Mulder had no idea what time it was. The sky had long since given up the last of its light, bleeding into a thick, grey-black haze above the city. Streetlamps flickered half-heartedly in the hospital parking lot, throwing long shadows across the concrete, but he barely noticed. He hadn't moved in hours, leaning against the side of his rental car, arms folded, eyes fixed on the hospital entrance.
She had told him she wanted to be alone.
She had said it in that clipped, quiet way she always did when things were falling apart—when she was barely keeping herself together. And he'd nodded, because what else could he do? But he hadn't left.
He couldn't.
Scully didn't belong alone in there. Not with this.
He watched the sliding glass doors like they might open and explain everything, or maybe just offer him a glimpse of her face—some sign that she was okay. But they remained closed, sealed off like the rest of this nightmare.
He didn't know if she'd meant for him to stay. Maybe she hadn't even known herself. Maybe some subconscious part of her had expected him to be out here. Maybe that part of her didn't want to be alone, not really. And even if she did—he couldn't let her be.
His mind ran circles around the last few days, replaying every moment like a reel of film he couldn't shut off. She had been on holiday with her family—an actual break, a rare peace he had encouraged her to take. And then the call. The girl.
A child, lost and frightened. The resemblance uncanny. The connection undeniable. Scully had known before anyone said it aloud: she was hers.
And somehow—through science or circumstance or something stranger—she had been right.
The daughter she never thought she'd have, the life she'd mourned before it ever began... there she was, suddenly real. Scully had filed for custody the next day, her face a careful mask of logic while her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching.
And then the hospital. The fever. The sudden collapse. Words like "aggressive," "degenerative," "terminal."
Now, Mulder stood in the chill of night while Scully sat at her daughter's bedside, facing the very thing she had feared all along—this miracle was never really hers to keep.
He shifted on his feet, rubbed a hand across his mouth. Maybe she needed this space. Maybe she needed to face it alone. But part of him—the part that knew her better than anyone—didn't buy that. She didn't want to be alone. Not with this kind of grief building in her chest.
So he waited.
Because if she needed him—if she cracked that hospital door open and couldn't breathe—he would be there.
When Scully stepped out of the hospital, she looked almost serene—composed in the way that told Mulder something was very, very wrong.
She didn't see him at first.
Her gaze was fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused, like her body had walked out before her mind caught up. Mulder straightened from where he'd been leaning against the car and took a few cautious steps forward.
"Scully?"
No reaction.
He moved closer, lowering his voice. "Is she gone?"
The words were familiar, heavier this time. The same he'd asked when Penny Northern had passed. Back then, Scully's face had cracked with grief. But now, she didn't even flinch. She just turned slowly, her eyes glassy but dry.
"Time of death: 02:07," she said, voice flat. "I'll take care of everything in the morning. The funeral. The—"
"That's alright," he said gently, stepping toward her. "I can take care of some of it. If you want me to."
She shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. "You must think I'm an idiot. Giving in to a gut feeling. Trying to get custody of someone who was basically just my genes..."
"I don't," Mulder said, voice quiet but certain. "And I never will."
That made her pause, just for a breath. He went on.
"Only the Scully I know would do this. Would fight like hell for someone she believed in, no matter how insane it sounded to everyone else. Sometimes..." He gave a faint, tired smile. "Sometimes we're very similar."
She let out a dry, humorless scoff. "Yep. Mr. and Mrs. Spooky. I know."
It didn't sound like an insult this time. Just a reminder.
Silence fell between them, heavy and still. She wrapped her arms around herself, like the night had finally gotten cold.
"Do you need a ride to your brother's house?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No."
He waited. "So... what's the plan then?"
She finally looked at him.
Just for a moment, her mask slipped. Grief cracked through her calm like a tremor under glass. But it was gone almost as quickly as it came.
"I don't know," she said. "I thought I had one. For once, I thought maybe... this could be something good. Something mine."
Mulder's voice was soft. "She was yours."
Scully blinked hard, her throat tightening. She didn't cry.
"She's gone," she whispered. "And I don't feel anything. Isn't that horrible?"
"No," he said, stepping closer, not touching her, but close enough. "It just means you're in shock. You'll feel it later. You'll feel everything. And when you do... I'll still be here."
She nodded, like she wanted to believe him.
"I don't want to go to Bill's," she said quietly. "I don't want to explain. Or sit in silence while he judges me."
"Then don't," he said. "You can come to my hotel."
She hesitated, then shook her head again. "No. I can't just sit in a room right now."
Mulder studied her face. "So... what do you want?"
"I want to drive," she said. "I want the road and nothing in front of me. I want to feel like I'm not... trapped in this."
He nodded, then held out his hand for her keys. "Alright. But I'm driving."
Scully looked up at him.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. And that's okay. Let me drive, Scully. Just for tonight."
She didn't argue.
They got into the car in silence, the hum of the engine breaking the quiet. As they pulled out of the hospital lot, Mulder glanced sideways at her. She was staring out the window, arms folded tight, her posture rigid, like she could hold herself together if she just didn't move.
He didn't say anything else. The road stretched out ahead of them, dark and winding, and for now, that was enough.
The drive was long, the highway stretching out in front of them, the city of San Diego fading into the background as they moved further away from the hospital. The night was quiet, save for the soft hum of the car engine and the occasional exhale of Scully beside him. Her gaze was distant, lost in thought, as though the road itself had become a safe space where she could just let her mind wander, without having to face anyone's expectations.
Scully's voice broke the silence, barely audible over the sound of the tires on asphalt.
"I grew up here," she said, her eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. "Still, I feel like a complete stranger in this city."
Mulder glanced at her quickly but didn't comment, giving her space to keep speaking.
"When we were kids, my siblings and I, we'd go to school and come back straight home—back to the base. I had friends, but nobody from outside. I mean, no one I would see after school or on the weekends who was not already living on the base." Her voice trailed off for a moment, then continued, almost as if she was talking to herself. "I think that's why I'm such a shut-in."
Mulder's brow furrowed as he glanced over at her. "You're not a shut-in."
She shook her head softly, the words barely a whisper. "I am. If you give me the choice between staying home and going to some sort of soiree, I would always choose home."
Mulder nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "You have a nice home."
Scully's expression hardened, but her voice stayed even. "My sister died there. I was abducted from there."
The weight of the words hit Mulder hard. He swallowed, trying to steady himself before responding.
"Really?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "No old hangouts from your time here?"
Scully's eyes drifted out the window, the city lights blurring as they passed by. "There's a stretch of beach I used to hang out at. Reading books, writing in my diary."
Mulder smiled faintly. "The beach classics. It's not very 90210 of you though."
Scully chuckled, the sound low and almost imperceptible. "It's San Diego, not Beverly Hills."
The conversation lapsed back into a comfortable silence, the kind that only existed between two people who had been through far more than they ever let on. The road stretched on, unbroken, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Mulder wasn't sure where they were headed—physically, emotionally, or anything else.
The sky was beginning to lighten by the time Scully gave Mulder a quiet nod and pointed toward a narrow side road. It led them out of the city, away from the sprawl of lights and sirens, into something quieter—something older. The air grew cooler as they neared the ocean, the horizon still cloaked in a deep blue-grey.
Mulder followed her directions in silence until they reached the place: a modest, unmarked pull-off beside a stretch of beach. Untouched. Untamed. Familiar to her, maybe still etched in the corners of her memory.
They sat in the car for a few minutes without speaking.
Scully didn't rush. She stared out at the early light glinting over the waves, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she opened the door and stepped out. Mulder followed, closing his door with a gentle click. He didn't say anything, didn't try to lead. He just kept a respectful pace behind her, letting her choose the direction, the speed, the silence.
She walked straight toward the water, each step slow and deliberate. The sand muffled their movements, the wind catching her hair and tugging at the hem of her coat. She didn't stop until she was just a few feet from the tide line, the waves rolling in and breaking softly near her boots.
Mulder came to stand beside her—not too close, but near enough that she'd know he was there.
They stood like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the infinite horizon.
Then Scully spoke, her voice flat but piercing in the stillness.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Mulder's brow furrowed slightly. "Tell you what?"
"About knowing way before me about my infertility. About the ova you found..."
He closed his eyes for a second, exhaled through his nose.
"You were deathly ill, Scully," he said, the words quiet and even. "What good would it have done if I had told you when I found out?"
She didn't look at him. Her voice didn't rise. "But what about after? It's been—what—how long since the cancer went into remission?"
Mulder looked down at the sand shifting beneath his shoes. "I was waiting for the right moment... which never came."
His voice was low, full of regret.
"I had the ova examined and stored in a special lab," he added. "So that you could decide what to do with it, when—"
Scully turned her head sharply, her eyes locking onto his with a sudden intensity.
"When you finally told me?"
The question hung between them, sharp and unfinished. When you finally told me?
Scully turned back toward the water, but her composure was starting to fray. Her shoulders tightened, her breath hitched. When she finally spoke, it came out in a sudden rush—like the tide, breaking past a dam.
"When I found out... about the infertility... I felt like something inside me just collapsed." Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed forward. "Like I wasn't whole anymore. Like something had been taken from me and no one even thought to ask if I wanted it."
Mulder stayed silent, listening. She needed this.
"I buried it. Like everything else. The cancer. The abduction. I buried it so deep I convinced myself it didn't matter. That I didn't want children. That I chose this life and the sacrifices it came with."
She laughed bitterly, wiping under her eye, though no tears had spilled yet.
"But then I met her. Emily. And now this girl—my daughter—and suddenly I wanted everything. I wanted a second chance at something I'd told myself I didn't need."
She looked at him then, eyes burning, wounded.
"And then you—during the hearing—you said things about her, about how I cared for her, how I was ready to be a mother. I know you were trying to help. I know that. But it hurt, Mulder. It hurt hearing those words out loud, in front of strangers, knowing you knew this thing about me. That I'm... damaged."
He flinched, but he didn't speak yet. Not until she finished.
"I felt ashamed," she whispered. "Ashamed that you know. That anyone knows."
That was the line that broke him.
"What does it change that I know?" he asked, his voice rising—not in anger, but in disbelief. "To me, you're still the same person."
Scully blinked, startled by the intensity in his voice.
"I don't know," she said after a beat. "I just... I feel all these irrational things about this. About myself."
Mulder stepped closer to her, cautious but steady. "I know. And it's okay to feel like this. You just lost your daughter."
"No," she said quietly, shaking her head. "I didn't. She was just some girl whom I happened to bump into by serendipity and who turned out being my biological child, but..."
"You loved her the moment you met her," Mulder cut in gently. "You were willing to take on her custody."
She looked down at the sand, her jaw tense. "And you were willing to talk on my behalf during the custody hearing. You must have known that this would have ended my assignment with the X-Files."
"Yes," he admitted, no hesitation. "But that doesn't mean I didn't want you to get what would have made you very happy."
He paused, letting that truth settle between them.
"I would've missed you every damn day. But I would've let you go if it meant you got to have that kind of life."
Scully's lips parted slightly, as if to respond—but no words came.
Only the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, and the ache that had finally been spoken aloud.
Scully's voice was barely above a whisper, hollow with disbelief.
"She just slipped away."
Mulder watched her face, saw how it shifted—not in sudden grief, but in something quieter. Numbness beginning to crack.
"She was unconscious the whole time," she continued. "I didn't even get to say goodbye. I didn't even get to know her."
He took a step closer, his voice soft but sure. "You were there, Scully. She wasn't alone."
Her shoulders trembled, a breath caught in her throat. "Why does it hurt so much?" she whispered. "How did I get attached so fast?"
Mulder didn't try to answer. He didn't tell her it was natural, or expected, or anything that might reduce the ache she was feeling to something clinical. He knew this wasn't about logic. This was the kind of pain that had nothing to do with time.
Tears welled in her eyes, finally breaking the surface. Her lips trembled. She looked away, as if ashamed of it, but then—without thinking—she stepped forward.
Mulder opened his arms.
She folded into him like she'd done it a thousand times, her body small against his as he wrapped her in his coat and held her close. Her face pressed against his chest, her hands gripping his sides as the sobs finally came—quiet at first, then harder. Shaking.
He said nothing.
He just held her, steady against the crashing tide behind them, letting her break down.
Letting her be not the strong agent, not the scientist or the skeptic—but just a woman mourning her child.
Eventually, Scully's sobs began to soften, the storm inside her ebbing like the tide at her feet. Her breathing slowed, though her body still trembled faintly in his arms.
Then, without a word, she pulled back.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes were red, her face pale in the early morning light. But she didn't speak. She just turned and began walking back toward the car, her steps measured and silent, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Mulder let her go.
He knew this pattern by now.
She had done the same thing after Penny Northern. After Pfaster. After the moments where the dam broke and she allowed herself to collapse—just for a moment—into him. And then, always, she would retreat. Quietly, without explanation, as if the vulnerability had been something shameful to her.
He followed at a distance, not pushing her, not calling out.
Still, he couldn't help but wonder—why?
Why was it so hard for her to accept comfort from him, when he offered it without judgment, without condition? Was it pride? Habit? The need to hold tight to control, even when it was slipping from her hands?
He didn't know.
All he knew was that this was how it always went.
And he would always let her have that space—even if, selfishly, it hurt him every time she walked away.
He glanced once more at the ocean behind them before turning to follow her, quietly, back to the car.
A few days after Emily's funeral, back in D.C., the knock on Mulder's door was sharp but familiar.
He opened it to find Frohike standing there, cradling a large, slightly dented pot in his gloved hands.
Mulder stepped aside. "Your New Year's Eve casserole," he said dryly. "A fine tradition I always look forward to at the end of a year."
Frohike grinned, stepping inside and heading for the kitchen counter. "I love cleaning out the fridge and turning that questionable science into a casserole," he said proudly, setting the pot down with a flourish. "It's chaos cuisine."
Mulder raised an eyebrow. "A noble culinary art."
But Frohike's expression shifted as he turned back around—still light, but more serious now.
"Have you checked on your lovely partner recently?"
Mulder's brow creased. "She's still in San Diego. With her family, I think."
Frohike gave him a pointed look. "Then I handed some of my famous casserole to a very believable shapeshifter earlier today."
Mulder frowned, attention sharpening.
"She's back in town," Frohike clarified. "Saw her near her apartment. Looked like hell, man. She was in pajamas—and not the cute kind. Her hair was a mess, smelled like she hadn't showered in days, and she didn't even know what day it was."
He let out a long breath. "I think you need to check on her, Mulder. She's not handling this as well as we all like to believe."
Mulder didn't say anything. He was already reaching for his coat.
"I'm on my way."
When Scully opened the door, Mulder was met with exactly what Frohike had warned him about.
She stood in the doorway in a pair of worn flannel pajamas, her hair unbrushed, eyes shadowed and distant. There was a faint smell of sweat and stale air, not offensive, just... uncharacteristic. She looked like someone who hadn't slept in a proper bed—or let herself be human—in days.
His heart clenched at the sight of her.
He wanted to pull her into a hug and shake her at the same time. Instead, he just stood there, letting the silence hang between them until she spoke first.
"Happy New Year, Mulder."
"That's tomorrow," he said gently, stepping closer. "Scully... are you alright?"
She didn't answer. Didn't look at him. But the absence of an answer told him everything.
He took another step forward, easing his way inside, careful not to crowd her. "Have you eaten recently?"
"I went for a walk this morning... I think," she murmured, as though even that was uncertain.
"In your pajamas", he said, a faint attempt at levity. "I heard from Frohike."
She didn't react.
As he moved further into the apartment, he took in the scene: the bedding on the couch, crumpled and slept in. Bags of chips on the coffee table, some scattered on the floor. The TV was playing a loud, meaningless sitcom, the laugh track jarring against the heavy stillness in the room.
Mulder turned toward her again. "How about this—you go take a shower, I'll heat up some of Frohike's casserole, and we have an early dinner."
She shook her head, automatic and stubborn. "I'm fine."
"You're not," he said, more softly now. "And that's okay. Nobody expects you to be."
He paused, watching her, hoping the words would land.
"Let me help," he added. "I promise I'll never bring it up again if that makes it easier. Just... let me be here."
There was a long moment before she finally relented.
"Shower and dinner," she said, voice dry, eyes still not quite meeting his. "And that's it."
He gave her a half-smile. "You're inviting me for both?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "Nice try."
"A man can dream, can't he?"
And for the first time in days, something like warmth passed between them again.
Mulder moved around Scully's kitchen with quiet purpose, laying the table with more attention than usual. He placed two plates, mismatched but clean, and dug through her drawers until he found napkins. He even managed to find a couple of candles—half-burned and scented vaguely of vanilla—and lit them, not for romance, but to soften the edges of the heavy quiet that lingered in the apartment.
The TV was finally off, replaced with a soft jazz station playing somewhere in the background, the kind of music that didn't demand attention but filled the space gently.
As he stirred Frohike's casserole on the stove, something caught his ear.
Water hitting tile.
Then maybe—just maybe—a sound beneath it. A sob? A gasp? He froze, listening harder.
But the shower kept running, and he shook his head, telling himself it was nothing. Or that if it was something, it wasn't for him to intrude on. Not right now.
When she emerged, Scully looked a little more herself. Her hair was damp, pulled back in a loose ponytail. She had changed into a clean pair of pajamas—blue with a worn sweatshirt over top. Her skin looked scrubbed, her expression less hollow, though the exhaustion still clung to her.
She paused in the doorway, taking in the candles, the music, the faint steam curling from the pot on the stove.
"I'm really not hungry," she said quietly.
Mulder glanced up from the casserole, offering her a small smile.
"You'll change your mind when you try Frohike's casserole. That man knows how to cook, I promise."
She gave him a look—somewhere between skeptical and amused—but said nothing. Instead, she stepped further into the kitchen, slowly easing into the chair across from the one he'd set for himself.
Her silence was something Mulder had learned not to be afraid of.
He scooped generous portions onto both plates, set the pot back on the stove, and finally sat down beside her.
The candles flickered between them.
And for the first time since she'd opened the door, she looked him in the eyes.
Mulder dug into his plate, taking the first few bites with the casual confidence of someone hoping his enthusiasm might be contagious. He glanced up after a moment, expecting Scully to follow suit.
But she just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, eyes on the table but unfocused.
He tried to coax her, gently.
"Now, I know it looks like someone already ate it once and passed it through a blender," he said, gesturing toward the casserole. "But it's actually really good. You should try it. I'm sure you must be hungry."
She didn't respond right away, not until he added, "You've probably not really eaten..."
Her voice cut in, low and flat. "Since the funeral."
That stopped him cold.
He remembered it now—how she had sat stiffly at her brother's table, a full plate in front of her, untouched. How she hadn't even pretended to eat, just stared through the food like it wasn't real.
Before he could say anything, she pushed back her chair and stood. Wandering slowly to the couch, she curled onto it like someone trying to disappear. She pulled a throw blanket loosely over her, turning her back toward the room.
Mulder hesitated only a moment before rising, grabbing her plate, and following her. He set it gently on the coffee table in front of her, then lowered himself to the floor beside it, sitting cross-legged, close enough that she could hear him without him raising his voice.
"Come on, Scully," he said softly, leaning a little closer. "Just a little bit. For me."
She didn't move at first. Then, slowly, she shifted, propping herself slightly on one elbow.
Mulder lifted a spoonful of casserole, offered it to her.
She hesitated... then opened her mouth.
He fed her slowly, a few careful bites, saying nothing more, only watching her with quiet relief as she accepted each one. It wasn't much—but it was something. A start.
They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound in the apartment the quiet tick of the clock and the soft music still playing in the background. Mulder had moved from the floor to sit beside her on the couch, close but careful not to crowd her. The plate rested mostly empty on the table now, forgotten.
The minutes slid by, edging closer to midnight, until Scully finally spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"You said a lot of nice things about me at the hearing."
Mulder blinked, surprised not only by her speaking, but by the quiet vulnerability in her tone. He turned his head toward her, trying to read her expression in the soft candlelight.
"Isn't that why you asked me to speak on your behalf?" he said, gently teasing. Then, after a pause, more sincerely: "I meant every word of it. You deserve a chance at motherhood, Scully. If that's what you want. And Emily... she deserved someone like you. Someone who would have fought for her."
Scully's eyes didn't move from the far wall, but her voice came softer now. "Even my own brother didn't say anything as nice as you did."
Mulder felt heat rise to his chest—anger and sadness all tangled together—but kept it hidden.
"Maybe he's just not as much of a talker as I am," he offered lightly.
Scully gave a faint huff. "He's good with words. Just... not around you."
Mulder let out a small laugh. "Yeah, well, calling me a sorry son of a bitch wasn't exactly Pulitzer material."
That earned him a shadow of a smile.
It faded quickly.
"How can I mourn someone so much," she said, voice cracking ever so slightly, "whom I didn't even know?"
He didn't answer right away.
"You spent time with her," he said finally. "You may not have known her favorite color..."
He trailed off, the memory rising uninvited. He could still see the sterile little office at the funeral home, the funeral director's too-gentle voice asking for Emily's favorite color, as if that one detail would somehow make the whole thing feel more personal, more real.
Scully had frozen. He remembered the way her eyes had gone distant, her hands folded tightly in her lap, white at the knuckles. She hadn't known what to say—how could she? She barely had time to know Emily, let alone her favorite shade of the rainbow.
So Mulder had stepped in, had gently nudged her.
"Just tell them yours," he had whispered. "I'm sure she'd like the same things you do."
Scully had looked at him then, her eyes glassy and lost, but she'd nodded. "Green," she'd said. "A light green."
Mulder blinked himself back to the present.
"You may not have known her favorite color," he said again, quieter now, "but you were there for her when it counted. That's what matters, Scully. That's what she would have remembered."
She looked at him then, eyes full of that heavy ache she had been carrying since San Diego. "It just wasn't enough."
He nodded, slowly. "No. It wasn't."
And they sat there in silence again, letting the truth of that settle between them as the clock ticked into the first quiet moments of the new year.
Mulder shifted slightly, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he could face her better.
"Are you still writing your diary?" he asked gently. "Are you getting these things out? I mean…"
Scully nodded, her eyes still distant but a little less heavy. "I am," she said. "But I need to go to the store soon. Get a new one. A really nice one this time. I want to keep this memory in something better. Not the cheap notepad kind I usually use."
Mulder's mouth curved into a small, tender smile. He remembered that old, worn notebook she had used to write to him during her first cancer treatment—how plain it had been, how raw the words inside. That diary had held so much pain. This time, she wanted something better. Something worthy.
"That sounds like a good idea," he said softly.
He glanced at the clock—11:56. "It's almost midnight," he said, nudging her gently. "Let's get up. Watch the fireworks outside. What do you think?"
Scully gave a faint nod and slowly rose to her feet. But as she reached for the door, Mulder stepped in, stopping her with a light touch to her arm.
"Wait," he said, reaching past her. "Let me help you with this."
He lifted her coat off the hook and eased it around her shoulders, carefully adjusting it so it sat snugly. Then he grabbed her keys from the table and slipped them into his coat pocket.
"Just in case," he said, giving her a look. "Don't want to spend the first moments of the new year locked out of your apartment."
She gave him the ghost of a smile. "Good thinking, Mulder."
He opened the door, and together, they stepped into the cold, quiet night—waiting for the sky to light up. Waiting for something new.
They stood close together on the steps outside her apartment building, the night air crisp and still, broken only by the distant sounds of celebration. Fireworks lit up the sky in bursts of color—red, green, gold—reflected in Scully's eyes as she looked up.
Around them, people cheered. A couple down the block kissed, laughing against the sound of exploding light. Another pair clinked plastic champagne flutes.
Mulder didn't look at any of them. He looked at her.
Without saying a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft, careful kiss to her temple.
"Happy New Year, Scully," he murmured. "May it be one full of good memories."
She turned to him slowly, stepping in closer like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms went around her, holding her without pressure. She leaned into the embrace, her head resting briefly against his chest.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm sure you had better things to do tonight than... this."
Mulder grinned, chin resting lightly on her hair. "Sure. I had plans to rewatch some old baseball tapes and microwave a burrito. I can do that another time."
She gave a faint sound that might've been a laugh, then fell quiet again.
"You know," Mulder added gently, "you can always reach out to me if you need me. You did it for the custody hearing... you can do it for something like this."
Scully didn't pull away, but her voice, when it came, was muffled against his coat.
"It's not the same."
He didn't argue.
Instead, he held her a little tighter as fireworks continued to bloom above them—bright, fleeting, and achingly beautiful against the dark.
Mulder woke with a stiff neck and the unmistakable ache of having fallen asleep in the most awkward position imaginable. The armchair hadn't exactly been made for overnight stays, but it had been close to Scully, and last night, that had felt like reason enough.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint sizzle of something in a pan. He blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, the television now silent, the candles on the table burned out. The air still carried the faint scent of Frohike's casserole and the winter night before.
He rose slowly, stretching out the kink in his back, and followed the sound to the kitchen.
Scully stood at the stove, hair damp and tucked behind her ears, wearing a thick sweater over her fresh pajamas. She looked... better. Not completely, not healed—but more herself. As if letting herself fall apart had helped her put at least some of the pieces back in place.
"Morning," he said, voice still gravelly from sleep.
She looked over her shoulder, neutral, almost casual. "Hey. Hope you don't mind—I figured you earned breakfast after playing nursemaid and feeding me like I was a toddler."
He gave a small smile and stepped into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've had worse jobs. Smelled better ones, too."
She gave him a faint smirk, flipping something in the pan. Eggs, maybe. It was so startlingly normal, so domestic, that for a second, he could almost pretend this was just a regular morning.
He leaned against the counter, watching her. "Last night, you said, 'It's not the same.'" He let the words settle for a moment. "What did you mean?"
She didn't answer right away, didn't even turn around. She finished what she was doing—carefully plating two portions of scrambled eggs and toast. Only then did she speak, setting the plates down on the table.
"When I asked you to speak on my behalf," she said quietly, sitting across from him, "that was about Emily. It had a purpose. A direction. I had something to fight for. Reaching out now... it feels like admitting I can't fight anymore."
Mulder watched her closely, his voice gentle but unwavering. "You don't always have to be fighting to deserve help, Scully."
She didn't look up right away, but her fork had stilled in her hand. "I know."
But he heard the silence behind her words. The weight of pride, pain, and habit she carried so well.
He reached across the table, brushing his fingers lightly over hers.
"You know, I call you. I stop by. Every time I feel like the ground's slipping. Every time I need someone to keep me tethered. That's always been you."
She finally looked at him, her eyes searching his face.
"I want you to know you can do the same," he said. "You don't have to be the one holding it all together every time. That's not what this is. It's not just you being strong all the time. It's a give and take."
She didn't answer right away, but something in her posture softened—some tight thread inside her beginning to unravel, safely.
"I would never think of you as weak or helpless for needing someone," he added. "Least of all me. I want to be there. Not just for the emergencies, but for everything."
Her eyes were still shadowed, still cautious, but he saw it—the flicker of something breaking through. Not quite light, but the willingness to let it in.
She didn't say thank you. She didn't need to.
She just finally took a bite of her breakfast.
Mulder left just after lunch. Scully had insisted she was fine—more firmly this time, and he could tell she meant it. Her hair was brushed, the dishes were done, and she'd even changed into jeans and a sweater. There was still a weight in her eyes, but she was upright beneath it. Present. Healing, slowly.
He didn't press. Just gave her a lingering look before stepping out into the cold.
The streets were mostly empty, the world in that post-holiday hush. As he drove, the weight of the past days settled differently on him—less like dread, more like something quiet and aching.
At a red light, something caught his eye.
A little stationery shop on the corner, tucked between a coffee place and a florist, was dark behind its windows, a "CLOSED FOR NEW YEAR'S" sign hung crookedly on the glass. But in the center of its display window, bathed in the soft glow of a fairy light strand, was a diary.
It wasn't flashy—no glitter, no tacky font. Just a light green leather cover with soft gold embossing curling along the edges. Understated and elegant, just like her. It looked like something that should hold important things. Precious things.
He could see her with it already—on the couch, curled up with a blanket, pen in hand, quietly pouring out all the thoughts she wouldn't say aloud.
Mulder smiled to himself.
He tapped the steering wheel once, then again, like sealing a promise in his own mind.
He'd come back tomorrow. First thing.
And when she was ready, he'd give it to her. Not to fix anything. Just to remind her she didn't have to carry it all alone.