needed to be drawn out. She had been in many an interrogation room with individuals who so obviously needed to get something off their chest, but were paralyzed to start. It was often a precarious situation; push too hard, say the wrong thing, and someone may just shut down entirely.

“I noticed the Hairball’s not with you,” Hank said.

Becca shook her head. “One of my screenwriting teacher’s former students invited our class to a screening tonight in the East Village.”

“And how’s that going?”

“I don’t know that I like it all that much.” She shrugged. “It’s a more tedious form of writing than I would like.”

Netflix had offered Becca the chance to write a second season for Hank’s series, but she’d turned them down. She didn’t feel like she had the experience yet to write for television and ultimately, she didn’t feel a connection to characters that weren’t her own. It had prompted her to enroll in a screenwriting course, however, so she could hone her skills in case she ever had the opportunity to adapt one of her own works, or felt like she wanted to dip her toe into the entertainment industry one day.

“Is there a release date for the new book yet?” Stella asked.

“They just keep saying spring.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not really. If they want me to do a promo tour it just means I can start next year and won’t have to be gone for the holidays.”

“Your mother would appreciate that,” Hank interjected, and took a sip of his whiskey.

Stella considered what her next question might be. Becca hadn’t flinched when Hank had asked after Ziggy, didn’t shift uncomfortably or seem bothered by the progress of her book, and had no reaction to the mention of Karen. If she was angry or upset with Hank, usually she was quick to lash out and not hold back, so it was unlikely to have anything to do with her father.

“Would you like a drink?” Stella asked. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine.” Becca shook her head. “I shouldn’t stay long, Tony likes to meet me at the station so I don’t walk home alone and I don’t want to be too late. He’s got a photo shoot in the morning.”

The way Becca pulled her shoulders together and squeezed her arms a little tighter caught Stella’s attention. To her knowledge, there were no problems between Becca and Tony, but there was a sudden discomfort there.

“How lovely of him to do that for you,” Stella said.

“Yeah, he’s kind of…old-fashioned, that way.” Becca’s eyes darted down and to the side.

Stella consciously remained calm, tried not to leap to conclusions, but her brain was going into overdrive. Long sleeves in summer, an indication of possible controlling behavior, Becca’s sudden discomfort, her use of the word ‘old-fashioned’ to describe her boyfriend. Was she in a situation that required intervention? Tony hadn’t seemed a violent type, but they so rarely do, as Stella knew all too well. She discretely ran her eyes over Becca’s exposed wrists and collarbones, wanting to push the sleeves up to reveal her arms.

“Is everything alright with Tony, Darling?” Stella asked.

“Yeah, fine. He’s fine.” Becca shifted her shoulders and then looked up at Hank. “Has he…called you at all?”

“Moi?” Hank asked. “Why would Tony call me?”

“He’s just…because he’s…like I said, he’s kind of old-fashioned.”

There was that phrase again. Stella detected no strain in Becca’s voice, but her hesitance was definitely palpable. Stella placed her hand on the younger girl’s arm and brushed her thumb back and forth across the inside of her elbow.

“How do you mean, ‘old–fashioned’?” Stella asked.

Becca turned her chin towards Stella, but stared down into the flames of the fire pit. “Like…like maybe he believes in one of those traditional ideas that a guy should ask the father’s permission to…you know…”

Hank’s head swiveled so sharply Stella thought he might have given himself whiplash. She turned and held his gaze, silently demanding with an unwavering stare not to say something he might regret. His mouth opened, but nothing came out, instead he stayed frozen, silently agape.

“You’re discussing marriage?” Stella asked.

“I mean…” Becca tipped her head back and forth a few times. “He’s been bringing it up lately, testing the waters I guess. Asking me how I feel about it.”

“How do you feel about it?”

Becca winced. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you better form a fucking opinion quick if you think a proposal is imminent,” Hank snapped.

Stella glared at Hank over the top of Becca’s head. Becca seemed unfazed and did not appear to take any offense to his harsh tone. She continued to stare off into the distance and then she looked up at her father.

“What’s your opinion of it?” she asked. “How come you and Mom never got married, but you married Stella? How come Mom married Richard, but she won’t marry Fish?”

“Well…” Hank made a noise in the back of his throat, clearly stalling.

“Did you just not love her enough, was that it?”

“First of all, go interrogate your mother if you want to know about her choices, I don’t know what her deal is. Second of all, love has nothing to do with marriage.”

Becca’s face wrinkled as though she’d suddenly smelled something unpleasant and Stella’s brows came together as she frowned, deeply.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Becca answered.

“I agree,” Stella added.

“Hang on.” Hank put his hands up defensively. “I’m not trying to be facetious, here. Of course I loved your Mom, and I presume love is the reason most people want to get married, but a marriage is about compromise and communication and mundacity and arguing about stupid shit and laughing about stupid shit and growth and sacrifice and effort. It’s about a lot of fucking effort. You can love the shit out of someone, but if you can’t put in the time it takes, you don’t have a marriage. Love is never enough, it just isn’t, and it doesn’t guarantee anything.”

“Neither does marriage,” Stella added.

“Well, that’s really fucking depressing,” Becca grumbled, tightening her arms and sinking lower between them.

Stella put an arm across her and pulled her into a soft, sideways embrace. “I’m sorry, Darling, we’re not trying to be bleak.”

Hank hated seeing Becca upset, and hated it even more when he had done the upsetting. He shifted and reached over Stella to cross his arm over his daughter as well. “Look,” he said. “Your mother and I, we were young, anti-establishment, pretentious assholes that thought we knew better than everyone, had it all figured out. Convention was for pussies, and we were coming out of a time where the image of marriage that society shoved down our throats was of doting housewives who sent their husbands off to work in their starched suits and briefcases every morning and met them at the door every evening with a martini in one hand and a casserole in the oven and it just seemed obvious to us that everyone was desperately unhappy. That was not a life we wanted, and we thought we were being big and brave and giving a big fuck you to the institution by doing things our way. No one was forcing the obligation.”

“Except for the kid you didn’t plan on,” Becca replied.

“Oh, God,” Hank said, his eyes opening wide. “Are you pregnant?”

Becca rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Dad, no.”

“I mean it’s fine if you are, your body your choice, whatever you want to do I’ll support you.”

“I’m not pregnant!”

“Don’t act so fucking surprised, you show up suddenly asking about traditions and surprise babies, for all I know you’re trying to pave the way for a shotgun wedding!”

“Alright,” Stella interjected, intervening before tensions escalated any further, glaring at Hank once more as she rubbed Becca’s arm. “Let’s try to bring the temperature down a bit, shall we? Becca, let me say that I’m not in agreement with your father on this. You can definitely have love without marriage, but I shouldn’t think you can truly have a marriage without love.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Hank said.

“Hush,” Stella admonished her husband before continuing. “The point is that it takes both love and effort.”

“I don’t really care about all that,” Becca whined. “I mean, yeah I do, but I’m not asking for marriage advice, I’m saying that I can’t figure out what that thing is I’m supposed to feel, aside from love, that’s supposed to make me want to get married.”

“I have to imagine that’s different for everyone.”

“Not to state the obvious,” Hank said, “but, part of that thing you’re looking for is also simply wanting to get married in the first place.”

“But, that’s what I’m struggling with.” Becca sighed. “The divorce rate is like sixty-something percent nowadays, so why would I want to roll the dice with those odds on a relationship I’m actually happy in?”

“Sweetheart, relationships end whether you’re married or not. Fear of dissolution is legitimate, I get it, but you’re not the type of person to let something like that hold you back.”

“So, you think I should marry Tony?”

“I think that you should do what feels right to you.”

“But, I don’t know what feels right!”

“Have you actually spoken to Tony about any of this?” Stella asked.

Becca bit into her bottom lip and shook her head. “What if I tell him that I’m not sure about the whole thing and…and he gives me an ultimatum? I know it’s something he wants, but I’m just not sure it’s something I want.”

“Oh, Darling, that is not a reason not to speak with him about it.” Stella rested her cheek against the top of Becca’s head.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Hank said, pretending to gag a little as he spoke, “but, Tony seems like a good guy to me. I don’t see him as the type to make those kind of demands on you, and if he does, well then fuck him.”

“Dad…” Becca whispered.

“No, seriously, if some old-fashioned notions of how or what a relationship should look like to him is more important than the great relationship he has, then fuck him for taking you for granted and fuck him for wasting your time.”

“Before we go writing Tony off unnecessarily, I think you owe it to him to have a conversation about all of this,” Stella said. “If you do want a future with him, you’ll need to agree upon what that future will look like.”

“I know.” Becca put her hands over her face and took a deep breath. “I know, I know.” She dropped her hands and looked up between her father and stepmother. “Did you have any reservations, or did you just know?”

Hank chuckled and Stella grimaced. “God, yes,” she said. “Reservations upon reservations.”

“That’s an understatement,” Hank added.

“That we worked through, obviously.” Stella paused and looked down at Becca. “Honestly, Darling, as one who did not have a very positive attitude about marriage for many years, I’ll tell you that part of what opened me to the idea of it was the challenges your father and I faced and overcame. If we hadn’t already endured certain things, made certain sacrifices, and come out on the other side of dark times with our relationship intact, I shouldn’t have thought for even a second that I would want to be married.”

“We haven’t gone through anything that I wouldn’t consider the normal trials and tribulations of a relationship.”

“Maybe sorting out your expectations will be the test. He’ll never be able to meet you where you’re at if you don’t allow him the opportunity.”

Becca sighed and Hank put his arm around her to draw her into his side. “I’m sorry your mother and I were piss-poor role models in the relationship department.”

“Not so terrible. Taught me a lot of what not to do.”

“Touche.”

Becca pulled herself free and sat up, stretching her back and shoulders. She looked back over her shoulder at Hank and then Stella. “But, also showing me what it looks like when things work.”

Stella squeezed Becca’s arm and Hank pulled her head down to kiss her temple.

“I have to get going,” Becca said, wiggling her way off of the daybed. “Thanks for the advice.”

“What do you want me to say if Tony calls me?” Hank asked.

“If you thought I would say yes, and if we were more of the traditional type, would he have your blessing?”

Hank glanced over at Stella and she gave a slight nod. “Fuck yeah,” he said.

The smile that Becca left with was the brightest Stella had ever seen from the girl. They both watched her go and Hank tipped his head back on the cushion with a soft groan. Not a drop of whiskey remained in his glass, but he tried to take a drink anyway and ended up sucking the aftertaste off his teeth. Stella tipped her head back as well, facing him, watching him.

“For what it’s worth,” she said. “I’m sure Becca appreciated your blessing.”

“Yeah, well…”

“You like Tony, don’t you?”

Hank shrugged. “So far as I can tell, he’s not an asshole.”

“No, he’s not.”

“We’ll see how their little talk goes, and then I reserve the right to change my mind.”

“Of course.” She paused and scratched at the belt loop at Hank’s hip with her index finger. “You don’t really find it that hard, do you? Being married?”

“Nah. We got all the hard shit out of the way years ago.”

Stella went quiet. She had recognized a lot of her own past insecurities in what Becca had expressed. She understood quite well the reluctance to upset the applecart, so to speak. It wasn’t a lack of confidence, nor a lack of faith in the relationship, but a fear of the unknown and the endless possibilities of an unfavorable outcome. Not a fear of failure, but of loss. The more you have, the more you have to lose.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful earlier,” she murmured. “I have thought of what our future might look like.”

“Yeah? What did it look like to you?”

“A lot like this.”

Hank opened his arm and Stella shifted closer so her head was on his shoulder and her arm was across his abdomen. She moved one leg up over his and her foot tucked nicely into the dip between his knees. He stroked her arm with his fingertips.

“What about the copious amount of nudity?” he asked.

“We can discuss that when the time comes.”

With a smile, Hank rested his head against Stella’s. “It looks a lot like this to me too, Sherlock.”