William walks downstairs quietly, skipping the two steps at the bottom because they creak something awful. He doesn't want to shatter the stillness.
There's a blue glow coming from the living room windows, pre-dawn light filtered through freshly fallen powder. Before he can round the corner, he feels the warmth from the fireplace. For a moment, he closes his eyes, listens to the popping of the split logs, smells the rich aroma of cedar and coffee and smoke and love.
Christmas morning is barely awake but his heart is already full. He can hear them, their low mumbles floating on the fire's warmth, followed with the subtle clicking of a soft kiss.
He stares at the two of them, silhouetted by the firelight. She's curled into the crook of his arm, her legs drawn up under her favorite blanket. He rests his chin on her auburn hair, tracing circles around her shoulder with the tips of his fingers.
William steps to the edge of the couch nearest his father and puts his hand on Mulder's shoulder.
"Merry Christmas," he whispers.
"Merry Christmas, son."