Chapter Text
Verging dawn in a rumpled bed, Scully awake with her head on the pillow.
Between them, William sleeps fitfully, his scrawny colt-like leg poking out of the covers and twitching into Scully’s ankle. He is almost as tall as she is. Mulder had moved a nightlight into the bedroom when the boy had come in at 2:00 am, complaining of a sore throat. In the weak light, Scully can see a sheen of fever-sweat over his brow. It’s almost time for Ibuprofen.
He’d shown no tell-tale signs of impending illness earlier in the day, was full of the boundless energy of 9, and had spent the morning holed up with Mulder in the garage tinkering with the old lawnmower. He’d asked for a triple-decker PB&J for lunch and then begged Scully to help him make funfetti cupcakes even though he still had grease under his fingernails. He’d somehow convinced Mulder to let him eat four. If anything she’d have guessed an upset stomach, but here they are with what is likely strep.
From William’s other side Mulder sighs in his sleep, shifting on the narrow bit of mattress not taken over by his son. A moment later, Scully hears the same gentle sigh from William. Then it’s a sniff, then a cough, and then a feeble “Mom?”
“Shh, it’s okay.” She reaches out to feel his forehead, then the soft, taut skin of his back. The fever is still there, but low grade. “It’s time for Ibuprofen,” she says softly, unable to keep herself from sliding her hand up his back to finger the ducktail of hair at the base of his skull.
“Okay,” the boy says. He’s old enough to take pills but still prefers the cherry stuff.
“I’ll get it,” Mulder rumbles, and slides out of bed, coming back a minute later holding the little cup. He clicks on his bedside light then throws a tee shirt over the top of it when Will squints uncomfortably at the brightness.
In the hazy, muted light, the boy sits up and throws back the medicine.
“I have Little League tomorrow.”
Scully glances at the clock. 5:45. He has Little League today.
“I’ll call your coach,” she says, already cataloging the other things she needs to do: schedule an appointment with the pediatrician, call the school, see if Barr can take her 9:00 am autopsy.
“But we’re playing the Blue Jays,” the boy whines. “They need my bat.” His last word is cut off by a short burst of coughing.
“It’s still spring ball, bud,” Mulder says gently. “You guys aren’t going to miss the playoffs if you miss one game.”
“They'll lose without me,” he says sullenly.
The boy is probably right, but arguing the statistical probability of a win or loss of the Farr’s Corner U-10 Tigers without William Mulder’s bat is not something she’s willing to get into before 6:00 am.
“You need to try to get some more sleep,” she says.
The boy settles back into the pillows unhappily.
Mulder turns off the light and pulls on the tee shirt that was covering it and Scully thinks about the bulb-warmed fabric sliding over his skin. He comes around to her side of the bed and squeezes her elbow with a smile and then shuffles down the dusty hallway toward the kitchen.
Beside her, William turns over and sighs into her arm, his body going gradually limp with sleep. The clock beside her flicks another minute higher, then another.
She smells the warm tang of coffee and the boy beside her shifts and the sky turns the barest pink and the Earth spins, spins, spins.