The dim glow of fluorescent lights bathed the cluttered lair of the Lone Gunmen. Banks of monitors hummed, stacks of papers teetered precariously, and an assortment of gadgets littered every available surface. Langly and Byers were busy preparing for the party—blowing up balloons, stringing up streamers, and setting up a table covered in pastel-colored decorations.

Mulder stood near the door, arms crossed, his impatience barely masked. "So, what do you have on my abduction?" he asked, his voice tight.

Frohike barely looked up, focused on tying a pastel green ribbon onto a bag that read Welcome, Baby! in sparkly letters. "Nothing new," he said casually. "We've been a little... busy."

Mulder frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Busy with what? This is important."

Langly looked up from where he was inflating a particularly stubborn balloon. "With Scully's baby shower, dude. Priorities."

Mulder stared, confused. "Scully's what?"

Byers straightened, adjusting his tie with a look of satisfaction. "Her baby shower. We're hosting it here tomorrow. It's a surprise."

Mulder blinked, the words not registering. "You're hosting a baby shower here? This place looks like the aftermath of a nuclear meltdown."

"Not for long," Frohike shot back defensively, stepping back to admire his work. The table was now covered with brightly wrapped gifts, streamers, and what looked like an inflatable baby bottle. "It's going to be perfect. We've been planning this for weeks."

Langly smirked, holding up a clipboard. "Got the guest list, the decorations, and even the cake covered. Skinner's bringing it. Oh—and, by the way, Mulder, you haven't RSVP'd yet."

Mulder's patience snapped. "Are you serious right now? I don't care about a baby shower. I'm trying to figure out what the hell happened to me—what they did to me."

The room went quiet, the hum of the computers filling the silence. Frohike stood up, his face darkening as he walked toward Mulder. "You don't care?" His voice sharpened. "You don't care about your partner? Our Scully?"

Mulder bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Frohike said, stepping closer, "that while you've been God knows where—and yeah, we'll figure it out, just not today—she's been carrying your baby and holding herself together after nearly killing herself trying to find you."

Mulder stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "My baby?"

Frohike blinked, incredulous. "What the hell, Mulder? Yes, your baby."

Mulder's face remained stoic, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "Are you sure about that?"

Frohike's eyes widened, and for a moment, it looked like he might punch Mulder. "Are you kidding me? Of course I'm sure! What the hell, Mulder? She's not a tramp. You know that."

Mulder's voice dropped, quieter but no less tense. "I didn't say she was."

"You didn't have to," Frohike snapped. "You and Scully did the naked pretzel before you disappeared, didn't you?"

Mulder's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He shifted awkwardly, his expression betraying the faintest trace of guilt.

"Yeah," Frohike continued, jabbing a finger toward Mulder's chest. "Thought so. So unless she was secretly running around—which, spoiler alert, she wasn't—that's your kid, pal. And you're damn lucky she kept it together as long as she did."

Frohike took a step back, crossing his arms. "You know what else, Mulder? I personally went to Scully's every morning to make her breakfast. Made sure she had something real to eat before she went off chasing ghosts. Then I packed her lunch—every single day—and handed it off to Skinner so he could eat with her. Langly went over and cleaned her apartment, did her laundry, made sure she wasn't drowning in everything she had to deal with. Byers handled dinners, made sure she wasn't living on stale crackers and coffee."

Mulder swallowed hard, his throat tightening.

"And Skinner? On top of eating lunch with her every day, he took her to her doctor's appointments. Sat in waiting rooms with her. Showed up for her when you couldn't." Frohike shook his head. "We all had to step in because she was running on fumes. She wasn't taking care of herself, Mulder. The only thing keeping her going was that baby."

Mulder ran a hand over his face, his mind reeling. "I didn't know..."

"Of course you didn't," Frohike said sharply. "Because you've been too busy playing the martyr to notice what she's been through." His voice softened, but his words carried no less weight. "Scully deserves one afternoon where she doesn't have to think about any of this. She deserves to celebrate her baby—your baby—with people who care about her. And so do we. We all deserve this little party. Including you, by the way."

Mulder stood frozen, Frohike's words cutting deeper than anything he'd felt since his return. He'd been so consumed by his own pain, his own questions, that he hadn't considered what Scully had endured—how much she must have sacrificed for him.

Frohike leaned closer, his voice lowering but no less pointed. "So, are you going to keep feeling sorry for yourself? Or are you going to step up and be there for her?"

Mulder exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Frohike's words. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll be there."

"Good," Frohike said, stepping back. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got streamers to hang. Try not to screw this up, Mulder."

Langly snorted. "Welcome to fatherhood."

Mulder gave a faint, humorless laugh and turned to leave. As he stepped out into the cold winter air, his mind churned. For the first time since his return, he truly understood what Scully had gone through—what she was still going through.

And for the first time, Mulder realized how much he owed her—not just an apology, but a promise to be better.