#xf8

You’ve grown attached to him as well. William’s weight in your arms as familiar as your own self. When you put him down, you feel as though something is missing, that something is wrong. You recall feeling something similar when Scully wasn’t standing next to you.

You grab the milk bottle from the fridge and take the two of you over to the couch. Will’s lips claim the bottle in seconds and you can’t help but smile, you yourself are always hungry, a trait Will also seems to share.

You grow sombre at that; try not to think of other traits he will share. Will he develop a taste for sunflower seeds? Maybe tell spooky stories he definitely should not know at his age at camp? Question why at every request because he believes nothing should be done without a reason and knowing that reason. Will he be reckless? You can answer that in seconds; yes. He may be part Scully but she can be pretty reckless too sometimes.

You try not to imagine him growing up. Trips to the park, beach, holiday resorts. Birthdays and Christmases and spoiling him rotten because William is their only child so why shouldn’t he be spoiled? You try not to think of more children, of a house in a safe, small town away from monsters and danger and lies, of playing baseball on a Sunday, and Scully’s voice calling everyone in for dinner. A life, you think that’s what they call it- a real life. Finally getting out of that car.

“Mulder?” you hear Scully call, a panicked cry.

You don’t even realise you’re crying until you try to speak, your voice feeling like a clogged toilet drain.

“In here.” You try to make your voice sound as normal as possible. “We’re okay, go back to sleep.”

Instead you hear footsteps padding towards you. Scully stands before you, looking exhausted.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I was awake, Will was hungry…”

“He’s asleep again now,” she tells you.

You look down to find that he is, lips loosely holding the bottle still in his mouth. You pull it away and adjust the baby, your arms beginning to ache. Scully notices.

“I can take him,” she says, reaching out.

“No,” you cry a bit too harshly. The ache is pleasant, grounds you in the present. Without it, you’re scared you’ll float away.

“Okay,” she says. She sits down next to you. “Are you okay, though?” Her arms come around you, helping you support William. You sink into her embrace, a cloud of vulnerability shrouding you.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

She hushes you, a familiar debate this has become.

“Not without you. There’s nothing for us here,” you add. You think of that house with those kids in that town.

“My mother is here,” she says gently.

“Then we’ll bring her, too. Please, Scully…” You’re crying again. “Let’s get out of the car.”

You hear her breath hitch, a memory of the same words she said to you once. You got out that car and you hated it but only because she wasn’t there with you.

“You’re not leaving yet,” she says in response, having recovered from his admission for a normal life. “Let’s stay where we are and worry about leaving later.”