Inside Scully's apartment, Mulder moved with restless energy. He set the baby carrier down carefully, then immediately turned toward the kitchen.
"Do you need anything? Something to eat? Drink?" His voice was brisk, but the underlying tension was obvious.
Scully, still standing by the couch, shook her head. "I'm fine." Then, after a beat, she added softly, "It's almost feeding time for William, though."
That seemed to bring Mulder to a pause. He glanced at her, hesitating for a second before nodding. "Right. Okay."
She settled onto the couch, adjusting a pillow behind her before lifting their son from the carrier. William stirred but didn't wake fully, his tiny face scrunching in protest at being moved. Scully smiled as she cradled him close, her body instinctively shifting into the familiar position Lisa had guided her through at the hospital.
Mulder lingered a few feet away, watching carefully. His worry from the night before resurfaced—the memory of Scully wincing, of his knee-jerk suggestion to use formula instead. He wasn't used to feeling this powerless, to watching something unfold that he couldn't control or fix.
Scully, always attuned to him, glanced up. "Mulder," she said gently, sensing his unease. "It's okay. We're figuring it out."
Mulder swallowed, nodding, but his hands remained on his hips, as if ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.
Scully huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You don't have to hover."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not hovering."
"You're absolutely hovering."
Mulder let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—lowering himself onto the couch beside her. Close, but not too close. Just enough to watch, to be near, to start understanding that this was real. That William was here, and Scully was here, and somehow, so was he.