Can we see Scully getting Emily’s bug and Mulder and Emily taking care of her next pls and thank you
Mulder moves Emily’s car seat from Scully’s backseat to his. The boys will pick up Scully’s car in the morning. He gathers Scully at the ER entrance, where she stands in an orange streetlight holding Emily, asleep, across her front. Briefcase at her feet. Emily at four is still very nearly too tall for Scully to carry. Scully’s hair blows in a cold wind and gets caught in her lipstick. He takes them home.
The next day is Saturday. Mulder moves the television into Scully’s bedroom. Emily rests in the very middle of the bed like a queen, reclined against pillows and flanked by two dolls on either side. Scully cuddles with her all day long, both of them in pajamas, watching the version of Annie with Carol Burnett once and then twice. Mulder brings them peanut butter sandwiches in Wonderbread triangles, with no crusts. Scully gives him a look. He makes rootbeer floats indeed, after lunch, just like he promised, though Emily with her upset tummy sticks mostly to the frothy soda bubbles on top.
In the afternoon, Scully scratches Emily’s back as Mulder tells the story of Big Blue—and of the great ugly monster’s best friend, a little red dog who loved him well. Emily falls asleep. They all fall asleep. They wake at seven for two cans of chicken noodle. They watch The Wizard of Oz together, and because they have seen it so many times, they pick parts. Mommy, be Glinda. Mulder, be Scarecrow. Mulder, do the wicked witch.
“It means a lot to me,” Scully tells him softly, in the kitchen, long after Emily has fallen asleep. Her eyes look glassy. “How much you care for her.”
“I think that’s an understatement,” he says, and smiles at her, earnest, because of the two of them together are like the nervous old aunts he remembers from early childhood, orbiting Emily like moons. Scully contemplates the dirty plate in her hands.
“Here.” He takes it from her, cups her cheek for a moment. “You go on to bed. Let me get that.”
“Thanks.” Her eyelashes brush his palm when she blinks.
“Is it okay if I crash on the couch?”
She nods. Her voice is breathy. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
He wakes up to a groan. The sound of the tap. The light from Scully’s bathroom coming through the open bedroom door, down the hall.
He finds her on her knees in front of the toilet. She looks up at him with a glare.
“You got what Em has, huh?”
“Alright.” When he sits to join her on the bath mat, his knees crack. He rubs her back. “It’s alright, Scully.”
“C’n you get me a hair clip?”
He does her one better and clasps it for her as she hangs over the porcelain bowl, panting. He readies a washcloth. When she sits back on her heels, she wipes her face.
“You should go home,” she tells him, with the calm expression Scully gets after having practiced her argument. “You don’t want to be sick too.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll run to the pharmacy as soon as it opens. In the meantime—here, take this. Put this on.” He gets her robe from its hook on the door. She looks cold. “In the meantime, let me run you a bath.”
The glug glug glug of water in the bathtub swallows her protest.
She whispers, harsh. “Mulder!”
“I’m fine,” she tells him before he asks. She doesn’t really meet his eyes. Her teeth chatter. “I feel fine. My stomach—I just, I feel just fine. I just want to go check on Emily. Why don’t you go, and I’ll call you when we’re feeling better.” She sways as she stands and Mulder stops her in her tracks, steers her to sit on the toilet seat.
“Scully,” he whispers, hovering close. “Dearest. I think you’re sick.”
She shakes her head. “M’fine.”
“I can handle it,” she tells him, quiet.
He thumbs her cheek. “That is absolutely true. But I’ll do it for you.”
“I’ll do it myself.” Her eyes are suddenly furious, determined. “I’m the one who has to raise Emily alone and I have to do it myself!”
She swats him away. She sits with her mouth open, surprised at having yelled at him.
Mulder stares at her. And stares at her. “Is that really what you think, Dana?”
His knees crack when he stands up again.
When he comes back, she’s crying. Sniffling into the back of her hand on the floor. She looks up at him pathetically.
“Here.” He joins her on the tile, handing her a glass of water. “Drink this.”
She sniffs. “Thought you left.”
He takes the glass from her when she’s finished. “Not a chance.”
She seems to recognize he’s thinking, and she watches his profile in silence, waiting for him to speak.
“You know, Scully,” he begins, “I don’t know if I’ve… given you the wrong impression, or if I haven’t been clear, but—“
“You haven’t,” she interrupts him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mulder. I’m just… feeling sorry for myself. Thank you so much for your help. Of course you want to help. I know you love Emily more than anything.”
“Well.” He smiles a little, tossing his arm along the lip of the bathtub to gather her close. She comes easily, small head against his shoulder. Perhaps this is it. “The thing is, Scully, that’s not entirely true.”
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