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“I'm betting that Agent Doggett can take care of himself. He's a big boy. You gotta worry about the little boy. Or little girl. Boy? Or girl?”
Scully grants him a little smile, humoring him. She has been a saint these past several weeks, holding back on the secret she’s clearly wanted to share with him almost from the moment he woke up in the hospital. But he asked for time to process, and she gave it to him without complaint, putting up with all the times he’s tested the words in his mouth.
He. She. Boy. Girl.
Used to be you didn’t have a choice but to wait and see. He remembers his mother going to the hospital to have a baby but coming home with a sister. The moment stuck with him, that sort of revelatory feeling when possibility becomes reality. Of course, these days, the revelation is no less momentous; it’s just that it happens at a sonogram appointment instead of in the delivery room.
When Scully first told him that this baby was theirs, hers and his, that was as much revelation as he could handle, just then. Hell, he didn’t even handle that much particularly well. His head was so screwed up from the abduction that trying to regain his place in the world was almost too big a challenge on its own, let alone the notion of trying to navigate that challenge in the context of impending fatherhood. It seems silly now, the idea that not knowing the baby’s gender could provide some sort of emotional buffer, but it made sense at the time.
But then came his misadventure on the Galpex Orpheus. He could have died not knowing. Could have left Scully once again with the burden of knowledge she wanted to share with him but never had the chance. What kind of a selfish prick would that make him?
No, it’s time. It’s long past time. He’s ready.
He pulls the pillow out from under his shirt and sets it on the back of the couch, then reaches for her hand. “I wanna know. Really.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
“Scully, I-- I’m sorry that it took me this long.” He brushes his thumb across her knuckles, and she squeezes his fingers lightly in response. “The fact that you feel like you have to thank me for going to this Lamaze class with you, like it’s some kind of favor… Look, I know things have been uneven since I… came back. I mean, it's been weeks, and I still don't have my bearings, not really.”
“Mulder, the trauma you experienced--”
“I'm not--” he interrupts, then takes a breath and lowers his voice before continuing. “I'm not trying to make this about me. What I'm trying to say is thank you. For putting up with me. And I'm sorry that you had to. But I'm ready now.” He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Lay it on me.”
She smiles up at him, for real this time, then guides his hand to the side of her belly. Under his palm, something moves -- an elbow, or maybe a knee, dragging across from the inside -- and he doubts there will ever be a time when he won’t find that completely strange and also completely awe-inspiring.
Some part of him knows the answer before she says it, has known it all along. But the confirmation is still enough to take his breath away.
“That’s our son.”