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Scully in the oversized linen button up, loose around her sleek black one piece, one shirttail tucked into her shorts in the afternoons.
Who would have imagined Scully in shorts?
Scully with her surprisingly large rotation of broad brimmed hats.
Scully, newly freckled, no matter the constant application of SPF 50.
Scully, her hair drying salty and wavy in the air, a match for the salt in the beard he grows each time they come here.
William, waking early, always. In the first year, William waking before dawn, hands reaching out of the pack and play, toddling, squawking. Mulder, grabbing a banana and a diaper bag, sneaking William out of the house before Scully can start muttering about the ungodly, inhuman hour of William’s waking.
Mulder, assuring Scully she’s done enough early shifts alone, that he’d missed the painful weeks of day/night confusion, the dark days of cluster feeding. Mulder insisting that the mornings are all his, now.
William, watching the dogs go by. Mulder, chatting endlessly to his son about the advantages and disadvantages of different breeds, relative to their Georgetown townhouse. In later years, William, sleeping past dawn but still waking early. William, trotting along with Mulder for a coffee run. William, begging marshmallows off the barista. William, enamored of the space and the sea and the sun, here in ‘Carolina’.
Scully in the evenings, bathing William, washing the dinner and the day off him. Scully beside William or with him in the bath. William, painstakingly sorting and washing the day’s bounty of shells. Scully, her blue eyes on William’s green. Scully, whispering the Latin names for shells, to herself, to William.
Mulder out for an evening run, during bathtime. And then—William, fresh on his white towel, fighting pajamas sometimes, but soft, unfathomably beautiful. William, listening to Mulder’s stories, demanding ‘more, more.’
Scully, putting William to bed, jealously insisting that only she can do bedtime. Scully, rocking William for longer than seems possible, saying it’s her only weight training, these days.
Mulder, grilling seafood, getting it ready in time for her to reappear. Scully, tossing a salad, pouring crisp white wine into glasses, adding an ice cube to her own. Mulder, teasing her for that.
After dinner, Scully, wineglass in hand, leaving her own oversized white adirondack chair to slide onto Mulder’s.
Scully, with her pile of JAMAs and a stack of Paullina Simons doorstoppers in her bag. Mulder, teasing, always teasing, about both.
Mulder, strangely bewitched by Norah Jones, and the CD left in the stereo by a previous visitor. Mulder, defending himself, ‘I only like it *here*, it’s a beach thing.’
Scully, endlessly brushing sand out of their bed, never quite successfully, leaving the window and the curtain a little open, craving the ocean and the wind even during the night, even while sleeping.
Scully, fetching the binoculars, watching the naval ships coming down from Norfolk or up from South Carolina, testing herself on their specs.
The three of them, returning here, some years, from the relative calm of her life at the hospital, and his life, writing and consulting.
The three of them returning, some years, from the depths of his struggles, Mulder bobbing just far enough above the surface to survive.
The three of them, their family, returning, year after year to this North Carolina beach, with the certainty of birds taking part in obligatory migration.