#it's likely

Long weeks are behind them. While the X-Files have been closed again – sealed tight, Skinner has promised – they’re both still employed by the FBI, both teaching the younger generations. Occasionally, she sees someone with shaggy hair, a gait so like Mulder that she thinks she’s back in 1993, still trying to find her own way. But no matter how hard she imagines it, it’s never Jackson, never their son.

They hear from him sometimes; they get postcards, or on special occasions, a text, or an email. Still, part of her is always searching for him in the halls that shaped her, and Mulder, wondering how things could have gone differently.

But not today.

Today, as Mulder reminded her this morning, is about resting. He might have called it “chilling”, winking at her with that boyish gleam in his eyes that she hopes he’ll never lose, no matter how old he is. And there’s no denying that they’re old now. The thought makes her smile. After all they’ve been through, who could have known they’d get here? To middle age? Mulder has died a dozen times and so has she.

Scully takes a deep breath, holds it, and ducks her head under water, just like she did as a child. Of all the Scully children, she’d always been the one to hold her breath the longest. It made Bill grumble, and her father chuckle. She comes back to the surface, bubbles on her face and in her hair, taking a deep, vanilla-scented breath. A bathtub or the ocean, water has always remained her friend.

Downstairs she hears the door squeak open and little paws run around excitedly. Mulder says something, his voice deep and soothing, but she can’t make out any words. A moment later, she not only hears little dog feet, she sees them, too, when Daggoo barges into the bathroom.

“Hey you,” Scully says as the dog gets on his hind legs to show her his face. His tongue is lolling about and catches a few bubbles, making him lick his nose.

“Daggoo, no,” she says, but she’s laughing, and the dog doesn’t listen. “What are you doing?” The small dog continues to lick at the bubbles and her hand.

“I tried keeping him downstairs.” Mulder walks into the bathroom, running a hand over his face.  

“It’s fine. If he throws up after drinking bathwater, you’ll clean it up.” Mulder signs a promise over his heart before he gets on his knees, gently coaxing Daggoo away from the bathtub. He leans his cheek against the porcelain and glances at Scully.

“Did you two have a good run?” she asks gently, running her fingers through his messy hair, trying to smooth it down. Leaning more into her touch, Mulder nods. “You need a shower,” she says.

“Bathtub is occupied.”

“Hm, I think there’s enough space for both of us in here.”

“You think?” He smiles at her; he knows there is. When they bought the house, they bought a bathtub big enough for the two of them.

“Get naked, G-man.”

“As you wish.”

Scully watches him languidly as he takes off his running clothes. She marvels at his strength, at the play of his muscles; her favorite piece of art.

“Are you watching me?” he asks without even turning to her and she blushes. Almost 30 years by his side, decades of loving each other, and still, he has that effect on her.

“Hurry before the water gets cold,” she says. Finally, he’s gloriously naked and only wearing his most charming smile. She scoots forward, throwing him a look over her shoulder. He gets in behind her and as soon as he’s settled in, she leans back against him. Mulder puts his arms around her, his head on her shoulder.

“I’m not sure this is the best way to get clean,” he admits, whispering into her ear. “I think I’m only getting you sweaty and dirty.”

“I don’t mind,” she says honestly. Feeling forgotten, Daggoo starts whimpering, getting on his hind legs again, trying to get at the bubbles.

“No, Mulder,” Scully says, half turning to him.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You’re thinking about letting Daggoo in here.”

“Well, he has been running, too, you know.”

“You can give him a bath after.”

“I had different plans for after.” He gently bites into her earlobe. “I doubt he could make the jump anyway.” Daggoo whines again. “Sorry, buddy. The lady of the house says no.” The dog tries one more time, but when Scully gives him a stern look, he accepts defeat.  

“This is nice,” Mulder says, shifting behind her and making waves.

“I’ve been telling you that for years. You never listen.”

“Hmm, I’ll listen from now on,” he says, kissing her cheek. “You taste like vanilla.”

“So do you.” She leans her head against his arm as it rests against the edge of the tub, his soft hair tickling her cheek. She was wrong earlier; this right here, this is perfection.