Work Text:
While entering the elevator and pressing the button for the basement, Scully lets out a long sigh and urges herself to stop being silly. There’s no need to be nervous. This is a normal thing to do. Friends give each other gifts, especially on their birthdays. She’s given Mulder sensible ties for Christmas and an alien mug a few months ago, just because she saw it and thought of him. He’s given her slightly confusing little knick-knacks at completely random dates before, too - notably, this year he managed to remember her birthday and give her a gift on the correct day. Probably because both of them thought it was her last birthday, but that’s neither here nor there.
Today is his birthday. She knows he doesn’t like to make much of a fuss about it, which she has always respected., but this year she will say happy birthday and hand him a gift, and he will deal with it. That’s the easy part.
The hard part is the vulnerability that will inevitably come with explaining this specific gift. But after everything they’ve gone through in the past year, after the emotional rollercoaster of living for months in a body that was slowly giving up, slowly destroying itself, and then miraculously receiving a cure when she no longer envisioned being alive by the time holiday season arrived, well... it puts a few things into perspective.
Some things, she’s not ready to fully address just yet. But this, she can do.
The elevator door opens with a ding and she steps out into the basement hallway with a clearer head, her heels thudding on the carpet as she steps decisively towards their office, head held high.
Predictably, Mulder is already there when she arrives - files strewn across the desk, sleeves rolled up, a shocking blue and orange tie around his neck and an easy grin on his face when he spots her. He grins a lot these days, his shoulders light and easy after months of tension and darkness.
“Morning Scully,” he says, motioning for a second cup of coffee on the other side of the desk.
Sweet. He’s been sweet, lately, too.
“Good morning, Mulder. Happy birthday,” she replies, dropping her coat and purse on her chair. He makes an aw, shucks gesture with his hand, dismissive of the special day as always.
He frowns when he sees her grabbing a package from her bag and walking around the desk, instinctually rolling his chair back to make room for her as she approaches.
“What is this?”
“Well, in modern western cultures there is this well-recorded and documented tradition of giving someone a gift once they complete another spin around the sun, as you know. It is generally seen as a token of appreciation between family, friends, or even professional acquaintances,” she says, taking on a mockery of his tone when delivering obscure ancient civilization lore at inopportune times.
“Professional acquaintances, now that’s an apt description for us, isn’t it?” he asks, and they share a smile. With a reluctant sigh, he accepts the package from her, looking for the best corner to rip first. “You know I don’t really care about my birthday, Scully, you didn’t have to buy me anything-”
“Oh, I didn’t buy it.”
“Oh?” there’s a shift in his voice, his interest now piqued. Something she didn’t buy. Did she make it? The excitement fills him then, trampling over his complicated feelings over his birthday. Most people would buy something small and sensible for a coworker, as she has done in the past, and he appreciated the thought each time, but what could it be if it wasn’t bought?
Finally he finds a good place and rips the package in one go, disposing of the paper in one quick gesture. Immediately, as his eyes register the small, slightly battered wood box, with its rich dark tone and the weight of something well made, and then the “WSS” engraving on top, his heart starts beating rapidly.
He lifts his gaze to her, and sees that she’s leaning back against the table, arms crossed. She’s motioning with her head for him to open the box. The look in her eyes... She's hesitant. Nervous. Now he’s nervous too.
Any smart quips he’d been ready to deliver about her gift have died in his throat. Carefully, almost reverently, he opens the lid and feels his heart skip several beats.
Inside, wrapped around a black pillow atop black velvet lining lies a beautiful, well-loved Omega Seamaster wristwatch. The stainless steel is well preserved, although small scratches can be seen around the case, but the crystal is impeccable. On the bezel and dial sits a nice layer of patina that brings out the vintage beauty of the piece. Finally, he notes that the date window is correctly set to 13 and the hands indicate the current time of 8:06 a.m.
Mulder is not a watch connoisseur by any means, but he knows enough to guesstimate late 60s or early 70s. Piecing together the context clues, and the way Scully is wringing her hands together as she watches his reaction, he can only come to one conclusion.
“Scully, is this... Is this your father’s watch?” he asks, an incredulous note coming through his voice.
She only nods.
“I- I can’t accept- this is too much, Scully, why...” he’s dazed in his confusion. Scully had loved her father deeply and grieved for a long time after his death. He was her hero, her Ahab. Surely this watch means a lot to her. What is it doing in his hands?
“Mulder,” she says, interrupting his rambling. He can see the change in her posture as she straightens her spine, as if steeling herself for something. “You know, my father... My father was away from home a lot, as a kid. He was always out at sea, and as a child you don’t really understand your parents’ job as much as create a vision of it in your head. Thanks to his countless readings of Moby Dick to me, I used to imagine he was off to great, heroic adventures. It was incredibly cool, and I was so proud of him. He really was my hero.”
Mulder fights to keep his big mouth shut, as much as he longs to interrupt because he doesn’t understand what she’s getting at with this. This is Scully, though, there’s always a logical conclusion to what she says, so he shuts up and listens.
“As I grew up and began to understand things a little better, this... envisioning of- of grandiose adventures turned a little darker. I heard things on the radio... I heard a lot of things around the base housing, especially from older kids and even adults when they were careless. I saw my mother praying fervently each night that he was away, and I started to become afraid for him. Afraid that one day we’d get a visit to our doorstep and that would be it. I was so, so afraid Ahab wouldn’t come home.”
Her voice shakes a little then, likely remembering the phone call she received from her mother nearly four years ago to say they’d lost her father, and despite his own pounding heart and confusion, Mulder moves almost on instinct to cover one of her hands with his. She gives him a small smile and squeezes his hand, continuing.
“But he always came home. Each and every time, until the day he retired, he always crossed that front door safe and sound, carrying his duffel and wearing his uniform... and that watch. He got it as a gift when he made Captain. I remember running up to him and hugging him, and he’d touch my face and say “How’s it going, Starbuck?”. Feeling the cold steel of his watch I knew it was true, he was home and safe and everything was all right in the world.”
Her explanation only serves to deepen his confusion - if this watch has so much sentimental value attached, he can’t understand why she’d pass it off to him because of his stupid birthday. “Scully-” he starts, but she shushes him.
“I’m not done,” she says. Her eyes drop to the watch, then raises her head and fixes her gaze at a point above his head, avoiding eye contact. “You know, until the day he died, my father was the most important man in my life.” She waits for him to hesitantly nod his assent before continuing. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mulder, but that’s you now.”
At this, his world spins, and he swallows hard against the lump in his throat.
“And I know no matter how much I gripe about it, you’re going to continue to go off on some great adventures without me. I don’t like it, but it’s the nature of our work - I can’t always be there. I can’t always have your back. So I hope-” she loses steam, taking a second to breathe. “It’s silly, and borderline superstitious. You probably think this is wildly out of character. But this watch saw my dad through rough seas all over the world. All I want, all I can hope for, is that it brings you home,” she finishes. To me is silently implied, but he hears it loud and clear.
Any thoughts he’d had of refusing this gift have vanished. His mind is almost blank, overwhelmed by too many thoughts and emotions wrestling inside of him, but he looks at her and sees with clarity. Scully, Scully, Scully, he thinks. His best friend in the whole world, who gets him and cares for him like no one ever has and believes in him like no one ever will. Who would miss him if he was gone. Who would look for him and fight for him.
He remembers a scene from a movie he’d seen recently on TV, where orphaned children on the street had sung for sympathy and spare change from pedestrians, and the song had stuck in his head for days - the lyrics went something like “I’m a poor orphan / When I die and go back to nature / Who will bury me? / Who will tuck me in?”. Scully would. She would grieve him, bury him, drink in his memory. He knows if he died tomorrow, he would remain tethered, alive in her heart.
“Scully,” he tries again, but all other words have left him other than her name. What he feels, he can’t quantify. Anything he can think of is too inadequate to express what she means to him. People usually say they think the world of someone, but when it comes to Scully, he thinks of all the planets, stars and galaxies and it’s still not enough to properly convey it.
“Just say thanks for the gift, Mulder, we have a 9 a.m. with Skinner,” she says dryly, but he can hear the layers beneath the humorous deadpan, the pink coloring her cheeks. She’s shaken by the vulnerability she’s shown here. He owes her the same.
“Thank you for the gift,” he repeats almost robotically, finally moving to take the watch and slide it onto his wrist. It fits perfectly. The sunlight coming through their little basement window shines on it, glinting, and it steals his breath away all over again. This is hers, his, them. The weight of it is comforting, the steel already warming against his skin. He feels like a new man.
When she begins to move away, he grabs at her wrist.
“Scully.” Third time’s the charm, and this time the words come. “Thank you, really. It... means a lot to me.” Not adequate, but good enough to get a small smile out of her.
“Yeah,” she says, but he doesn’t let go just yet.
“I’m sorry, I can’t promise I won’t go off and- and run straight at things without you, sometimes. I know myself a little too well and so do you. But I-” he sighs and steels himself. She’s been brave today. He can be brave too. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it home.”
“Okay,” she turns his hand around, and now they’re holding hands. God, what a morning.
“I’ll make it, Scully.” His heart is nearly beating out of his chest, but he keeps going. “I’ll come home to you.”
There, he thinks, it’s out there now. How long until she jumps off and says he’s got it all wrong?
But she just squeezes his hand tight, and he’s startled to see her eyes are wet. So are his, he notes idly with some surprise. What a pair they make.
“Happy birthday,” she says again, almost whispering, giving his hand another squeeze before moving away.
When she sits down on her chair and grabs a file, he does the same. The morning goes on without another word about fathers, wristwatches, or home.
The warm feeling on his chest follows him all the way home, many hours later. The way she makes him feel is the best gift he’s ever gotten.