#pre-episode

He put his lips next to her ear and brushed against the edge of it lightly. Her hand moved to grasp his and held it tight. “Scully, I want to tell you something.”

“Hmm?”

“I picked our names for the undercover assignment already.” He directed his fingers to dance on her stomach, and she held them firmly in place. “It’s Rob and Laura Petrie.”

“Mulder!” She turned in his embrace and swatted him in the chest. “You’re not taking this assignment seriously. Those names will blow our cover.”

“They won’t. I’ll bet you ten dollars for it. It’s an old show, and no one would make the connection. And if they do, they’ll just be too polite to say anything about it.”

“You just don’t think this is an actual X-file.””

“No, I don’t. Scully, this isn’t the first time I’ve gone undercover. And from my previous experiences, I don’t trust this setup.” He stared into her eyes intensively. “I find it to be a little too convenient for them to have us play husband and wife. I mean, the Bureau has a policy on male and female agents consorting in the same motel room while on assignment. And now they’re putting us, us, you and me, Mr. and Mrs. Spooky, in the same bedroom for an assignment?”

“Mulder, you’re being...” She wanted to say paranoid, but a part of her agreed with him.

“Why does Skinner want us to play newlyweds? He might as well set up a fire in the living room, drag a rag in front of it, and put some Barry White on the stereo.”

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles one at a time. “You think I’m paranoid, don’t you? But I’ve heard stories. What if they bug this house in San Diego and catch us...napping on the job?”

Her finger glided over his lips as she considered his words. “But they could bug your apartment or mine just the same.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be on the Bureau’s dime. What we do in our own time is our business. I just feel like this is a big joke somehow, a setup, not to get us, but ...maybe to finally close the betting pool?”

“So...” She moved closer to him and puckered up her lips to kiss him squarely on the mouth. “Should we just play into it?”

“What do you mean, my lady?” He was always smitten after such a kiss from her.

“We’ll play. We’ll give them the typical married life, just to throw ‘em off. We’ll mess with them. I’ll be all off-limits and shy, you'll turn up your jokes. You’ll be a slob, and I’ll be a nag.”

“Aw, Scully.” He frowned. “I wanted to play the doting idiot that comes home and humps like a bunny rabbit with his beautiful wife.”

“Mulder, you are the doting idiot that comes home and... You’ve been that doting idiot for...months now.”

He pulled her into a tighter embrace. “Did you think we’d be celebrating your birthday in San Diego this year?”

She shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to.”

“Is Bill in town?”

“Nope, I don’t think so, but I can call Mom and find out.”

“We can go see Tara and Matthew, and light a candle for Emily?” She nodded in his arms, and he kissed her cheek. “We’ll do the birthday thing when the case is over?”

“Sounds good.” Her voice was light and content.

“Happy early 35, Scully.” She smiled with eyes closed, and he kept talking. “Here’s your present, an unlimited supply of doting idiots to last you for several lifetimes.”

Fifty-seven days. Just over eight weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Mulder’s last email, the one in which he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to write again for a while.

Not that his warning has stopped her from checking.

The internet cafe has become part of her routine. On Saturdays like today, when she’s not helping Doggett and Reyes in the field, Scully stops by with William on her way to run errands. A couple of days a week she doesn’t need to be at the Academy until noon, so she takes a morning walk to the cafe before her mom arrives to babysit. The baristas know her order by now - chai tea on the weekends, coffee with milk during the week - and are friendly but not chatty. It’s honestly probably too routine and predictable, or it would be if she were the one in hiding. She’s identified a handful of other “regulars,” but none that give her cause for concern; everyone here tends to keep to themselves. 

Chai in hand, she finds an empty computer and parks the stroller. William is dozing, bundled up against the late December chill outside, and the coffee shop is cozy and warm without being stifling. Scully has removed her gloves but doesn’t bother taking off her coat; that would be an acknowledgement of the hope that this time she will be staying longer than a minute or two. She tries to convince herself that she expects the empty inbox, that she won’t be disappointed by another day of radio silence, that her stomach won’t do a backflip at the sight of “3 new messages” because she knows they will all be spam.

It is a futile exercise.

Fifty-seven days. She’s managing. Raising this baby of theirs and molding young minds at the Academy and praying every night for Mulder’s safety. She has to believe this is temporary, and that eventually they can be a family again. A real family.

Suppressing a sigh, she logs off and tries to turn her focus to the day ahead.

***

The day after Mulder comes back with a bike of his own, it pours. Gibson is guiltily, but deeply, relieved. He wants to trust that Mulder won’t abandon him, knows all too well how people’s inner thoughts can be complicated and contradictory, but at the same time, he can’t help worrying.

The rain, however, does not dampen Mulder’s fervor. His trips to the larger library have been fruitful, and he has been hard at work on a plan to breach the facility that the old man in Gibson’s dreams spoke about. He spends the entire rainy day poring over everything he has printed at the library, papers carpeting the floor, seed husks piling up on the table.

***

The New Year arrives without fanfare. Scully doesn’t turn on the TV to watch the Times Square coverage (she hasn’t managed that since she and Mulder watched together, two years ago, in a hospital waiting room). For that matter, she doesn’t even make it to midnight. After William goes down for the night, she takes a bath, drinks a glass of wine, and crawls into bed.

On the surface, this year looks much the same as the last. She’s still alone, still wondering where Mulder is and hoping he’s all right. In truth, though, so much is different. She has William, for one thing, which on its own is a bigger difference than she can properly express. For another, up until a couple of months ago, she was hearing from Mulder somewhat regularly, receiving assurances that he was, at least, alive. She still worries - of course she does - but it’s nowhere near the same. She has good cause to believe, far more than she did a year ago, that he is going to be okay, and that they will eventually be together again.

That doesn’t make the waiting any less frustrating or the loneliness less sharp. But the absence of a constant, exhausting undercurrent of despair is both notable and welcome.

Next year, she vows to herself as she drifts off to sleep. We are going to figure this out and eliminate the threat, and next year he’ll be home. 

***

For all that Mulder intends, truly, to keep his promise to Gibson, the temptation to flee home to Scully continues to gnaw at him. Now that he actually has the means to do so, that he can envision concrete steps toward a way out of exile, it’s almost painful to pull off the highway in another town, heading toward another library, instead of just pressing on. But he did promise.

What he can’t resist doing, however, is writing to her.

It’s been almost ten weeks since their last correspondence, and even if it means he can’t return to this particular library again, he has to do it. His fingers tremble as he opens a blank email.

“Dearest Dana…”