Silent Witness

by Fleur-de-Lys1983

Scully has a rough start into motherhood while on the run.

The night was thick with heat and tension. The wooden farmhouse creaked beneath the weight of the storm gathering overhead, a low rumble vibrating the walls like a warning.

Inside, Dana Scully lay on a makeshift bed in the dim living room, her face pale but determined, body trembling with the force of contractions coming faster now. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Monica Reyes knelt beside her, sleeves rolled up, hands steady and calm despite the urgency.

"You're doing great, Dana," Reyes said gently, brushing a damp strand of red hair from her friend's face. "Your baby's coming soon."

Scully let out a breathless gasp, half a cry, half a prayer.

Mulder stood just inside the front door, gun drawn, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation—not from Scully's labor, but from what waited in the dark. Beyond the cornfields, just past the line of trees, there were figures. Human, mostly. But not all of them.

Alien fanatics. Some true believers, others… changed.

Doggett was at the window, watching them close in with a shotgun in his arms. He glanced at Mulder, then back outside.

"They're fanning out," he said. "They're not just here to watch. They're planning to come through that door."

Mulder's jaw clenched. "Then we stop them."

"Yeah, we do," Doggett replied. Then he turned, voice firm. "But not you."

Mulder looked over sharply. "Excuse me?"

Doggett crossed the room and grabbed Mulder by the shoulder. "Go. Be with her."

"They're out there—"

"And your kid's in there." Doggett pointed toward the room where Scully cried out again, pain splitting through the walls. "I can handle this. You shouldn't miss the birth of your child, Mulder. Not for anything."

Mulder hesitated, torn. Lightning flashed—illuminating movement in the trees.

"You go now, or you'll regret it the rest of your life," Doggett added quietly.

Scully was barely holding on. Reyes was guiding her through every breath, but she looked up as Mulder appeared in the doorway, his face flushed with adrenaline and emotion.

She reached for him without words. He was at her side in an instant, kneeling down, taking her hand.

"I'm here," he whispered.

She nodded, eyes wet. "The baby's coming."

Reyes looked up. "One more push, Dana. You can do this."

The walls trembled as thunder cracked overhead. Outside, gunfire erupted—Doggett's voice shouting warnings through the chaos. But inside, time slowed.

Scully gave one last cry, fierce and primal, and then—

The sound of a baby's first breath. A wail that cut through everything—fear, danger, war.

Reyes lifted the newborn gently, tears in her eyes. "It's a boy."

Mulder's breath caught in his chest. He stared at the tiny, squirming child—red-faced and alive. He looked at Scully, who was smiling through her exhaustion, glowing with relief and wonder.

They had made it.

Doggett reloaded behind the porch railing, breathing hard. Smoke curled from the end of the shotgun. Several bodies lay still in the field—some human, others not entirely. The rest of the fanatics had fled into the dark.

He heard the cry from inside the house and allowed himself a rare smile. "Welcome to the world, kid," he muttered.

The newborn's cry had softened into a soft cooing, nestled against Scully's chest. Mulder hovered beside her, his hand resting gently on the curve of her shoulder, but his eyes kept flicking toward the door, toward the noise outside—gunshots in staccato bursts, too far apart.

Reyes was kneeling by Scully's side, eyes darting between the soiled towels and Scully's abdomen. Her brow furrowed, tension tightening her voice. "The placenta hasn't passed. That's not good. We need more time."

Scully was pale, her breaths shallow but even. "I… I can't do more," she murmured, exhausted.

Then—outside—a long pause.

Another shot. Just one.

Then silence.

Reyes looked up, alarmed. "That was his last shell."

Mulder stood upright, something shifting in him. A silent decision. "We're moving."

He turned to Scully, already pulling one of the old blankets off the nearby armchair. "Can you walk?"

She shook her head slightly, eyes fluttering, arms tightening protectively around her newborn son. "Too weak."

Mulder didn't hesitate. He bundled her carefully in the blanket—one around her, another swaddling his son. As he bent to lift her, one arm under her knees, the other bracing her back, a flicker of memory stirred.

He had carried her like this before. That night. Running from something then, too. Cold rain. Her wet hair against his cheek. A motel just off the interstate and the heat of her lips tasting like defiance. Their son had begun there, in fear and hope and something neither of them could ever name.

Now, here he was, heavy in Mulder's arms, barely an hour old.

Mulder pulled them close to his chest and turned to Reyes, his voice low but firm. "Get Doggett. Meet me at the car. We're leaving."

But Reyes didn't move. Her jaw was tight, eyes flashing. "They're not after us. They're after you. And him." She nodded toward the baby. "John and I will hold them off. Buy you time."

"No," Mulder said instantly.

"Yes," she snapped. "We knew what we were walking into. You think I'm gonna let your son die five minutes after being born because you want to play hero? No, Mulder. Get her out of here."

They stared at each other for one breathless second. Then Mulder gave the slightest nod, resigned.

Reyes was already moving, checking her pistol, heading for the door. "Drive fast. Don't stop until the road stops. There's a river ten miles out. A boat stashed under the dock."

Mulder shifted Scully in his arms as she stirred faintly. William gurgled in sleep.

Reyes turned before vanishing out the door. "Give him a world worth living in."

And then she was gone.

Outside, the wind picked up. Somewhere far off in the cornfields, voices rose—strange, half-human calls carried on the wind. And behind the farmhouse, the car waited, still warm from its last run.

They had one shot. And Mulder would take it.

The tires hummed against the cracked asphalt, a low, constant sound that seemed far too normal in the aftermath of what they'd just survived. Outside, the fields rolled by in shadow—cornstalks bowing in the breeze like dark sentinels. No headlights behind him. No movement in the mirrors.

No one was following.

Mulder kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back now and then to gently rest on Scully's blanket-covered leg in the back seat. She lay stretched across the seat, one arm curled protectively around their son. The baby slept, soft breaths barely audible beneath the folds of fabric.

But Scully was too quiet.

He glanced back at her again, just a second too long.

Her face was pale, lips parted. Her eyes fluttered, half-lidded. She wasn't responding to his murmured words anymore.

"Scully?" he called gently. "Hey… talk to me. Dana—stay with me, okay?"

"William", Scully said, her voice weak. "After your father."

"Scully? You want to name him William?" Mulder asked.

No answer. Just the rise and fall of her chest, shallow and slowing.

His pulse kicked hard. He looked ahead, then down at the crude bundle of towels and blood-stained blankets pooled beneath her. The placenta. Reyes had been right—it hadn't passed. And they'd moved too soon.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, tightening his grip on the wheel.

He forced himself to breathe. Think.

Then—something strange.

He glanced in the rearview mirror again. The fields were empty. The farmhouse, now just a speck on the horizon, was still. Not a single shadow moved across the road.

And the people—those things—they'd let them go.

Some had turned around. He was sure of it. Walked away. Just… stopped.

Like they were never after him at all.

Or maybe—maybe they got what they came for.

His gut twisted. He didn't know if that made things better or worse.

His jaw clenched, and he reached for the gear shift. "Just a little longer," he said aloud, as much to himself as to her. "You hold on, Scully. You hold on for William."

The road stretched out ahead of them—winding, desolate, whisper-quiet.

He could only hope Doggett and Reyes were still alive. That they'd made it out. That their sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

And behind him, the woman he loved and the child they made hovered somewhere between life and what comes next.

Mulder hit the gas. The dark swallowed them whole.

The sky was beginning to bleed pale blue when the car roared into the hospital's ambulance bay, tires squealing against the wet concrete. Mulder didn't even stop at the drop-off lane—he drove straight into the emergency zone and leapt out before the engine fully cut.

"Help! I need help!" he shouted, tearing the door open.

The night shift nurses snapped into action without hesitation, already moving before he could get to the other side. Two of them were at the passenger door, one unfastening Scully's belt while the other took a quick visual scan of her condition.

"She's postpartum," Mulder said breathlessly, trying to keep their cover story together. "My wife—the birth was fast, we didn't make it in time. The baby's okay, I think—but the placenta—"

"You did the right thing," one of the nurses said quickly, calmly. "We've seen this before."

Another nurse—a middle-aged woman with soft, no-nonsense features—was already holding her arms out for the baby. "Let me take the baby."

Mulder hesitated, hands tightening around William for a split second. Then he let go. "His name's William," he said softly, eyes flicking back to Scully as they gently lifted her out of the car and onto a gurney. Her head lolled slightly, eyes barely open.

"Dana," he called to her. "Hang on. We're here."

"She's still bleeding," a nurse said to another. "Let's move, now."

They wheeled her through the ER doors, voices quick and professional, fading down the corridor.

The nurse holding William stepped closer. "Come with me. We'll check him out, make sure he's okay. Let the doctors focus on her for now."

Mulder's eyes stayed locked on the hallway Scully disappeared down, torn completely in two. His feet didn't want to move. He felt like he might break in half if he looked away.

"She's in good hands," the nurse said gently. "You need to give her space, and your son needs you too."

Mulder finally turned to her, the fight still flickering behind his eyes. But he nodded, chest rising and falling fast. "Okay. Okay."

She led him toward a smaller exam room off the ER. William stirred against her shoulder, letting out a soft, contented sound.

He followed, one step at a time, back into the unknown.

The exam room was warm, softly lit, the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred after the chaos of the night. Machines hummed gently. A rocking chair creaked near the corner. Mulder sat in it, eyes fixed on William as the nurse ran gentle, practiced hands over the tiny infant's body.

"Good color," she murmured. "Strong grip. Lungs definitely work."

William let out a small grunt in response, his tiny hands curling into fists as he squirmed slightly in the nurse's arms.

Mulder was quiet, watching every move with the intensity of a man trying to memorize something he couldn't quite believe was real.

"He's healthy," the nurse confirmed after a final check, swaddling him back up. "But he's hungry. That cry earlier? Classic 'feed me now.'"

Mulder smiled, a little—small and tired. "I guess it's been a long night for all of us."

The nurse nodded, then glanced at him. "Has he nursed yet?"

Mulder blinked. "No. I mean—no, we haven't had the chance. It was… fast."

"Well, newborns are wired to latch in the first hour. There are big benefits—immune system, bonding, all of it. Especially important in his first hours."

Mulder gave a half-nod, almost sheepish. "If it was in one of those pregnancy books, then I'm sure Dana knows all of that already."

The nurse smiled. "I figured."

He hesitated, then frowned. "But…?"

She caught the worry in his voice and turned to the phone on the wall. Dialed the ER. A brief conversation passed in soft, clipped tones. Then she hung up and turned back to him.

"She's out of immediate danger," she said gently. "The doctors are keeping her under sedation for now—let her body recover from the blood loss and trauma. She needs rest."

Mulder let out a long breath, tension unwinding from his shoulders, but not all of it. "Okay."

"I'll prepare a bottle for William," the nurse continued. "Just for now. Your wife can still breastfeed once she's stronger—there's no harm in starting with a little help. We can't let the little man starve, right?"

She handed William back to him carefully. Mulder accepted the warm weight with reverence, awkward but instinctive. The baby blinked up at him through sleep-fogged eyes.

"Okay, Dad?" the nurse asked, giving him a soft grin.

Mulder looked down at his son, his expression shifting into something quiet and awe-filled. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

They moved her to a private room at the end of a quiet hallway. The nurses must have taken one look at Mulder—white-knuckled, sleep-deprived, still in yesterday's clothes—and decided without a word that he needed a place to land.

They found him a real chair. Not a stiff waiting room seat, but a deep, cushioned recliner they wheeled in from somewhere else. It swallowed him when he sat in it, William curled in the crook of his left arm, wrapped in soft hospital blankets. A bassinet stood beside him, ready for when the weight of everything finally won and sleep took him too.

Scully lay in the bed, still pale, eyes closed but peaceful. Her breathing was steady now—no machines screaming, no rushing doctors. Just the sound of their son shifting softly in his arms, and the slow rise and fall of the woman he loved.

Mulder took her hand with his free one, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.

"I wish you could see him right now," he said quietly, eyes flicking between her face and the baby's. "He looks like you. He's got that little furrow between his brows when he's concentrating. The 'I'm about to debunk your entire worldview' look."

William let out a sleepy sigh. Mulder smiled, eyes going glassy.

"The nurse said he passed all his checks. Strong grip. Clear lungs. He… he made this noise when they weighed him, like he was filing a complaint with hospital administration."

He glanced down at his son again.

"I fed him. Just a little bottle." His voice softened, the memory fresh and raw. "He latched right on. Like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it. I thought I'd feel helpless, you know? But it felt right. He looked up at me like I was supposed to be there."

Mulder swallowed hard, rubbing his thumb gently over the soft blue fabric tucked around William.

"I told the nurse you'd be the one to really feed him soon. That you'd want to. She said we'd wait. No rush. But he needs to eat something until you're ready. We haven't even talked about breastfeeding. I just figure it's something you'd want to do."

He looked back at her, eyes lingering on her still hand in his.

"We made it, Scully. I don't know how, or why, but we made it."

For a while, he said nothing. Just held them both—Scully's hand in one, William against his chest—and listened to their breathing.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, no one was chasing them.

They were safe for now.

The hospital staff had started to know him by name—Mr. Petry, the cover name Mulder had chosen for this run. The tall guy with the newborn who never left his wife's side. The nurses brought him coffee without asking, extra pillows, a spare pair of scrubs someone scrounged up after the second night. William had become a fixture in the maternity wing nursery, always with a little handwritten name card: William Petry.

Mulder only left once.

He waited until a nurse offered to hold William for a few minutes and made the trip out to the car—still parked crooked in the ambulance bay, thankfully unstickered. He moved it to the back lot and opened the trunk to grab the overnight bag.

That's when he realized how bad it looked.

The car was full. A duffel bag with burner phones. A portable water filter. Freeze-dried food, some of it government-issue. A stack of maps with hand-written coordinates in the margins. Camping gear. A Glock buried under clothes in a side pocket.

It didn't scream new parents. It screamed on the run.

As he was shutting the trunk, a security officer passed by, giving the car a slow once-over.

"You folks camping?" the man asked, conversational.

Mulder kept it casual, hoisting the duffel over his shoulder. "Sort of. Digital nomads. Travel writers. It's a whole thing—there's a subreddit and everything. We were doing a story on abandoned towns and got a little too far off-grid. Should've planned the due date better."

The officer chuckled. "Well, you're lucky you made it in time. First kid?"

Mulder nodded. "Yeah. First."

The officer clapped his shoulder. "Congrats. And hey—at least it'll make a hell of a blog post."

Mulder forced a grin. "Definitely."

Back in the room, the doctors began easing off the sedation. Forty-eight hours of monitoring, no sign of complications. Her vitals had stabilized. The bleeding had stopped. The rest was up to her.

Mulder sat back in the recliner, William asleep on his chest, the duffel by the door.

If anyone ran the plates, or dug into their names, they'd find exactly what The Lone Gunmen wanted them to find: a travel couple, moderately popular, freelance writers with just enough of an online presence to seem real.

But that cover only worked as long as no one looked too closely.

Mulder looked at Scully, still unconscious, the quiet rhythm of the heart monitor keeping him company.

"We're still ghosts," he murmured. "But at least we're together."

The lights were low in the room, the kind of soft amber glow that made everything feel suspended in time. Outside the window, the Georgia woods rustled with spring wind, but inside, it was still. Just the quiet, the hum of machines, and Mulder's voice.

He sat beside her again, as he always did—William sleeping peacefully in the crook of his arm. Scully hadn't opened her eyes yet, but she was drifting closer. The doctors said she'd be more responsive soon, and he believed them. He had to.

"Hey," he said softly, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. "They say you might hear me now. That you're floating somewhere between sleep and waking. So I figured… I'd give you something to hold onto."

Carefully, gently, he stood, shifting William in his arms. The baby stirred, lips puckering in protest at being moved. Mulder smiled faintly.

"Easy there, little guy. We're going to see your mom."

He lowered William onto Scully's chest, nestling him against her hospital gown. The baby's cheek pressed to her skin instinctively, a tiny sigh leaving his lips. His hand fisted near his mouth, but he settled quickly—warm, safe.

Mulder pulled the blanket up over both of them, tucked it gently under her arm.

"I thought maybe if you could feel him, if you knew he was here… it might help you find your way back."

He sat back down, never letting go of her hand. His thumb brushed across her wedding ring—fake, part of the cover, but real in every other way that mattered.

"He's perfect, Dana. He's got your mouth. Your stubbornness already, I think. He cried through his first exam like he was giving the nurse a lecture. I didn't know how badly I needed to hear it until I did."

He paused, his throat tightening.

"I feed him every four hours. The nurses made me a schedule, but he's your son. He doesn't need a schedule. He's so structured already. But that first bottle. He looked at me like he knew me. Like I'd always been his. And then he downed it in no time. We'll have to keep an eye on him when he goes off to college. I wouldn't want him to win every game of beer pong."

Mulder looked between them, eyes tracing the shape they made: the woman he loved, and the son he still couldn't believe was real, sleeping heart-to-heart.

"You're not missing this," he whispered. "Come back. When you're ready. We're waiting."

The monitor kept its steady rhythm. William shifted slightly against her, making a small sound.

And Mulder kept talking—about the hospital, the way the nurse called him "Dad," the way Scully would have rolled her eyes at how awkwardly he held a diaper.

It wasn't much.

But it was love. And he'd keep giving it, word by word, heartbeat by heartbeat, until she opened her eyes.

The first thing Scully became aware of was weight. A soft, warm weight on her chest. Then the rhythm of a tiny breath, syncing faintly with hers. Her body ached, her throat was dry, and her mind felt like it was slowly rebooting—but beneath all of that, she felt the rise and fall of a small body against her, and Mulder's hand holding hers.

Her eyes fluttered open.

William.

She stared at him for a long moment, her brain catching up to reality in fragments—the birth, the farmhouse, the pain, the blur of lights. Her voice was a whisper, cracked and raw.

"It wasn't a weird dream."

Mulder straightened in the chair beside her, his whole body coming alive.

"No," he said, smiling as relief washed across his face. "It wasn't. And as soon as you can move again, you're on diaper duty. Those things are... not fun."

Scully gave him a look—equal parts exhausted and amused. "How long was I out?"

"Almost three days," he said, gently brushing her hair back from her forehead. "The docs kept you under to stabilize everything. But you're in the clear now. No more bleeding, vitals are good."

She looked down at the sleeping baby on her chest. Her fingers slowly curled protectively around him.

"What about feeding?"

"Formula," he said, his tone apologetic but proud. "Don't worry—I took care of him. We got through it. But I promised him he'd get the good stuff from you as soon as you were ready."

She closed her eyes briefly, a wave of emotion washing over her. Relief. Love. Maybe even a little guilt—but Mulder's voice cut through it gently.

"You did everything right," he said softly, as if reading her mind.

Scully nodded, then opened her eyes again. "Have you heard from Reyes and Doggett?"

Mulder froze.

That familiar edge of guilt tightened his jaw.

"No," he admitted quietly. "No, I—I was a little busy worrying about you and William. But I'll find out. I promise."

He leaned in, kissed her forehead, then looked down at their son, still sleeping, curled against her like he'd always belonged there.

"I'll find them," he repeated. "They got us out. We owe them everything."

Scully moved slowly, but she was on her feet—walking, dressed, baby in arms. She looked pale but more herself again, that familiar fire slowly returning to her eyes.

Mulder stood by the door, juggling the diaper bag and the car seat like someone still adjusting to the absurdity of it all. The nurses had gathered a small stack of things on the counter—paperwork, medical records, some infant supplies in a reused gift bag, and a flyer printed on slightly curled yellow paper.

One of the nurses—a kind, middle-aged woman named Gwen—handed it to him with a smile.

"You'll need somewhere close to stay," she said, not unkindly. "Doctor's orders. No long drives. No camping. And no internet-famous wilderness adventures for at least a few weeks, got it?"

Mulder gave her his best sheepish grin, the one he used to get out of trouble during Bureau evaluations.

"Got it."

Gwen tapped the flyer. "My cousin runs the second cabin on that list—Blue Hollow Retreat. Clean, quiet, and no cell service, which is either a blessing or a curse depending on how you look at it."

"Right now," Mulder said, glancing toward Scully and the baby, "that sounds like a blessing."

The nurse also slid over a small folded brochure. "You'll find most of what you need at a place called Jenny's General down the road. Diapers, formula, clothes, all the stuff you didn't realize you'd need until it's 2am and the baby won't stop crying."

Mulder accepted it all, a little overwhelmed but grateful.

"Thanks," he said, meaning it.

As they left the hospital, Scully eased herself carefully into the front seat, holding William close, bundled and sleeping again. The car was less suspicious now—Mulder had ditched most of the obvious survival gear in an abandoned shed just outside town, left the maps folded in the glove compartment, and repacked the trunk like actual new parents would.

They pulled out of the hospital lot, tires crunching over gravel, sun just beginning to dip low behind the trees.

"Where to?" Scully asked softly, her voice tired but warm.

Mulder looked at the flyer in his lap. "Blue Hollow Retreat. At least until we figure out our next move."

Scully leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. William stirred in her arms.

"And after that?"

Mulder reached over, lacing his fingers through hers.

"Somewhere safe," he said. "And quiet. Where we can finally breathe."

The cabin was exactly what they needed. Tucked away, nestled among thick trees with a distant view of the mountains, it was quiet and isolated. A perfect place to breathe, to recover, and to be away from prying eyes.

Mulder had helped Scully and William inside, unpacked a few things, started the fireplace and made sure she was comfortable before heading into town for supplies. There was a sense of peace as he left, a strange calm, but it was always tempered by the knowing—they were never truly free.

The drive to town was quick, the place small and quiet, with the usual shops for essentials. He grabbed diapers, formula, a few clothes, and some non-perishable food. He'd also made a quick stop at the shed, hidden in a secluded part of the woods, to retrieve the survival gear. As much as they wanted to leave it behind, he wasn't foolish enough to think they were in the clear. He had to be prepared, even in the stillness of the cabin.

When he returned to the cabin later that afternoon, the first thing he heard was the unmistakable sound of William screaming. It was loud, desperate, as if the baby's very soul was protesting.

Scully was next to him, sitting on the edge of the couch, looking worn, her eyes wide with anxiety, her face streaked with frustration.

"Hey," Mulder said, his voice soft as he stepped inside, moving quickly to her side. "What's going on?"

Scully looked at him, her expression equal parts exhausted and desperate. She was holding William in her arms, the baby red-faced and crying at the top of his lungs, thrashing against her.

"It'll get better," she said, her voice shaking, a mixture of fatigue and determination. "I promise, it will."

Mulder kneeled down beside her, gently placing the supplies he'd brought on the floor. He reached out, touching William's tiny foot, trying to soothe him.

Scully's gaze met his, a little broken, but fierce. "The breastfeeding… it's still not going well. He won't latch, Mulder. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

Mulder's heart ached at the sight. He could feel the weight of her frustration, the exhaustion settling in. He reached out, taking William into his arms, his touch gentle as he rocked the baby, trying to calm him.

"You heard the midwife," he said, his voice quiet but reassuring. "Give it time. It's new for both of you. We'll keep trying, but we can use formula to make up for what he can't get from you in the meantime."

Scully wiped at her eyes, exhaling shakily. "I just... I wanted to do it for him. I wanted to be the one..."

Mulder shook his head, his voice firm but loving. "You are the one. You're his mother, Scully. You've given him everything already. He's healthy, he's loved, and that's what matters."

He glanced down at William, still fussing in his arms, but slowly beginning to calm. "And you're right. It'll get better. We'll figure it out together."

Scully looked at him, the weight of the world in her eyes. For a moment, there was silence—just the sound of their breaths, the quiet comfort of their shared space.

"I'm here," Mulder said, his thumb brushing her hand. "We're both here. For him. For you."

Scully nodded, a quiet but relieved breath leaving her lips. She leaned back, her eyes closing for a moment, still holding onto the belief that it would get better. And for once, Mulder allowed himself to believe it too.

The fire in the small hearth crackled gently. Shadows played on the wooden walls as dusk settled around them, and the baby's fussing echoed through the cozy space like the tide—rising, retreating, rising again.

Mulder moved around the tiny kitchen area with practiced ease, balancing a freshly sterilized bottle in one hand while twisting the cap on with the other. His sleeves were pushed up, his stubble darker than usual, and his voice calm despite the noise.

"On the plus side," he said over William's cries, "I made a few phone calls while I was in town—burner phones, nothing traceable."

Scully, sitting curled in one of the cabin's worn armchairs, looked up with weary eyes. She held William against her chest, trying to rock him gently, but her movements were slowing. She was still pale, still weak.

"The Gunmen said they'd let your mom know you're okay. That you had the baby. I didn't say much more than that—just that you were safe and that it was a boy."

He came over with the bottle, warm and ready, crouching beside her and glancing at their son, who was red-faced and squirming.

"Doggett and Reyes made it back to D.C. Almost unharmed. Reyes said the crowd outside the farmhouse just… dispersed. Like they were never there."

He offered the bottle to her.

Scully blinked, surprised. "You prepared that?"

Mulder gave her a half-grin. "I learned some stuff while you slept for three days. Turns out watching nurses and reading formula labels makes you a pro by day four."

She didn't laugh.

Not even a smile.

Her eyes were glassy, heavy with more than just exhaustion. She took the bottle from him and tried gently again to guide it toward William. He turned his head, fussed, his mouth missing the mark.

Mulder's smile faded. He touched her knee softly. "Hey."

She didn't look at him.

"You know I'm not good at saying serious stuff," he said, keeping his voice low, careful. "But I need you to know... words don't really describe what I felt. Watching you go through that. The birth, the blood, the silence after."

He reached out, brushing his thumb along the curve of William's back.

"But you made it. You made it through the complications. You're here. He's here."

Scully's eyes finally met his, clouded with doubt and tears she was too tired to fight.

"I just want us to be safe now," Mulder continued. "I want to move forward. I want him to have a backyard and a bike and scraped knees. I can't wait for him to be big enough to play baseball with me."

He paused.

William fussed again, turning his head and rejecting the bottle Scully held.

"I don't understand why he won't—" she started, but her voice cracked.

"Let me try?" Mulder asked gently.

She hesitated… then nodded.

Mulder took the bottle, cradled William against his chest, adjusted the angle of the nipple—just so—and in a beat, the baby latched.

A quiet fell over the room.

Scully's face went still. For a second, she was too stunned to even feel.

And then the emotion hit—wave after wave—her lower lip trembling, her eyes filling, her hands clenching around the edges of the blanket draped across her lap.

She looked down at them—father and son—and then away, eyes burning.

"I just wanted to feed him," she whispered.

Mulder glanced up. "You will," he said. "When he's ready. When you're ready. And even if it takes a while… he knows you. He'll always know you."

Scully covered her mouth with her hand and nodded, trying to breathe through the storm inside her.

Mulder rocked gently, the sound of William's swallowing soft and rhythmic.

The room had settled into a soft hush—the kind of quiet that only comes after a storm. The fire had mellowed into a glowing heap of coals, casting a gentle warmth over the space. William had finally burped like a champ, and Mulder, proud and careful, lowered him into the makeshift bassinet: a deep wicker laundry basket lined with blankets and one of Mulder's old sweatshirts.

William let out a contented little sigh, his tiny fists curled up by his head as sleep took him without resistance.

Mulder straightened up, stretching the kink in his back, then turned toward the few shopping bags still on the counter. He reached into one and walked over to Scully, sitting cross-legged in the big armchair, wrapped in a blanket. Her posture was still tense, as though her mind hadn't slowed with the rest of the world.

He knelt in front of her and pulled out item after item like a magician: diapers, a travel-size container of formula, more wipes than anyone should ever need, and a fuzzy little blanket with cartoon raccoons on it.

And then, the pièce de résistance—a tiny white onesie printed with an illustrated version of the town's welcome sign, framed by trees and a winding river. Beneath it, in playful cursive, it read: Blue Hollow – Where the Pines Whisper.

Mulder held it up with a small grin.

"It's not exactly his birthplace," he said, gently folding the fabric, "but I thought it might make a good keepsake someday. Kid might ask why he has a Georgia town on his shirt and we'll tell him the truth—minus the alien cult and tactical escape part."

Scully blinked, her lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

Mulder glanced back at the bags. "Also… I take it back. Every snide remark I ever made about you packing too many baby clothes in D.C.? I was wrong. It's not enough. Kid's already gone through four outfits in twenty-four hours. That's impressive."

He leaned an elbow on the arm of her chair, his tone softening. "There's a washer on the front porch. I'll start a load in a bit."

Scully didn't respond right away. Her eyes had gone distant again, still somewhere halfway between joy and sorrow, wonder and trauma.

But eventually, they drifted back to Mulder. She studied him—how natural he looked doing this. How much he had shifted in just a few days. She hadn't expected it. Not completely. Not like this.

"You're different," she said quietly.

Mulder tilted his head. "Because I'm folding laundry and buying onesies instead of chasing shadows and conspiracy?"

"Because you're not running from it," she murmured. "From him. From me."

Mulder's face softened, and he reached up, brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek.

"I ran from a lot of things, Scully. But not this. Not anymore."

A long silence passed between them. Not uncomfortable—just full.

"I'm still in the thick of it," she admitted. "I can't even explain what I feel yet."

"You don't have to," he said. "We've got time. And a washer, which I feel is symbolic of something I'm too tired to unpack right now."

Finally, finally, Scully let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Mulder stood and gave her hand a squeeze before heading to the porch, laundry basket in hand.

Rain pattered gently against the roof, a steady rhythm that echoed through the cabin like a lullaby. The fire was down to embers, casting a soft amber glow, and the air smelled faintly of pine and warm milk.

William was nestled in Mulder's arms, gulping down a bottle with the fierce urgency only newborns seemed to have. Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, rocking gently back and forth, watching their son with a small smile.

Scully sat a few feet away, in the armchair again, a folded towel and burp cloth across her lap. Her arms were empty.

And her expression—wasn't resentment. But it was somewhere close to grief.

"I can't do it," she whispered, almost as if she was afraid saying it aloud might make it truer than it already felt. "He only takes it from you."

Mulder looked up, brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, but she shook her head gently, pre-empting the reassurance she knew was coming.

"I know it's not about me," she said, "and I know it's not logical. But... I'm his mother, Mulder. I want to feed him. I need to be able to feed him, whether it's formula or breastfeeding, it doesn't matter."

She looked down at her hands, twisting the cloth between her fingers. "I can't explain this feeling. It's like I'm failing at something I should be able to do naturally."

Mulder was quiet for a moment, finishing the feed. William's little hands flexed open and closed as he slowed, satisfied. Mulder gave him a gentle pat on the back before shifting him to his shoulder and standing up. He crossed the room and sat beside Scully, still holding William carefully.

"You grew this miracle," he said softly, glancing down at their son. "You did the hard part. I'm just the bottle guy. I think that's fair, don't you?"

She tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Mulder nudged her lightly with his elbow. "Hey. You're not failing. He just… trusts me in this way right now. That doesn't mean he loves you less. It's just his way. Babies are weird."

Scully chuckled quietly through a sniffle, brushing a tear away with the side of her hand.

Mulder continued, more serious now. "We've got that check-up in a couple days. We'll talk to the midwife then, okay? Maybe she has some tricks—pro tips, or magical midwife voodoo. And if she doesn't, we figure it out together."

Scully looked at him, her eyes red but steadier. "You're really good at this, you know."

Mulder smirked, bouncing William gently on his shoulder. "Well, I had a solid three-day crash course while you were sleeping. You're the one who went to med school and birthed a human being in an abandoned farmhouse with a bunch of zombies outside. I think you still win."

This time, her smile was real, if tired.

Mulder handed William to her slowly, letting her take him against her chest. The baby squirmed, but didn't protest. Scully held him close, breathing in his scent, her arms wrapping tightly around him.

Mulder leaned his head against hers. "We're in this together, okay? No good cop, bad cop. Just weird, tired parents trying to keep a miracle alive in the middle of nowhere."

Scully closed her eyes, holding onto both of them.

"I'm okay," she said quietly. "I'm just… not quite myself yet."

Mulder kissed her temple. "That's okay. I'll hold the fort until you are. And when you're back… we'll trade."

The shadows in the cabin stretched long across the floor, and the soft rustling of trees outside was the only sound for a moment—until the gentle squeak of the floorboards under Mulder's boots signaled his return.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, arms full of brown paper bags from the general store. "Honey, I'm ho—" he stopped himself as his eyes landed on Scully, standing near the crib they'd fashioned beside the fireplace.

She was gently laying William down, her hands trembling just slightly. Her face was blotchy, her cheeks wet with tears. She didn't look up at him right away, but her exhaustion radiated from her.

Mulder cleared his throat, trying to tread the emotional tightrope with humor. "Still not a fan of your breast, huh?"

Scully just shook her head, lips pressed tightly together, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

His grin softened. "If it helps… I'm a huge fan of your breasts."

That didn't get the usual eye-roll or weary chuckle. She just kept looking at William, defeated.

Mulder's smile faded a little. "Did he at least take his bottle?"

"Barely," she rasped. "It took me forever. And a lot of coaxing."

He tilted his head. "Did you sing again? Because that would kill my appetite too."

That broke something in her—and not in the way he intended. Her face crumpled as she turned from the crib, hugging her arms around herself as sobs shook her.

Mulder quickly dropped the bags near the table and crossed the room in a few long strides, pulling her into his arms. She folded into him, warm and shaking, her face pressed into his shoulder.

"Hey… hey. That was a joke," he whispered into her hair. "A terrible one, apparently, but… nobody said having a child was easy. Or painless. You're doing everything you can, Scully. Everything."

She nodded weakly, pulling in a deep breath, trying to push the tears back. "I hope these raging hormones settle soon," she said, her voice thin. "Because I—"

Mulder gently cupped her face, nudging her gaze toward him. "You're doing the best you can. I know that. And William does too. It'll get better. And in the meantime, just... let me feed him."

Her lip trembled. "When I found out I was pregnant, it was only moments before I learned about your abduction. I... I hung onto the idea that I would at least get to keep a piece of you through our child. It was the only reason I didn't fall apart."

He listened, quiet and still.

"I prepared. I had planned a birth at a birthing center just a few blocks from my place, so I could take myself there once I went into labor. I read every article I could on how to bond as a single mother. I had this idea of how it would go."

Mulder nodded slowly, his brow tight with guilt. "And that's what you would've had—if I hadn't come back. I'm sorry, Scully. The birth… it was horrible."

She closed her eyes. "I couldn't have been any happier when you came back. It was the second miracle I got to experience. And it's fine to run and hide to keep us safe, but… My son hates me. He won't let me feed him. He screams bloody murder every time I try."

"He doesn't scream because of you," Mulder said gently. "He screams because he's hungry. That's not hate. He probably just senses that you're still recovering. And that's okay."

He reached out, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Let me make up for this whole situation I got you in by giving him a bottle from time to time. Please."

There was a moment where neither of them spoke, standing in that small gap between exhaustion and acceptance.

Then Mulder leaned back slightly, offering her a half-smile… that froze mid-formation. His eyes dropped to her chest, and concern overtook his expression.

"Scully…" he said quietly, reaching out and gesturing gently. "Your…"

She followed his gaze, confused—until she saw the faint spots of red seeping through her shirt. Two small, dark stains were blooming over the fabric.

Her breath caught.

She hadn't even realized. Her body was so tired, so sore, everything had blurred into one dull, continuous ache. But now that she saw it…

Mulder moved fast, already grabbing the car keys from the table. "We're going to the hospital. Now."

Scully didn't argue. She swayed a little as she nodded, her body finally catching up to the alarm her mind had been trying to suppress for days.

He grabbed a clean burp cloth and gently helped her hold it against herself while she reached for her coat. Then he scooped William out of the crib and tucked him into the carrier like it was second nature now.

They left the cabin in silence, the golden light of late afternoon casting long shadows behind them as Mulder held the door open and guided them toward the car.

The fluorescent lights were soft, and the midwife's office—though tucked away in a quiet wing of the small hospital—was calm and inviting, filled with pastel tones, warm wood shelves, and the faint scent of lavender.

Scully sat on the exam bed, William nestled against her chest, wrapped in a hospital-provided blanket with little storks printed on it after his own examination. Mulder paced lightly nearby, half-watching, half-trying-not-to-hover. He'd already scanned the room for danger twice.

The midwife—Michelle—flipped through Scully's chart, occasionally glancing at her with a knowing calm.

"Well, Dana," she said, looking up, "you've got blocked milk ducts, likely from the rough start and the stress."

Scully sighed, her shoulders sinking slightly. "So that's what the pain was."

Michelle nodded. "It's more common than people think, especially after difficult births. But it can be managed. Warm compresses, massages, rest—and most importantly, not blaming yourself."

She leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. "You went through a serious trauma. That kind of experience leaves a mark—on the body and the heart. And trying to force your body to be 'normal' too soon... it's not fair to you. Or your baby."

Mulder leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So… he's okay?"

Michelle gave a small smile. "William is on the smaller side, yes, but still within every healthy range. He's alert, responsive, and clearly bonded to both of you."

Scully's voice was thin. "But he won't feed from me."

Michelle softened even more. "That might change. But right now, he's trusting your husband. And that's a good thing, Dana. Babies pick up on a lot—they're incredibly intuitive. He's not rejecting you. He's responding to the energy around him."

She paused. "Does he fuss when you change him? Bathe him?"

Scully shook her head slowly. "No, not really… he's mostly calm. Calmer than when I try to feed him. And he—he doesn't love when I dress him either."

Mulder piped up from the counter. "That's because she never puts him in the alien onesie. You know, the one he clearly prefers."

Michelle turned her eyes to him with a raised brow.

Mulder raised his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. Before… humor usually helped."

Michelle gave a small laugh, but didn't break her stride. "That sense of humor probably still helps more than you realize. But let's not forget—you went through the trauma too. Watching the woman you love bleed, get rushed into the ER, while you held your newborn son…"

Mulder's mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw twitched slightly, his usual mask of detachment slipping just a little.

Michelle continued gently, "You both survived something huge. And William, smart little sponge that he is, can feel that weight hanging in the air. He's waiting for you two to believe you're safe."

Scully blinked rapidly, turning her face toward William, brushing her fingers over his tiny hand.

Michelle smiled warmly. "Take the formula. Take the help. Let him trust his dad for now. He'll come around—babies always do. But give yourself time to heal first. Both of you."

Silence settled over the room for a moment.

Mulder cleared his throat and looked at Michelle. "So… warm compresses, rest, and alien onesies. Got it."

Scully let out the smallest breath of a laugh. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Michelle stood. "I'll have the nurse bring you a compress kit and some info on lactation support. No pressure—just options."

As she stepped out, Scully looked at Mulder, her eyes tired but clearer. "We're not okay yet."

Mulder came to her side, touching her knee. "No. But we're here. And we're going to be."

Scully looked down at William, who yawned, snuggled close to her. And for the first time in days, she didn't feel like a failure—just a mother learning the hard way.

The hospital doors slid closed behind them with a hiss, the light fading gently into a warm Southern dusk. Mulder held the diaper bag slung over one shoulder, juggling a brown paper bag of prescription meds and maternity supplies the nurse had handed them on the way out. Scully walked beside him slowly, cradling William in the sling across her chest, his tiny form nestled close, bundled against the spring air.

She stopped at the edge of the parking lot, looking down the narrow road that led into town, her expression unreadable.

"Can we…" she hesitated, then met Mulder's eyes, her voice quiet, uncertain, "I would like to see the town."

Mulder paused mid-step, glancing toward the car. "There's really not much there," he said, but not unkindly.

Then he looked again—really looked at her. Her face was pale, tired, drawn with the weight of too many sleepless nights and the trauma that still clung to her bones. But there was something else, too. A quiet longing. A need to touch the edges of normal, to see with her own eyes that they were safe.

He softened. "But sure," he added gently. "Let's have a look around. Just move slowly or you'll miss all the sights."

They drove the short stretch from the hospital into the heart of the small town, parking on a street lined with creaking wooden storefronts and flower baskets hanging from lampposts. Mulder came around to help Scully out of the car, then adjusted the sling across her chest once more, his fingers brushing hers as he checked William's position.

The town was still. A couple of locals sat on benches outside the general store, sipping sweet tea and murmuring about the weather. An old radio played faint country music from inside the hardware shop.

It felt like a place caught in time.

They walked in silence at first. Scully's eyes moved over everything—the faded "Welcome to Blue Hollow" banner strung across the antique shop window, the cracked pavement under their feet, the town's one traffic light blinking yellow.

Mulder kept a slow pace, letting her take it in.

They passed a diner with checkered curtains in the windows. A neon sign flickered "PIE TODAY" in pink cursive.

"Tempting?" Mulder asked.

Scully gave a small, tired smile. "Maybe after I can sit for more than five minutes without wincing."

"Noted. Post-recovery pie pilgrimage."

Scully smiled, the first real one he'd seen since the hospital. "I'd love some diner food. For the sake of old times."

Mulder gave her a mock-serious nod. "Okay then, what's your takeout order?"

Scully tilted her head, thinking. "Grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And a slice of that pecan pie."

Mulder touched her arm, then slipped inside.

They strolled down the sidewalk, William's tiny breaths warm against Scully's chest, and the town unfolding gently before them. They passed a hardware store with a rusted rocking chair on display, and a hand-painted "CLOSED FOR SUPPER" sign swinging lightly on its front door, but the country music still playing.

They paused in front of a toy shop window, filled with sun-faded stuffed animals and wind-up trains. Scully tilted her head. "That bear in the window looks like it's been here since the Nixon administration."

"Vintage," Mulder said. "He's probably seen things."

They kept walking, the streets nearly empty. A warm breeze rustled through the trees above, and for just a moment, everything felt still. Safe.

They came to a modest bookstore tucked between a laundromat and an antiques store—"Turn the Page" painted in curling script on the glass. The window display featured a mix of dog-eared romance paperbacks, a stack of mystery novels, and a small wooden sign that read: "New stories heal old wounds."

Scully paused, her gaze falling on a worn copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn sitting near the edge.

"Always meant to finish that," she murmured.

Mulder pushed the door open and gestured grandly. "Then who am I to stand between a woman and her healing literature?"

She smiled faintly and stepped inside, the tiny bell on the door jingling.

Inside, the shop was warm and quiet, filled with the comforting scent of old paper and wood polish. Scully ran her fingers over the spines of the books, finally plucking A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from the display.

"I used to read this in med school," she said softly. "On nights I couldn't sleep."

Mulder stood beside her, close but giving her space. "I'd offer a dramatic reading by firelight later, but I don't think William's ready for literary angst."

Scully turned the book over in her hands, her fingers trailing across the dog-eared corners. "No, but maybe I am."

She brought the book to the counter and paid with a few crumpled bills Mulder fished from his wallet. As they stepped back out into the cool evening air, the street now washed in soft amber light, Scully looked down at the book in her hand… and then at her son sleeping against her chest.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

Mulder slid his arm around her waist as they walked slowly back toward the car. "For the book?"

"For stopping. For walking with me. For not rushing back."

Mulder smiled, and this time, it wasn't laced with irony. "Always."

By the time they drove back through the tree-lined road leading to their cabin, dusk had melted into night. Mulder turned the heater up a notch. Scully leaned her head against the window, the book in her lap and the scent of grilled cheese filling the car.

William stirred softly in his sling, letting out a gentle sigh, as if the quiet and warmth had reached him, too.

"Hey," Mulder said quietly as he turned the wheel up the gravel path. "When you're ready for pie in a diner… we'll sit. For as long as you want."

Scully turned to look at him, eyes soft, voice low.

"I'd like that."

The warm lights of the cabin spilled gently across the porch as they stepped inside. It smelled faintly of cedar and the lingering traces of the morning's coffee. The fireplace crackled with low flames—just enough to take the chill off the evening air. Scully kicked her shoes off near the door, her body visibly sagging with exhaustion.

William began to stir, a little whimper escaping his lips before the full-throated, familiar cry of hunger bubbled up.

Scully flinched, already moving to unbuckle him from his sling. She cradled him close, rocking slightly, her voice low but unsteady. "He's hungry. Again."

She looked up at Mulder, her shoulders tense. "Do you want to take him? I can set the table. Maybe he'll settle down faster for you."

But Mulder stepped forward, his voice calm. "Hold on. I have a better idea."

He touched her arm gently, guiding her toward the armchair. "Sit. I'll be back with the bottle in a flash."

Scully hesitated, lips parting to argue, but something in his tone—warm, steady—kept her quiet. She sat.

Mulder returned moments later with the warm bottle in hand. He didn't hand it over. Instead, he knelt beside her, nudging her arm gently.

"Let's try this," he said, sliding the bottle into her hand, guiding her grip just a little. "You hold him, I'll help with the angle. You two got this."

Together, they shifted, adjusting William so he was nestled securely in Scully's arms. Mulder reached over, steadying her hand, tipping the bottle just right—and to their surprise, William latched and began to drink.

Scully looked down, barely breathing. Her eyes filled, lips trembling—not with defeat this time, but something else. The tension in her shoulders began to unwind.

Mulder watched for a moment, then leaned close, his voice low and soft.

"See?" he said. "Little steps. We'll get there."

Scully didn't look away from William, but felt Mulder's free hand on her knee.

"I think we just did," she whispered.

They sat like that for a while—firelight flickering, the smell of takeout and pie lingering in the air, the tiny sound of William swallowing slowly filling the room with hope.

After they gently tucked William into his makeshift crib, the quiet of the cabin settled around them. The fire crackled softly, and the faint hum of the evening wind outside added to the calm. Scully was settled into the cozy armchair, the warm, familiar smell of grilled cheese and tomato soup filling the room. Mulder carefully placed her plate and a glass of water on the small table beside her, then moved to settle himself across from her with his own dinner.

Scully looked up at him, her eyes soft but tinged with exhaustion. She took a moment before she dug into the food. The simplicity of the moment seemed to comfort her, and Mulder noticed the way her shoulders relaxed as she ate.

As she took a bite of the grilled cheese, Mulder's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he spoke, his tone low and thoughtful. "I'm glad we have this. That you're okay after everything. That you made it through the complications."

Scully's eyes met his, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—relief, maybe. She nodded slowly, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. "Yeah. I'm... I'm glad we're okay, too."

But even in the peace of the moment, Mulder couldn't ignore the nagging weight in his chest. Their safety here in Blue Hollow felt tenuous at best.

He sighed, breaking the silence. "But eventually, we'll have to think about our next move."

Scully's eyes darkened slightly as she put her spoon down. She knew exactly what he meant. "Eventually," she agreed, her voice steady. "Can we move on once I no longer have to have any follow-up appointments because of the birth?"

Mulder nodded, more to himself than to her, though his answer was direct. "I didn't mean we have to leave right now. It's just something we need to keep in the back of our heads." He paused, glancing toward the window where the last vestiges of sunlight were fading. "I'll talk to the Gunmen in the next few days again to see what they know about these alien cultists. If they really have backed off..."

Scully didn't respond immediately. Her gaze turned down to William, who was curled up in his little crib, tiny hands curled in peaceful sleep. Then, with a wry smile, she added, "Aside from being a diva when it comes to who feeds him, William is a normal human baby."

Mulder chuckled, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I still marvel at how this happened. It wasn't supposed to."

Scully raised an eyebrow, setting her spoon down again, clearly amused despite the weight of the conversation. "You were willing to believe he was part-alien, but you draw the line at his conception being a medical miracle?"

Mulder laughed, a soft sound, but one full of something else too—wonder, disbelief, maybe a touch of awe. "It would seem so. But…" He paused, his gaze drifting back to the baby for a moment before looking back to Scully. "He's an amazing little guy."

Scully's expression softened, her lips curling slightly in a smile. "Yes, he is."

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. They sat in the stillness of the cabin, the soft crackle of the fire filling the silence, the hum of their conversation fading into something deeper, something grounded. Whatever happened next, they had this moment, this peace, even if it was fleeting.

Scully took another bite of her food, and Mulder continued to watch her, his thoughts a mix of the future and the present.

Their next steps would come. But for now, they had each other. And they had William.