its-flicked-switch

[its-flicked-switch]

Hi! I just wanted to say I have been enjoying reading your fanfics about MSR! Your writing and ideas are amazing! I especially loved TPOE😊 and I am reading Aliens now !

Thank you so much!!! I’m glad you are enjoying them. Ironically, I started with Alien. Alien was my inspiration for TPoE. I was several chapters into Alien when I realized I had screwed up ... I hadn’t started at the beginning, so I took Alien down and published TPoE, reposting Alien once TPoE had been completed.

[its-flicked-switch]

The One They Deserved

3.5K | William Arc | The Story We Deserved | Post-MS4

William emerges from the harbor.

I know I can't be the only fan out there who was deeply disappointed by how William's character arc was handled in S11! So, for those of you on team #notmyWilliam, stick with me — I got you. 

—

"And maybe what growing up really means is knowing that you don't have to be just a character, going whichever way the story says. It's knowing you could be the author instead."

― Ava Dellaira, Love Letters to the Dead

—

JACKSON

Returning to Wyoming was a decision made on a whim — an instinctual impulse. Because when battered and broken, animal instinct predominates, driving the incessant urge to return to a place of comfort and security.

When Jackson emerged from the harbor, he knew he needed to seek refuge somewhere far removed from Virginia. Returning to the place where it all began just seemed fitting somehow. Poetic almost. For the beginning was also the end.

Of all the places he has lived over the course of the last seventeen years, this is the only place Jackson has ever considered to be home. As he crouches down in the tall grass behind his former home, he becomes enthralled with how quickly and slowly time can pass in the same instance. Saying goodbye to his childhood home seems like something that happened a lifetime ago to someone else, yet it happened only yesterday, and it's strikingly familiar.

Having risen from the dead once before, he knows that not finding his body in the harbor will put his pursuers on edge. Only a fool would accept his death as fact without a body at this point, and those who pursue him are not fools. With that being said, coming here was a risk, but his lack of confidence in his ability to manipulate video feed and hide his identity in larger crowds kept him from attending his parents' funeral.

As a child, he always dreaded attending funerals, oftentimes begging to stay home or to sit outside because he found them to be too unbearably sad and uncomfortable. But now, having been kept from attending the funerals of those closest to him, he has a greater appreciation for their purpose. Funerals aren't for the dead. They are for the living. He understands that now.

The circumstances surrounding their deaths prevented him from seeing their bodies. He wasn't there to watch their caskets being lowered into the ground, nor was he ever able to return to their home in Virginia, where he would have certainly been faced with blood-spattered walls and silence. Any or all of those things would have helped to ground him into the reality that they were really gone, and that he would never see them again. Ultimately, that is what he hoped to gain by coming here — closure. But as he settles in the tall grass behind his childhood home, all he feels is sorrow.

The Van De Kamps' former home hasn't changed all that much in their absence. The new owners have painted, changed up the landscaping, and added on a garage, but overall, the rustic farmhouse where he spent the first twelve years of his life has remained relatively untouched by the passage of time.

Jackson wishes he could say the same.

His early childhood was happy, carefree, and uncomplicated. Although they didn't live in a standard neighborhood, other families lived within a reasonable walking distance. The Brooks family, who owned the land adjacent to theirs, had two boys around his age — Ben and Zak. The three of them spent nearly every waking hour together in the summers. Collectively, their families owned a little over 6,000 acres of land, which, in turn, gave them quite a bit of terrain to roam and raise the kind of hell that only little boys are capable of concocting. Their more notable transgressions included but were not limited to: hitting a baseball into a busy highway where it shattered the back window of a brand new four-door Chevy pickup, a magnifying glass mishap that escalated into the incidental burning of an entire wheat field, and poking a hibernating bear. Yes. You heard right. Poking an actual bear. Suffice it to say, the old saying 'don't poke the bear' holds an entirely different meaning to him now than it did before.

Poking of bears aside, the majority of his childhood, although interesting at times, was fairly unremarkable — until the day that it wasn't.

He was nine when it started.

Phase one came in the form of nightmares. Intense night terrors that propelled him out of his bed and sent him screaming into the night. Twice his parents found him in fields behind their home staring up into the sky with his heart racing, clothes soaked with sweat, and tears streaming down his face. When it occurred a second time, they installed latches at the top of all of the exterior doors, in fear that he would end up in the middle of the highway or in one of their irrigation wells before they could wake and calm him.

The doctors had assured his parents that it was only a phase, but when weeks turned into months and months turned into a year, it became apparent that what he was experiencing was more than just a phase. The drugs the doctors prescribed were successful in sedating him, but they did not curve the frequency, intensity, duration, or nature of his dreams.

Phase two began shortly after his tenth birthday. His hair and eyes had always been fair, but in January of 2011, he woke up to the reflection of a boy he didn't recognize. His blue eyes and sandy brown hair had disappeared overnight, transitioning into a deep charcoal brown. Nobody in the medical community had ever seen anything like it, nor could they explain how or why it had occurred. Test after test confirmed that he was healthy and otherwise unaffected, but a sense of unease filled their home nonetheless.

The night terrors and physical transformation each snapped something within him, unraveling him into a child no one recognized. Within a year, he transitioned from being the light-hearted, jokester with lots of friends into a fearful, shy, and awkward isolationist. It was as if he was a completely different person altogether — mentally and physically. The friendships he had developed within the first ten years of his life slowly dissolved. One by one, they all eased away until there was no one left. Then the bullying began.

First came the inquisitive stares and whispers, which were quickly followed by finely pointed questions that only rude children ask.

"What are you? Some kind of alien?"

It was fairly common knowledge that he was adopted, which only served to make matters worse.

"Jack wasn't born, he was hatched. That's why he can change his coloring like an iguana. What color will you make your hair and eyes tomorrow — Jack?"

"I hear that he hangs out in the fields a lot. He's probably waiting for the mothership."

The digs were endless, and he didn't cope with any of it well. At first, he cried a lot, but he learned very quickly that ten-year-old boys can't cry on playgrounds. Witnessed tears added a whole new layer to his misery. It was if he had opened Pandora's Box to hell.

Jerry Marriott was the worst of the bunch. He coined the name Alien Jack — AJ for short, and it stuck. Soon, nobody other than the teachers called him by his given name.

Thankfully, summer arrived, providing him with a much-needed reprieve from hell.

His parents had hoped that the summer would bring Ben and Zak back, but it didn't. When he wasn't helping his father on the farm, he would walk through the fields alone, which troubled his parents far more than it ever bothered him. The silence was far more favorable than the alternative. School had taught him that much.

Midsummer, his father returned home from an errand with a large box. Since it was the first time he had seen either of his parents genuinely smile in weeks, he knew immediately that whatever was in the mystery box was a much bigger deal than the new dirt bike they had given him for his birthday. They had been placating him for weeks. Making special meals, renting extra movies and video games …any and everything they could think of to try to lift the depressive fog that hung over him. But that day had been different, their smiles were confident and infectious, and when he opened the box, he understood why.

Inside the box was a small wiggling ball of energy. A chocolate lab puppy with large animated brown eyes and tan tipped paws. To this day, Jackson still refers to that moment as being the happiest moment of his life.

He named him Abe, after Abraham Lincoln, because he ended the period of misery and loneliness that had enslaved him by offering him true and unbridled friendship. For the first time in over a year, Jackson looked forward to getting up in the morning. His mood and overall outlook brightened considerably.

His mother's allergies had always prevented them from having pets, which was why Abe's sudden appearance had come as such a surprise. After his arrival, new kleenex boxes appeared in nearly every room. Her congestion and sneezing fits worsened as Abe aged, but she never once complained. Jackson never really thanked her enough for that. Kids are kind of assholes in that respect. They don't truly grasp the meaning of sacrifice.

Unfortunately, for his family, itchy, watery eyes, and nasal congestion would be on the low end of the totem pole in comparison to the sacrifices that would lie ahead.

Phase three was the most troubling for everyone except him. For him, phase three was the glorious redemption that typically only exists in a bullied preteen's dreams. It began with an excruciating headache and a low-grade fever that kept him in bed for nearly three days. When it waned, the world was different. He's since been asked by numerous medical and mental health professionals to describe it, and the best analogy he has been able to come up with is hibernation. When he woke up on that third day, he felt as if he had woken up for the very first time.

Initially, the difference was subtle — something he could sense but not entirely identify. As the days passed, however, the subtlety faded, and the awareness that he possessed unnatural abilities became more and more apparent. For example, he could gain access to people's innermost thoughts, secrets, and fears by merely making eye contact with them or by being in close proximity to them. He wouldn't call it mind-reading per se, because the information was far too pointed to be ramblings of the mind. No whispers, no visions… just infinite knowledge that would appear in his mind as if it had always been there. He would just know.

Ten-year-old boys aren't the coyest creatures on the planet, and Jackson had been no exception.

Returning to school following his summer reprieve had been difficult. The only thing that got him through each day was the knowledge that Abe would be sitting at the bus stop waiting for him, so the timing of his mysterious illness couldn't have been better… or worse, depending upon your perspective.

His ability to obtain sensitive information was a game-changer. As it turned out, Jerry Marriott had an irrational fear of clowns, slept with a night light and stuffed elephant named 'Snuffy,' and hated the father who abandoned him and his mother to go live with his boyfriend in Nevada.

It was at this juncture that Jackson's name transitioned from being Alien Jack to Alien Jackass.

While his tactics didn't win him any humanitarian of the year awards, it leveled the playing field and facilitated camaraderie. Jackson wasn't Jerry's only target. Lewis Weedin and Jessy Scott were also victims of Jerry's unrelenting treachery. Lewis ate every booger he could find, and Jessy rarely bathed properly, but they were both kind, troubled souls whose home lives were miserable. They made an awkward trio and didn't have a tremendous amount in common aside from their mutual hatred for Jerry. But the knowledge that Jessy's stepfather molested him and that Lewis's mother was a worthless drunk made Jackson all that much more determined to make their time at school more tolerable — and he did.

Exploitation worked for awhile. Instead of calling him names, tripping him in the halls, and smashing his lunch, his peers gave him a wide berth.

What Jackson hadn't anticipated was Jerry's resolve. Revealing Jerry's deepest secrets had taken the terror level down a few notches and given Jackson some breathing room, but beneath Jerry's seemingly calm and avoidant exterior, he was seething and biding his time. Alien Jack was child's play. Teasing him about being an alien, from Jerry's perspective, had always been just that — teasing. All in good fun.

Jerry kept his distance for months, leading Jackson to believe that it was over. It wasn't until Jerry ended up on his bus buddied up with Ben and Zak that he knew something was amiss, and he wasn't wrong.

It started as soon as the bus pulled away.

Abe had been waiting for him in his usual place with his body wiggling from head to toe in anticipation as the bus stopped.

"Nice dog, jackass."

Having already weaponized all the intel he had gathered from Jerry's psyche, there was little left for him to say that hadn't already been broadcasted. Ben and Zak remained silent at Jerry's side but looked rather pleased with themselves for acquiring a new and powerful friend. Abe, oblivious to their tone and intentions, had approached him with his typical after school enthusiasm — wiggling, jumping, and nudging along his side to be petted.

Jackson considered telling Jerry to bug off but thought better of it since he was still a good ten minutes away from home and outnumbered three to one. So instead of commenting, he regarded the three of them as if they were cockroaches and turned to walk away.

Neither he nor Abe saw the rock coming.

The jagged, medium-sized rock struck Abe in his hindquarters, causing him to stumble and yelp. The hurt, confused, and terrified look in Abe's sweet, gentle eyes filled Jackson with a sense of rage that he had never experienced before. And turning to find their snide, taunting smiles and hands filled with rocks only served to intensify that rage.

As he watched them chuckle and tauntingly toss the rocks up into the air, an eerie calm settled over him. In that moment, Jackson felt a lot of things but fear was not one of them.

"Time to see how fast you and your friend can run, jackass," Jerry said, giving Ben and Zak a slight nod before arching to hurl the second rock.

Abe, at this point, was no longer oblivious to their intentions and had begun to growl, but it didn't matter. Before the rock could leave Jerry's hand, he hit the ground — hard.

Ben and Zak immediately dropped their rocks and ran away in terror, leaving Jerry to gasp, sputter, and writhe around in the gravel along the side of the road alone.

Without batting an eye or taking a step in his direction, Jackson had sent Jerry hurling backward with such force that it knocked the wind out of him and broke three of his ribs.

"No," Jackson told him as he moved to stand over him, "you are the one who is going to run."

And Jerry did.

The jagged rock left a gash on Abe's hindquarters right along his hip that required several stitches. But true to his nature, Abe remained standing, wagging his tail and licking Jackson in the face as he knelt down, removed a layer of clothing, and cleaned up the wound as best he could before walking them both home.

The events that followed the bus stop brawl changed all of their lives forever. Within a year, Abe was gone, and his parents were forced to sell their farm, farmhouse, and a good portion of their possessions to avoid bankruptcy.

As he watches the sunset over the top of the trees, Jackson knows he has to get moving. He's already stayed longer than he intended, but it's taken more time than he anticipated to gather the courage to visit the very spot he traveled all this way to see. Rising from his obscured position in the tall grass along the tree line, he makes his way deeper into the woods that line the south side of the property.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he approaches the clearing where he and his father had laid his one and only true friend to rest. Getting down on his hands and knees, Jackson brushes aside layers of leaves until he finds the flat stone that marks Abe's resting place.

Abe was a true light. The year he spent with Abe was the happiest time of his life. Abe's eyes had always been gentle, loving, and hungry for adventure. Even after all of this time, Jackson can still feel the coldness of his nose, the sloppiness of his kisses, and the sharpness of his toenails. It's been nearly six years, but the emptiness, sorrow, and furry that filled him following Abe's death has never truly waned.

He doesn't stop the tears that stream down his face as he traces the outline of Abe's name chiseled into the stone. His tears aren't for just Abe. He can feel his parents here too. Abe's death took something out of all of them. It was like being struck by lightning: nothing was the same afterward.

In the years that followed their move, he allowed vengeance to drive and shape him, destroying everyone and everything around him. Being powerful is cool, until the day that it isn't. Now, as he kneels in half-frozen leaves overlooking a grave, he realizes that the one ability he longs for the most is one that he doesn't possess. He can't turn back time. If he could, he would rewind to the day he lost Abe with the knowledge that he has today. If he could do that, he wouldn't be kneeling over Abe's grave in the forest. He would be sitting at the kitchen table inside their farmhouse ordering graduation invitations with Abe snoring at his feet.

At the times of their deaths, he wasn't who they deserved.

Now, all that is left of them in this world are their graves and the imprints they've left on him.

His parents had been sweet, gentle, and loving people, who despite everything, never once resented him. They gave him everything they had, and in return, all he had given them was trouble and heartache. And Abe… Abe was just Abe. Always loving. Always happy. Always looking to him to lead, because where Jackson was — was exactly where Abe wanted to be.

Wiping at his tears, he makes a promise to each of them, one he should have made years ago. From this day forward, he's going to be the one they deserved. They may be gone, but they will not be lost for their imprints will now fall on him.

Moving the leaves back to cover Abe's resting place, Jackson blankets his one and only true friend with as much warmth as the environment will allow, comforted by the fact that he will no longer be buried there alone.

:

Moonlight guides him alongside the highway. The night is silent except for the distinct jingle of tags and clicking of nails against the asphalt. Should somebody happen upon him tonight, they will find a quick friend in a lively chocolate lab with tan tipped paws, a green collar, soulful eyes, and a smile that begs for adventure. What they won't see is a troubled teenage boy or a monster.

Cloaked in a true spirit of light, William heads due south in search of the man who is referred to in his visions only as Praise.

:

AN: This is a chapter from a larger work you find here. 

I'm not going to lie, this was an emotional chapter for me to write. In S11, we were introduced to a young man who was insanely powerful and a bit of an asshole. After 18 years of buildup, I expected more and was devastated that we didn't get it, which is why I made the decision to write a more William-centered story. His arc was important to me. There was a story there that wasn't told, and I'm determined to tell it. For those of you here strictly for the MSR, don't fret... without Mulder and Scully there are no X Files ;)

And, as always, a HUGE thank you to my betas @kikocrystalball​, @admiralty-xfd​, and @suilven19​ for their edits and encouragement… because nobody gets there alone ;)

[its-flicked-switch]

All The Things She Said

5k | MSR | Post-MS4 

Mulder takes Scully home following their conversation on the dock.

:

—

"Words are like eggs dropped from great heights; you can no more call them back than ignore the mess they leave when they fall."

― Jodi Picoult, Salem Falls

—

MULDER

She stirs when the car hits the rough gravel drive. He can sense her initial unease and subsequent relief as she shakes off the reminisce of sleep and orients herself. Normally, he would tease her about drooling on the upholstery or complain about his inability to hear the NPR due to her obnoxiously loud snoring, but tonight he says nothing as he eases the mustang up to their front porch. Shutting off the ignition, he reaches for her hand, bringing it to the center console and giving it a light squeeze — a silent request for her to stay put until he comes around to open her door. It's not something that he normally insists on doing, nor is it something that she would regularly allow, but tonight calls for chivalry. Tonight, he knows that she will not object.

Scully has always been fiercely independent. In the early stages of their relationship, she resisted being waited on, fussed over, or coddled, often doing so with a single, pointed glance that required little to no interpretation. All these years later, her eyes still hold the same fire and intensity they did when they first met, but tonight, as he opens her door and takes her hand, all he sees is resignation. She's exhausted. They both are.

No words are exchanged as they make their way into the house. They move in a silent rhythm that comes from years of intimacy: every look, touch, and gesture relaying meaning and underlying conversation. Words come secondary because, after all this time, they are often unnecessary.

They pause briefly in the entryway to unload their pockets, ridding themselves of their phones, keys, credentials, and weapons. Slowing his movement, Mulder angles himself to watch Scully as he places his keys next to hers. Her tailored coat is still damp from the rain, making it difficult to remove, but her efforts cease, and her body relaxes when his hands come to rest on her shoulders. He says nothing as he removes it, but he can't help but be troubled by her silence. The last time he can remember her being this quiet was when they were on the run… a time when she had given up everything to be with him, including their son.

As he turns to hang her coat on the wall, he checks the thermostat and bumps the temperature up a few degrees.

He turns to find her standing in a daze in the middle of the living room with her arms crossed over her chest as if she doesn't know where to go or what to do. As he moves to stand directly behind her, he sees a shiver move through her body. Even after two hours in the car with heated seats and all the vents angled in her direction, her clothes still aren't completely dry. While he's not shocked that she stood out in the rain to observe the diving teams, he is surprised that she remained out there as long as she did in her current condition without an umbrella.

After 25 years, one would think that he would have a handle on all things involving and encompassing that which makes Scully, Scully — but he doesn't. She's always been a puzzle. While at times it's aggravating beyond measure, her ability to still surprise him is one of many things that draws him to her.

Looking at her now, Mulder is torn. He wants to talk to her and comfort her, but he's also not sure how. If there is anything that his relationship with her has taught him, it's patience. Scully is a lot like a turtle; she's cautious and moves at her own pace. Any attempt to draw her out before she's ready often results in her closing shop or snapping, which is why even with all of the questions burning in his mind, he has remained silent.

Placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, he angles his head to speak softly in her ear.

"You need to get out of these damp clothes, Scully," he whispers. "Go jump in the shower. I'll make you some soup."

She turns to face him, dropping her hands to her side.

"I'm not hungry Mulder; there's no need to —"

But he doesn't let her finish.

"It's not just for you."

The bomb she dropped on him earlier is far from forgotten. While he's respecting her silence and her need to process everything that has happened, he can't allow her to go to bed without eating. Not now.

He can tell by the look on her face that she wants to protest. Normally what she says goes, but not tonight. She searches his face for a moment, processing his gaze and expression before averting her eyes to stare down at their joined hands.

"Mulder, I…"

Squeezing her hands lightly, he silently interrupts her, directing her eyes back up to his. As soon as she raises her head, his lips catch hers, lingering only for a moment before raising them to the tip of her nose, and then her forehead. His fingers weave themselves into her hair and caress her lower back as he pulls her body tightly against his own.

"We don't have to talk about this now, Scully," he whispers into her hair. "Not if you aren't ready."

Surrendering into his embrace, she burrows her head into his chest and breathes deeply.

Despite the day they've had, he can still smell the remnants of the hair products she uses. Taking in her scent as he kisses the top of her head, Mulder is desperate to comfort her. He wants to promise her that it's going to be okay… that he will never again abandon her and that this time will be different. But Mulder says nothing. Instead, he remains silent. Not because he fears commitment but because he knows he's powerless to make such promises. History has taught him that much.

He can feel the current of emotion running through her as his hands roam the expanse of her back. After speaking briefly to Skinner and learning of her pregnancy, her words on the dock and behavior over the course of the past several weeks makes more sense. Her words and actions were provoked… guided by a madman, pregnancy hormones, and fear.

Giving her a gentle squeeze, he releases her and turns her towards the base of the stairs.

"Go shower. Your soup will be ready when you get out."

She's halfway up when she stops.

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"I want chicken noodle."

"Chicken noodle, it is then."

He waits until she disappears at the top of the stairs before retreating into the kitchen. As he gathers the ingredients for the soup, he can hear her moving around in their bedroom and the sound of the water running in the master bathroom. While he desperately yearns for answers that only she can provide, he is also grateful to have some time to himself. Odds are, she is too.

He and Scully have always known that there was more to William's conception, but knowing something and having it slap you in the face are two entirely different things. Having now seen what William is capable of, the gravity of what has been done to them and to their son hits him with full force.

In the years following William's adoption, all they could do was hope that the magnetite injection had been successful in silencing the alien sequences of William's DNA, rendering him useless to the evil forces who had invested interests in him. Now, Mulder wonders if the opposite were true. Had the magnetite somehow enhanced William's abilities, eliminating all the weaknesses observed in the alien-human hybrids that preceded him? Had Jeffrey Spender actually made William more powerful? And if so, had it been intentional or incidental?

Mulder's faith in anyone carrying the name Spender borders on nonexistent, but after what he witnessed tonight, he's inclined to believe that his half brother's attempt to save his nephew was genuine, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

When Mulder appeared behind the Smoking Man after he shot William, the confusion and shock that crossed his features was genuine, giving rise to something Mulder had not previously considered.

Having spent his entire career being lied to, manipulated, and mislead, Mulder had always assumed that the devil holding the candle knew the end game, but perhaps that was the greatest misdirection of all. What transpired on the docks has made one thing abundantly clear to Mulder.

They don't know.

The forces responsible for William's bioengineered DNA have no idea what they have created.

And suddenly, a great deal of what he and Scully have experienced over the course of the past two decades makes sense to him… even William's birth. The super soldiers who gathered to witness his birth left disinterested and disappointed. While he's not sure what they were told or what they were expecting, it's now more clear to him than ever that William has never been what was expected. How much Jeffery and the Smoking Man knew and from who is still unclear, but the more Mulder thinks about it, the more he suspects that even those behind the curtain are at a loss to explain William.

William is powerful. Far more powerful and gifted than his creators anticipated him to be.

He's a train off the tracks, and they don't possess the manpower or the technology to stop him.

With this in mind, Mulder has little doubt that Scully is right. William is alive. After what he witnessed in that hotel room, he doubts very seriously that a single bullet would be capable of killing him, and that is assuming that the bullet even struck him, to begin with. As for the Smoking Man, he should hope to be dead. If he's not, he will be soon enough.

Now that he's had some time to ponder William's actions and replay their conversation, Mulder is left with far more questions than answers. William clearly didn't need his protection and knew Mulder was being followed, so why didn't he just run or hide in plain sight as he had done previously? Was he simply curious to meet his father? Or was there something more sinister at play?

In the short time they had together, William had only asked Mulder one question, and Mulder got the distinct impression that he already knew the answer. Mulder and Scully possess the same amount of alien DNA. The markers they each possess have slightly different variations, but the percentages are the same, leading him to believe that William's ability to communicate with Scully and not him has more to do with the chip implanted into the base of Scully's skull than it does their shared alien DNA. The only way to be certain would be to remove the chip, and that's not an option. With this in mind, he's not sure why William asked him about the visions. Was he trying to tell him something? Take a stab at his paternity? Or was it some sort of test to determine how much or how little he knew? If this were any other case or any other person, Mulder would be inclined to dismiss it, but he can't suppress the nagging feeling that William had asked him that question for a reason.

Mulder's interaction with William had also awakened something inside of him that he hadn't anticipated.

Fear.

Rather than avoiding his pursuers, William had opted to kill them in a violent display of power that was not of this world. Mulder has seen and experienced a lot of weird and terrifying things over the years, but nothing, not even his abduction, death, and subsequent resurrection could compare to what he witnessed in that hotel room.

He was in awe, yet he was terrified.

How could something he and Scully created all those years ago grow to be something so viciously violent?

The conclusion he has come to is one of purpose.

Extinguishing the threat in the manner that he did was a message, not only to Mulder but to all the others who pursue him. It was a warning laced with a promise. William is not to be captured, controlled, or contained.

Monica Reyes had called to warn them.

Whoever controls your son controls the future.

Twenty-four hours ago, that warning had sent him on a mission to find his son and to be his protector. What a joke that had been.

To those still pursuing William now, all Mulder can say is — good fucking luck.

Sounds associated with a stovetop disaster snap him back into action. He's been so deeply lost in thought that he's nearly let the soup boil over. When he turns off the burner and shifts the pot over to the other side of the stove, the room quiets, drawing attention to the fact that the water upstairs is no longer running. Cursing under his breath, he wonders how long Scully has been out of the shower. Not hearing her hair dryer or any movement coming from upstairs, he begins to wonder if she has already crawled into bed when a chair is pulled out from underneath the table behind him.

Her sudden appearance startles him enough that he lets go of the soup ladle, letting it drop into the depths of the soup as he turns to face her.

A look of apology crosses her face as she sits. The past twenty-four hours have left them both a little on edge.

"The plan was to bring this up to you so that you didn't have to come back down," he says, eyeing her curiously.

She nods her head from side to side, dismissing the sentiment as she begins to unload the tray he had been preparing to take upstairs.

"You need to eat too."

Mulder isn't hungry, but he knows he can't tell her that, so instead of arguing with her, he grabs another bowl, fills it, and places it on the table across from hers and joins her.

He can tell that she recognizes her mother's recipe by the small smile that plays on her lips as she picks up her spoon and stirs. She doesn't vocalize it, but he can tell that she is touched by his gesture.

Taking in her appearance, he's surprised to see that her hair is still damp. She normally dries it immediately after she gets out of the shower, but tonight it possesses the wildness of quick towel dry. Her silk pajama bottoms and fuzzy socks explain her stealthy entry.

He's briefly curious as to where she found the socks because he's never seen them before. The long-sleeved Oxford tee she is wearing, however, is familiar — because it's his.

"I owe you an apology, Mulder," she says quietly, breaking their silence.

"For?"

"I shouldn't have said the things I said earlier. Not without explanation," she says, her eyes retreating into the depths of her soup. "William is our son… a DNA test confirmed that 18 years ago, but it also confirmed that it was more complicated than that."

"Is it?"

His question earns him a look, but she takes his point, quieting as she stares back down into her soup. He would say more if he didn't sense she was working up to something… something that he suspects has been weighing on her for some time now.

"He's…"

She doesn't finish her statement because she doesn't have to. William was never truly theirs, at least not in the way they wanted him to be.

"To think that I abandoned him all those years ago… dumping him off on an unsuspecting family, who couldn't have possibly had any idea of what they were signing up for… I can imagine how they must have felt the first time they saw him move an object across the room with his mind because I certainly remember how I felt." She pauses again, this time making eye contact. "And that was with the added benefit of knowing where it came from."

The hand not stirring is now resting on her forehead, her fingers entangling themselves into her damp hair as she continues.

"The magnetite injection Jeffrey gave him worked, at least initially. He stopped moving his mobile, and Jeffrey assured me that results were permanent. For years, I convinced myself that giving him up was my only option, but we both know that isn't true. I could have run. The gunmen created false identities for all of us, not just you, but instead of running, I signed our rights away. I abandoned him."

At this point, Mulder interjects because she knows better, and they've had this discussion before.

"Scully, you did the only thing you could to protect him. Running wouldn't have been the right choice for him, and you know that… you, of all people, know what life on the run entails, and it's no life for a child. The knowledge that he was with you would have always given them a starting point. Putting him up for adoption gave him anonymity. You didn't abandon him, Scully… you saved him."

He can tell she is on the verge of interrupting him, so he raises his hand to silence her because he's not done. He's not even close to being done.

"No. We don't know what it was like for him or his adoptive family to go through that process blindly, but I think it's safe to say that choice you made bought him time that he otherwise wouldn't have had. When he was born, they didn't take him from us because he wasn't what they were expecting, but that doesn't mean that they weren't watching."

The cameras in their apartments had only been the tip of the iceberg. The syndicate and their associates had been tapping their phones and tracking their vehicles for years, using the intel they gathered to manipulate them further. Instead of shutting them down, the syndicate had used them to their advantage. Mulder knows that Scully knows this just as well as he does, but he continues to press in order to make his point.

"Once they learned of his abilities, they would have taken him from us, and we wouldn't have been able to stop them. But now… Scully… what he was able to do… adoption was the greatest gift you could have given him. It gave him the time in the dark he needed in order to be able to protect himself. The monsters who helped to create him can't touch him now. The power he possesses is beyond their reach."

"Mulder we helped to create him. You and me. We knew… we knew of his abilities… his alien DNA. Doesn't that make us just as culpable as they are?"

"Scully, what happened to you outside of your consent…"

"He didn't force me to get into the car Mulder! I packed a bag. Hell, I drove the car! We may never know exactly what he did or how he did it but —"

"You agreed to accepting the cure for cancer, not to being impregnated with science."

She looks surprised by his choice of words, so Mulder elaborates.

"Skinner told me what Spender said."

While this gives her pause, she still doesn't let it go.

"It doesn't change anything. The point is still the same, Mulder. We knew —"

"Did we really? You and I both have alien DNA, and neither of us can change what the mind perceives."

"Mulder…"

"No. Listen to me. We knew that he possessed alien DNA and that he could move his mobile, but we couldn't have possibly foreseen this. They certainly didn't."

"Mulder, what are you… ?"

"When the Smoking Man shot William, he had no idea he was shooting William. He thought he was shooting me. Don't you see? They don't know, Scully. They have no idea what he is and what he is capable of… so how in the world can you blame yourself for not seeing it? What happened to his adoptive family isn't your fault. There is no way you could have known."

He knows that the guilt Scully carries isn't just about William. She feels responsible for the Van De Kamps' death. Raising and protecting their son had cost them their lives.

Tears are forming in her eyes, but he presses on because he has a point to make, and she needs to let this go.

"What else could you have possibly done? Abort him?"

Her head jerks up. The fire in her eyes a warning that he's hit a nerve.

"No. I would have never —"

"Exactly. The only thing you are guilty of is wanting him and loving him. None of this is your fault. Not a damn bit of it."

A single tear threads down her cheek as she releases her grip on the spoon she's been holding, letting it settle down into the bottom of the bowl.

"Do you think he knows?"

She says it so quietly that he almost doesn't hear her.

"Do you think he has any idea how much we wanted him? Prayed for him?"

"I think… I think it's safe to say that he knows that the circumstances of his adoption weren't typical."

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, she snorts.

"He's bright, Scully. How could he not be? He's an uber-Scully."

And that does it: she smiles.

Her smile calms him. Looking deeply into her eyes, he does everything in his power to portray the calmness and security that he knows she needs. There are a lot of difficult conversations that lie ahead, but they don't all have to come tonight.

Taking his cue, she retorts back.

"Oh, I don't know, Mulder. I think we can both agree that he's a little bit spooky."

"Just a little?"

Her soft laugh fills the kitchen.

There's a pause. It's not awkward, but it is pointed, a sign that she's about to shift the conversation.

"Speaking of spooky uber-Scullies…"

As relieved as Mulder is that she's bringing up the baby, he's not really sure where to start or what to say. Dozens of questions and comments immediately come to mind, but, ultimately, he decides to start with the basics.

"How long have you known?"

Her hesitation confirms what he already suspected. She's known ever since he found her sobbing in the shower last week.

"A little over a week," she says as she takes a weighted breath. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner… that I've kept this from you. I wanted to tell you so badly, but —"

"Were you afraid that I wouldn't want it?" he asks, unable to hide the emotion creeping into his voice.

"No… no… I knew you would never… Mulder, I'm 54 years old. We've never… why now? After all that we've been through and everything we've tried? Why now? I just… I had to be sure. I already took one child away from you. I couldn't do that to you again. I had to make absolutely sure."

"So you would have —"

"NO. I'm not saying that… I just… Crystal had a close friend of hers run some tests … off the books. And then I ran them again myself. I wanted answers. I wanted to understand. If this was something other than a miracle, I had to know. I couldn't give you hope only to take it away."

Reaching his hand across the table, he places it on top of hers, encouraging her to hold his gaze.

"No matter what you've found, I want it, and I want to know everything. No more secrets. Not anymore."

Scully's eyes start to water, and her voice cracks as she struggles to control her emotions.

"The last time we went through this, I never got to tell you. By the time I figured it out, you were gone, and when you came back, I was already so far along that I didn't have to tell you."

Her tears are falling freely now, and he can't stand it. Within seconds he has her in his arms, cradling her as she sobs.

"I'm scared, Mulder. I'm so scared."

She doesn't have to say what she is scared of because her fears match his own.

"What if —"

But he interrupts her because he doesn't want her to go there. He doesn't want her thinking about the long list of medical complications, chip activation, or alien DNA.

"Scully, you can't go there. You'll drive yourself crazy if you do. And unless there is something else you haven't told me, neither of us have taken any field trips with members of the underworld lately, which can only mean…"

She snorts, lightly smacking at his chest.

"I just don't understand it, Mulder. Why now? After all of this time… we never exactly —"

"I know."

They had never used any form of birth control. Not even after William. Each of them secretly hoping for a second miracle, never dreaming in a million years that it would come nearly two decades later.

Although Scully's tears have subsided, neither of them moves.

Mulder hates to break the moment, but he also doesn't want her to overthink anything. It's late, and she really needs to eat something. Neither of them has eaten in over 12 hours. Dissecting the mystery of miracle baby number two can wait until tomorrow. Right now, his primary concern is feeding her and putting her to bed.

"You're letting your soup get cold."

The feel of her mouth curling up into a smile against his shirt warms him more than a hot bowl of soup ever could.

"Oh, and yours is staying warm," she asks, pulling away just enough to look up into his face.

"My soup — is special," he tells her.

To this, she smiles and shakes her head, her expression turning more serious as she stills.

Gazing up into his eyes, she whispers, "I love you."

The intensity of her gaze puts butterflies in his stomach and makes his hands shake. The fact that she can still do this to him twenty-five years later never fails to amaze him.

He knows that she loves him. He can see it in her eyes every time she looks at him, but hearing her say it has always stirred something deep inside of him. Something that he doesn't have the words to describe.

Unable to respond with words, he lowers his head to hers, capturing her lips and running his hands through her hair and along her side. Halting his hand to stop just under the swell of her breast, he kisses her with everything he has, and she kisses him back without hesitation, pulling his body more tightly against her own as she encourages him to deepen the kiss.

With all of the storms that lie between them, this aspect of their relationship has never been a source of contention.

As much as Mulder would love for this to continue and progress into something far more intimate, he knows that now is not the appropriate time. Breaking the kiss, he places smaller kisses along the sides of her face and forehead before gazing into her eyes.

"Let's eat," he tells her softly.

Nodding, she runs her hands down his chest and raises up onto the tips of her toes to place a soft kiss on his lips before returning to the table.

After they finish eating, he encourages her to head upstairs while he cleans up the kitchen and turns off the lights.

When he enters their bedroom, he finds her in the bathroom, drying her hair. Taking a moment to appreciate her, he stands and watches her until their eyes meet in the mirror. Moving to stand behind her, he rests his hands on her hips and kisses the top of her head before turning and stripping to get in the shower.

Of all of the things currently unknown, there is one truth that he does know with absolute certainty. She is his everything, and he's going to spend the rest of his life making sure that she never regrets coming home.

When he gets out of the shower, the lights in their bedroom are off. Although it's dark, he can still make out the silhouette of her small frame curled up in the center of their queen-sized bed and wastes no time joining her. As he pulls back the covers, she relaxes and shifts her weight to encourage him to pull her into his embrace. Burrowing his nose in her hair, Mulder says the words that were caught in his throat earlier.

"I love you too, Scully. More than anything."

"I know," she replies, her voice thick with emotion.

Bring his hand up to her lips, she kisses his fingers lightly, before moving them down to splay over her stomach, resting them protectively over the life currently growing inside of her — a life they had created together.

AN: This story is a chapter from a larger work that is currently in progress. For those of you who are interested in delving further into the conspiracy, want an actual conclusion to the William arc, and are curious about the ins and outs of being pregnant at 54, the full work can be found here. 

And, as always, a HUGE thank you to my betas @kikocrystalball​, @admiralty-xfd​, and @suilven19​ for their edits and encouragement... because nobody gets there alone ;)

[its-flicked-switch]

Alien

| RATING M | 

MSIV left the X-File fandom on the edge of a cliff that, in the absence of GA, will never be resolved to any level of satisfaction. Alien is my attempt to do what Chris Carter could not — provide closure for the series as a whole. What happens following Scully's revelations on the dock? What becomes of William, Skinner, Reyes, and The Smoking Man?

PREFACE

—

"Evil (ignorance) is like a shadow — it has no real substance of its own, it is simply a lack of light. You cannot cause a shadow to disappear by trying to fight it, stamp on it, by railing against it, or any other form of emotional or physical resistance. In order to cause a shadow to disappear, you must shine light on it."

— Shakti Gawain

—

For the past 17 years, I have played the role of Jackson Van De Kamp. Odd, isn't it? That I would refer to playing myself as playing a role? But as I reflect on all that has happened in the past 17 years, that is the only way I know how to describe the journey that began on a farm in rural Wyoming in 2001 — a role.

Initially, everything was as it should have been. I was an only child being raised by two loving and doting parents. They attended to me and each of my milestones with the adoration and enthusiasm typical of new parents. Imagine their absolute elation at my ability to run when most babies were still creeping around on all fours and their pride in my ability to read at a first-grade level when I was only three years old. I was their miracle, an answer to their prayers for parenthood. As I continued to grow, however, it became clear that I was far more than an exceptional miracle.

My early childhood was unremarkable, until the day that it wasn't.

Tragically, the Van De Kamp's love and devotion would not be enough to silence what was inside of me. Despite their efforts, my earliest childhood memories were shrouded by a sense of unease. A deep-seated feeling that something was missing or not as it should be. In time, my parents confessed what I already sensed. I wasn't truly theirs. I came into their lives as an infant and what they knew of my biological family was limited. I have now come to understand why. The Van De Kamps were truly remarkable parents. The more I learn about who and what I am, really am, the deeper I mourn their loss. They deserved better. We all deserved better.

Van De Kamp Entry #092

Case No. 11101993717

Evidence No. 163.092

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CH1: THE WATER'S EDGE

—

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

—

The rain has thoroughly soaked through her hair and clothes, but Scully feels nothing. She remains anchored in place staring down into the black abyss below her as the divers divide the harbor into grids. When William and Spender disappeared into the depths of the harbor several hours ago, the air was cool and crisp with an overlay of mist, but the temperature has dropped ten to fifteen degrees since then and what was a soft drizzle has now transitioned into a light, steady rain.

She knows she should walk away, but she's done with that.

While C. G. B. Spender's admission to Skinner had come as a surprise, the truth had not. She and Mulder had long suspected the syndicate's involvement in her sudden ability to conceive a child. After discovering Emily and learning of her missing ova, Scully had run every test imaginable. Had there have been any ova remaining inside of her, she would have found them. This is how she knows with absolute certainty that the ova used to created William was either implanted or produced within her body by unnatural means.

Her greatest fear for William has always been that his existence was part of an agenda, and the testing she performed throughout her pregnancy and after his birth had done little to ease her fears. DNA doesn't lie. William is their son. Hers and Mulder's. Yet he isn't — at least not entirely.

Traditionally, each parent passes half of their genetic material to their unborn child. William, however, only shared half of her and Mulder's DNA collectively. The remaining half was unidentifiable and by definition — alien. When she performed the original analysis, the technology to isolate this anomaly and examine it properly didn't exist, at least not in any laboratory she had access to. Her desire to find the truth, however, had been overwritten by fear. She knew that exploring the origins and implications of the remaining half would come at a cost, undoubtedly drawing attention to and endangering their son. The decision to destroy all of the samples and data she had collected had not been a decision that she had made lightly. But ultimately, she had chosen William's safety over conspiracy and little green men.

What Scully had told no one, not even Mulder, was that she had kept the most critical sample of all. Hidden in a secure location amongst hundreds of thousands of other samples, she had stored William's umbilical cord, preserving not only his DNA but his stem cells. She could not, in good conscience, given what she and Mulder had experienced with the alien virus, destroy the key to the greatest mystery of their lives. Preserving his cord wasn't just about science. It was also about security. She had lost Mulder once, and the thought of going through anything like that ever again was unbearable. Their enemies had waged war on them before, and there was little assurance that they wouldn't come for them again. William's miraculous conception only served to further convince her that the truth was far more sinister than they had been previously led to believe. In that sense, what Spender had told Skinner was true. He was, at least on some level, responsible for the science that helped to created William — but a father, he was not.

Scully isn't sure where Mulder is at the moment, but there is little doubt in her mind that he is somewhere nearby taking the brunt of Deputy Director Kersh's wrath. The fact that she has been standing on the docks for over an hour and hasn't been approached or questioned by anybody is most certainly his doing. Were it not for Skinner, she and Mulder would both likely be in handcuffs and in the bowels of the justice building.

The call she made earlier to Tad O'Malley had been reckless, bordering on insane, but it had to be done. The days of hiding in the shadows were over. Remaining silent all these years had bought them time but not freedom. Too much had been lost to let this fall below the surface yet again. This time, those responsible will not be able to contain the blowback.

The vibrating phone in her pocket pulls her away from her thoughts and back into the harsh reality of her present surroundings. The only reason she even attends to it is that she thinks it might be Mulder, but it's not. It's her brother, and it's not the first time he's called. Tad O'Malley's broadcast in combination with tonight's body count has created quite the media storm with her and Mulder at its center.

Bill's hatred for Mulder still remains unmatched. If she can give her brother credit for anything, it's consistency. With the recent loss of their mother, she knows she can't continue to send him directly to her voicemail. He never calls, so the fact that he has called seven times in the last forty-five minutes tells her that he is about to reach his limit. If she doesn't answer soon, he is likely to turn up unannounced.

Deciding that answering the phone is the lesser of two evils, Scully takes a deep breath and hits accept, getting right to the point because she knows her brother well.

"Bill, this is not a good time. I'm going to have to call you back later."

Bill is well-connected and not above pulling rank to get the information he wants. Odds are, he already knows that she is not one of the casualties in tonight's bloodbath, leaving him with only one other reason to call, and she is in no mood to argue with her brother about Mulder or the X Files.

"Jesus Christ, Dana, what the hell is going on? Are you okay? I swear to God if Mulder —"

She cuts him off quickly because she doesn't have the energy or the patience to listen to his long list of grievances against Mulder.

"Mulder wasn't the source, Bill. I was. This isn't about the FBI or the X Files. This is about William."

She says William's name to shut him up, and also because she doesn't want him to hear it from another source. Given his high-security clearance, it's certainly possible he will find out elsewhere if she doesn't tell him herself, assuming he doesn't know already. Even though they haven't had a pleasant conversation in over a decade, he's still her brother, and he still deserves to hear it from her.

"I've seen him, Bill. Spoken to him. Mulder and I both have. He's…," she hesitates because she can't be certain that her line is secure. Swallowing the lump in her throat and steadying her voice, she finally settles with, "gone."

It's not a lie, but it's not the truth either.

"William? Dana… what are you talking about? And what do you mean gone… Jesus, is he…? How can you —"

"I can't talk about this right now. Tell everyone that I am okay and that I will be in touch as soon as I have a more secure line."

"Dammit, Dana, I —"

Ending the call, she switches off her phone and slips it back into her pocket. Scully knows that at some point she will have to level with her family and tell them the truth about William, but not now — not today. Her frozen fingers sink deeper into her damp pockets in search of her mother's quarter medallion.

The mystery surrounding its origin doesn't bother her as much as it used to. If anything, it has been a great source of comfort. Scully's mother and sister were the only members of her family to ever support her decision to join the FBI, and their support and relation to her had cost them their lives — her sister directly, her mother more so indirectly. Scully's abduction, cancer diagnosis, and subsequent hospitalizations in combination with Melissa's murder and William's adoption had undoubtedly aged her sweet mother at least two decades. Her brothers continue to assert that she died of a broken heart. They are probably right.

The conversation she and Mulder had on the church pew earlier this week immediately comes to mind. Can she live with the results of the decisions she has made? Were they the right ones? As she runs her fingers over the outer ridges of her mother's quarter, she silently prays for the clarity and strength that will be required to face whatever comes next. While she cannot predict the future, she does know one thing with absolute certainty: their son is not dead.

The dive teams won't find either body. She can't explain how she knows. She just does. With her hands buried deep in her pockets, she takes one last look at the churning waters below before turning and heading back towards the chaos. There is nothing left for her here.

Making her way back towards the warehouse in search of Mulder, Scully spots Skinner almost immediately. He's sitting in the back of an ambulance wrapped in a blanket speaking to Kersh and two other agents that she doesn't recognize. Skinner's eyes look tired and defeated, but he still manages to give her a nod and a slight smile. She returns the gesture just before disappearing behind a second ambulance. Words with the deputy director will have to wait. She needs to get out of the rain and find Mulder. As she navigates her way through the maze of tape and haphazardly parked emergency vehicles, she stops abruptly when she hears her name, turning to find Mulder walking towards her.

His stride embodies purpose and confidence, but as he gets closer, she can see the fatigue in his step and the concern in his eyes.

"I've been looking everywhere for you."

His brow furrows as he reaches out with one hand to lightly touch her shoulder, the other quickly finding the tips of her hair and side of her face.

"Scully, you are soaking wet, have you been standing out in the rain all of this time?"

Before she can respond, he's slipping off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her head in an attempt to protect her from the rain.

"I've been on the docks. They haven't located Spender or… or William," she says, her voice unsteady.

He swallows and nods, averting his eyes off into the distance as if he is looking for someone.

"Let's get out of here," he says as he takes her hand.

Neither of them speaks as he guides them through mayhem. She's surprised to see his silver Mustang up ahead and wonders how in the world he managed to move it without erupting World War III. Only Mulder could remove a car from an active crime scene and walk away unscathed. He unlocks the passenger door and places his hand protectively on the top of her head as she eases down into the seat. Moments later, she feels the car shift under his weight as he slides into the driver's seat, but she doesn't look at him. Her eyes are entranced by the rain splattering against the windshield — her mind on their son. He's out there. He's cold, wet, and has nowhere to go. And instead of looking for him, they are leaving. His words, spoken through Mulder, are still reverberating in the recesses of her mind.

"We can't protect him. No one can … let him go … he knows you love him."

A sickening feeling hits her in the pit of her stomach as Mulder puts the car into reverse and starts to drive away. Tonight, she is abandoning her son for the second time. The tears she has been holding back for the past several hours now flow freely. Mulder notices them but says nothing. Instead, he turns on the seat warmers and angles all the vents in her direction before reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers. It's not until his hand joins hers that she realizes how cold she is, but it's not just the cold that causes her tremble. The raw emotion brewing inside of her is paralyzing. She tries to speak but opens her mouth only to close it.

The first few miles are silent because neither of them knows where to begin.

The minutes continue to tick by until she can't take it anymore.

As wonderful as the heat feels as it hits her damp hair, skin, and clothes, she turns the intensity of it down to quiet the obnoxiously loud fan, not wanting to raise her voice to be heard.

"He's not dead, Mulder. Neither of them are."

It's not the most profound thing she could have said following the bombs she has dropped on him today, but it's a starting point.

"Scully…"

"No, Mulder, listen to me. I can't explain it. I can't explain how I know. I just do."

He's quiet for a moment, briefly giving her his eyes before he responds.

"Do you want me to turn around?"

"No."

Her voice is soft and raspy from the cold, but the answer comes easily, for the answers they seek are not at the bottom of the harbor.

Unable to look out into the dark, miserable night any longer, she closes her eyes. There is so much more she wants to say… so much that he deserves to hear but not here… not like this.

The drive home takes a little over two hours.

They finish it with their hands joined in silence.

---------

AN: As always, a HUGE thank you to my betas @kikocrystalball, @admiralty-xfd and @suilven19 for their edits and encouragement... because nobody gets there alone ;)

To follow the Cleaning Up After Chris Carter Series, click here. 

[its-flicked-switch]

THE TRUTH THEY BOTH KNOW

Rating: Mature || 7k+ || @xfilesfanficexchange

Having taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, Mulder and Scully struggle to come to terms with the lines they've crossed. Set Post Redux I & II.

This story was written as a gift for @iusedtoknowwhatawishwasfor​  who requested a story where "mulder and scully sleep together before she goes into remission- and then need to deal with once she does go into remission"

Since I had already written the "before she goes into the remission" for the Easter fanfic exchange, I chose to weave this story in with that work for the sake of continuity (Sandcastles in the Sky - SitS). While this story will stand alone, the references made throughout will have more meaning if SitS is read first. Continuing with the AU stage SitS sets, the timetables referenced within this work aren't entirely canon. Don't let that ruin your reading pleasure. It's not ignorance on my part, it merely meant to be fun, so let it be fun.

|| THE TRUTH THEY BOTH KNOW ||

"You're a real piece of work; you know that Mr. Mulder?"

"Why is that? Because I don't think the way you think? Because I won't just sit passively by and watch the family tragedy unfold?"

"You're the reason for it. And I've already lost one sister to this quest you are on. Now I'm losing another. Has it been worth it? To you, I mean. Have you found what you've been looking for?"

"No."

"No? You know how that makes me feel?"

"In a way, I think I do. I lost someone very close to me. I lost a sister. I lost my father… all because of this thing I'm looking for."

"This what? Little green aliens?"

"Yeah. Little green aliens."

"You're one sorry son of a bitch… Not a whole lot more to say."

Redux II (5x02)

—

Weeks have passed, but Bill Jr.'s words have never strayed far from Mulder's mind. While he is acutely aware of the fact that Bill Jr. is a Class-A-Dick, there is no denying the weight of his words or the lining of truth that encases them.

A better man would have walked away from Dana Scully, but Fox Mulder is not a better man. Bill Jr. had been right about that much.

From the moment she entered his office and shook his hand all those years ago, Mulder had recognized that there was something quite extraordinary about Dana Scully. So instead of treating her like the spy she was sent to be, he confided in her and peaked her scientific curiosities, engrossing her in a world that reached far beyond the accepted bounds of science. In time, his monsters had become her monsters, and the cost to her and her family could not have been higher. The death of her sister, her cancer, and her inability to conceive a child all the direct result of their work on The X Files.

While Mulder had by no means escaped unscathed, Scully and her sister had been innocent.

There was only one factor that connected them to tragedy — him.

Maybe that did make him one sorry son of a bitch, but being one sorry son of a bitch didn't change the truth. And the truth exceeded far beyond the existence of little green men, but there had been no point in trying to explain that to Bill Jr. The one person who did understand was the one person he had hurt the most, and he was no more capable of walking away from her now than he was when he met her nearly four years ago.

Scully's cancer had been the tipping point for which there had been no return.

What started out as a late-night call for assistance in removing a fitted teeshirt over a stiff and uncooperative shoulder had progressed into a weekend-long exploration and obliteration of a line they had both firmly adhered to for nearly four years.

Had it have been restricted to that night alone, it would have been easier to classify as a lapse of judgment or a product of circumstance, but what happened that weekend was neither of those things. That weekend, they had each had their fill time and time again.

No commitments or words of affirmation were exchanged, but the truth had been a poorly kept secret. The emotion that pooled in the depths of her crystal blue eyes as he watched her come undone again and again had relayed the truth to him far more accurately than words could have ever articulated, and there was no doubt in his mind that his eyes and body had returned the sentiment.

He loved her, and she loved him.

What transpired between them wasn't an ill-advised fling. It was an admission, which is why, all these months later, he finds her avoidance of the subject so infuriating. Though she has yet to vocalize her desire for what happened to remain unspoken, she hasn't had to. Her fears and misgivings have been echoed in action.

Prior to her illness, Mulder had always been the one to make the travel arrangements, but now that she has recovered and returned to work full time, she has insisted that she be the one to make them, which has translated into random seats on aircrafts and rooms that are no longer conjoined. Though the concessions made in their new arraignments have undoubtedly saved the department money, Mulder doubts very seriously that keeping the finance committee off of their backs is her only motivation for taking the reigns.

Their effectiveness as a team continues to remain beyond reproach, but there is an uneasy, awkwardness between them that wasn't there before, and it's driving him absolutely insane. The fact that he wants to touch every square inch of her body every time he lays eyes on her is not helping matters either. Now that he has had her, he can think of little else.

All of his attempts to clear the air thus far have been futile, each ending with either a pointed glance or a swift exit. As time has passed, he has slowly regressed into a bitter stage of acceptance. One where he longer pushes the envelope but also has yet to let go.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah," he replies, shifting his attention to Scully.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?"

"No," he says simply. "Sorry, I was … somewhere else."

Studying him carefully, she sighs.

"Our flight leaves tomorrow at 8 A.M."

"Okay."

"Okay?" she asks, questioning him with her eyes.

Shrugging, he gives her a look of what as he lowers his feet from his desk, stands, and turns to collect his things.

"I'll see you in the morning, Scully."

Mulder doesn't watch her expression as he drapes his coat over his shoulder and turns to walk out the door. The confusion, hurt, and disappointment he knows he will find there is more than he can bear, but he also can't take another rejection. If carrying on as if nothing happened is what she wants, then it's what he will do, but he's done with pretending that it doesn't hurt like hell.

Without another word, he steps out of their office, closing the door behind him.

—

As she watches him leave without a word, everything inside of her screams. Not because she is angry at him, but because she is angry with herself. Mulder, for once, is not at fault. He hadn't been the one to initiate sex. She had.

That night, he had tried to be the voice of reason, questioning her state of mind and what it would mean for their future. At the time, it had stung, coming across as a friendly form of rejection. She was, after all, naked and giving him permission to touch her, but even as he eyed her naked form with lustful appreciation, he had asked her if she was sure. No other man, when presented with the same scenario, had ever asked her that. The others had just taken what she offered without question. But not Mulder.

"I think our bodies know exactly what they want, but do our minds? This can't… it can't just be a thing, Scully… you mean too much to me. I can't be your Ed Jerse. I won't survive it."

Leaning back in her chair, Scully closes her eyes and rubs her temples. She can still hear his voice and feel his hands. The mere thought of being with him again causes her core to dampen and clench. What transpired between them that weekend was something beyond anything she has ever experienced before. The passion bottled within him had exceeded even her most erotic fantasies.

He had ensured that she got hers over and over again.

He hadn't fucked her. He had made love to her.

And what she saw in his eyes as he did had both startled and entrapped her. Scully wasn't the prude ice queen others had made her out to be. She had seen her fair share of greedy hands and lust-filled eyes. Scully liked sex, but what she had with Fox Mulder back in May wasn't sex. It was something else. Something far more meaningful and transcending — and it scared the ever-living hell out of her.

In medical school, Scully had thought she had found love. It took being with Mulder for her to realize that what she settled for was a cheap imitation. What she felt in his touch and saw in his eyes had completely erased the ones that had come before him. She knew now that nobody else would ever compare. He was it. But instead of embracing and indulging, she was running.

Hanging her head in a combination of frustration and shame, she sighs, stands, gathers her things, and heads for the door.

—

Plopping down on the couch, Mulder listens to the gurgle of the aquarium beside him and tries to get comfortable. He knows he shouldn't have left the way he did. He's sulking like a love-sick teenager, but the restless fury within him won't allow him to settle. He told her that he wouldn't survive being her Ed Jerse, and yet that is precisely how she is treating him.

But as he sits in his apartment alone, he recognizes that he has nobody to blame other than himself.

After Diana, Mulder made a promise to himself that he would never again become involved with someone he worked with professionally. But what he shares with Scully isn't a simple matter of involvement. It's more complex than that. It always has been, and he suspects that it always will be.

Diana left him in pursuit of her own ambitions, and Mulder had made no attempt to stop her. There had been no cursing, tears, ripped pictures, or broken glass. Her choosing her career over him had stung, but Mulder had long become accustomed to being the one that was left behind. In her absence, he had done what he has always done. He buried himself in his work, and he hadn't looked back.

But Scully wasn't Diana.

Scully was unlike anyone he had ever known — a magnet of unknown origin.

When they had leaped into the unknown, she had told him she wanted something passionate, loving, and real… something that would make her feel alive again. Yet, here he was, sitting alone on his couch, rejected and alone. Had she truly meant those things? Or had it been the cancer talking?

Deep down, he knew the truth. He suspected they both did. Perhaps that was the problem.

Tilting his head back and looking up and the ceiling, he sighs in frustration and clenches his fists. He's such a fucking coward. While she has certainly avoided his passive attempts to discuss this thing between them, he hasn't made any genuine attempt to pin her down on the issue. Instead, he has sulked and taken her changes of subject and hasty exits at the end of the workday as rejection.

He knows Scully well, and he knows what he saw in her eyes that weekend. Yet, here he is, sitting alone on his couch because he hasn't found the courage to tell her what he wants.

Scully had been bold enough to drop her towel. She had taken the first leap. Perhaps it was time for him to lead.

Having made a decision, he stands, not bothering to grab his coat or lock the door as he leaves.

—

When she hears her front door open without a knock, her first instinct is to panic. But her sense of panic is immediately over-ridden with irritation when she hears her name and identifies its source.

"Scully?" he says again.

"I'm taking a bath, Mulder," she says loudly, her voice echoing through the apartment.

Before she can say anything more, the door is opening, and he is coming in.

"Jesus, Mulder. What the hell?"

"We need to talk."

"Now? Here? Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks, the water sloshing around her as she draws her knees up to her chest in an attempt to cover herself.

"I think here and now couldn't be any more appropriate, given the topic," he says, reaching for the towel hanging on the rail alongside the tub.

The fact that he's offering her something to cover herself doesn't escape her attention, but she's too angry at his invasion of her privacy to see anything other than red.

"So, because we've had sex, that just automatically gives you permission to come into my apartment without knocking and storm in on me when I'm in the ba—"

"I used a key you gave me, and I didn't knock because I feared you wouldn't answer the door if I did."

"Muld—"

"And as for interrupting your bath, I'm here to talk, not to …" he says, splaying his arms to complete a thought he has lost the courage to vocalize.

"Oh? And that makes this okay?"

For a moment, he doesn't respond, his gaze holding hers.

"My eyes have not left yours," he says finally, as if that somehow makes his invasion into her home and bathroom more acceptable.

Sighing, she closes her eyes and tilts her head down towards the water.

"What do you want, Mulder?" she asks quietly.

"I want to talk about it."

He doesn't specify what it is, but he doesn't have to. The white elephant to which he refers has traveled with them for nearly six months and doesn't require definition.

"Mulder …"

"It wasn't just sex to me, Scully. I told you… I told you from the very beginning that I couldn't be your Ed Jerse… that I wouldn't survive it."

"Mulder I—" she starts to say, but he's not done.

"Was it just a distraction for you? Did it only happen because you thought you were dying? And everything you said… did you just say it because you didn't think you'd live long enough for the truth to matter?"

By the time he's done, her breathing has deepened, and tears are collecting in her eyes. But she doesn't let them fall. She holds them in check, her resolve hardening with each and every word he utters.

How dare he.

How dare he come into her home and accuse her of using him to get off because she was lonely and thought she was dying.

If he couldn't see what was right in front of him, then perhaps it was him that needed to fuck off. Not her.

"Get out."

"Scul—"

"Get. Out," she says, her tone and glare filling the room with a level of tension that doesn't invite inquisition or rebuttal.

He opens his mouth to speak but then thinks better of it, his face transitioning from a state of hurt to fury as he turns to leave.

She doesn't allow the first tear to fall until she hears the front door slam.

—

If he hadn't have been one sorry son of a bitch before, he certainly is now.

He had gone to her apartment intending to take the lead and clear the air, but finding her soaking in the tub had been his undoing. The discomfort and fear he saw swimming in her eyes as he stood over her and offered her a towel had foreshadowed rejection, not resolution. And with that, his resolve had crumbled. Until that very moment, he had never questioned what that weekend meant to her. But now, he is questioning everything.

Flopping down on the couch and opening a beer, he stares at the blank screen of his TV and feels more alone than he has ever felt in his life. The Mulder before Scully would have wound down with a Shiner Blok and a video from his collection, but that was Mulder before Scully. Mulder after Scully no longer found pleasure in jerking off to naughty secretaries. The dollar menu was no longer capable of holding his interest, not after having experienced what the steakhouse had to offer.

One beer turned into two and then three. After the fourth, he stopped counting.

At some point, sleep overtakes him, but he doesn't recall falling asleep or how late he was up. All he knows now is the pounding pulses of pain in his temples.

As he stirs, it takes him a moment to orient himself.

Dim hues of light flicker in through the blinds allowing him to observe the empty bottles that line the coffee table. He briefly wonders why he feels so heavy, but that becomes more clear when he rolls to his side and sees the bottles that line the floor.

Fuck, he mumbles, clutching his head and rubbing his eyes.

The sound of a key turning in the lock suddenly resonates, startling him into action and sending him clamoring onto the floor as he reaches for his gun on the far edge of the coffee table.

Just as his hand settles on the grip, a familiar voice echoes through the room, causing the gun to slip from his grasp and onto the floor beside him.

"Mulder?!" Scully exclaims, not bothering to close the door behind her as she rushes across the room and crouches down by his side. "Jesus, are you—"

He's not looking at her, but he can feel her taking in the scene. She hadn't needed to complete her question. The bottles that surround them tell a story that leaves little up for interpretation. Placing the dorsum of her hand along his forehead, she runs her fingers through his hair and goes through the process of checking his temperature and vitals.

"We need to get you up off the floor," she says quietly.

Nodding, he does what he can to help her as she steadies him and walks him back to the couch.

Once she has him safely seated, she takes another look around the room, brings her hand to her temple and sighs. Unable to stomach the mixture of emotions crossing her face, he drops his head in his hands and awaits whatever comes next. The ring of her cell phone breaks the deafening silence between them, delaying any further comments or conversation.

"Scully," she answers.

"Yes, sir, he's here. He's… he's not well sir. I think it's a virus of some kind or perhaps the flu… he's severely dehydrated and a bit out of it."

She's silent for a moment as she listens to their boss on the other end of the line.

Fuck, he thinks. They had an 8 A.M. flight this morning.

Braving a look over at his desk, he notes that it is now 9:17 A.M.

"I'd like to take the day as well, sir," she says.

Though he can't hear exactly what Skinner is saying, it's clear that his absence this morning has triggered a string of alarms. He likely has numerous missed calls both on his landline and cell. Calls he was clearly too out of it to hear, let alone respond to.

"I'll call in a few scripts and keep an eye on him. If he's not well enough to travel in the morning, I'll fly to Charleston alone first thing in the morning to consult on the Burgle investigation… Yes, sir. Please give the locals my regards."

Braving a look up, he finds her pivoting anxiously on her feet as she thanks their boss and ends the call. For a moment, she says nothing, holding his gaze as her phone follows her hand into the depths of her pocket.

She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it, shaking her head from side to side and sighing as she reaches down and begins to pick up the bottles from the coffee table and floor. Aside from the sounds of glass hitting glass, the room is silent.

When the minutes continue to tick by without further comment from Scully, Mulder relents, unable to take the silence and crisp air of judgment any longer.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

The heat brewing in her eyes as she turns to face him takes him by surprise. He had known she was angry, but it becomes clear very quickly that he had grossly underestimated the depth of her anger. This was angry Scully. This was pissed Scully.

"For which part?" she asks, her voice rising. "Barging into my apartment last night while I was naked and soaking in the tub and calling me a whore? Or for scaring the shit out of me this morning when you didn't show up at the airport and weren't answering either of your phones?"

"Scully, I never—"

Knowing exactly what he's about to say, she dredges on, not missing a beat.

"And before you say that you did not say or insinuate anything along those lines, I want you to think about how exactly I was supposed to translate your inquisition concerning my motives for inviting you to my bed. A decision that, apparently, you believe occurred for my pleasure and my pleasure alone. Think that over and then tell me exactly how you would have translated that conversation had our roles been reversed."

He opens his mouth to speak but then closes it.

Even with his head pounding and the room spinning, he sees her point, and she's not wrong.

When she crosses the room and opens the blinds, he folds his head back into his hands and moans, but his complaint stops there. Whatever hell she's about to unleash on him, he undoubtedly deserves, so instead of demanding that she close the blinds, he keeps his head bowed and remains silent.

Keeping track of her whereabouts by sound, he estimates that she's cleaned up a good portion of the mess he made in the living room. Though he's not exactly sure how many beers he had, his current condition and the number of clinks he has heard hit the trash bin suggest it far exceeded six. When he hears the refrigerator open, he groans again.

The sound of popping tops and fluid being poured down the drain carries across the room and is followed by a few more sharp clinks. Whatever alcohol was left, is officially gone now.

A few moments later, he hears the pitter-patter of her feet as she walks towards him and places what he assumes to be a glass of water on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. The fact that she has removed her shoes would comfort him a lot more if he couldn't still feel the heat radiating off of her body.

"You should drink some water and take these," she says, taking a seat next to him on the couch.

Her voice is quieter now but still has a crisp edge to it that warns of danger.

Raising his head a bit, he squints against the light, opening his hand to accept the pills she offers him and gulping them down with a single swallow.

Silence engulfs them as they sit side-by-side.

"I really am sorry, Scully. For all of it. You deserve better. You've always deserved better."

To this, she says nothing.

He's not looking at her, but he can feel her hesitance. It's a hesitance that lets him know that everything inside of her wants to speak, but instead, she remains silent, keeping her emotions in check as she waits.

"When you were in the hospital, your brother came and spoke to me while you were sleeping… he… he said a couple of things that have stuck with me."

"God," she moans, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands. "Do I even want to know?"

"Well, you'll be happy to know that he shares your view on extraterrestrials," he says, smirking.

Snorting, she looks up at him and shakes her head from side to side before looking back down at her hands.

"He also said I was one sorry son of a bitch."

"Mulder…" she sighs, her eyes rising to meet his.

"He's not entirely wrong, you know. Everything I touch suffers. It always has."

"That's not true," she says quietly.

"Isn't it though? You're brilliant, Scully," he says, taking a deep breath.

His eyes drift down the table to study the rings that his chilled beers left behind, but despite his pounding head and light-sensitive eyes, he keeps speaking because what he has to say needs to be said.

"And now, instead of being on track to run the FBI, you are down in the basement with me. You've lost so much… your sister… your health… all for me. For my quest. My truth."

At first, she says nothing, but eventually, she reaches across her body and places her hand over his.

"I still wouldn't change a day."

Her voice is quiet and calm, but there is an underlying wave of sadness to it that makes his stomach drop. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she stands and makes her way over to the corner of the room where her shoes and coat lie waiting for her.

"You're leaving?" he asks, doing little to hide the panic rising inside of him.

"Yes."

"Scul—"

"We aren't going to have this conversation when you are hungover and can barely hold your head up. You need to shower and get some sleep. I'm going to go home and do the same."

"Scully, I'm—"

"You should clean out your fridge," she says, clearing her throat. "I was scared to dig too deeply into the mystery, but something in there has either died or transformed."

Surprised by the change in subject and demeanor, he studies her movement and expression carefully, questioning her with his eyes. But Scully doesn't respond to his unspoken question. Instead, she averts her eyes, finding something of interest in the fish tank as she puts on her coat and slips on her shoes.

"I'll order you some takeout on my way home. Drinking a few glasses of water and eating something not originating from your refrigerator will help."

Mulder starts to object, but the look she gives him silences him. The fire he saw reflected in her eyes earlier has dissipated significantly, but the underlying message is still the same — to remain safe is to remain silent.

Just when he thinks she is going to leave without another word, she pauses, her back to him and her hand on the door.

"You're not a sorry son of a bitch, Mulder," she says quietly. "This would be so much easier if you were."

She doesn't turn to meet his eyes or give him a chance to respond as she steps out into the hallway and closes the door. The click of her heels and ding of the elevator serve as her bid goodbye, leaving him with only one fleeting thought.

This, what the fuck does this mean?

—

The next morning, Scully finds Mulder waiting for her outside of her apartment with her favorite brand of coffee in hand. As infuriating as the man can be, he can also be quite thoughtful and charming when the occasion calls, especially when he is well aware of the fact that he is in the doghouse. She had covered for him the day before without a second thought. Even as angry as she was at him for pushing the boundaries of their relationship and demanding that she talk before she was ready, the idea of leaving him hanging out to dry in front of their boss had never even occurred to her.

To an outsider looking in, Mulder appears no worse for the wear as they make their way through security and stow their carry ons in the overhead compartment, but Scully knows him far too well to miss the heaviness in his step. He was keeping himself in check, but yesterday's events were clearly weighing just as heavily his mind as they were hers.

Mulder hadn't been entirely wrong in what he said to her two nights prior. Sure, he could have knocked first and polished his diplomacy a bit, but his underlying grievances weren't unfounded.

On the night in question, he had been the one to cool things down and question the wisdom of what she was asking of him.

"Are you sure, Scully? Absolutely sure?"

In response, she had reassured him in the one way she knew he wouldn't be able to resist. And because of that, he had every right to be frustrated with the silence and avoidance that followed. That point aside, he couldn't be more wrong about her motives. She hadn't invited him into her bed on a lonely night to scratch an itch. She had invited him to her bed because she wanted him and had wanted him for years.

The factor she failed to account for was the depth at which he wanted her. As he had entered her and searched her eyes, a switch had been flicked somewhere deep within her — a switch that could not be ignored or restored to default. To complicate matters even further, she had watched as the same switch had flicked within him.

The admission that passed between them at that moment had been a quiet one, but not having vocalized it hadn't made it any less significant.

Now, all these months later, Scully still finds herself at a loss for words.

In the past, continuing on as if nothing happened had served as a silent handshake of sorts — a truce between partners. But this was different. With this, there was no reverting to the way things were before. There was no longer a before. There was only after.

Selling it as anything else would be a lie. But the question currently weighing on Scully's mind isn't if her partnership with Mulder can survive a lie, it's if it can withstand the truth.

—

They arrive in Charleston shortly after 10:00 A.M. and are immediately ushered to police headquarters where they are brought in to observe the interrogation of Fred Burgle, a man who continues to assert that something unworldly was responsible for the disappearance of his wife and two children three nights prior. It was just the type of case Mulder needed to get his juices flowing. He knew work would not completely alleviate the tension between him and Scully, but it certainly had served to take the edge off. The hum of frustration that still lulled between them, however, had not gone entirely unnoticed.

"Lover's quarrel?" a local asked him.

Mulder gave him a sharp glance to discourage any further inquisition, but from that point forward, he made it a point to watch his body language around Scully. The last thing either of them needed was for a question along those lines to be relayed to Scully directly. She had, after all, shot a man for less.

The Burgle investigation ended up turning into a four-day excursion when the bodies of Burgle's wife and two children turned up in a landfill nearly 60 miles away with not a single scratch, contusion, or abrasion on them. This discovery was further complicated by the fact that Burgle had been in police custody during the timeframe in which the bodies were suspected to have been dumped.

The lack of forensic evidence and no apparent cause of death had not made Scully's job any easier, but that was the nature of their work. There was science, and then there was that which could not be explained.

In the end, there was little to no evidence to connect Fred Burgle to the mysterious deaths of his wife and children, resulting in him being released from police custody. But Burgle's insistence that something not of this world had taken his wife and children and his erratic behavior in the community following his release lead him straight to the psychiatric ward where he was heavily medicated and effectively silenced.

Mulder found the entire process infuriating, but with there being little to no evidence to support Burgle's claim, there was little to do other than file their report and catch a flight back to D.C.

By the time they land in D.C., it's well past 9:00 P.M. and they are both exhausted.

Given the tension between them, he's hesitant to offer Scully a ride home, fearing what the offer might infer. But to his surprise, she accepts his offer rather than insisting on calling a cab.

Mulder had anticipated something resembling an arctic blast as soon as they had landed in D.C., but rather than avoiding him, Scully appears to be biding her time.

His suspicions are confirmed when they arrive at her apartment.

Rather than grabbing her things and disappearing into the night, she remains seated, staring out the window and fidgeting with her keys as if she's contemplating quantum physics. Not knowing what to say or how to react to the change in her demeanor, he opts to remain silent and wait. Seemingly pleased with his patience, Scully turns her head and gives him her eyes.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mulder?" she asks.

Nodding, he shuts off the car and grabs her bag from the back seat, rounding the car to walk up the sidewalk with her and waving her off as she reaches to take her bag.

Neither one of them speaks as they enter her building. With his hands full, he follows closely behind her and waits for her to unlock the door and turn on a few lights. Not wanting to intrude beyond his welcome, he lays her carryon at the mouth of the hallway that leads back to her bedroom and then takes a seat on the couch.

The apartment is silent apart from Scully's movement in the kitchen, but instead of attempting to fill the silence. He waits.

"Hazelnut or Pumpkin Spice?" she asks from in the kitchen.

"Hazelnut."

A few more minutes pass before she appears from behind with two steaming cups of hot coffee. Setting them down on the coffee table, she moves a pillow aside and takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch, folding her feet beneath her and then placing the pillow in her lap. Once settled, she reaches for her coffee and gently blows over the surface, taking a cautious sip as she glances over the top of her cup at him.

Following her lead, Mulder picks up his cup and sips. It's too hot to drink quickly or hold comfortably, so he places it back on the coaster and leans back into the couch. When he turns to face her again, he finds her studying him.

"Do you really think it meant nothing to me?" she asks.

A bit taken aback by her directness, he searches her eyes for clues as to where her emotions lie, but she gives him nothing.

"No," he replies honestly.

"Then why ask me?" she asks, placing her coffee cup back on the table. "Why ask me a question you already know the answer to?"

Taking a moment to choose his words carefully, he continues to study her, hoping to determine where this is going, but again, she gives him nothing.

"I think… more than anything," he says carefully, "I just wanted some form of acknowledgment that it wasn't just one lonely night… that it meant as much to you as it did to me… that you felt it too."

His words, though spoken softly, pack a punch, charging the room with a buzz of electricity that wasn't there before. Mulder knows that Scully feels it too, for the tears brewing in corners of her eyes are doing little to hide the depth of emotion and longing flowing through her veins as she holds his gaze.

Leaning forward, he grabs several tissues from the kleenex box on the corner of the coffee table and hands them to her, but instead of using them to dot at her eyes, Scully picks at them, blinking back her tears as she averts her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Scul—"

"It wasn't," she replies softly, interrupting him. "It wasn't just a lonely night."

Nodding, he swallows thickly, unsure of what to say or how he should respond.

He wants to be elated.

He wants to crawl across the couch, run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her until neither of them can breathe, but he does neither of those things. Instead, he waits.

"I did think I was going to die, but that wasn't why I… why we…"

"Had sex?" he offers.

The smirk that crosses her lips as he says it gives him the permission he needed to smile and laugh lightly and a wave of relief washes over him when her soft laughter joins his. The lightness of the moment, however, is short-lived, quickly sobering as she shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

Her admission that it meant something to her too settled him tremendously, but there is still something there. Something that she is holding back.

"What are you scared of, Scully?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't answer immediately, but she does give him her eyes as she ponders his question. Holding her gaze, he waits as she searches his eyes.

"The truth."

"And what might that be?"

This time she doesn't answer with words. Instead, she leans forward and closes the gap between them. Before he has time to accost himself for not meeting her halfway, her lips are on his, and all rational thought flees.

For the first few moments, her lips merely rest on his, but the soft, sweet tenderness of it doesn't last as their mouths begin to move in sync and passion consumes them. Within a matter of minutes, she is straddling his lap, and his hands are running along her back and through her hair. It's been months since they've touched each other, but they have by no means forgotten how.

His shirt is the first to go with her sweater following quickly after. They aren't in a rush, but they don't take their time either. When it comes time to remove the final barriers that separate them, they move to the bedroom.

As magical as the first few times had been, there was still an element of awkwardness to them. Mulder suspected that some of it had to do with Scully being uncomfortable with the amount of weight she lost following the chemo treatments. He had done everything shy of worshiping the ground she walked on, but there had still been an uneasy shyness about her as his eyes had raked over her, but tonight as he loves her, he sees no trace of the shy, insecure woman who had pulled him into bed six months ago.

When he enters her, he sees the same look in her eyes that he saw before. While neither of them is quite ready to say the words, the truth is there for both of them to see. It's a truth they both know.

—

Sweat clings to her body in every crevice, but she has no regrets.

No. Dana Scully is completely and utterly satisfied in the best possible way.

"Wow," he says in a voice filled with both satisfaction and awe. "It wasn't just a dream."

Chuckling softly as she runs her fingertips lightly over his chest, she nuzzles her head deeper into his embrace and smiles.

"No, I'm afraid the dreams don't quite compare."

Following their weekend of smut-filled fuckery months earlier, Scully had questioned if it had truly been as good as she remembered it being, or if she was just horny and lonely enough in the weeks and months that followed to fill in the muscle memory with fantasy.

Now, as she lays splayed across his chest completely sated, she is again reminded that fantasy and all previous notions of fantasy hadn't held a candle to Fox Mulder. While this certainly wasn't at the forefront of her mind when she invited him up. She has no regrets.

"Oh, I don't know, Scully. I've had some really nice dreams over the years."

Lifting her head to meet his eyes briefly, she raises her brow at him and smirks.

"Is that so?" she asks, chuckling softly. "Do tell."

"Sometimes, I dream of being on the beach."

"Mmmm… and what's on the beach?"

"Big, beautiful, rounded, and perfectly crafted works of art."

"This is beginning to sound more like one of those videos in your apartment."

"Videos?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"Yes, you know, the ones that don't belong you."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

To this, she snorts, giving his side a pinch that is just hard enough to make him jump.

"Owww…"

"So what does this art you speak of entail?"

"Well, the build-up takes time, creativity, and dedication to detail."

"Oh, is that so?"

The entire time he's speaking her hands wander.

"Mmmmm… but in the end, the big picture it creates is worth the effort."

"Big, huh?"

"Well, not just any size will do. It needs to stand at least three to four feet tall to draw attention to itself."

"Three to four feet tall?" she asks, raising her head again, her eyes wide.

"The small ones are child's play, Scully."

"Okay, now I know we are talking about the videos."

"I mean, I guess you could film the process if you wanted to, but it's not something that you can do quickly. Not if you want to do it right."

"Mulder…"

"What you really need are various sizes of buckets, sticks, and shovels."

Realization dawns on her in a rush.

Her first reaction is to smack him across the chest, but she can't stop the deep laughter that escapes her when she realizes what he's actually referencing.

"Sandcastles, Mulder. Really?"

Laughter reverberates through him as he draws her closer, intertwining his legs with hers and running his fingers through hair.

"Well, they aren't your standard sand sculptures, Scully. They are large, elaborate and bear a remarkable resemblance to an alien spacecraft."

"I'm going to ask you to stop talking now," she says, her voice laced with sleep and mocked annoyance.

"You would like them."

"Only you would have a dream about sand-built UFOs and lump that in with erotica."

They share a laugh as their hands continue to caress. Shifting his weight, he moves to reposition them, spooning her from behind as he lightly kisses her shoulder and neck.

"I don't need erotic dreams. Not when I have you," he says, his breath tickling her neck as he speaks.

Taking his hand in hers, she wraps herself tightly in his embrace and kisses his hand.

"Goodnight, Mulder," she says softly.

"Sweet dreams, Scully."

Another burst of laughter erupts, followed by a playful smack, and then softer laughter.

As they slowly slip into a peaceful slumber, Scully finds herself contemplating the future — a future where she will be brave enough to build sandcastles in the sky.

—

A puff of smoke temporarily blocks the view of the two figures on the screen as they settle into a peaceful slumber.

"Well, this certainly changes things."

"Yes... yes, it most certainly does."

||

AN: Yeah, I did that. I threw in a bit of CC, you know, for science. Bhahahaha. But, in all seriousness, I have ALWAYS thought there was more to the lonely night quote in The Truth (9x19) than just the shock of Scully realizing that they had been watched. The way Scully reacts when she hears that particular phrase has always suggested to me that it was a moment of significance, which would also explain her apparent certainty that he wasn't bluffing. So here you have it - my lonely night headcanon, packaged and wrapped up in the cancer arc.

A huge thanks to my beta @kikocrystalball and @gaycrouton for creating and orchestrating this episode gift exchange.

[its-flicked-switch]

A new chapter for this work is now LIVE on AO3 for those following this work.

God is a Woman

Mulder takes Scully away for the weekend with an impending blizzard on the horizon. What secrets will be unveiled as the snow falls and weekend draws on? Will the walls they’ve built unequivocally fall? Or will new ones be built? Set post All Things and pre Requiem.

Rating: Explicit

—

PREPARATION

—

Friday

5:54 P.M.

—

Scully regards her drawer of unmentionables with hesitance. Fresh out of the shower, she contemplates her choices, biting down on her lip as she scans over the various sets in front of her, most of which are fairly basic. Recently, however, she has expanded her collection to include a few that are a bit more risqué. Her eyes settle on a red-laced shelf bra and matching thong set that she purchased several weeks prior. The purchase was brazen and impulsive. She’s never worn anything like this for anyone, but she wants to for him.

Releasing her bottom lip, she lifts the matching set from the drawer, slipping on the thong and clasping the bra just below the swell of her breasts and twisting it around as she moves to stand in front of the mirror. She adjusts the straps and turns side to side to assess and adjust. The set fits her like a glove and leaves little to the imagination. With the straps shortened, the bra accentuates her cleavage perfectly, giving it cascading and spilling out effect that she knows will drive Mulder absolutely insane. Unable to hold back the smirk that tugs at her lips, she runs her fingers along the lace and sighs as she imagines Mulder doing the same.

The physical aspect of their relationship is still new enough that, at times, it’s awkward to navigate. Having now tasted the forbidden fruit, the challenge to remain professional and keep their developing relationship from becoming public knowledge has become increasingly more difficult. She finds herself laughing, smiling, and entertaining his nonsense more often than not. She no longer discourages his leering gaze or flirtatious banter. If anything, she encourages it. Sex with Mulder has made her wanton. His touch has emboldened her and given her the confidence to leave buttons undone and wear lace.

Keep reading

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This is how I like my Mulder. 

fox and the hound

for the 2019 Summer Exchange. Prompt: Scully goes to San Diego and needs Mulder to keep Queequeg for the weekend because her usual “dog-sitter” is not available. (thanks @childofjobassa for the gif!)

SATURDAY

“Sit! Stay! Queequeg!”

Mulder locked eyes with the tiny ball of fur that had destroyed his living room. Queequeg snarled, actually snarled, and bared his teeth. It was hard to believe such a tiny thing could wreak this amount of havoc in such a short time.

He should never have agreed to this. But he was starting to suspect there was probably nothing he wouldn’t do for Scully at this point.

“The dog sitter had an emergency and I really don’t want to board him, Mulder,” she’d said as she held the dog in his doorway. “He doesn’t like other dogs very much. He really only likes me, to be honest.”

“What makes you think he’ll like me?” Mulder argued. Queequeg panted happily, looking from partner to partner.

“Of course he’ll like you,” she insisted. “What’s not to like?” He knew when she was buttering him up. He couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Scully was hopeful, Mulder was skeptical. It was a rare reversal in their dynamic. But he couldn’t say no to her. He reached out and she smiled, placing the dog in his arms. Trusting him. He wanted her to trust him.

“When are you back?” he asked, as she pulled from her pocket a folded up piece of paper that presumably contained instructions and slid it into his own shirt pocket.

“The wedding is tomorrow, and I’ll be home Monday. Is that okay?”

Queequeg licked Mulder’s face, and he fell for it. This would be a snap, and it would make Scully happy. Done and done.

“Have fun. Be sure and catch the bouquet.”

“I always do,” she smirked. She gave her dog a final scratch on the head, told him to be good, and then looked at Mulder. “Thank you for taking care of him, I mean it.”

“We’ll be fine. Say hi to the family for me.”

She grinned, plunked down a bag of doggy necessities, and with that she was off to San Diego for three days. He looked down at the dog in his arms, who stared after Scully. The moment the elevator door closed he growled and squirmed out of his grasp, running deep into the apartment.

Queequeg glared at him now, truly glared, and he was starting to suspect this dog didn’t want to be here any more than Mulder wanted him here. He waddled to the edge of the couch, which he’d already taken a substantial bite out of, and lifted his leg slowly, his eyes never leaving Mulder’s the entire time.

Mulder made no sudden movements. He shook his head in frustration. “What the hell does she see in you?”

As if the dog sensed Mulder’s disdain, he let it fly. A thin stream of urine sprayed the couch.

“No! Bad dog!” Mulder yelled, as he lunged at the animal. Queequeg yelped and ran into the kitchen. Just then the phone rang. He grabbed some paper towels with one hand and his ringing cell with the other.

“Mulder,” he answered.

“Mulder, it’s me. How’s everything going?”

“Oh, umm… fine, it’s fine.” He knelt down and soaked up the dog pee, scrunching his face in disgust. “How was your flight?”

“Just landed. Wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.”

“Already? Scully. We’re fine. I can handle this. Just go, relax. Have a good time. We are gonna be fine.” Realizing he’d used the word ‘fine’ four times now, he wondered if she actually believed him.

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, Scully.” He ran into the kitchen with the phone tucked behind his ear to grab a sponge.

“I trust you, Mulder. Oh- that’s my ride, I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up and he was alone with the dog again. Queequeg growled and started gnawing and tearing at his kitchen rug.

It was time to call in reinforcements.

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[its-flicked-switch]

It Can Be

Teen and Up | 2.8k

While on a stakeout, a burning question is asked leading to unexpected revelations and a conversation that is long overdue. Set mid to late S6.

This story was written for the X-Files Secret Summer Fanfic Exchange (2019) created and orchestrated by OnlyTheInevitable\\ @gaycrouton.

Prompt: "I'm ok with twists or turns, fluff or angst, but true to characters."

A gift to Pstafford3 (Twitter)

Beta by: @kikocrystalball and @admiralty-xfd

"Well, you need a father, of course. I can get you genetic counseling on finding an anonymous donor if that's what you want... unless you already have someone in mind."

"Yeah... I, uh... I just have to figure out how to ask him."

Flashback in 8x13 — Per Manum

|| 2 days later ||

"If Emily had lived … do you think I could have done it? Been a single mother?"

They've been sitting in a car outside of an abandoned warehouse for nearly an hour indulging one of his hunches. Mulder had anticipated catching the third degree for calling her at 2 A.M. on a Saturday morning, but this is not the degree he expected, so he proceeds with caution.

"That's a rather loaded question."

He doesn't say it to be abrasive or to deflect away from the seriousness and vulnerability he hears in her voice. He says it because he's not sure what else to say.

Their interactions following the revelation of her stolen ova have been strained. While Scully hasn't outright ignored him or overtly lashed out at him, she's certainly maintained a respectable distance, keeping her fury and frustration hidden beneath layers of masked professionalism. After their discussion in the elevator, Mulder had braced himself for fire and brimstone, but so far, all he has been afforded is silence, which is far worse.

Two weeks have passed, but the tension is still unbearably high, leading him to believe that she has conferred with several specialists of her own choosing and has now reached the same conclusion he arrived at little over a year ago — the ova are not viable. While he can appreciate her anger, he doubts that she fully grasps his intent in keeping it from her or the depth at which it has eaten away at him.

When he discovered her stolen ova back in 1997, he immediately took them to a specialist to be assessed, and when he hadn't gotten the answer he wanted to hear, he had them sent them to another one. That pattern held for well over six months before he finally relented.

Keeping it from her had been an easy decision to make in the beginning given how gravely ill she was, but as her health returned, his justification in continuing to do so had been more complicated. Ultimately, he had kept it from her out of pure, unadulterated hope. Hope that there was an answer — a different path that he could take that would lead him to something other than the devastating news he currently had: the ova are not viable.

How in the fuck was he supposed to tell her that? On top of everything else, how could he possibly tell her that he had found her ova, but that there was nothing to be done with them? That they were useless? He couldn't even say it to himself in the mirror without becoming physically ill.

If the syndicate possessed the power to cure her cancer, then was it not reasonable to assume that they also possessed the ability to reverse her infertility? Somehow turning unviable ova into something viable? It didn't seem any less likely than curing incurable cancer.

Scully was the scientist, not him. Yet, the leading experts in the field had already told him that he was wasting his time and money looking for alternatives and storing ova that were not viable. Within a year, he was convinced that there was nothing conventional that could be done and was unable to stomach telling Scully that the fate of her ability to conceive a child of her own making would rest in the hands of the same monsters who had taken that right from her to begin with.

He valued his partnership with Scully more than anything, and he would move mountains or die trying before he would ever hurt her. And this news — this secret, would undoubtedly hurt her, so instead of telling her the truth, he had kept it from her and continued to search for solutions on his own with the hope that when the time came, he would have an answer. But in the blink of an eye, weeks turned into months and months into years, and still, there had been no resolution, conventional or otherwise.

And then came Emily.

Emily's sudden appearance changed everything. She was living proof that Scully's ova had been viable at one point, or that perhaps, out of all those extracted, he had just been unlucky enough to grab the one vial that was useless.

That was the other issue. Telling Scully the truth would require another harmful and devastating admission. There were more out there, and they were currently unaccounted for. When he returned to the research facility to retrieve the other vials, they were gone, either removed or destroyed, and there was no way to determine which since the facility had been burned to the ground.

The matter was further complicated by his degree of uncertainty with regards to her current medical status and the nature and permanency of the effects of the experimentation that was performed. While it was clear that they had taken a substantial amount of Scully's reproductive material, it was unclear if they had taken everything. Had what was in that drawer been a representation of everything they had taken? Or had there been more stored elsewhere? Had the extraction left her completely barren? Or had it merely ensured that it would be difficult for her to conceive naturally? If so, did she know?

Seeing her with Emily had only deepened his despair. He should have told her about the ova then. Hell, he should have told her as soon as she returned to work, months before Emily ever came into the picture, but he continued to hold back, having convinced himself that all he needed was more time. But all of that changed two weeks ago when he found Scully standing in a daze on the elevator. In that moment, every argument and justification he had ever made crumbled.

He couldn't keep it from her any longer. Not when she had brought it to him directly. She deserved to know the truth, and he had already kept it from her for far longer than he should have.

This is how Mulder came to be the asshole who told his partner about her stolen ova on an elevator.

"So you don't," Scully says, breaking their silence. "You don't think I could have done it."

There's an edge to her voice that makes him inwardly cringe. It comes out matter-of-fact, but Mulder knows better.

"I didn't say that. I just said it was a loaded question," he replies, doing his best to choose his words carefully.

"You either do or don't. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

The bite in her voice is unmistakable. Scully is pissed, and frankly, she has a right to be. He just wishes that he could find a way to articulate his intentions to her. While he's well aware of the fact that he can be a certified asshole, he would never do anything to intentionally harm her, and he knows that underneath all of the anger and hurt, she knows that.

Everything he has done, he has done to protect her.

"Scully—"

"I asked you to back me up … to testify on my behalf and you did, but there was … hesitancy there. From both you and my family."

"I can't speak for your family, Scully. I can only speak for myself, but you're right, I did have reservations … but none of them had anything to do with you or your ability to parent or raise a child."

"Then—"

"Three years after your abduction, a child shows up with your DNA. I was questioning the validity of it and what it could mean, especially in light of what I knew they had taken from you. Had the circumstances been different, I would have been happy for you … elated even, but instead I was terrified … for you and for her … and at the same time I was furious."

"Furious?"

"They took something from you that they had no right to take … something that was yours to give to a person of your choosing. And Emily? She didn't deserve … no child deserves to be a pawn in someone else's game. I know that better than most."

The silence that ensues is thick, but instead of letting it hang, Mulder presses forward.

"I just had a feeling … a feeling that it wasn't real."

"She was real, Mulder, and she was mine."

"Yet she wasn't. She bled green."

She doesn't argue with him on this point because she can't, but she's clearly not pleased with him for making it to begin with.

"I shouldn't have kept this from you, Scully. I know that, and I'm sorry."

"Yet you did it anyway. For almost two years."

"You've never asked me why."

"Because it doesn't matter. You had no right."

"It does matter. It matters a lot."

"Okay. I'll bite. Why, Mulder? Why did you think that keeping me in the dark about MY OWN genetic material was a good call for YOU to make? Were you afraid that I would break down and check myself into a psychiatric ward? Or was keeping it from me more about your impending fear of me leaving you alone to chase monsters in the dark?"

The heat radiating off of her body and venom in her voice startles him into silence.

This is the reaction he anticipated two weeks ago, but the anticipation hasn't diminished its impact. It would be easy in this moment to give it right back to her and let his rising pulse predominate, giving her the fight she's clearly looking for, but he won't. If she wants to be angry, that is certainly her right, but she is at least going to have all of the facts straight first.

"Do you honestly believe, after everything that we've been through, that I would ever do anything to intentionally hurt you, Dana?"

The use of her given name is intentional. It's a quiet, subtle ceasefire, and the effect it has is immediate. As soon as it rolls off of his tongue, she stills, the fire in her eyes dissipating as her attention shifts. Holding her gaze, he lets the silence that follows hang, cooling the air around them before he continues.

"The look of devastation that crossed your face … I would have done anything in the world to keep that look off of your face, so yes, I kept it from you. I consulted every credentialed doctor and accredited research facility in the country and refused to let them destroy them despite being told repeatedly that they weren't viable. I wanted to find a solution, even if it wasn't a conventional one … so that one day, when I did tell you, it wouldn't be the news I have now. Keeping this from you was wrong, and you have every right to be angry but don't think for a single second that it didn't weigh on me, because it did. It still does."

The silence that follows is heavy, the intensity of the moment driving Scully to avert her eyes. The fire that filled them earlier has fled, making way for the emotions brewing underneath. She's hurt, devastated even, and now, she's trying desperately not to cry.

Pulling his handkerchief out his pocket, he hands it to her and waits, unsure of what to say or if he should say anything else at all.

At this point, it's clear that this stakeout is a bust, but he doesn't want to make it more awkward or break the moment by starting the car and pulling away. Instead, he fixes his eyes ahead, giving her a bit of privacy as the light of dawn begins to creep up over the horizon.

"You still haven't answered my question," she says after a few moments have passed.

Her voice is low, but the tone she sets requires no translation. Scully is a woman of action, so the fact that she has returned to her original question is her concession. While she may not like or agree with what he has kept from her, she has forgiven him.

"If you're asking me if I think that you would be a good mother, then the answer is yes," Mulder replies.

The lack of hesitancy in his response appears to surprise her, shifting her gaze back to his.

"Then why the—"

"You asked specifically about being a single mother," he replies evenly.

"Yes, and?"

Sighing, Mulder shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how much more he should say if anything at all.

"Well, I just don't see that as being an issue, and I'm not saying that because I think you are incapable of doing it alone."

"They why are you saying it?"

"Scully … look … I …," he says, taking a deep breath. "I already feel like I'm six feet under, I don't want to say anything to make it worse."

"That ship has already sailed, so you might as well just say it."

Sighing and regarding her cautiously, he relents and says what's on his mind. If she wants an honest answer, he will give her one. Given all he has kept from her over the past two years, he owes her that much.

"It's just … you have too much to offer someone else to be forced down that road alone."

Of all the things she expected to come out of his mouth, this was clearly not one of them. The blush rising in her cheeks does little to hide her surprise at his admission. He would feel more guilty for making her uncomfortable if she didn't look so radiant. Even with minimal sleep and tear stained eyes, she's still the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. That much hasn't changed in the six years he's known her.

"Look," he says, returning his focus back to the warehouse. "All I'm saying is that if raising a child is something you want to do, then there is absolutely no reason for you do it alone unless you just want to."

"Mulder, I haven't been asked out on a date in years."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well, it's true."

"Men can be idiots."

To this, he receives no argument, only a ghost of a snort as Scully relaxes more deeply into her seat.

"Well, then, I guess all the men currently in my life are idiots."

"Guilty as charged," he says, raising his hands into the air.

Their soft laughter echoes in the car briefly before again returning them into silence, but unlike the silences that preceded them, this one is comfortable. Mulder knows he should quit while he is ahead, but he can't.

"You're a lethal combination, Scully. Not all men can handle that."

"Lethal combination?"

"Stunning and intelligent. Typically, you get one or the other … both are… well, a bit rare and can be a bit intimidating."

Scully doesn't say anything in response, but the pink hue rising up through her neck and into her cheeks warns him that he's teetering dangerously close to the edge. He doesn't want to embarrass her or make her uncomfortable, but he also wants her to know that he does see her, not just as a partner but as a woman. A woman who has a tremendous amount to offer, little of which has anything to do with her reproductive status.

When she doesn't speak, he begins to backpedal a bit, not wanting to end on a note that is upsetting or uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Look, I think you will be an excellent mother with or without a partner, so if that's what you're asking, then that's my answer. Forget the rest."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable Mulder," she says quietly, avoiding his eyes. "It's just … not something I'm used to hearing."

"Hmmm … sounds to me like you need better friends, or maybe just a better partner. One who actually encourages you to get out of the car."

"Mmmm … my partner can certainly be an ass, but he's grown on me. And most of the time, I don't actually mind being in the car."

"And the other times?"

To this, she only smirks, nodding her head in a manner of dismissal and averting her gaze back to the warehouse. When it's clear she's going to let the question hang without answering it, Mulder changes the subject.

"Why … why bring this up?"

He asks the question half expecting her to skirt around it without directly answering it, but she doesn't.

"Because I'm almost 35. There are options out there … I just have to decide whether or not I'm going to take them."

"Well, whatever you decide, you'll have my full support, Scully."

The silence that follows surprises him, causing him to shift his focus back to her and study her expression. What he finds is as intriguing as it is troubling. There's clearly something weighing on her mind. Something she isn't sharing.

"I wish it were that simple."

Reaching out, he takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

"It can be."

[its-flicked-switch]

For those of you following this story, the conclusion has now been posted on AO3.

Transitive Property of Equality

All of the moments leading up to the COTP, candlelight confessions, and the revelation of miracle baby #2. This work remains canon with the events of S11, filling in the gaps of Mulder and Scully’s relationship and their leap of faith forward for the future. 

SMUT to be found in all the places you would expect.

Rating: Explicit

This story is my baby.

I initially drafted this work to be 10 chapters - one for each of the S11 episodes, but that quickly expanded into 20 chapters. With that being said, posting the full length of this work on Tumblr seems … excessive, so I’ve made the decision to just post the first chapter and link the rest. In the future, I will post my longer works here just as I publish them on AO3 and ff.net, but with my Tumblr account being new, posting 60k+ all at once would be madness. Should you read this first chapter and be interested in reading the rest, it’s linked here. 

 CH 1: THE PLACE WE CALLED HOME

Post 11x01 - My Struggle III

Mulder takes Scully home.

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[its-flicked-switch]

I absolutely adore this!!!

gifts

msr | mature | words: 2.2k

happy birthday, fox mulder. fictober day ??

a day late and a dollar short, and i’ve lost track of what day i’m on for fictober, but here’s this. putting the soft in softnow since 2018. tagging @today-in-fic and @fictober.

— — —

He wakes to her mouth on his abdomen, just below his belly button. She’s bedheaded and perfect, the sheet wrapped around her like a dress. She is his Greek goddess and he her supplicant.

Except she’s the one on her knees working lower, lower, lower.

“Good morning,” she murmurs to his hipbone.

“Hi,” he manages, reaching for her hand, her shoulder, any part he can reach.

“Happy birthday.” Her breath is hot on his eager flesh, hotter still when she swallows him down.

His back arches from the mattress and he calls to God. It’s already the best birthday he’s ever had.

—

“Mulder, no.” She gazes down at him through a curtain of hair and bites her lip. “It’s your birthday. You don’t have to—”

He runs a finger along her swollen slit, gently parting her. She’s dripping for him, sweet and rich and hot. So altruistic, his Scully. So selfless.

His hands find her hips and he tugs her down closer. There is no better feeling than being trapped between her thighs.

“But Scul-ly. This is my favorite treat.”

He licks her once, long and slow, his eyes locked with hers. She whimpers and trembles and nods her head. Happy birthday to him.

—

It’s ten thirty before they stumble from bed, weak-kneed and sticky, and almost eleven thirty before they make it out of the shower. Her fingertips are pruney and he kisses each one while she laughs.

“Come on,” she says. “Get dressed.”

She drops her towel and he can’t help himself. He’s another year older, but he’s never felt younger than he does with her. He corners her against the dresser and kisses her neck.

It’s after noon before they make it out the door.

—

She takes him to Merle’s, the all-day-breakfast diner by her apartment. She hates Merle’s, hates that there’s nothing that isn’t fried in grease, hates that the only bread options are white and thick white, that the closest thing to a vegetable is ketchup.

But she takes him and doesn’t complain. Doesn’t so much as wrinkle her nose at her fried egg and drippy home fries. Just rubs her foot along the inside of his calf beneath the table and smiles her little self-satisfied Scully smile.

“Is it good?” she asks, leaning her chin on her fist and watching him mop yolk off his plate with a biscuit.

She’s in his sweater, oatmeal-colored and cable knit. It keeps trying to slide off one shoulder and she has to roll up the sleeves. Her hair is soft from their shower, her face clean and open and so obviously happy it almost hurts to look at her.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Scully, it’s really good.”

—

For his eighth birthday, his grandmother gave him a telescope. He set it up in front of his bedroom window and spent every night of the next six months kneeling in front of it, hoping to see an astronaut. He never did, but the excitement of gazing up into the vast inky darkness, spotting flashes of light and new-to-him celestial bodies, was fresh every time.

He can’t remember the last time he looked up just to look, and he wonders if she knows it. If that’s why she brought him here, tucked her little hand into his and reclined beside him. Pointed up and said, “Tell me about that one.”

They’re the only two in the planetarium this afternoon, so he doesn’t feel too bad about talking over the recorded spiel. Doesn’t feel too bad about drawing her closer to sit half in his lap. Doesn’t feel bad at all about making up lies just to hear her little snort.

“That one,” he says, curling a hand around her hip, “is Maruvius Prime, home of Marvin the Martian.”

“Hmm, I thought he was from Mars,” she whispers, soft like there’s somebody to disturb.

He kisses her temple. “A common misconception.”

“Well, then.” She settles into his embrace. “Feel free to set the record straight.”

“Ah, Miss Scully. I thought you’d never ask.”

He sets the record every way but straight, and her laughter is the biggest planet of all.

—

She buys him a hat (The Sky Is Not The Limit!) in the gift shop and doesn’t complain when he puts it on her head instead, pulls it down over her eyes by the bill and kisses her right there on the sidewalk.  

“Wanna go see a movie?” she asks, straightening the cap and falling in step beside him. Her hand in his is warm and dry. When was the last time she let him hold it in public? When was the last time they went out as Mulder and Scully, people, not Mulder and Scully, agents? “I hear they’re doing monster movies on E Street. Bride of Frankenstein, The Blob…”

“Be still, my heart. You really know how to woo a guy, don’t you?”

She squeezes his fingers and smiles. “That a yes?”

“That’s a yes, Scully. I absolutely want to see The Blob with you.”

She leans into him and wears that silly hat all the way to the theatre. It—like the oatmeal-colored sweater with the too-long sleeves, like all bedsheets everywhere—looks better on her.

—

There’s a not insignificant part of him that expects the theatre to catch fire. Or for some madman with a gun to stand up and start taking hostages. Or for the actual Blob to burst through the doors and consume everything in its wake.

Because Fox Mulder doesn’t have days like this. Fox Mulder doesn’t get woken up by the most amazing woman in the world, get to spend hours playing in her luscious body, get taken to breakfast and planetariums and the movies where said most amazing woman not only concedes to buttered popcorn, but to Red Vines, too.

So as much as he loves The Blob, and as much as he really loves watching The Blob with Scully, he spends most of the movie in tense anticipation, waiting for the other shoe. Waiting for the thing that confirms, ah, yep, this really is your life, Foxy, old pal. Here’s some pain to be sure.

But it doesn’t come. The only things that come are the credits and Scully’s breath on his neck, asking if he wants to stay for The Fly or if he’s ready to go home. Her hand on his thigh, scratching gently through his jeans, makes the decision easy.

—

“Do you want your present now?” She’s propped against his headboard, breasts bare and milky in the glow of his bedside lamp. He gazes up at her from where he’s been dozing in her lap, full of takeout Italian and her wine-sweetened lips.

“This wasn’t my present?” he asks, drawing a circle around her soft nipple.

“Hmm, your other present.”

“Scully.” He flattens his hand over her left breast. It is the weight of everything good in his life. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

She smooths his hair back from his forehead, scrapes her nails along his scalp. “I wanted to,” she says. “It’s your birthday. Let me up.”

He shifts to the side and she slips from bed, wiggling her naked behind more than strictly necessary on her way to the living room.

The things she does for him. He can hardly stand it. She deserves to be shaking her ass for someone who can give her so much more than he can. If he wasn’t such a selfish son of a bitch, maybe he’d tell her that.

A minute later, she returns with a small package wrapped in gold foil and climbs back under the covers with him.

“Here.” She thrusts the package into his hands and tucks the sheet up under her armpits. He wants to tug it back down, already misses the rosy peaks of her breasts, but he recognizes the posture. Defensive. Nervous.

He weighs the gift in his hand, turns it over, examines the deftly-folded wrapping. It’s a videotape. He recognizes the size, the feel. Why would she be nervous about a videotape?

“Go on,” she says, bumping her shoulder to his. “Open it.”

The paper tears away easily and he tosses it overboard to join the mess of clothes on the floor before focusing on the thing in his hands. He stares at it for a minute, confused. Then he bursts out laughing.

“Superstars of the Super Bowl? You shouldn’t have.” He kisses her pinked cheek. “Thank you.”

Does she remember him giving her this same tape all those years ago? Probably not. She’d just come back from…wherever they took her. He doesn’t like to think about it. She’d probably been too tired and anxious. She’d probably even forgotten to take the tape home with her. But still. What are the odds.

“Mulder, I know it's—”

“Perfect, Scully, really. I appreciate it. A guy can never have enough football.”

He sets it on the nightstand and reaches for her, kisses her shoulder, her collarbone. She could have given him an empty box and he would have been this happy, he’s certain.

“Are you gonna—”

“What?” He raises up to look at her, rubs a lock of her hair between his fingers. “You wanna watch it now? We can watch it now.”

She bites her lip and he can see her thinking. Football or sex, Scully. What’ll it be?

“No,” she says after a minute. “No, that’s alright.”

“You sure?” He moves like he’s going to get out of bed just so she’ll cling tighter, draw him back down.

“C'mon, Mulder.” Her mouth finds his jaw and makes a home there. “Your other present’s getting cold.”

—

The next morning, she leaves after breakfast. She has dry cleaning to pick up, a bathroom to clean, a mother to call. He understands, of course, but he feels a little letdown all the same when the door clicks and he’s left alone with his fish and his thoughts and his half-finished coffee. Birthday over. Back to real life.

He stretches out on the couch, flips channels for a while, wonders how long he should wait before he’s allowed to call her. Feels a little pathetic for wanting to call her already. The scent of her shampoo hasn’t even dissipated from the bathroom.

Maybe there’s a pickup game at the park. It’s been a while since he’s had a free Sunday to shoot hoops with the guys, and it would be nice to get out for a little bit. Get some fresh air. Stop thinking about Scully in his sweater, in his space hat, in his bed at two am, asking him if he had a good birthday.

He changes clothes and is digging for his sneakers beneath the bed when he bumps into the nightstand. The tape clatters to the floor and slides free of its paper sleeve. A piece of folded notebook paper pokes out from inside.  

Mulder scoops everything up and sits on the edge of the bed to unfold the paper. Scully’s neat, tight script greets him and he smiles. Then he reads what she’s written and loses all of the air in his lungs.

M—

You gave me this when I came back. I never told you, but those were some of the hardest nights I’ve ever had. I had dreams, saw faces. I slept very little. I wanted to call you, Mulder, every single night. Just to hear your voice, to know I was okay. But I was afraid—of myself, of what you would think of me, of how much I was hurting. I watched this tape instead, every night for nearly two months. The noise helped me sleep.

Things eventually returned to normal, but I kept it anyway. It became a source of comfort for me, a way to maintain the distance between us and still feel close to you.

I’d like you to have it back now. No video could ever compare to what you’ve given me these last few months. I hope you know that.

Yours,

S.

He reads the note again, again, again until he’s confident he could recite it by heart. He can see her so clearly. Her darkened apartment, her hollow eyes, the glow of her TV. The bend of her body, pulled in on itself. Needing him. Needing his comfort.

And he had comforted her. Miraculously, he had. Maybe not in the way he had wanted to. Not in the way he had spent so many sleepless nights—were they her sleepless nights too?—imagining. But he had.

He traces her words with his fingertips, feels them in his chest. No video could ever compare to what you’ve given me these last few months. What he’s given her. What he’s given her?

God, Scully.

He’s dizzy, lightheaded with the enormity of it. She’s never said those three words to him, the ones they’ve been dancing around for a while now, but she might as well have. What she’s saying—what she means.

He scrambles for the phone. Forget basketball. Forget giving her space. She’s his number one speed dial, has been for years, and he wishes there was a number better than one. A number to express how unbelievably fucking lucky he is.

She answers on the first ring, says “Mulder” like she was expecting him.

“Thank you,” he blurts. “God, I—thank you.”

She breathes. In, out. It rattles over the phone line. “You found the note?”

He nods even though she can’t see him. “You’re not going to regret this. I promise you’re not. I’m gonna—Scully, I’m gonna take such good care of you.”

“Oh, Mulder. Don’t you get it?” Her voice is amused, soft, his favorite sound in the entire world. “You already do.”

[its-flicked-switch]

This is so sweet, so them, and so well done :)

To Keep You Safe

My story from @frangipanidownunder brilliant fic table that you can find HERE. This is also inspired by this piece of art. Set in season 7. Tagging @today-in-fic

He’s noticed something off with Scully even before they left Washington D.C. When he asked her, she shrugged it off and claimed to be tired. True to her word, she fell asleep on the plane, not waking once. Two days in Ohio, their case coming to a close, Mulder knows what’s wrong: Scully is sick.

Weiterlesen

[its-flicked-switch]

Transitive Property of Equality

All of the moments leading up to the COTP, candlelight confessions, and the revelation of miracle baby #2. This work remains canon with the events of S11, filling in the gaps of Mulder and Scully’s relationship and their leap of faith forward for the future. 

SMUT to be found in all the places you would expect.

Rating: Explicit

This story is my baby.

I initially drafted this work to be 10 chapters - one for each of the S11 episodes, but that quickly expanded into 20 chapters. With that being said, posting the full length of this work on Tumblr seems ... excessive, so I’ve made the decision to just post the first chapter and link the rest. In the future, I will post my longer works here just as I publish them on AO3 and ff.net, but with my Tumblr account being new, posting 60k+ all at once would be madness. Should you read this first chapter and be interested in reading the rest, it’s linked here. 

 CH 1: THE PLACE WE CALLED HOME

Post 11x01 - My Struggle III

Mulder takes Scully home.

SCULLY

It's true what they say about doctors being the worst patients, but to be fair, my medical history is extensive and complex. Providing a full and accurate medical history would take hours and most likely result in a psych consult, so I've learned to only ever disclose what is absolutely necessary. Being a neurologist myself, I can appreciate my doctor's concern, but she doesn't have all the of the facts and wouldn't know what to do with them even if I gave them to her. So for the second time today, I sign myself out of the hospital against medical advice.

After reviewing my MRIs, there is little doubt in my mind that the impulses driving my abnormal brain activity were somehow generated by my implant. The dull ache and burning sensation that coursed through the base of my skull and down into my neck just before losing consciousness doesn't fit the etiology of any known medically based seizure.

Eighteen hours later my neck still aches, but for an entirely different reason. One that may or may not be related to the visions I have received from Willam.

The man who entered my hospital room earlier this evening is someone that Mulder recognized as working for the syndicate, but our sources within the FBI have yet to formally identify him. All of this should frighten me more than it does, but at the moment, all I care about is getting out of here and going home to sleep in my own bed.

By the time Mulder and I leave the hospital, it's close to midnight. He hasn't let me out of his sight since he returned from Spartanburg. Under normal circumstances, I would find his zealously overprotective behavior to be suffocating and would insist that he give me space, but tonight I don't have the energy to fight him nor do I think that it would matter even if I did.

The force of my assassin's hands has left me stiff, sore, and hoarse, limiting my responses to brief and very brief. So when he asks me if I'm hungry, I merely nod, settling into the passenger seat and resting my eyes as he merges into traffic.

—

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have because when I come to we are pulling up to the house.

"Mulder," I croak, "I thought you were going to take me home?"

As soon as I say it, I regret it. Although I haven't lived here in close to four years, the house is still technically mine. I tried to sign it over to him after we separated, but he refused to sign the papers.

"This will always be your home too, Scully," he says softly, not meeting my eyes.

I didn't mean for it come across as a dig, but it clearly has.

Great. As if today wasn't shitty enough.

"I'm sorry Mulder, I didn't mean … I'm just exhausted, and I don't have any clothes here."

"I stopped by the impound lot and cleaned out your car, so I have your keys and overnight bag. They're in the trunk."

I clearly slept through that pit stop.

"Oh … okay … thank you," is all I can manage to say.

"It wasn't a big deal. Common. Let's get inside. I think there might even be something that's eatable in the fridge," he says placing his hand on my thigh and giving it a light squeeze before exiting the car.

We climb the porch stairs together in silence. Once inside, he places my overnight bag at the bottom of the stairs and then makes his way into the kitchen.

"I'm going to start some tea. That should help soothe your throat."

"Mulder, you really don't have to—"

But he cuts me off before I can finish, raising his voice.

"Stop thanking me and telling me that I don't have to take care of you. If I hadn't come in when I did, that man would have killed you … you do realize that right?"

The look on his face stops me cold.

"Do you have any idea what that would have done to me?"

Grabbing the top of the one the kitchen chairs, he shifts his weight and looks down at the table in an attempt to calm himself. At first, I say nothing. Mulder is one of the most controlled people I have ever known. Even with everything we've been through in the last 25 years, I can still count on one hand how many times he has raised his voice at me in anger.

But anger isn't what I see now. What I see now is pure, unadulterated fear.

"I'm sorry Scully, I didn't mean to … I just—"

"It's okay," I say, interrupting him. "I buried you once — so yes, I have an idea." It comes out low and raspy, strained by events of the last 24 hours, but it silences him nonetheless.

As my words register, his eyes return to mine, and the fire in them dissipates.

Loss is something that we are both intimately familiar with.

Sighing, he releases his hold on the kitchen chair.

"I know you can take care of yourself, Scully. You've always been able to do that, but we still don't know for sure who sent him or why. Until we know, more I don't want you staying alone. If something happened you … something that I could have prevented … I would never forgive myself."

I don't know how to respond, so I don't.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" he asks softly. "I have some yogurt in the fridge if you just want something light."

"No, but I will take some tea."

He nods and turns to turn on the stove, filling up the kettle and placing it over the burner.

"Why don't you head upstairs and take a shower. I'll come up in a minute with your tea and change the sheets."

"I'm sure they are fine."

"I haven't washed them in a while. I usually just sleep on the couch."

His tone is soft but final, and his message is clear. He's going to take care of me, and I'm going to let him because he's not taking 'no' for an answer.

—

Mulder wasn't kidding. The bed is made and looks as if it hasn't been used in months, but other than that, the room we once shared has changed very little in my absence.

My eyes are immediately drawn to a picture he has framed and prominently displayed on what was my bedside table. It's a picture of the two of us that I have never seen before. As I take a closer look, I recognize the scenery and the clothes we are wearing. The trip to the Keys had been a surprise anniversary gift. He must have had the film developed after I moved out and had it framed.

The realization causes a lump to form in my throat that is painful to swallow in more ways than one.

"There are some clean towels under the sink," he says, startling me as he enters the room behind me.

Although it's clear that he noted my interest in the picture, he doesn't say or do anything to draw attention to it, and for that I am grateful. I can hear him stripping the bed as I retreat into the bathroom.

It's not until I turn on the water and begin to disrobe that I realize that I have a problem.

Somewhere between the seizure, car accident, and struggle with the mysterious assassin, I have lost the ability to put my arms behind my back. I silently curse at my bra for a few moments before relenting and shutting off the water so that I don't have strain my voice to speak over it.

"Mulder?"

There's a periodic moment of silence before he responds.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come in here for a minute?"

"Um … yeah, sure, Scully, just ... give me a minute."

Within a few seconds, he's at the door.

"What's wrong Scully? Are you OKAY?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I just … I'm having trouble with the clasp, can you undo it for me?"

He steps into the bathroom and freezes.

"Jesus, Scully."

I'm half naked, but that's not why he's cursing.

"Is this from the accident or from …?"

His fingers gently trace over the bruising as he spins me to take a closer look.

"I'm not sure, but I can't quite get the … can you …?"

"Yeah."

He unclips my bra rubbing his hands lightly over my low back and shoulder blades until he reaches the tops of my shoulders. My back is to him, but his eyes meet mine in the mirror.

"I knew it was bad, but I had no idea it was this bad. Do you have any pain meds?"

"No … I'm okay … just going to be sore for a couple of days."

He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't press the issue either. Instead, he kisses the top of my head and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

I half expect him to be lingering around when I get out the shower, but he isn't.

The bed is covered with fresh sheets, and the clothes from my overnight bag are laid out at the edge of the bed. If I weren't so tired, I would probably be more embarrassed by the fact that he found one of his old tee shirts in my overnight bag. Although we've been separated for nearly four years now, I still find myself sleeping in his clothes. I silently curse myself for packing something so intimately personal in an overnight bag prepared to use on company time.

"Scully?"

"Just a minute," I say as I gingerly finish dressing.

When I open the door, he's waiting on the other side with a steaming cup of hot tea.

"Thank you."

He smiles.

"Got everything you need?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay. Well … I'll see you in the morning. If you need anything, I'll be down here."

For a moment, we just stand in silence, neither of us knowing quite what to say.

As I gaze into his eyes, I realize that what I want more than anything is for him to come to bed and wrap his arms around me, but I have no right to ask that of him. I threw that right away the moment I left him, so instead of asking him to stay, I allow him to kiss my forehead and then watch him walk away.

—

I wake up to hands on my body.

I want to scream, but I can't because there is no air in my lungs.

Panicked, I kick, claw, and fight for my life, but my efforts are fruitless. Everything is moving in slow motion, and I am powerless to stop it. That's when it hits me … I'm dying … this must be what dying feels like. Unable to fight any longer, I surrender to fate and still my body. Just as my field of vision begins to darken into a black blur, I hear a familiar voice. A voice that clears the fog and fills my lungs with air.

He releases me quickly, narrowly avoiding getting headbutted as I bolt up out of bed.

"SCULLY … SCULLY … It's me … It's just a dream. It's me. Mulder."

I'm gasping for breath and unable to speak, but relief floods me as my vision clears.

"It's just a dream, Scully," he repeats softly. "I'm here. You're safe."

Once he sees that I have oriented back to reality, he wraps his arms around me, pulling my head into his chest.

I try to swallow the sob before it leaves my throat, but I can't. The tears quickly follow.

"Shhhhhh … It's OKAY. I'm here. You're safe."

This only makes me cry harder.

He lays us down gently, cradling my head against his chest — taking care to not to apply too much pressure to my bruised and battered body.

Neither of us speaks for quite some time.

When the tears subside, and my breathing normalizes, he's the one to break the silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I sniffle, trying to clear my nose and throat so that I can speak. I've made a mess of the shirt he's wearing. It's so wet in places that it's sticking to his skin, but I don't care, and I doubt he does either.

"I couldn't breathe."

It's likely not the detailed explanation he was looking for, but it's the only explanation that is required.

He takes a deep breath and pulls my body more tightly against his.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Scully."

"You can't promise that, Mulder. No more than I could promise it to you."

"I've gone to the ends of the earth for you … killed for you … and I would give my life for yours in a heartbeat. You know that."

I do know, but this conversation is quickly heading in a direction that I'm not ready to go. Not tonight. So I don't respond with words. Instead, I snuggle into his chest, wrapping my arms around him and intertwining my legs with his. I don't want to live like I'm living on borrowed time. I want to go to sleep in his arms comforted by the fact that I still have tomorrow to say all the things I need to say. So instead of making confessions of heart, I close my eyes and surrender to sleep as I listen to the beat of his heart.

[its-flicked-switch]

Sandcastles in the Sky

The after effects of chemo create a situation that, while first thought to be a hindrance, becomes exactly what is needed.

Set Post-Elegy s4e22.

Rating: Explicit

This story was originally written for the X-Files Easter FanFic Gift Exchange for @contrivedcoincidences6. Prompt: "I loovvveee early msr and/or pre-series. I also LOVE AUs, early series, cancer arc, pre-series, total au (loovvveee aus) gots to be msr and I'd appreciate some smut please!"

"The doctor said I was fine."

"I hope that's the truth."

"I'm going home."

Mulder kicks himself all the way home for letting her walk away. Scully may think she's hiding it well, and perhaps when it comes to everyone else she is. But not with him. He sees it. He sees the fear, sorrow, and avoidance. He sees every last bit.

He's well aware of the fact that making this about him only makes him more of an asshole, but that fact has done little to dampen the frustration that boils up from within him every time she dismisses the significance of what is happening as if it isn't his burden to bear as much as it is hers. She is so much more than his Watson. She is everything. And without her, he is nothing.

By the time he reaches his car, it's nearly 10:00 p.m. and Scully is gone. He considers driving by her place to check on her but thinks better of it. Regardless of how terrible she feels following her treatments, she never calls in or complains, even when it's quite apparent that she doesn't feel well and is absolutely exhausted. He wants more than anything to take care of her … to do something to soften the blow that his quest has inflicted on her health, but Scully has remained steadfast in her independence, keeping him at arm's length and refusing to let him in. Whether she's doing it to protect him or herself is unclear, but either way, it's disheartening.

He arrives at his apartment in a haze. Removing his jacket and slipping off his shoes, he doesn't bother to lock the door behind him as he collapses on the couch and buries himself in its familiarity. The bubbling hum of the aquarium helps to calm and lull him into a state of peaceful contentment that borders on sleep. But instead of succumbing to it, he fights it.

One would think that someone with his history and paranormal fixation would have nightmares, but he doesn't. In his dreams, Mulder doesn't see Armageddon or little green men. He sees something far worse. He sees what could have been.

He sees Samantha running along the beach behind their summer home in Quonochontaug.

He sees a healthy and vibrant Scully watching him, and a young boy building sandcastles in the sky alongside spaceships.

He sees a little girl with long strawberry blonde hair and crystal blue eyes who calls him daddy.

But Samantha is not in Quonochontaug, and he and Scully will never have children.

For this reason and so many others, Fox Mulder rarely sleeps. He doesn't even own a bed.

Rolling to his back, he pulls off his tie, untucks his shirt, and stares up at the ceiling. He's contemplating getting up to retrieve a tape from his collection when the cell in his pocket begins to ring.

"Agent Mulder."

"Mul — er?"

"Scully?"

He asks not because he isn't sure, but because there is something in her voice that is foreign to him.

"I … I'm hav—in' a little trouble," she says.

Holy fuck, he thinks. Is she drunk?

She's doing her best to hide it, slowing her words in an attempt to keep them from all slurring together, but if her first full sentence is any indication, she is most certainly more than a little under the influence.

"With what? Are you alright?" he asks, sitting up and slipping on his shoes in anticipation of leaving.

"Yeah," she replies, keeping her response short as she subdues a sniffle.

Dread and guilt flow through him as he realizes that the change in her voice isn't solely due to the indulgence of alcohol. She's been crying. Had his words about working against him sent her home in tears? The possibility immediately unsettles his stomach. His intention had been to encourage her to be more open and to no keep things from him, not to make her cry.

Fuck, he's an asshole.

"I'm okay," she insists, doing her best to clear her voice and sound as normal as possible. "I'm not sick. I just … I need … I would call my mom, but it's late and … I'm a bit out of it."

"No, I'm glad you called. What are you having trouble with, Scully? What's wrong?"

"I just … I can't …"

"You can't what?"

"It's stupid," she says, her voice dazed and muffled in a way that indicates to him that she's hanging her head or covering her face, if not both.

"If it's something you need, then it's not stupid," he says softly, encouraging her.

"The chemo," she says, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, "one of the side-effects is residual weakness and stiffness … especially in the upper extremities around the port."

The slow, precise, and guarded way that she is speaking now makes her sound almost normal. While she's clearly struggling to voice what's going on and why she has called, she's not as out of it as he first thought. In fact, the more she talks, the more lucid she sounds.

"Scully, I'm not sure that I understand—"

"I can't get my shirt off, Mulder."

OH.

"I would just cut it off, but … it's … it's a shirt Melissa bought for me, and I just can't … I'm sorry I—"

"Scully."

Her name comes out a bit louder and more commanding than he intends, so he immediately softens it.

"I'll be right over."

"Okay," she says quietly. "And … could you … could you use your key?"

The request surprises him, but he doesn't question it.

"Yeah … I can do that."

"Okay."

When she doesn't hang up and lets the silence hang, he hastens his movement, grabbing his go-bag, badge, gun, and jacket as he heads out the door.

Scully never asks for anything. Not really. So the fact that she has called and that she is hesitant to hang up the phone and be alone for the short period of time that it will take for him to reach her apartment immediately alerts him to the fact that this is about more than saving a shirt.

"Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?"

"No … no … I'll see you in a few minutes," she says softly. "Thank you, Mulder."

Before he can respond, the line goes dead.

—

When he arrives at her apartment just before midnight, he hesitates briefly at her door. Scully had asked him to use his key to enter, but even with her permission, he's still inclined to knock and announce his arrival.

With her having been the victim of home invasions in the past, the last thing he wants to do is startle her.

"Scully? I'm here."

"Back here," he hears her say from somewhere in the back.

Assuming she's in her bedroom, he slips off his shoes, removes his jacket and places his bag, gun, and badge on her coffee table before proceeding to the back.

"Scully?" he asks again, slowing as he reaches the threshold of her door.

"In here."

What he sees as he enters her bedroom and looks into her bathroom breaks his heart. Scully is soaking wet with a large towel wrapped around her torso.

"I thought that if I got in a hot shower I could get it to loosen up enough to pull it off, but getting off a wet tee shirt is harder than I remember it being," she says, reading the question in his eyes.

"Interesting. I wouldn't have pegged you as being a wet tee shirt contest kind of girl, Scully," he says in an attempt to lighten the mood and put her at ease.

The smirk that plays across her lips as he speaks allows him to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Which shoulder is it?" he asks softly, taking on a more serious tone that relays his concern.

"The left."

"Is it tender to the touch?"

"A bit."

"Would massaging it help?"

"Maybe."

Closing the distance between them, he gestures for her to reposition herself on the toilet seat to give him better access to her shoulders. When his hands come into contact with her wet clothing, he's taken back how chilled her skin and clothing feels.

"Jesus, Scully. You must be freezing."

"The hot shower was a good idea until it wasn't."

"Here," he says, reaching for a towel hanging up alongside the tub and draping it over her right shoulder.

"Why don't we move into the bedroom? I think you'll be more comfortable sitting on the bed."

"Okay."

He starts to step away to give her some space to move, but as she stands and turns she loses her balance and falls into him.

"Muscle relaxer," she mumbles by way of explanation, clearly embarrassed by the fact that she's half dressed, soaking wet, and can barely stand.

Looking at her now, the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to come together. She's not drunk, she's in pain, and based on how she is stumbling about, she has either taken more than the recommended dose or has taken the medication for the first time. Given how much weight she has lost since starting chemo, it's entirely possible that whatever she took has impacted her more profoundly than she anticipated.

With him stabilizing her, they move quietly and with purpose into the bedroom where she settles awkwardly on the edge of her bed. As he watches her move and adjust herself accordingly, he can't help but notice how tightly she is clinging to her towel.

It hadn't occurred to him until that very moment that she was likely only wearing a tee shirt and bra when she got into the shower. And with her shirt being soaked, she probably hadn't bothered to put on anything else when she got out.

Suddenly, Mulder is very thankful that her back is to him.

In an attempt to distract himself away from what lies beneath, he begins to rub her shoulder, but quickly draws back when she flinches.

"No … no … it's okay …. it's just … tender."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, really. I think it will help. It's just uncomfortable."

Placing his hands back over her shoulder he begins to knead, but this time he doesn't put as much pressure through the tips of his fingers.

"Is this why you have been wearing mostly button-down shirts?"

His question appears to catch her off guard because she immediately peers over her shoulder at him and gives him a questioning look that indicates that he's been paying more attention to her than she has given him credit for.

"The button-downs are easier. My shoulder has felt almost normal for the past few days, so I thought I would be okay to wear this but … apparently not."

"How many shirts have you cut?"

"Just one."

"You could have called me."

"I didn't care about that one, so it was easier just to cut it."

"Well, it does feel like it's loosening up a bit. What time did you take the muscle relaxer?"

"A little after 11:00."

He wants to ask her how many she took but thinks better of it. The last thing he wants to do is piss her off or make her regret calling him to begin with.

"It appears to have loosened up everything except my shoulder. This …" she says, pausing and wincing as his fingers make their way over a particularly tender spot.

"Sorry," he says, lightening his touch.

"This is the first time I've taken them. I've had them for a little over a month, but haven't wanted to take them knowing I could be called out in the middle of the night for a case."

"Scully, why didn't you talk to me about this? If you were in pain, you should have just …"

"I'd rather feel the pain than feel completely out of it."

"Do you feel completely out of it? Because you don't sound completely out of it."

"I feel … numb, tired, and like I shouldn't be up walking around."

"Well, that much is clear," he says smirking and nodding his head towards the bathroom causing her to chuckle in response.

She's relaxed now. The tense embarrassment that he saw in her face initially is gone.

"How do you want to do this, Scully? I think we may be able to get it off now, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

To this, she blushes a bit and turns her head back forwards.

"It's nothing that you haven't seen before, Mulder."

She's not wrong, but this is different, and they both know it."

"Or have you forgotten?"

It's difficult to tell if there is any actual heat behind her words since she's facing away from him, but the tone of her voice and tension building in her body as she reaches down to tighten her hold on the towel clues him in to the fact that there has been a shift in the paradigm. He's honestly surprised that she's mentioned Antarctica.

Mulder is a lot of things, but unobservant isn't one of them. He's watched her fidget with her clothing and caught her lingering glances along reflective surfaces as they pass. It's subtle, yet blatantly obvious that she is uncomfortable with the amount of weight she has lost, and the last thing he wants her to be as he undresses her is self-conscious. So for this reason, and this reason alone, he is candid.

"Oh, I haven't forgotten."

He keeps his hands on her as he speaks so he can feel her reaction to his words. When she does turn her head to give him her eyes, he does everything in his power to relay how much he respects her — not wanting his words to be translated as being perverse.

Without words, they begin to rearrange her wet shirt in order to pull it off. Her left shoulder and arm are still bit stiff, but between the two of them, they are able to twist it around without stretching the shirt too terribly. She still sitting with her back to him, but he can feel her wince at the end as they work together to pull it over her head and off of her arm.

"Sorry," he says as he helps her bring her arm back down and tosses her shirt to the side.

Bringing his hands back to rest over her shoulders, he moves fingers firmly across her skin in an attempt to relax her, noting that the clasp to her bra is in the back. She hasn't asked him to undo it, but he knows after helping her with her shirt that she is not going to be able to undo it herself unless she removes the straps and flips it around. Lowering his hands to work along her middle back, he works his way down until his hands are alongside the clasp. Fearing that talking about it will only serve to make it more awkward, he waits for her to indicate that she is ready.

When she gives him a slight nod, he undoes it and runs his hand down her back.

"Do you want me to grab you another shirt or your robe?"

"No, I want to take a shower."

"Are … are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I think I'll be alright," she says, removing the bra completely and placing it off to the side as she rearranges her towel to cover her breasts.

Even with her back to him, he can still see enough of her body to make his dick harden, which immediately fills him with shame. He should turn his back to give her some privacy, but he doesn't. He can't take his eyes off of her. Even with the weight she has lost, she's still the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

"Okay," he says, snapping himself out of his trance and taking a step back.

He's about to step out and give her some privacy when she turns to stand and stumbles. Cursing, Mulder makes his way to her side instantly, narrowly managing to catch her before she hits the floor.

The realization that she's dropped the towel hits them both at the same time. She gasps, her eyes widening in shock as his hand grazes over her breasts and settles along the bare skin of her torso as he works to pull her body up and stabilize her. Now, with her standing directly before him completely nude, there is no way for either of them to reach down and pick up the towel without creating contact. Doing his best to distract himself away from the fact that he is holding a very naked Scully, Mulder keeps his eyes glued to hers as he guides them back towards the bed, grabbing the extra towel they had brought in from the bathroom.

No words are spoken as she takes it and covers herself.

Her face is difficult to read. It's clear that she's embarrassed, but there is something else there too. Something he can't quite place.

Not wanting to linger too long in dangerous waters, he states the obvious in hopes that she will just lay down and rest.

"Scully, I'm not sure that taking a shower right now is a good idea. The last thing you need is to fall and hit your head or break something. Let me grab you a shirt or something. You can take one in the morning," he says, trying desperately to not think about how soft her skin is and how amazing it felt to touch her breast.

"No. I feel gross. I want to shower."

"Scully, you can hardly stand … "

"A bath then."

"Is it really that critical that you—"

She doesn't have to interrupt him to silence him. The look she gives him says it all.

"Fine, but I'm running the bathwater, and you're going to stay right here."

"Mulder …"

"Scully."

Now it's his turn to give her a look. He's more than willing to indulge just about anything when it comes to her, but her safety is not up for debate. If she's going to insist on taking a bath, he's going to draw it for her and help get her settled. He can tell that the idea does not necessarily enchant her, but he also knows that she's well aware of the fact that she is no condition to insist otherwise. Her mind is sound; her body just isn't cooperating.

"Fine."

Retreating to the bathroom, Mulder turns on the water and begins to shuffle through her bathroom cabinets in search of a bath salt or soap that would help her relax while also serving to give her a bit of privacy. He doesn't trust her to call for him when she's finished, and she's not going to be able to get in or out without stumbling.

Fuck.

How in the world is he going to get through this without his hard-on being on full display? It's not like she's drunk and so out of it that she won't remember his dick poking at her through his clothes as he helps her settle into the tub. If he doesn't find something to help cover her a bit as she bathes he's going to come in his pants.

Spotting some bubble bath in the cabinet under the sink, he grabs it and pours a liberal amount into the running water as he checks the temperature. Not wanting it to be too hot, he adds a bit of cold and tests it again. Satisfied that it won't burn her, he returns to the bedroom where he finds her sitting exactly where he left her.

Without a word, he helps her stand and guides her into the bathroom where they are both greeted with a sight that takes them both by surprise.

Thankfully, Scully begins to laugh.

"FUCK."

"You poured it in didn't you?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, walking her through the mess of overflowing bubbles and positioning her to where she can safely sit on the toilet seat beside the tub while he fruitlessly fights the massive mountain of bubbles cascading out of the bathtub and onto the floor.

"It's the good stuff," she tells him, nodding towards the open bottle sitting on the counter. "You only need a cap full."

"Well, I think it's fair to say I used more than a cap."

"Clearly."

He turns to face her, expecting her to be irritated. Instead, he finds that the color has returned to her cheeks. For the first time in weeks, she's genuinely laughing and smiling. He's always thought she was beautiful, but as she sits before him clad in only a towel with bubbles floating around her, she's breathtakingly beautiful. Painfully so.

"Why the bubbles, Mulder?" she asks.

The teasing smile playing on her lips is enough to let him know that she is well aware of the prominent effect her state of undress is having on him.

"I thought it might help you relax … and give you a bit of privacy."

Using the side of the tub and the countertop to stabilize herself, she stands, letting the towel fall to the floor as she does.

This time, he doesn't have the strength to keep his eyes up. With her permission, he takes her in, and this time he does so thoroughly. Extenuating circumstances prevented him from fully appreciating her in Antarctica, but nothing of the sort is stopping him now.

If it weren't for the circumstances at play, he would be lunging forward and backing her up against the wall, but he stops himself short of doing so because no matter what their bodies are saying, now is not the time.

His body longs for hers more than it has longed for anything else in this world, but he doesn't want it to happen because she thinks she's dying. As much as he wants to be the one to relieve the sexual tension that is so clearly coiled up inside of her, he can't let it be just about that. Not with them. He can't be her one-night Ed Jerse.

Taking her hand, he guides her to the tub and helps her step inside, shutting off the water as she lays back and settles herself under the bubbles.

"Sorry," he says, settling himself alongside the tub swatting at the bubbles floating around in the air.

"Don't be."

The soft smile that plays across her lips as she settles her head on the rim of the tub calms him. Whether it's the drugs, the late hour, the company, or a combination of the three he cannot be sure, but he's certainly not complaining.

He is, however, curious.

When he saw earlier in the evening, she was closed off to him and insistent that she do this alone, which is precisely why he had pressed her and accused her of working against him. Had his words to her at the scene really impacted her that deeply? Or was something else at play?

"Not that I'm complaining, but why not call your Mom? You said you were out of it on the phone, and to be honest, when I first heard your voice, I thought you were … but you're not."

She turns to face him briefly, giving his question pause and musing over her words carefully before allowing them surface and give weight to the air between them.

"I don't want her to see," she says softly.

Despite the quiet tone she has taken, her words are firm and steady, filling the room with an uncomfortable silence that he is tempted to fill. But sensing there is more, he remains silent, fiddling with the bubbles alongside the outer lip of the tub as he waits. The ball is in her court. Letting him in has to be her choice.

"When I'm working, it's easier for both of us, because it almost makes things normal. She's used to me working all the time."

"Scully …"

"She was sitting right next to Melissa when she coded. She shouldn't have to watch me die too. I can't … I just can't do that to her."

"You're not going to die, Scully."

"But I am dying, Mulder. I know you don't want to see it or deal with it, but I am. It's happening. You want me to let you in, but I don't think you understand what that means."

"Do you?"

"I wouldn't change a day," she says, repeating the words she uttered to him months earlier.

If he weren't already hopelessly in love with her, the way she's looking at him now would have certainly sealed the deal. Lifting her hand up to the edge of tub she seeks his, intertwining her fingers with his.

For the next few minutes, no words are spoken as they gaze into each other's eyes.

She breaks the moment, but not the mood when she lets go of his hand and moves to sit up, grabbing a bar of Ivory soap from the other side of the tub.

Bubbles cling to her body as she rises, allowing her to maintain some semblance of modesty, but as she runs the bar of soap across her shoulders, chest, and arms, it becomes clear that modesty is not high on her priority list.

"Can I ask you something, Mulder?" she asks, snapping him out of his longing leer. "Something personal?"

"You can ask me anything," he tells her, lowering his hand to rub across his hard-on as he continues to watch.

"Do you … do you ever wish things were different?"

"What things?" he asks, watching her closely.

Silence fills the air as her boldness wains and her eyes drop, he shifts to position himself closer, catching her eyes and asking her again.

"What things, Scully?"

"Like … do you ever think about going a different direction? About having and wanting something normal?"

The last thing Mulder wants to do is break the seriousness of the moment, but he can't help but chuckle at the idea of him and normal being in the same sentence.

"Scully, of all things for which I am certain … I am certain that my definition of normal will not hold up against the Webster version, so you're going to have to be a bit more specific. Are you talking about work? About doing something other than the X Files?"

"No … not necessarily."

"Then what?"

"I'm talking about life outside of work."

"Okay," he says, giving her a look at the encourages her to continue.

"Do you ever miss it, Mulder?"

"Miss what, Scully?"

"The touch of a lover?"

Just when he thought he might potentially survive the evening without coming in his pants, she has to go and ask him a question like this.

Leaning deeply into the cabinets behind him, he contemplates how he is going to respond. The answer is a no-brainer. Of course, he does. But he doesn't desire a quick roll in the hay. Sex is no longer the only thing he desires.

"Or do the videos do it for you?"

The mere mention of his video collection makes him smirk, knowing damn well she would be far less likely to prod him about it if she knew that every video he owned starred a petite red-head.

When he watches, he never sees them. He only ever sees her.

"Mulder?"

Not wanting to make her nervous or uncomfortable by remaining silent for too long, he decides to be candid. She is, so he will follow suit.

"The videos relieve tension, but my hand is a poor substitute for the real thing."

"Well, there's a long list of secretaries that wouldn't mind your company. I've seen the way they look at you," she says, tilting her head to meet his eyes again.

Despite how turned on he is by the turn the conversation has taken, he can't help but appreciate just how surreal it is. He just finished settling her naked body into a bathtub after disrobing her, yet, here she is, trying to shift him towards an alleged long list of other women who wouldn't mind his company.

"And how do they look at me, Scully?"

"Like they would be more than willing to act out what's on those videos."

"And just what do you think is on those videos?" he asks, now curious.

What does Dana Scully think Fox Mulder likes?

"I imagine it's a fairly standard guy script," she says vaguely, a soft pink hue spreading up through her neck and across her cheeks that is definitely not an artifact of the warm water.

"And what might that entail?"

Part of him feels guilty for digging in and not letting it go, especially given that she's taken medication that has undoubtedly loosened her tongue, but now that she's brought this to the forefront he really wants to know.

"Oral … Doggie …"

"Is that what you think I like?"

She's quiet for a moment, gauging his expression as her body shifts slightly underneath the water.

It suddenly occurs to him that he hasn't seen her hands in quite some time. The realization makes him impossibly harder than what he already is.

"It's what most men want," she says evenly.

And just like that, Mulder hates every man that has ever laid hands on her that much more. If that's what she believes all men want, then she certainly hasn't been loved or treasured. All she's ever been is fucked. The realization both sickens and enrages him, but he doesn't dare let it show. Not tonight. Not like this.

"I'm not most men."

To this, she chuckles, turning her head to the side and looking straight into his eyes.

"If you're referring to your infatuation with alien life-forms and the paranormal, then I would have to agree, but primitive drive is primitive drive, Mulder. It only has one objective."

"What makes you think my primitive drive would involve oral and doggie?"

What was a pink hue, is now a full-fledged red. He knows he's pushing boundaries, but he can't leave it like this. He can't walk away having her believe that his fantasies align with her previous experiences.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," she says, suddenly finding something of interest within the bubbles as she averts her eyes.

"I'm not," he says, leaning forward and touching the side of her face to redirect her eyes back to his. "Scully, I do miss a woman's touch, but casual sex doesn't interest me. It hasn't interested me in a long time."

"Mulder … what happened with Jerse … it … it wasn't what you think," she says quietly.

Fuck.

"Scully, I wasn't … that wasn't an attack on—"

"I know."

Sitting up tall, she pulls the bar of soap above the surface of the water and places it back on the ledge.

"It felt good to be wanted … to have someone's desire so blatantly pressed against me."

The gentlemen lurking inside of him knows that he should stop her and tell her that whatever happened isn't any of his business and that it doesn't matter. But he remains silent because it does matter, and he does want to know.

"We … we fooled around, but … he didn't … we didn't."

Unable to hide his surprise, he gives her a questioning look.

"His tattoo … it started bleeding, and by the time we got it stopped and cleaned up he was … different … off …. and didn't, uh, seem all that interested anymore."

Of all the things he expected to have gone down on the night she spent with Ed Jerse, this was not among them. She had been willing, and in his state of psychosis, he had been unable to perform.

Suddenly, a lot of things begin to make sense to Mulder.

Scully had let him believe that she had spent a passionate night in the arms of a stranger because the truth didn't make much of ballot. While she may have appreciated his jealousy, he no longer believes that making him jealous was her primary objective. Leaving his assumptions unchecked had been more of an act of self-preservation. She and Jerse had fooled around, and then Jerse had given her his shirt and turned her away. Rather than seeing the situation for what it was, Scully had walked away from the encounter feeling unwanted and unattractive. The fact that Jerse had strangled and beat the hell out of her the following morning certainly hadn't helped matters.

"Scully, Jerse was psychotic. Him not …"

He stops himself short of saying wanting you, deciding instead to allow her to fill in the blank.

"It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with him. I can assure you that."

It's more clear to him now than ever that her discontent with her self-image has just as much to do with that night as it does her weight loss. Fucking Jerse.

"Regardless," she says, taking a weighted breath. "You were right. It was careless. He could have killed me."

"But you didn't know that," he says to her softly. "Not at the time."

Now having heard the truth about what had transpired that night, he's filled with remorse for how he treated her when she returned. She was free to see whomever she pleased. She wasn't his. He desperately wanted her to be, but she wasn't. Not in the way he wanted her to be anyway.

Scully had wanted to feel something. Something real. Something primitive. And instead of being her friend and being compassionate, he had acted like a selfish, jealous asshole.

"It's okay to want something quick, easy, and uncomplicated, Scully. I'm sorry that I made you feel otherwise."

His apology earns him a shadow of a smile as she picks at her pruning fingers.

"What if all it taught me was that I didn't want something quick, easy, and uncomplicated?"

"How normal of you," he says, a chuckle rumbling in his chest and a smile spreading across his face.

Flicking bubbles at his face, she joins in on his laughter and gives him her eyes. The dark hue within them is something new. He knows he should look away to keep from making her uncomfortable, but he can't. He's too entranced — swallowed whole by the deep end of the ocean.

"The water's getting cool," she comments, fidgeting under his gaze.

"I'll grab you a fresh towel."

Springing into action, he turns away from her quickly in an attempt to hide the effect she has on him. The guise of privacy that the bubbles provided has dwindled significantly over the course of the last 20 to 30 minutes. He hopes like hell the bath has helped to ground and settle her because he's not sure that his body can withstand drying her with embarrassing both of them.

"If there aren't any more under there, there should be more in the hall closet."

"Okay," he says, looking under the cabinet. "Looks like we are in luck though," he says, handing her the clean towel as he helps her stand and step out of the tub. "Although, I may need to grab a few more to deal with all of this."

The bubbles have made a mess of her bathroom floor, leaving it wet in some places and sticky in others.

"Once I help get you settled, I'll come and clean this up."

"It's okay, Mulder. I can get it in the morning."

"No. I'll take care of it."

Unsure of how stable she currently is, he stands before her awkwardly and waits for her to give him some sort of indication on what she needs him to do.

"I think I can handle it from here … thank you, Mulder."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to fall."

"I'll sit," she said nodding towards to toilet. "Would you, uh, mind grabbing me a shirt and some pants out of my dresser though? I keep them in the bottom drawer to the right."

"Yeah, no problem."

Once she's seated, he slips out of the bathroom and makes his way over to her dresser to retrieve her clothing. Opening the bottom drawer to the right, he finds numerous oversized tee shirts. Most of which appear to be from her college days, but there is one in particular that jumps out at him — because it's his.

It's an old Knicks shirt that he has been looking for off and on for several months now. When he had been unable to locate it after cleaning out his car and gym locker, he had just assumed that he had left it in a rental car or hotel room somewhere. He never thought to ask Scully if she had seen it.

While it's possible that she washed it and forgot about it, he highly doubts it, given its prominence in its current location. Grabbing his shirt and pair of her flannel pajama bottoms, he returns to the bathroom, knocking three times as he enters.

The expression that crosses her face when she sees that he's discovered his shirt in her pajama drawer is priceless. She had not sent him to the bottom drawer on the right to make this discovery, but now that he has she is grappling for an explanation that will be less explicit than the truth. The truth being - Scully has been sleeping in his shirt because it provided her comfort, and she liked the feel of it against her skin. He doesn't have to ask. He can see it in her eyes and the expression on her face.

If the circumstances were different, he would let her squirm, but tonight he's going to let her off the hook, injecting humor into an awkward exchange in a way that only he can.

"If I would have known you had a hankering for the Knicks, Scully, I would have bought you a tee shirt a long time ago."

Blushing, she accepts the shirt from his outstretched hand.

"Thank you, Mulder. I—"

"It's yours."

The effect his words have on her hits him like a brick. At first, he's not sure, but when she drops her towel and reveals her body to him once again, he's certain.

Scully is aroused. Painfully so.

The dark hue of blue within her eyes and pert nipples revealing the depth of her desire.

"Scully, I …"

"You can touch me, Mulder."

Taking a step closer to her, he runs his fingers down the lengths of her arms causing them both to shiver as he gazes at her body.

"I … you have no idea how much I want to … how beautiful you are … but … I can't, not like this. Not tonight. Not when you've been in pain and are on medication that could cloud your judgment. I would never forgive myself if you woke up and felt like I took advantage of you or the situation."

"My judgment isn't clouded … it's emboldened, and it's not meds talking, Mulder. It's me. Life can be … short. We spend so much time just … running. I want something normal, but not from a stranger. I was willing to get it from a stranger when I thought that was the only way I could get, but … it wasn't ever really what I wanted."

"What do you really want then, Scully?"

"Something deep, complicated, and dangerous," she says, swallowing thickly. "Something passionate and loving … something real … that will make me feel alive with the one person I desire."

"Then we both want to the same thing," he says, his voice gruff with desire.

They both lunge at the same time.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, he pulls her body firmly against his and drops his head to capture her lips. When his hands raise to cup her breasts she gasps, opening her mouth and allowing him to explore her fully. Even with the weight she's lost, she still fills his hands. Touching her feels better than he ever could have imagined. No video, fantasy, or wet dream even remotely compares.

Not wanting to consummate their relationship on a wet bathroom floor or countertop, he begins to guide her towards her bedroom where he can lay her out and properly explore. By the time he's done, there will be little room for her to doubt her appeal and desirability. He is going to devour her in the best possible way, and he's not going to stop until he takes her breath away.

By the time they reach the bed she's unbuttoned his shirt and his slacks. He breaks their kiss momentarily to remove his undershirt, but immediately returns his lips hers, devouring her and stealing the breath from her lungs as he presses her bare chest against his for the first time. The moan he swallows as her breasts rub against his nearly makes him come on the spot. Scully is going to be vocal in her pleasure. The realization makes him impossibly harder than what he already is and fills him with the desire to hear just how vocal she actually will be.

Breaking their kiss, he halts her wandering hands and looks down into her eyes. Having blocked her hands from reaching their intended destination, he lowers his to cup the rounded cheeks of ass, squeezing and kneading as he draws his fingers closer to the place he desires most.

"Are you sure, Scully? Absolutely sure?" he murmurs in her ear.

Grasping his hand, she guides him to her center, allowing him to feel how soaking wet she is.

"Is that sure enough for you?" she mumbles, rubbing her nose across the stubble of his chin as she presses her breasts into his chest.

The discovery of just how soaking wet she is strips away at Mulder's resolve and pokes at the primitive beast within him, driving him forward.

"I think our bodies know exactly what they want, but do our minds? This can't … it can't just be a thing, Scully," he says, swallowing thickly. "You mean too much to me. I can't be your Ed Jerse. I won't survive it."

"Oh, you're no Ed Jerse, Mulder. You're deep, loving, dangerous, and passionate," she whispers, repeating back her earlier words as she runs her lips across his chest.

When his fingers begin to move, she drops her forehead against his chest and watches as his fingers explore her sex and circle her entrance. The realization that she likes to watch is his undoing.

"Get on the bed, Scully."

Mulder quickly removes his socks and slacks but opts leaves his boxers in place as he crawls onto the bed to hover over her.

FUCK, she's beautiful.

And now, in this very moment, he has a chance to make her his. Not Ed's. Not Jack's. His.

"Mulder?" she asks, looking down at the tenting erection still covered by his boxers.

"To keep me in check."

"In check?"

"So that I can do this," he says, lowering his hands and lips to explore her body one section at a time.

While his mouth explores her neck, his hands fondle her breasts, rubbing the tips of his fingers across her nipples as his licks, nips, and kisses his way to down fully explore them with his mouth. When his mouth reaches her breasts, his hands lower to caress her thighs and ass. He is touching her everywhere except for the very place she desires him the most.

"Please," she gasps, raising her pelvis and rubbing her wet center against his stomach. "Touch me, Mulder."

Smiling, he sweeps his tongue across her nipple and shifts his hand to rub his fingers through her center, thoroughly soaking them in her arousal before raising them to circle her clit.

"Oh … fuck," she moans, catching him off guard.

He had suspected she would be vocal after the kiss, but the f-bomb had not been something he had anticipated. His Catholic, conservatively dressed partner of four years is completely naked beneath him, throwing her head back, cursing, and begging him for more. Removing his lips from her breasts, he looks down between them and watches her hips chase his hand as he picks up the pace.

As much as he's enjoying the erotic image their bodies make, he knows his body will fuck him over if he doesn't move things along. He can feel, hear, and smell her arousal, but it's not enough. Lowering his body, he pulls his fingers away and replaces them with his mouth causing her to squeal in surprise.

Scully immediately opens her legs to him more fully, accommodating his hungry mouth as he explores her sex just as he did her mouth. The noises coming from her now only serve to increase the level of euphoria in the air. It's the most sexually gratifying experience of his life, and he's not even inside of her yet.

"Fuck, Mulder … I'm gonna—"

And she does. Liberally.

It's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his life.

But he doesn't stop, he keeps going until it's clear that she's done and can take no more.

The picture she makes beneath him with her chest heaving as she gasps for air makes his heart flutter and his hips buck. This woman is going to fucking end him.

Pulling down his boxers, he exposes himself to her fully for the first time, rubbing himself up and down her slit and coating himself in her arousal as she watches. As he works his body against hers, her eyes dilate more fully, turning a shade of midnight blue with speckles of green that he's never seen before.

He's so mesmerized by her eyes that he's taken completely by surprise when she flips him over on his back.

Not that he minds.

The visual of her looming over his arousal with lust filled eyes nearly makes him come on the spot, but when he reads the destination in her eyes, he halts her movement.

"As nice as that would be, I wouldn't survive it."

"Maybe next time then."

Next time. Sweet Jesus, Joseph, and Mary …

Bracing herself above him with one arm she reaches down to guide him with the other.

"Shoulder feel better?" he asks playfully as she aligns them, poising him at her entrance.

"Oh, several parts of me are about to feel a whole lot better."

Any response he may have made is completely swallowed by the groan that leaves his body when she lowers herself onto him, taking him in one inch at a time until she is buried to the hilt.

She's so fucking tight that he can hardly stand it.

He wants to speak.

He wants to tell her how absolutely gorgeous she is and how fucking amazing that she feels. But words escape him as she readjusts her hands to bracket herself above him, moving on and off of him as she rotates her hips.

Holy fuck, she's talented.

"Scully … fuck," he heaves. "If you keep doing that I'm not going to last very long."

"That's sort of the idea," she grunts, gyrating against him roughly in order get more pressure through her clit as she rides him.

"I'm … we're not … using anything … fuck, Scully."

"I don't need anything. Not with you," she moans, grasping one of his hands and raising it to her breast as she continues to move, increasing her pace as she chases release once again.

Lowering his other hand to circle her clit, he watches the picture forming above him with awe. Scully is coming completely undone riding his dick, and it's the most amazing, beautiful, and erotic thing that he has ever seen.

She comes the second time with a scream, and this time, he can't hold back any longer. Flipping them over, he raises her thighs to rest alongside his chest as he drives into her with wild abandonment, coming in copious spurts as he moans her name.

When it's done, they are both soaking wet and heaving for breath.

Raising up on his elbows to relieve her of some of his body weight, he looks down at her with longing. Looking into her eyes now, Mulder immediately knows one fact with absolute certainty.

There will never be anyone else. Scully is it for him.

They caress, fondle, and whisper in the dark until his body is ready to take her again, and he does — this time, slowly. It's glorious, wonderful, and invigorating. He has never felt more alive than what he feels when he is inside of her.

But as she drifts to sleep in his arms, the cold light of day begins to shine through with a sobering reality. While she may be alive and vibrant in his arms now, she's been given a death sentence. A sentence he can no longer ignore.

He has to find a cure.

He doesn't care who he has to kill, beat, or cheat. He will not watch her die.

For there are sandcastles to be built in the sky.

[its-flicked-switch]

When Fox Met Dana

What will happen when Mulder runs into a tearful and more scantily dressed Scully on the outskirts of D.C. on a Friday night? 

Early MSR. Set early to mid-season 3.

Rating: Teen and Up

This story was originally written for The X-Files Secret Santa Fanfic Exchange back in December as a gift for @viceversawrites. Prompt: Someone feels insecure about something. 

I’m in the process of getting all of my current works posted on Tumblr, but should you be interested in viewing a comprehensive list, visit my AO3 profile.  

Once every couple of months, Mulder humors his mother and meets her for dinner. He feels guilty for putting her off as much as he does, especially with Samantha and his father gone, but the guilt he feels following every cancelation always wains in the aftermath of what always turns out to be a torturously long conversation about any and all things non-consequential — gardening, real-estate, and wine tastings … meaningful conversations of merit always monopolized and downgraded to match her level of comfort with little thought given to what he wished or wished not to discuss.

Sadly, this is what he has come to expect from his mother.

The only difference being that dinner tonight started with a lecture. His mother usually reserves those for when the food arrives, but tonight he made the mistake of underestimating traffic. That in combination with the parking being particularly egregious resulted in him being 20 minutes late to a dinner that he had already canceled on three separate occasions. Admittedly, this had not been the best way to start off the evening.

He had anticipated her being irritated when he arrived but had not expected her to be quite so crass.

"It's no wonder I don't have any grandchildren. You should never keep a lady waiting, Fox. It's poor form, even for you. I raised you better," she said to him by way of greeting.

He had known then that it was going to be a long evening but still did his best to bite his tongue, nod, smile, and comment appropriately in all the right places.

When the time finally came for them to part ways, he walked her to her car, opened her door, and kissed her on the cheek as he bid her goodbye. She offered to drop him off at his car, but he declined, opting instead to take advantage of the cool evening air. Her words from earlier still echoing in his mind.

"The work you do is dangerous Fox, and there's no need for it. I have yet to understand why you refuse to take the path so generously laid out in front of you. You went to Oxford for Christ's sake."

Following his father's death, conversations pertaining to his future have come up more and more frequently. She doesn't get it. She never has and likely never will. People handle grief in different ways. Mulder has always wanted answers. His mother, on the other hand, has only ever wanted to forget.

As he watches her pull off onto the side street and drive away, he cannot help but feel relieved that it is over, which in turn, makes him feel guilty. As much as she grades on his nerves, she is still his mother, and a son shouldn't avoid and dread seeing his own mother. Especially when she is all he has left.

Walking down the street with his hands buried deep in his pockets, he is so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn't notice the woman hastily exiting the building alongside him until it's too late to avoid her.

Despite being caught off guard, he somehow manages to get his hands out of his pockets in time to steady her before she loses her balance.

"Shit," he exclaims.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you … Are you—"

When the woman turns to face him more directly, he's immediately stunned into silence.

"Scully?"

As he looks her over to ensure that she is unharmed, he immediately becomes acutely aware of two things.

One, she has been crying.

Two, her breasts are much larger than he thought they were.

Trying not to focus too much on the latter of the two observations, he shifts his focus to her bloodshot eyes and smeared makeup.

"Scully … what are you—What's wrong? Are you OK," he asks, struggling to find words.

The surprise of her sudden appearance in combination with the shock of seeing her dressed for a night out has nearly rendered him speechless, making the interaction all that much more awkward.

She makes a noise that he quickly identifies as being one of annoyance as she takes a step back and ties her coat more tightly around her body in an attempt to cover up and downplay the revealing dress she is wearing, but it's too late. While he may have refrained from staring, he certainly noticed.

"I'm fine," she says, but her tone, body language, and reluctance to meet his eyes suggest that she is anything but.

"You don't look fine," he says cautiously, unsure of how wise it will be to draw attention to fact that her makeup is smeared. "Where is your car?"

Her eyes roam the length of the street and sidewalk as if she's looking for someone.

"I didn't drive. I've called a cab."

"A cab? To take you home? That's going to cost at least 40 bucks from here, if not more … Common, my car is just down the—"

"Mulder it's fine I—"

"Dana?"

The man comes out of nowhere.

Mulder starts to move aside until he sees the look on Scully's face. He's not sure what has transpired between the two of them, but it's quite clear that this piece of shit, whoever he is, is the reason for Scully's swift and tearful exit and that's all he needs to know.

Situating himself to stand slightly in front of her, Mulder gives the man a pointed glance.

"She's leaving."

"Oh, and who might you be," the man asks running his hands through his hair in what appears to be an attempt to calm himself. His rolled up sleeves and partially undone buttons give him an air of casualness that his body language does not portray.

"Fox Mulder. I'm her partner, and she'll be leaving with me."

To his surprise, Scully does not object.

Although the man is clearly perturbed and a bit flustered, he doesn't make a scene. Instead, he walks away shaking his head and mumbling under his breath as he makes his way back into the building.

"Scully, what did he do," Mulder asks, turning to face her.

"It's nothing Mulder. I just want to go home."

He wants to argue with her because clearly whatever happened was a far cry from nothing.

Dana Scully making a tearful exit and hailing a 40 dollar cab is the exact opposite of nothing, but the uneasiness radiating off of her keeps him from pressing her any further, at least for the time being. Because if there is one that is abundantly clear, it's how uncomfortable and embarrassed she is by the fact that he happened upon what has clearly been an unsuccessful romantic evening.

The fact that she has not mentioned seeing anyone actually surprises him. Scully has always made it a point to set boundaries and tell him when he is interfering with her life outside of work, which makes the situation he has happened upon all that much more curious.

Although it's not necessarily any of his business, the fact that she exited a private, high-end building filled with condominiums makes him a bit uneasy.

Leaving a restaurant under duress is one thing, leaving private residence is another. One does not have to be a profiler to come up with any number of troubling scenarios as to why a woman would leave a man's residence in tears.

"What are you doing on the outskirts of D.C. on a Friday night Mulder," she asks breaking their silence as they reach his car.

"Having a very uncomfortable dinner with my mother. I would like to say that she was in rare form tonight, but that would be a lie."

Despite her state of duress, she manages to snort back a laugh as she waits for him to unlock the doors.

"Sounds like we are both batting a thousand tonight then."

"Why Scully, did you just make a baseball referenced joke?"

Although he's not looking at her directly, he can sense her soft smile in the darkness of his car.

Turning up the heat, he pulls out of the parking lot thankful that he has least managed to get a smile out of her.

Just as he is mulling over what to say next to break the ice, he hears a rumble.

"Scully … was that your stomach?"

Sighing and shifting uncomfortably she confirms what he already suspects.

"I left before we ate."

"Wow. That bad huh?"

"Yes. That bad."

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you for driving me. I know it's a bit out of your way."

Knowing now what he needs to do, he changes his course, turning onto the next side street and looping back around.

"Mulder what are you—"

"I know I can be an ass sometimes, but I'm not taking my partner home with an empty stomach and makeup smeared all over her face from crying."

"Mulder, I would really prefer to just—"

"Greek or Italian?"

"Mulder …"

"Greek … or Italian?"

Letting out an exasperated huff of air, she relents.

"Italian."

When they enter the restaurant, Scully immediately excuses herself and disappears into the bathroom.

Unsure of what she will want to eat or drink, he orders them both water and waits. Just when he is about to check to make sure that she hasn't bailed on him and called a cab, she reappears.

"Sorry … I needed to freshen up a bit."

"I'm just glad you didn't bail on me and call a cab," he says with a chuckle.

"Fortunately for you, I'm too hungry to bail," she replies.

Her tone is serious, but there is an edge of playfulness to it that he appreciates.

In the two years that they have been partnered, they have seen and experienced a lot together. They may not always see eye to eye, but he would like to think that they have grown closer. He has certainly grown to respect and appreciate her, and he would like to think that she has done the same — at least on some level.

"I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you …"

"Have you ever been here before," she asks as she begins the flip through the menu.

"Nope. First time."

"Hmmm …"

"Wine?"

After he asks, he internally winces as he recognizes the potential implications of his question.

You wine and dine dates, not partners.

Based on her expression, she has undoubtedly come to the same conclusion. Fortunately, she doesn't appear to be offended. If she is, she has at least had the grace to hide it well.

"No. I'm good."

She has yet to remove her coat, and he has a pretty good idea as to why.

Although he did not get the opportunity to fully appreciate what she was wearing when he bumped into her earlier, he saw enough to get a general idea. The plunging neckline she is sporting is much more risqué than anything he has ever seen her wear before. The black sheer-like material clung to her tightly in some areas while hanging loosely in others, revealing her curves quite nicely.

Scully has apparently been hiding quite a bit in those loose fitting pantsuits. While he has always made it a point to remain respectful, he is still a man. He still sees her — all of her.

When the bread arrives he cannot help but chuckle at the look of pure elation that crosses her features. The basket barely hits the table before she grabs a piece and places it on her plate. It occurs to him that it's quite possible that she has not eaten since lunch, and it's well past 8:00 now.

Braving a more serious conversation, he tries again to get her to open up to him.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sighing, she stops chewing for a minute and looks up to meet his eyes.

"Not really."

Mulder is not hungry, but he grabs a piece of bread to keep her from feeling guilty about eating all of it. He has apparently done a poor job of hiding his disappointment at her reluctance to open up to him because within a few seconds she is taking a deep breath and speaking again.

"A friend set us up. We've been out a few times and have always had a good time, so when he offered to cook me dinner, I accepted."

Nodding, Mulder waits for her to continue.

"But he apparently had more than dinner in mind tonight."

"Did he touch you," Mulder asks before he can stop himself.

It's a highly personal question, but the mere thought of someone touching her without her consent makes his blood boil, especially in light of her abduction and everything else she has been through this year.

The wave of protectiveness and fury he initially felt, however, dissipates quickly and is replaced by guilt as he watches her struggle to determine just how much she is going to disclose. He's clearly made her uncomfortable by asking her something so specific.

"He … He was just … very forward."

"I take it that you asked him to stop?"

She doesn't reply with words, but she doesn't have to. The pointed glance she offers him is enough.

"I take it that he didn't?"

"Mulder … I really don't want to talk about it. I left. I won't be seeing him again. End of story."

He wants to press her for details, but more than anything he just wants the pummel Mr. Run-My-Hands-Through-My-Hair Causal.

Reining in his fury, he keeps his voice as level as possible.

"Well, order whatever you want. Tonight is on me."

"Mulder, that's not necessary."

"I'll give you a call the next time I have dinner with my mother, and you can buy me a couple of drinks."

"Hmmm … that bad huh?"

"Yes. That bad."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry. It's just the way things are."

When the waiter returns, Scully orders chicken tortellini. Mulder, on the other hand, settles for a small salad, not because he is hungry, but because he does not want her to feel uncomfortable eating alone.

"Are you still cold," he asks, trying desperately to keep his voice casual and passive.

He knows he is playing with fire, but the discomfort she is displaying is almost comical. It's clear from the redness in her cheeks that she has more than warmed up since their arrival. In fact, she appears to be uncomfortably warm. Her coat remaining on has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature in the room and they both know it.

Giving him a pointed look of warning, she returns her attention to her bread, picking at it nervously.

While he would certainly enjoy teasing her about this under more normal circumstances, he doubts that tonight is the time to push the envelope. On some level, he can understand why she is reluctant to remove it. He has never seen her in anything remotely revealing. She has always made it point to dress professionally and modestly for work — excessively so, and given what she has clearly been hiding under those loosely fitting pantsuits, he cannot say that he blames her.

Being a female in a male-dominated field is undoubtedly challenging. Although she could clearly use her sex appeal to turn heads and get a leg up, she doesn't. It is one of the many things that he has always respected and appreciated about her. Scully is a woman of integrity. She is a professional, which is why running into her on the street dressed so scantly had come as such a surprise.

"If you're worried about what I'll think about the dress, I've already seen it and happen to approve. There's no need for you to be uncomfortably warm on my account."

Taking a sip of water, she studies his face. Looking for a punchline or some sign that he is being anything other than genuine. When she appears to find whatever it is that she's looking for, she sighs.

"This is not something that I would normally wear … Melissa picked it out … She was ... always on my case about being too uptight. I bought it a year ago, but this is the first time I've worn it … It just felt like it was time to wear it." she confesses.

The mere mention of her sister's name provokes an emotional response that is quickly swallowed away when she reaches for the ties of her coat. Shifting in her seat, she lets it fall off of her shoulders and into the seat behind her.

Mulder had intended to make her more comfortable by encouraging her to make herself more comfortable, but so far removing her coat has only served to make them both more uncomfortable. Fighting to keep his eyes level with hers, he gives her an encouraging smile and takes another piece of bread. He has always thought that she was an attractive woman, but tonight she's not just attractive — she's beautiful … stunningly so.

Her hair, which is typically only curled lightly at the ends, is styled with larger curls, giving it more of a wavy flow that makes it look a good one to two inches shorter. Although he isn't sure if her makeup is darker due to her earlier tears or if she has intentionally crafted it that way, he likes it. The smokey darkness makes the color of her eyes look several shades lighter, giving them a glow that would make the shallows of the Caribbean envious.

"You're staring," she says, raising her brow.

He wants to tell her what he really thinks of date-night-Scully, but thinks better of it, choosing instead words that are more becoming of a partner speaking to a partner.

"I'm sorry … It's just … You look really nice Scully."

Silence falls between them when the salads arrive, but the blush in her cheeks remains as they each busy themselves with utensils and the task of pouring their dressing.

Mulder starts to worry that even nice had crossed a line when she begins to fidget and play with her food.

"Mulder … do you think that I gave him the wrong idea by wearing this," she asks quietly.

God. Surely she did not think that she had asked for whatever had happened between them. He certainly hopes that whatever look crossed his face as he watched her remove her coat did not add to whatever convictions she previously held.

"Scully, what you wear, revealing or not, does not give anyone the right to make assumptions. I have little doubt that he appreciated your … ensemble …," he says choosing his words carefully as he runs his eyes over her, "but appreciating and touching are two entirely different things."

"I just …"

"Look. I don't know what happened. I can imagine, but ultimately, it doesn't matter, because whatever it was … if it's not something you wanted then he had no right — period."

"I was just … I was just trying to loosen up a bit. My abduction and … Melissa … have each caused me looking at things a bit differently than I did before. I enjoy the work we do. I wouldn't trade it to go back to medicine, but that doesn't mean that I don't recognize that there is more to life than working. I just … wanted to try."

"There's nothing wrong with that Scully."

"But tonight made me realize that maybe working all the time isn't all that bad after all."

Now Mulder really wants to know exactly what happened, but he has asked twice already. Would asking a third time make him just as insistent and forceful as the asshole she was with earlier? Probably.

One thing is for certain, that man, whoever he is, better hope that Mulder never sees him again.

"Do you think that I'm frigid?"

She would wait until he had taken a drink of water to ask him that question.

Clearing his throat, he looks across the table at her and studies her for a moment in an attempt to read her. The insecurity and nervousness he sees behind her eyes and in her body language surprises him.

Scully has never crossed him as being someone with underlying insecurities. In the field, she is fearless and relentless, digging in her heels and taking command of each and every space she occupies. But right now, sitting in a fancy restaurant looking as stunning as he has ever seen her — she's unsure of herself.

He wants to tell her that she is absolutely gorgeous.

He wants to tell her that ice cannot scientifically encapsulate fire.

But he says neither of these things, stopping himself short of saying the words — not because he doesn't believe them, but because of what they might imply.

He doesn't want to say anything that would imply that only he sees her in the physical sense. Not to say that he hasn't taken notice in the years that they have worked together, but thinking about it and vocalizing it are two entirely different things. He cherishes their friendship and the last thing he wants to do is say something that would create an awkward tension between them in the future.

Scully has worked hard to build a reputation in man's world, and while her work ethic and professionalism have not gone unnoticed, neither has her physique. Despite the less than flattering pantsuits she wears, she has not gone unnoticed. He sees the longing stares and hears the whispers in the hallways as she sways past, and he knows that she does too.

The last thing he wants is to be misconstrued as being one of those guys.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that," she says nervously.

Dammit. He's been quiet too long.

Snapping out of his rumination, he quickly works to gather his thoughts and put them into words. Giving her a reassuring smile, he tells her what he should have told her earlier.

"No. You didn't. Not really. I just … I don't want to say anything that would offend you or make you uncomfortable, so I was trying to choose my words carefully," he says, studying her expression for a moment before continuing.

"You're a beautiful woman Scully — distractingly so …"

To this she blushes, letting her eyes drift down to her plate.

"Some people can't handle disinterest … it's easier to make the rejection about you than it is to acknowledge that there is nothing alluring about them. Calling you frigid is an out for them … it says nothing about you and everything about them."

Before she can reply the food arrives, but Scully is not looking down at her food, she is looking at him. The intensity of her gaze causes butterflies to form in his stomach and sends shivers down his spine.

She has given him a lot of looks over the past two years, but this one is new.

This look isn't Scully at all — it's Dana.

"Did you pick that up in one of your psychology courses at Oxford," she asks, giving him a soft smile of appreciation as she grabs her fork and begins to eat her pasta.

"Well, I suppose it depends on who you ask. If you ask my mother, my time at Oxford was wasted, given that I'm working for the federal government and not raking in millions with the silver spoon I was given as a child."

"Ah. Was that the topic of tonight's dinner?"

"Among other things."

"Such as?"

"Well, apparently I am incapable of having any type of meaningful relationship since I work constantly and am always late for dinner. She also made a snide comment about giving up on grandchildren that I chose to ignore."

"Ouch."

"And she wonders why I cancel," he says with a laugh.

"I'm sorry that it's like that. I can't imagine not having my mom to talk too."

"I'm used to it."

"That almost makes it worse."

"How's the food," he asks, gesturing to the bowl in front of her in an attempt to drift conversation away from his mother.

"It's really good. Thank you. Thank you for bringing me here."

"Anytime."

The rest of their conversation flows freely. He is actually quite amazed at how at ease he is with her and even more amazed that they have managed to talk for nearly an hour without mentioning any of their active cases. In fact, work hardly comes up at all, which is first. They talk all the time, but never about themselves, their families, or their lives outside of work. It's wonderful. He cannot remember the last time he enjoyed himself so immensely.

After she finishes eating, he picks up the tab and escorts her out the car, this time opening the door for her.

As they get settled into the car and pull out into traffic, she turns to him and studies him as if she seeing him for the first time. Although he's not looking at her, he can feel the intensity of her gaze.

"Thank you again for tonight. It was … nice," she says finally after a few moments of silence.

"I enjoyed it too. I think we both needed to get a bad taste out of our mouth."

As soon as he says it, he inwardly cringes at his word choice.

Smooth Mulder, he thinks.

"Yeah," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry Scully, that was a poor word choice … I didn't mean it—"

"I know you didn't. It's fine."

The ease and weightlessness of their earlier conversation disappears. It's as if a spell has been broken, and he feels absolutely terrible. He's about to resort to turning on the radio when she begins to speak.

"He … He kissed me, which was ok at first … but when I tried to pull back to cool things off a bit he kept pushing … to the point where I slapped him. I've never slapped a man before, but I slapped him."

Until this very moment, Mulder had not realized how much the visual of another man having his hands on Scully actually bothered him — more than bothered him. The mere thought of it steals his grip on the wheel to the point of whitening his knuckles. Although she still has not specifically told him what exactly he did, he knows it had to have been rather egregious for her to resort to slapping him.

The idea that anyone would disrespect her in that way, pushing her boundaries to point the where she felt like she had to physically attack them to make them stop, makes his blood boil.

"I immediately felt bad for hitting him. I think he was just as shocked as I was that I did."

"Scully—"

"Then he got mad … really mad. Said that he had heard that I was frigid, but never imagined that I would be frozen … I made my exit shortly after that."

"Sounds to me like he got exactly what he deserved."

To this, she says nothing, clearly still uncomfortable with the fact that she resorted to striking him.

"Name? Date of birth? Social security number?"

Cutting her eyes at him, she snorts and then relaxes her head back against the headrest.

"Trust me. He's not worth it."

"No, but you are."

Although it's dark and his eyes are predominately on the road, he can see her head turn in his peripheral vision. First to study him and then to look away, suddenly finding something very interesting along with a route that she travels almost daily.

Fearing he has already said too much, he refrains from making any further comment.

When they reach her apartment, he pulls into an open spot and moves to get out when she places her hand over his and stops him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?"

Mulder isn't sure if she's referring to his comment about her being worth the effort or the fact that he referred to her has being distractingly beautiful, but since the answer would be the same either way, he doesn't bother to ask her for clarification.

"I meant everything I said."

Nodding, she shifts uncomfortably, removing her hand from his and placing it in her lap.

"It's just … no-one has ever really said anything like that to me, not in that context anyway."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"There has … always been an agenda," she says, refusing to meet his eyes.

He can only assume that she is referring to intimacy. Is it really possible that there has never been a figure in her life that told her that she was absolutely stunning? Has every guy she has ever been with actually been that shallow? Only appreciating her body in the biblical sense?

"Men can be assholes. I would know."

To this, she laughs … genuinely laughs.

"You're not an asshole Mulder. Well, at least not most of the time. Only when you are ditching me, ignoring hard science, and disregarding protocols that could put us both out of a job."

"All in a day's work."

Snorting, she shakes her head from side to side and looks up to meet his eyes.

"I'll walk you up," he says, reaching for her hand and giving a squeeze. He walks around the car with a purpose, intending to open her door for her, but by the time he reaches the other side, she has already gotten out.

Mulder half expects her to insist that she is fine and to bid him farewell on the street, but to his surprise she says nothing, walking alongside him in silence as he opens the door to her building.

When they reach her door, Mulder feels a twinge of nervousness. It's just them. Mulder and Scully, yet it's not. He can tell that she feels it too by the way she shifts nervously on her feet as she digs for her keys.

"Would you like to come in," she offers.

Swallowing the lump in this throat, he politely declines.

"No, I should go, it's late, and I promised the gunmen I would meet them for an early breakfast."

"Conspiracy theories?"

"Always," he says with a smile.

"Ok … Well. Thanks again for tonight. It was nice."

"Yes. It was."

For a moment they both just stand there, gazing into each other's eyes.

"Well. I guess I'll see you Monday," she says finally, putting her key in the lock and turning it.

"Yeah."

He starts to walk away, but stops himself short, turning back to face her and catching her before she makes it fully inside.

"Scully?"

"Yeah."

Moving to stand directly in front of her, he reaches for her hand and takes it in his.

"Never let someone treat you any less than what you are worth."

Although she's fighting it, he can see the tears working to form in her eyes.

"And what might that be," she asks quietly.

"Whatever it is … I can't afford it."

Giving her a gentle smile he raises her hand to his lips, kisses it, and then turns to walk away.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah."

"You might could if you tried."

With that, she gives him a soft, appreciative smile and then disappears behind her door, leaving him to stand in the hallway with a slack jaw.

Come Monday, neither of them speaks of their impromptu date.

Little do they know that years later, they will each refer to this night as being a pivot point in their relationship — a time where she first saw Fox, and he first saw Dana.

[its-flicked-switch]

God is a Woman

Mulder takes Scully away for the weekend with an impending blizzard on the horizon. What secrets will be unveiled as the snow falls and weekend draws on? Will the walls they've built unequivocally fall? Or will new ones be built? Set post All Things and pre Requiem.

Rating: Explicit

—

PREPARATION

—

Friday

5:54 P.M.

—

Scully regards her drawer of unmentionables with hesitance. Fresh out of the shower, she contemplates her choices, biting down on her lip as she scans over the various sets in front of her, most of which are fairly basic. Recently, however, she has expanded her collection to include a few that are a bit more risqué. Her eyes settle on a red-laced shelf bra and matching thong set that she purchased several weeks prior. The purchase was brazen and impulsive. She's never worn anything like this for anyone, but she wants to for him.

Releasing her bottom lip, she lifts the matching set from the drawer, slipping on the thong and clasping the bra just below the swell of her breasts and twisting it around as she moves to stand in front of the mirror. She adjusts the straps and turns side to side to assess and adjust. The set fits her like a glove and leaves little to the imagination. With the straps shortened, the bra accentuates her cleavage perfectly, giving it cascading and spilling out effect that she knows will drive Mulder absolutely insane. Unable to hold back the smirk that tugs at her lips, she runs her fingers along the lace and sighs as she imagines Mulder doing the same.

The physical aspect of their relationship is still new enough that, at times, it's awkward to navigate. Having now tasted the forbidden fruit, the challenge to remain professional and keep their developing relationship from becoming public knowledge has become increasingly more difficult. She finds herself laughing, smiling, and entertaining his nonsense more often than not. She no longer discourages his leering gaze or flirtatious banter. If anything, she encourages it. Sex with Mulder has made her wanton. His touch has emboldened her and given her the confidence to leave buttons undone and wear lace.

Being with him has been unlike anything Scully has ever experienced before, but she has no regrets. Their transition from being platonic co-workers to lovers has not come without a few hiccups, but even in the midst of all the red tape, they have still managed to find a rhythm. Some nights they go out to dinner, other nights they order takeout, rotating between their apartments and conjoined hotel suites. Anyone else would refer to what they are doing as dating, but neither of them has labeled it as such.

The lack of definition has been liberating and less awkward than what she had initially thought it would be. She had expected him to press for something more defining, but he hasn't. Which is yet another thing that is different. Though she wouldn't call her résumé of lovers extensive, the others before him had longed for definition and significance, and their advances had been all-consuming and entrapping. What she has now with Mulder, in contrast, is something entirely different. So different, in fact, that it defies definition.

The journey they are embarking on is much more vast and complex than a rudimentary pairing. It always has been, which is precisely why his request for her to clear her weekend for just the two of them has left her on edge. It's undoubtedly a step towards something more, and Scully is not sure that she is ready for whatever more entails. She fears that definition will only serve to complicate their narrative, and she's quite fond of the narrative as it is written.

The irony of her hesitance to dive into the unknown while standing in front of a mirror wearing lingerie that she bought specifically for him doesn't escape her.

Sighing, she makes a decision. Selecting a tank top and casual sweater from her closet, she returns to her chest of drawers and pulls out a pair of leggings. Still hot from showering and blow drying her hair, she slips on the leggings and tank top over her ensemble but leaves the sweater at the foot of her bed as she continues to pack.

She had pressed Mulder for details throughout the week trying to get an idea of what he had planned for their weekend get-away, but Mulder had remained steadfast in his silence, answering her questions with a soft smile and nothing more. Aside from being reassured that the trip would not be work-related, Mulder has given her little to go on aside from the fact that she should pack warm and be prepared to be gone all weekend.

Had anyone else have made this proposal, Scully would have balked. The national weather service is calling for record-breaking snowfall. The first front is due to move through this evening, with several additional waves following in its wake. When she had originally brought this to his attention, he had not appeared to be bothered, which had only served to increase both her anxiety and her curiosity.

Mulder had jokingly fielded her questions the first few days until he realized that his secret plans were actually giving her a great deal of anxiety. Only then had he given her questions pause. But even then, he had stopped himself short of answering, asking instead if she trusted him. The flash of hurt that crossed his features as he asked had silenced any further objections she may have had to his pact of secrecy.

In every other relationship Scully had been in, the level of trust between her and the other had always been rudimentary. She had always gone to great lengths to make sure that there were backdoors and fail-safes in place, ensuring a route of escape when things inevitably went to a place that she couldn't allow herself to go. If there was anything that Scully excelled at, it was compartmentalization. Men had been allowed to touch and taste her but never to truly know her. Daniel had been the closest she had ever come to letting someone in, and even then, something deep inside of her had screamed when he had pressed for more, leading her to clam up and flee.

Mulder had been different from the others in every respect, and as much as that excited her, it also terrified her. It terrified her because she did trust him. She trusted him implicitly. Which is why she now finds herself packing a suitcase for an unspecified destination on the brink of the snowstorm of the century.

A light knock on the door followed by the sound of a turning key announces his arrival. While she may be hesitant to forge too deeply into definition, she does have to admit that she is silently looking forward to the day when he no longer feels the need to knock.

"I'm in the bedroom," she calls out to him as she hears the front door open.

He doesn't respond, but she is able to follow his movement by sound. Shedding his coat and removing his shoes, he drops his keys in the ceramic bowl on the table behind her couch as he makes his way to the back to join her in her bedroom. As he draws closer, his steps fall silent.

"You're staring," she says after a few moments of silence, turning to find him leaning up against the doorframe of her bedroom.

"You're not dressed," Mulder replies evenly, his eyes betraying his attempt to appear passive.

Still clad in only a tank top and leggings, Scully is unable to suppress the blush that colors her cheeks as he runs his eyes up and down her body.

"You've seen me in less," she replies coyly, a smirk playing on her lips as she reaches for her sweater, pulling it over her head in an attempt to cover herself before he draws close enough to note laced-covered straps of her bra.

"All packed up?" he asks, clearing his throat and changing the subject.

It's clear from his expression that he is a man on a mission and not one that allows for the delay of a bedroom tryst.

"Almost. I need to grab a few more things out of the bathroom, and then I'll be ready."

Grabbing her contact case, toothbrush, toothpaste, and hair dryer, she returns to her bedroom to find him sitting on the edge of her bed in the beginning stages of pilfering through what she has packed for the weekend.

Laying the items down on the bed, she frees her hands to swat his as she scolds him.

"If I'm going to places unknown with an impending blizzard on the horizon, you could stand for some mystery too."

"Fair enough," he says, laughing and raising his hands in surrender.

Placing anything that could possibly leak onto her clothes into a Ziploc bag, she finishes packing and takes one last look around before closing her suitcase and zipping it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"I think so."

Lowering her suitcase to the floor and turning it right side up, she reaches for the handle but is stopped short when his hand comes to rest over hers.

"Get your coat," he says softly. "I'll get this."

His words come out soft, but there is an authoritative edge to them that gives her pause. Scully has always been fiercely independent when it comes to her care. In her previous relationships she had always resisted being coddled or indulged, but looking into his eyes now there is no way she will deny him. With Mulder, it's never been a move of power; it has always been about reverence.

Removing her hand, she gives him a soft smile and turns to make her way into the living room with him following close behind her. They don their coats, hats, and gloves in silence, neither of them speaking until they hit the cold air outside.

"Goddamn, it's cold," Mulder grumbles as they make their way down the stairs and out onto the street.

"Mulder where is your—," she starts to ask.

But before she can get the rest of the question out, she hears the locks click on the SUV beside them. Raising the back hatch, he loads her suitcase into the back with a knowing smirk before coming back around to open the passenger door for her.

"Taking off to places unknown in a rear-wheel-drive sedan with an impending blizzard on the horizon isn't my idea of a good time, so I made few phone calls," he says.

The green Toyota 4runner is much roomier than either of their cars and immediately eases some of her anxiety over the weather.

"This is nice, Mulder," she says as he settles into the driver's seat. "Rental?"

"Yep."

Silence fills the car momentarily as he pulls away from the curb and begins to navigate his way out of her neighborhood.

"So … now that we are officially on our way, can I have a clue as to how long we are going to be in the car."

"Long enough that we will need to stop for dinner, but not long enough to miss the ten o'clock news or get caught in the impending blizzard."

"Well, that's certainly encouraging, but it's also not helpful," she says, laughing and rolling her eyes.

The few guesses she did have as to where they might be going became null and void as soon as he got on I-95 heading South.

"Mulder, are you seriously not going to tell me anything about where we are going or what we are doing until we get there?"

"Nope."

If his giddy excitement weren't so endearing, it would be hopelessly annoying. Scully hates surprises. He knows that but is making her wait anyways. Fucker.

She hopes for both of their sakes that the drive isn't over four hours. If so, they will undoubtedly be flirting with the wrath of mother nature.

—

ARRIVAL

—

Friday

9:18 P.M.

—

Mulder relents only when the snowfall beings to pick up, and her anxiety starts to climb.

"We're close, Scully. Close enough that we're not going to be stranded."

"Good, because it's really coming down hard."

She's now glad that they didn't linger at the diner they stopped at for dinner longer than what they did.

"Since we're so close …"

Chuckling, he reaches across the center console and takes her hand in his.

"I suppose I've kept you in the dark long enough," he says, looking away from the road long enough to meet her eyes briefly.

"After my parents' deaths, I had some real estate to contend with. I sold a good portion of it, but there were a few pieces that I decided to keep. The house in Quonochontaug is currently being leased as a timeshare and is usually booked solid, but the one I'm taking you to now has largely just sat. It's a cabin off of York River."

She had known about the property in Quonochontaug but is surprised by the cabin. He has never mentioned the property to her before.

"York River?"

"My father bought it shortly after he and my mother divorced. He kept it off the books and used it to get away from the rest of the world. It's fairly isolated, and the cell service is terrible, which is part of the reason I think he liked it so much. He was never bothered out here."

"So … let me get this straight. You're taking me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere that has no cell service on a weekend where there is supposed to be record-breaking snowfall?"

"Relax, Scully, I looked long and hard for Big Foot the last time I was up here. No trace. The Abominable Snowman also called and left a message with my answering service to inform me that he was taking the weekend off."

"You think you're funny."

"No. I know I'm funny," he says playfully. "And no cell service has its perks, Scully. You're the one who's always saying that we need to get out of the damn car."

"And yet, here we are … still in a car."

"Nope, we're about to get out … our destination coming up on the right," he says, turning off of the highway and onto what she assumes is a gravel or dirt road. With the snow currently covering the ground, it's difficult to tell.

"You weren't kidding, this really is out in the middle of nowhere," she says as the narrow road continues deeper into the woods.

"Yet, here we are, as promised," he says as the glow of the headlights settle on a small cabin up ahead.

"Unlike the other properties that were in his holdings, this one is pretty unremarkable, but I think that's part of the reason why he loved it so much. It grounded him."

He's not wrong. As soon as he had tied the property to his family, she had expected something more substantial and extravagant, but as they draw closer, she has to agree. It is quite unremarkable. It's rustic, but not in a way that holds character or charisma. It's also tiny. So tiny that she has to wonder if …

"And before you panic, yes, there is indoor plumbing and electricity. I do, at least on some level, value my life."

To this, she can't help but snort.

"Well," he says as he parks the 4runner directly in front of the cabin. "Shall we head inside and see if the book matches the cover?"

"We've come all this way … may as well take a look," she says, making no attempt to hide her smile.

There's no light source anywhere around, so the area that surrounds them is pitch black except for what is being illuminated by the headlights. It's snowing pretty heavily at this point, so neither of them wastes any time getting out of the vehicle. While Mulder busies himself with their bags, Scully studies the front of the cabin more closely, taking note of the stacks of freshly cut wood that line the back wall of the screened-in porch. She's about to ask him if he leases this property as well, but stops short of asking when the truth comes to her.

She had been worried and slightly irritated last weekend when he had fallen off of the face of the earth for nearly an entire day. When he had finally called her back, she had half expected to find him clear across the country, having ditched her for a case, but he had insisted that he had been out with guys and had left his cell phone back at his apartment by mistake. Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she checks her bars of service and smirks.

Mulder hadn't been with the guys. He had come here to prepare the cabin for their weekend together.

"See something you like?" he asks, coming to stand beside her with their bags in hand.

"You were here last weekend weren't you?"

"I may or may not have cleared out a few cobwebs and checked for Big Foot impressions prior to our arrival."

"Hmmm … Looks like you did a bit more than that," she says, nodding her head towards the chopped wood on the porch.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps the Abominable Snowman is a liar and left the wood butter us both up so that he can have his way with us once the snow gets a little deeper."

Rolling her eyes, she can help but smile at his humor.

"Which key?" she asks.

"The one fresh off the press. The old locks were ancient and a pain in the ass and required numerous jiggles, lifts, and kicks, so when I came last weekend, I replaced them."

Easily able to identify the key he's talking about, she opens the door and reaches around blindly for a light switch. Finding it lower than she expected on the right, she flips it on and is pleasantly surprised by what she sees.

The inside of the cabin is certainly more remarkable than the outside. The large, stone-built fireplace takes up the majority of the wall to her left, but the opposing wall is furnished with a dark, plush leather couch, side tables, and a floor lamp. The large, red-patterned Navajo rug and matching blankets draped over the back of the couch give the inside of the cabin a much cozier and homey feel than the exterior alludes. It's also spotless. The smell of freshly laundered linens and oak infiltrates her senses and brings a smile to her face, but she says nothing.

"I'm going to lock the car up," he says, setting their bags down in the middle room.

Nodding, she makes her way through the main living area and peers into the small bedroom in the back. The bed is neatly made with several additional blankets, and pillowcases folded neatly on top of a small dresser. The bathroom is also small but is equipped with all of the necessities. Turning back around, her eyes come to rest on the rounded edge of the fireplace where she finds more freshly chopped wood stacked neatly along the wall that leads into a small kitchen area.

When Mulder reenters, he says nothing as the locks the door. His soft smile giving rise to hers, as he watches her assess and explore. When he doesn't move and continues to watch, she realizes that he's waiting for something. There's something he's waiting for her find.

Curious, she ventures into the small kitchen and takes a peek into the icebox-styled refrigerator, where she finds enough food to last them several days if not longer. Spotting something larger in the bottom right corner, she opens the door more fully and spots the likely culprit of his fixed observation.

Sitting on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator is a vase full of long-stemmed red roses.

She's not looking at him, but she can feel his eyes on her and sense his presence behind her.

"Well, what do you think, Scully? Suitable accommodations?"

"You've been holding out on me, Mulder," she says softly. "And yes, this is … nice."

It's certainly clear to her now that he has put a great deal of thought into whatever he has planned. Her smile gets wider as she thinks of her own preparation. On the drive down, she had second-guessed herself, but now, as she bends down to rub her thumb and index fingers along the rose petals, she's more sure of herself.

Romance has been a new addition to their relationship. Mulder has been her best friend for years, and now he's her lover. The weeks that followed his return from England have been uncharted territory for both of them, but it hasn't made the journey any less pleasurable.

Wrapping her hands around the glass vase, she carefully removes the roses from the refrigerator and turns to face him.

"They are beautiful, Mulder, but you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," he says, interrupting her.

Before she can open her mouth to speak, he's talking again.

"Look, I know we haven't really talked about any of this … not really … but I want you to know it means something to me … it's not just a thing for me, Scully," he says, his eyes breaking away from hers momentarily as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

It's clear that he wants to say more, but doesn't want to make her feel uncomfortable or pressure her to return the sentiment.

Putting the vase down in the center of the small kitchen table, she takes a step towards him and takes his hand in hers.

"I know that, Mulder."

She knows it's not just sex. It's never been just anything with them.

Closing the distance between them, she raises up on the tips of her toes and brings her lips to his, drawing him into a deep, sensual kiss as she runs her hands across his chest.

When they come up for air, they are both smiling.

"That was nice," he says, biting the edge of his lower lip and raising his hand to caress her cheek. His thumb slips lightly across the surface of her lips as he looks down into her eyes, causing a chill to run down her spine.

"Cold?" he asks.

"It is a bit drafty in here," she says.

While it is true the cabin could benefit from some heavier insulation, its drafty coolness is not what caused her shiver, and she suspects that he knows as much. But it's still early enough in their physical relationship that she's still not completely comfortable expressing the extent to which his proximity effects her. Him sensing it and her vocalizing it are two entirely different things.

"If you want to take our bags into the bedroom, I'll start a fire."

"Okay."

Leaving him to deal with the fireplace, she picks up their bags and heads into the bedroom. The solid red comforter on the bed brings out the grains in the wood and gives the room a bit of pop that breaks up the monotony of the browns. It also reminds of her what she's wearing underneath her clothes. Smiling to herself, she pulls her pajamas out of her suitcase. She's actually quite comfortable in what she's wearing, but the warm leggings she chose to put on earlier fit her snuggly, making them somewhat of a challenge to remove. And with what she has in mind, she's opting for more easy access.

When she comes back into the living area, Mulder has a roaring fire going and a smug smile on his face.

"Keep it going at that rate, and it will be a little too warm in here."

"That's sort of the idea, Scully."

"Hmmm …"

Snorting back a laugh, he makes his way towards her and wraps his arms around her, kissing her on her forehead.

"I'm going to get a bit more comfortable. There's popcorn kernels and an iron skillet in the cabinet by the refrigerator if you're interested in making campfire popcorn."

"No microwave?" she asks him, separating from him entering the kitchen in search of the skillet and kernels. She had been so focused on investigating what was in the refrigerator earlier that she had paid very little attention to anything else. Aside from a few cabinets, a sink, and the refrigerator, it was bare of amenities. "Or stove?"

She can hear him laughing in the bedroom.

"What fun would that be, Scully?"

"Have you ever made popcorn over an open flame before?" she asks.

"Nope. Only over the stove and in the microwave, but surely between my Oxford education and your M.D. we can figure it out," he says as he comes to stand behind her.

"I sure hope so," she replies as his hands come to rest on her hips. "If not, we will be stuck with the residual smell of our failure for the remainder of the weekend."

Removing one of his hands from her hips, he opens one of the upper cabinets, directing her to the avocado oil and salt.

"No butter?" she asks, a big smile spreading across her face as he returns his hand to its original resting place on her hip.

"There's some fake butter in the refrigerator."

"Fake butter?"

"I have it under good authority that it's the kind that doesn't break any of the rules, which, in turn, classifies it as fake."

"Ah. I see."

Kissing the top of her head, he removes his hands from hips, grabs the iron skillet and kernels, and turns to go into the main room, leaving her to collect the oil, salt, and butter. She follows behind him and settles herself alongside the fire, eyeing him with interest as he reaches to grab what she thought was some type of wired grate covering on the other side of the fireplace. But it's not a grate, it's a foldable cooking surface that is designed to sit over a campfire.

"You've thought of everything, I see."

Smiling, he pours the oil into the skillet and then places it over the fire to heat.

"I tried. I wanted us to be comfortable and to have everything that we needed. I'd say that was a good call based on how things are shaping up outside."

"That bad?" she asks, getting up to peer out the window.

"Yeah, it was really coming down earlier."

"Wow, yeah … it still is," she says, turning on the porch light.

"I think it's supposed to snow all night. We should have left the wipers up, it's not going to be fun to dig those out later."

"Ugh. I forgot. Well, that's a problem for tomorrow … or the next day."

He watches her walk across the room to sit in front of the fire alongside him with a soft smile playing on his lips. The happiness radiating out of him is refreshing and contagious. The uneasiness she felt as she dressed and packed to leave this afternoon is now gone. While she may not know the full extent of what he has planned, she knows that whatever it is, she's going to enjoy it immensely. She's warm and fuzzy all over, and it's not just from the heat of the fire.

They work together popping popcorn over the fire for the next ten to fifteen minutes. The playfulness between them is palpable as they work the skillet from side to side in an attempt to keep the popping kernels in the skillet. While she had given him hell about not having a lid, she had to admit that their antics to keep all the kernels in the skillet as they popped had turned out to be quite entertaining. Somehow, between the two of them, they had managed to get away with only burning a few pieces.

Now, as they sit snuggled up on the couch and watch the flames dance, they are quiet. She and Mulder had both warmed considerably in front of the fire, causing each of them to shed a layer of clothing to remain comfortable. She had been wearing a tee shirt under her sweatshirt, but he had only been wearing his long-sleeved tee. Snuggling closer to him on the couch she rests her head against his bare chest and contemplates their surroundings as she runs her fingers along his side and down his arm.

"Mulder, why have you keep this place all these years?"

"Well, initially, I kept it because no-one else wanted it," he says chuckling. "It was a bit of a neglected mess in the beginning. My father kept it off the books, so it's not something I found out about immediately following his death. By the time I found out about it, it had been sitting for quite a while, so restoring it back to its former glory took some doing."

"The furniture is relatively new."

"It is. When I came here to take a look at it for myself, I arraigned for some work to be done in hopes that fixing it up would help me move it, but then I ended up falling in love with it for the same reason my father likely did. There's something … I don't know … peaceful about it. It has been my quiet place … my little secret. And now … now it's ours."

Shifting her body to sit up, she searches his eyes.

"Ours?"

"Our secret. Our quiet place."

Looking into his eyes now, she's not quite sure what to say, nor is she sure of what he is trying to say.

"Mulder I —"

"You don't have to say anything, Scully. I just … I wanted to show you that I am capable of getting out of the car."

The reverence and affection he has for her is apparent in his tone and in how looks at her.

He looks at her as if she is the only thing he sees.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she inches closer to him.

"Thank you."

Her words come out whispered and raspy as her lips move to cover his. The kiss is soft and sweet at first but quickly deepens. She can taste the salt and butter from their popcorn as her tongue moves across his. Shifting her weight, she disentangles herself from the blanket covering her feet and moves to straddle his lap, deepening the kiss even more.

Now pressed fully against him, she can feel the heated firmness of his arousal forming at the apex of her thighs, but she doesn't move or grind against him. Instead, she drapes her arms around his neck and runs her fingers through his hair, lightly scraping her nails across his scalp as she waits for him to make the first move.

She doesn't have to wait long.

Coming up for air, he breaks their kiss and lowers his hands to rest on her hips.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Scully?" he whispers.

Tears form in her eyes as she looks deeply into his eyes.

The ones who came before him had made similar proclamations, but none of them, not a single one, had ever looked at her like he does. He's always seen her. She's come to the realization that all the others had ever seen was an opportunity. All she had been to them was an established piece of ass … a box to check in their game of life. None of them had ever truly known her because she hadn't allowed them to.

"You make me feel beautiful."

"Because you are," he says, running his hands up and down her sides as he draws her into another kiss.

The kiss they are sharing now is much more heated than the one before, and this time, Scully doesn't wait. Running her hands down his chest and into his lap, she grasps his bulging erection and begins to stroke him through the fabric of his pajama bottoms.

"I want you to make love to me," she whispers into his ear. "Tonight there is no reason to rush, and I want to go slow."

Swallowing thickly, he nods.

"Okay," he says, lifting her chin and lowering his lips to hers once again.

When his hands make their way underneath her tee shirt and raise to brush over her lace-covered breasts, her breath catches with excitement. She can tell by the way his fingers have stilled over the lace that he's no longer naive to her preparation.

"Scully," he says quietly, running his fingers over the cups of her bra as if he's reading braille. "What are you wearing?"

"Only one way to find out."

Spurred by her words and suggestive tone, Mulder retracts his hands from her breasts and lowers them to the hem of her shirt. He usually makes it a point to hold her gaze as he removes her clothing, but this time his eyes are fixed elsewhere.

"Is this new?" he asks, his voice shaky and deep.

Unable to restrict himself to just looking, he raises his hand to lightly brush over the edges of the lace as he looks up into her eyes.

"Yes."

"So … you bought this for me?" he asks in a hushed whisper.

"Yes."

"It's … God, Scully," he says, again dropping his eyes to admire the picture she makes.

Biting her lip, she smirks at his inability to formulate words as his fingers brush light patterns across the tops of her partially exposed nipples.

"You don't believe in God, Mulder," she says in a hushed whisper as she presses herself more fully into him, capturing his hands with hers and steadying them over her breasts to encourage him to deepen the pressure of his touch.

When he raises his eyes to meet hers again, she is caught off guard by the intensity and sincerity within them.

"Muld—"

"If there is a God, Scully. She's definitely a woman," he says, his tone used and filled with admiration.

Before she can respond, his lips are crashing against hers. Raising his hands to her shoulders, he eases the straps of her bra down, freeing her breasts to press more fully into his chest as he moves his tongue against hers. He swallows her moans and runs his hands down her sides until he reaches the hem of her pajama bottoms. When his hands come into contact more lace and the bare skin of her ass, it's his turn to moan.

"Scully," he says, taking the laced material of the thong between his fingers and popping it against her skin. "Does this … ?"

He's having trouble finding the words, but she knows what he's asking. Rising up to give him better access to both the thong and her breasts, she murmurs into his ear.

"It's a set."

"Show me," he all but whispers.

Nodding, she disentangles her body from his, stands, and slowly shimmies down her pajama bottoms. He's seen it all before, but that doesn't diminish the blush rising in her checks or stop butterflies from forming in her stomach as he runs his eyes up and down her body.

"You know," he says, reaching out to run his fingers across the exposed skin along her hips, "red lace is not conducive to slow, so if that's what you want, you're going to have to drive for a bit. Because there is nothing slow about what is going through my mind right now."

"Well, if we are going to progress … at any rate … you're going to have to shed a few more layers," she says to him playfully, eyeing his covered arousal and socked feet.

"Layer," he says with distinction as he raises to stand before her, pulling down his pajama bottoms and removing his socks in one swift sweep.

Raising her brow, she shifts her gaze down to his prominent erection, not surprised at all by the fact that he had forgone boxers when he changed clothes earlier. She's clearly not the only one who wanted to provide easier access.

"Looks like red might be your new favorite color, Mulder."

He chuckles at her playfulness, but his expression turns serious as he closes the distance between them.

"My affinity for red isn't new," he replies gently, raising his hands to catch the tips of her hair.

Unable to respond with words, Scully slips her fingers under the laced straps of her thong but stills her movement when his hands come to rest over hers. Nodding, she shifts her hips under his touch, lifting one foot and then the other as he removes it and tosses it to the side. When he rises up to stand before her, she takes a moment to appreciate his physique before splaying her hand across his chest and giving him a gentle nudge backward to wordlessly communicate what she wants.

Seated before her now under the glow of the fire, Mulder is a vision. His lean, muscular body has been a central feature of her fantasies for the entirety of the seven years that she has known him but only recently has she had the privilege of indulging. Straddling his lap, she lightly runs her fingertips across his chest before bringing her hands up to caress the sides of his face.

"Slow, Mulder," she whispers.

Nodding, he runs his hands up along her sides until they come to rest underneath the swell of her breasts. His fingers follow along with the lacy material of her bra until he reaches the clasp, where he hesitates only briefly. His desire to access her fully outweighing his appreciation for her newly purchased lingerie.

Now bare to him, she is free to devour, and he wastes no time indulging. Taking her breast in his mouth, he lavishes her, worshiping her body with his hands and mouth.

Within minutes she's moaning and grinding herself against him, wordlessly communicating what she wants and how badly she wants it. But of all the places that he is currently touching, there is still one place that remains untouched. He's doing it on purpose, and it's driving her insane. She requested slow, but Mulder's definition of slow is bordering on torture.

"Please, Mulder," she moans.

Scully is all about foreplay, but there is only so much of his teasing hands and mouth that she can take.

"Please what?"

"Touch me," she says, raising up on her knees to give him better access to the one area she wants him most.

Catching her off guard, he leans forward and cups the cheeks of her ass firmly, supporting her weight as he stands.

"Oh, I intend to do much more than touch you, Scully," he murmurs into her ear as he carries her across the room and lays her down on the plush rug in front of the fire.

A chill spreads through her body as they transition to the floor, causing goosebumps to spread across her skin. The fire has kept the room warm, but Mulder's body is like a furnace. Without his skin against hers, there is a dramatic temperature difference, and her body's reaction to their separation doesn't go unnoticed. For a moment, he stills himself and looms over her body, gazing down at her as he runs his fingers across the goosebumps that have formed across her skin. Their heavy petting session on the couch had gotten the evening off to a considerably good start, but more petting is not what she desires now. Spreading her legs and placing her hand along his neck, she pulls him down to settle more fully on top of her so that she can feel the heat and weight of his body on top of hers.

With his body now flush against hers, she kisses him deeply, moaning in his mouth as he runs his hands along the backs of her thighs, spreads her open more fully, and brushes his arousal against her sex. Craving penetration, she bucks up against him to encourage his body to mate with hers. But when she moves beneath him, he pulls back and breaks their kiss.

"Slow, Scully," he says, smiling against her skin as he begins to kiss and nibble on her neck.

She starts to comment but is stopped short when one of his hands lowers to cup her sex. When she tilts her pelvis to give him better access, he adjusts his weight on top of her to give his hand more room to work. Scully is already soaking wet, but as his fingers dip into her and his thumb brushes over her clit, she feels a new wave of arousal forming.

"Jesus, Scully," he says as he slips two fingers inside of her.

Gasping loudly at his welcomed intrusion, Scully begins to rotate her hips more forcibly against his hand to aid in creating the friction she desires. With his fingers deep inside of her and his mouth alternating between her breasts, he builds her pleasure until she comes apart beneath him, only stopping his ministrations when she becomes breathless and squeezes her hand over his. Lowering his hands to caress the insides of her thighs, he gives her breasts one last lingering kiss before shifting his body down to place kisses across her stomach. His touch is light at first, but as his mouth gets closer to his destination, his touch firms.

The first time he had done this for her had been transcending. To say that it had been the most sexually satisfying experience of her life would be a vast understatement, and it has only gotten better since then.

Scully had anticipated him giving her a bit more time to recover, so when his hands rise to hold down her pelvis, and his tongue comes into contact with her clit she screams with pleasure, sucking in air and grabbing locks of his hair.

"Fuuuuck, Mulder!"

Running his tongue up and down her slit, he encourages her to put her legs over his shoulders and open herself up to him more fully, and she does so without hesitancy. She knows all too well what that beautiful mouth of his is capable of. Fuck, this man is talented.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. At one point his fingers penetrate her again, but in the heat of the moment, she was too crazed with want to recall the finer details or the words that spilled out of her mouth as she came two more times. He had given her such little time in between them that she is left gasping for air. Her intense pleasure quickly transitioning into pain.

"Mulder," she moans, desperately pulling at his hair and shifting her sex away from his hungry mouth. "It's too much … Jesus … just … just give me a minute."

Smiling at her disheveled form, Mulder places soft kisses across her abdomen as he rises up to look into her eyes.

"Do you have any idea how fucking hot that is to watch, Scully?"

The question is rhetorical because he doesn't wait for a response.

"I'm about to explode," he says, grabbing his aching need and rubbing it across her sex so that she can feel exactly what his exploration of her body has done to him.

Settling himself on top of her once again, he aligns himself with her opening and rubs himself along her slit to coat his arousal. Snapping out of her daze of ecstasy, Scully tilts her pelvis and draws her knees up along his sides, wrapping her legs around him and spurring his ass with her heels.

When he sinks into her fully, they both to gasp. No matter how well he prepares her, he's still a tight fit. She's tiny, and he's anything but. How she had managed to get this far into her adulthood without experiencing this level of ecstasy is beyond her, but perhaps it had been for the best. Had she have met Mulder in medical school, she likely would have flunked out.

He starts off slow, lazily and purposely sinking into her and rotating his hips in a way that ensures that she will feel every inch he has to offer her. The lewd sounds of their sexes as they mesh together fill the air mixing with the crackle of the fire and their moans of pleasure.

"God, Mulder," she moans. "You feel so good. Don't stop. Don't ever stop."

As he begins to pick up the pace, she can feel his balls rise, and his body tighten.

"Jesus," he proclaims. "I hope you're close because I'm about to explode. You feel so good, Scully … so fucking good … I can't …"

"Wait," she pants. "I'm—"

Words and breath escape her when he adjusts his pelvis so that his pubic bone brushes across her clit with every stroke.

"Oh, fuuuuck," she moans.

His movements are frenzied and less controlled as he gains momentum, but even in his race to the finish, he still manages to hit her in all the right places. Placing his hands on the backs of her thighs he lifts her legs higher, deepening his penetration to the point that she can feel him pushing against her cervix. The sensation of it is all-consuming and overwhelms her senses to the point where she loses all sense of time and space as her body surrenders to ecstasy.

"Oh, God," she hears him gasp as he continues to pump furiously into her. "You're so fucking tight … ohhhh fuuuuck."

And with one last pump, he is coming on the coattails of her own orgasm. The sensation of her milking every drop of his release intensifies the experience for both them, leaving them both covered with sweat and gasping for air. Aware of his size and not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he starts to roll off of her, but she secures her legs around him, halting his movement. His body is heavy on top of hers, but she doesn't care.

"No, stay … I want to feel you. All of you."

She's not sure what all she said in the heat of their passion, but she knows she must have screamed because there is a scratchiness and raspiness to her voice that wasn't there before.

The fire has now burned down to embers, giving the room a candle-like glow that only serves the increase the poetry of the moment as she runs her fingers through his damp hair. The firmness of his body pressed against hers and the feel of the dick softening inside of her is profoundly intimate and exactly what she wanted.

Tilting her head, she encourages him to raise up and look into her eyes. Without uttering a word kisses him softly, shifting her position under him in a way that signals to him that she is now ready to roll. Lifting himself gently, they both watch as he slips from within her. He's flaccid, but that doesn't make the view any less erotic. Once he's on his back, she raises slightly to reposition her body alongside his, placing her head on his chest and entangling her legs with his. Suddenly, she's overwhelmed and emboldened with the need to tell him what this means to her and how happy he makes her but stops short of formulating the words when his breath evens into a soft snore.

As she closes her eyes to join him, three very dangerous words drift through her mind.

—

GOOD MORNING

—

Saturday

8:33 A.M.

—

Scully wakes up in unfamiliar surroundings. She doesn't remember falling asleep or being put to bed, and for a moment, she's confused as to why it's so bright. But as she looks around the room and orients herself, she remembers their passionate night in front of the fire and smiles. The drapes that line the windows are functional, but they are no match for blinding white light of the sun as it bounces off of the snow that is currently blanketing the ground around the cabin. Sighing, she shifts her weight to rest more fully against the man spooned behind her. At some point in the night, he had moved them to the warmth and comfort of the bed without stirring her in the process.

As comfortable as she is in his arms, she needs to use the bathroom. Easing herself gently out of his arms, she slips out of bed and tiptoes across the hardwood floor into the bathroom. The embers of the fire from the night before are long gone, leaving the cabin with a drafty coolness that makes her shiver all over. The toilet seat is freezing, which only serves to further encourage to her quickly void, flush, and wash her hands.

Not bothering to dry them thoroughly, she makes her way back Mulder and warmth of the bed they have shared. Her diving entrance is much less graceful and stealth than her exit, causing Mulder to stir.

His eyes shoot open when the coolness of her flesh presses up against him.

"Jesus, Scully, you're freezing."

"Warm me up then," she says, rubbing her cold feet along his calves and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I forgot to check to see what the heat was set on before I came to bed. I got a little distracted," he says, smiling and pulling the covers more tightly around them as he rubs his hands up and down her bare back.

"Hmmm … I don't recall coming to bed at all."

"I didn't think you'd appreciate waking up on the cold floor by yourself."

"Likely not," she says with a chuckle.

Pulling her body more flush against his, she feels a familiar bulge against her thigh. Smiling, she turns her head to place light kisses across his chest as she runs her hands down his sides.

"Looks like somebody else is awake and ready to go this morning."

"Ah … yeah … he's … he's quite fond of the VERY naked red-head rubbing up against him."

"Is he now?" she asks playfully.

Wanting to pay him back for his more than enthusiastic exploration of her anatomy the night before, she drops her hand down to stroke his growing arousal, placing kisses across his chest and readjusting her position on top of him to slide down further.

"Ugh … Scully."

"Hmmm…" she murmurs, ghosting her lips over his abdomen as she continues her descent.

"I haven't … ummm … I haven't showered since yesterday do you want to …"

"Later."

By the time her mouth reaches him, he's at full attention. Looking up into his eyes, she smiles, positioning herself and taking him into her mouth without preamble.

"OH. FUCK."

In the past, going down on a man had always been power play … a chore to be done in lieu of sex. It's not something she had ever gained any sexual satisfaction from herself. At least not until she had done it to Mulder. Now, as she swirls her tongue around his tip, strokes him, and massages his balls, she can feel herself becoming more and more aroused. Spurred on by his guttural groans, she takes him deeper, enjoying the sensation of his hands gliding through her hair as she continues to pleasure him.

When she feels his balls coil up and his entire body becomes rigid, she eases up, removing her mouth and looking up at him with lustful eyes that relay her intention. She's not ready for the show to be over. She's just getting started.

She can tell that he wants to take her. He wants to grab her waist, flip her over like a rag doll, and have his way with her, but he does none of those things. Instead, he waits and watches, entranced by the authority in her movements as she straddles him, poises him at her entrance, and sinks down on him.

"Fuuuuck, Scully," he all but shouts, tightening his grip on her hips in an attempt to still her before he loses all semblance of control.

The feral look in his eyes and recognition of how wet she has become from pleasuring him is almost too much for her. Taking a deep, measured breath, she closes her eyes and gives them each a moment to settle before she begins to slowly rotate her hips. She can tell by the way he's touching her that it's taking every ounce of control he has to not drive into her. It's killing her too, but she wants to remain draped over his erect, naked form forever.

This morning she woke up wanton and without fear. For the first time in her life, she feels ready for whatever more entails.

She no longer cares what lies ahead so long as he is with her. Though the words have yet to be spoken, she is his, and he is hers. And this weekend, in this unremarkable cabin surrounded by snow, she intends to show him that God is, indeed, a woman.

—

Saturday

11:43 A.M.

—

The next time her eyes open, the room feels empty and cold. It doesn't take her long to deduce why when her hand comes into contact with cool sheets in the empty space behind her. Drawing the covers more tightly around herself, Scully scans the brightly lit room for its missing occupant. She's about to call his name when it dawns on her that the water in the bathroom is running. Smiling to herself, she rolls to her side and allows the covers to fall out of her grasp as she sits up and faces the closed bathroom door. The unfinished oak bed frame sits high enough off the ground that her feet dangle as they drop the side, forcing her to scoot a little closer to the edge to make contact with the floor.

Eyeing her suitcase on the opposite side of the room, she contemplates getting dressed and taking better stock of what is in the refrigerator, but the distinct sound of water cascading off of his body and onto the shower floor in the adjacent room quiets her rumbling stomach and gives rise to another form of hunger. As satisfying as the sex had been earlier this morning, it had done little to quell her heightened libido.

Goosebumps form across her skin as her body responds to the cool morning air and the prospect of joining her lover in the shower. Scully had showered prior to Mulder arriving at her apartment the evening before, but after their impassioned night in front of the fire and their morning in bed, she could use another one.

As she moves to stand, she hesitates briefly. She has showered with Mulder before, but neither occasion had been under the guise of passion. The first had been a decontamination shower, and the other had been a rushed and desperate attempt to not be late to a paneled briefing after failing to set their alarms the night before. Neither instance had been conducive to sexual advances, let alone romance.

Making her way across the room and resting her hand on the bathroom door, she's well aware of the fact that if she joins him now, there will be nothing casual or convenient about what follows. Joining him now will be another first. It will be a step towards something she has always avoided in all of her previous relationships. It will be a step towards more.

She enters quietly, closing the door behind her as quickly and as quietly as possible in an attempt to conceal her entry. The combination of steam and the view before her warms her cooled skin. Smirking and biting her bottom lip, she stands alongside the shower and watches her lover's toned, naked form move behind the frosted glass.

This thing between them is still new enough that the sensual thoughts crossing her mind give her pause, slowing her fingers before they can reach for the door.

In so many ways, Mulder is her first. It wasn't until she met Mulder that she truly understood the depth of emotion. What she feels for him, she has never felt before. Not with anyone. She had always balked at colleagues who had thrown away their careers and livelihoods for a good night in the hay. Now, as she stands outside of his shower, she understands why careers have been lost, wars have been fought, and empires have been built. He's the greatest risk she has ever taken.

"Are you going to just to stand out there or are you going to join me?"

Although there's an underlying playfulness to his tone, his question is serious.

Now that she's been caught, there's no turning back.

"Mmm … I came in to check on the status of the hot water. It appears that someone is using quite a bit of it."

She can't see his face through the frosted glass, but she doesn't have to be able to see him to feel the warmth of his smile on the other side. When the glass door pops open, her hesitance vanishes. The shower stall is small enough that he has to sidestep further into the shower to allow her to take a full step inside and close the door behind her.

"What kind of gentlemen would I be if I used it all?" he asks, his eyes meeting hers briefly as she joins him.

"Trust me, you're no gentleman," she says with a snort, as she watches his eyes rake up and down her body.

"I can be, but so far, nothing you've shown me this morning has encouraged my inner gentleman."

"Is that so?"

Brushing the front of her body against his, she encourages a shift in their position so that she can fall under the cascade of water with him.

"I was trying to be quiet. I was going to start breakfast before I woke you," he says seriously, the playfulness in his eyes gone as he reaches to move wet strands of hair out of her face.

The hunger she finds in his eyes weakens her knees. It's a look that has spread her legs and lifted her arms above her head on numerous occasions. Never before has she been so entranced and so willing to be completely and utterly dominated by another human being.

"Hmm … so you were going to use it all?" she asks, inserting humor back into the conversation in an attempt to erase the pictures flowing through her head before she loses all semblance of control.

"I was just finishing up and about to cut off the water when you arrived. Does the water feel cold to you?"

"No."

"Hmm."

Reaching behind him, she grabs the bottle of lavender scented Ivory soap resting on the corner and steps just outside of the spray. With a small smile playing on her lips, she hands him the bottle that is too full to be the one she packed.

"When did you buy this?"

"Last weekend," he says casually, taking her cue and lathering his hands with soap as she turns her back to him.

"Have you been snooping in my shower, Agent Mulder?"

"Recon is often the first step to any formal investigation, Agent Scully."

"And what investigation might that be?"

"Unravelling the mystery of Dana Scully."

Unable to hold back her light snort, she turns her head to look over her shoulder at him as he generously lathers her back with soap.

"I think it's safe to say that mystery there is dwindling, wouldn't you?" she asks him, raising her brow.

"To the contrary, actually," he says, raising his hands to run along her arms and up onto her shoulders where he begins to provide deeper pressure. "I know Scully quite well, but Dana … Dana is still a mystery."

His kneading hands momentarily render her incapable of speech. Tilting her head forward to provide him better access, she moans and arches her body in a way that encourages him to continue.

"If there's something you want to know, you should just ask," she finally manages to say, raising her hands to stabilize herself against the shower wall as he continues to work the kinks out of her shoulders, neck, and upper back.

Removing his hands only long enough to re-lather them with soap, he draws himself closer to nuzzle the side of her face as beings to massage her low back.

"Do you want me to ask you questions?" he asks her quietly.

The question surprises her and gives her pause. Does she want him to ask her questions?

It's in moments like these that she recognizes just how closed off she has become. The one person on the face of this planet that she desires to give herself to freely is hesitant to ask her questions in fear that she will shut him out or be made uncomfortable by his desire to know her on a more intimate and deeply personal level.

"Mulder, you can ask me anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Stilling his hands over her hips, he lowers his lips to her neck.

"How long have you had this?" he asks, shifting his right hand to rest over her stomach where it begins to circle her navel and fumble with the piercing she has there.

Of all the more intensely personal questions he could have asked her, he has started with this one, and it makes her smile. Even with permission, he's making it a point to not press her too far or too hard, and she adores him for it.

"I got it my freshman year of college. My father wouldn't let me get one in high school, so it was high on my priority list at the time."

"Such a rebel," he says, chuckling as he reaches for more soap.

This time when he wraps his arms around her, he presses himself into her fully, allowing her to feel the length of his arousal as his hands roam the expanse of her body. His touch is teasing and exploratory but also respectful. Even though he had her just hours ago, he touches her as if he is touching her for the very first time. It's sensually breathtaking, incredibly romantic, and makes her loins swell with want.

Unable to take it any longer, she raises her hands to capture his.

"You missed a few places," she whispers, raising his right hand to cover her right breast and lowering his left hand to cup her pulsing sex.

"Are you asking me to wash you or make you come?"

"I was hoping that maybe you could multi-task."

Pulling her under the cascade of water, he lets the water run over them, rinsing her shoulders and back as he takes her cue, cupping and kneading her right breast more fully as his lips find the side of her neck.

She moans softly in appreciation as his fingers move to run over her sex, opening her to his caress. The lingering soap on his hand in combination with her own arousal allows his fingers to move through smoothly, and she can tell by the way his breath catches as his fingers circle her entrance that he's enamored by how wet she is for him. He doesn't verbalize his desire, but he doesn't have to. She can feel it in his touch. And if his touch weren't enough of an indication, the dick currently pulsing into her low back would have been.

When his thumb begins to circle her clit her knees threaten to buckle, forcing him to lower his other hand from her breast to stabilize her against him.

"See," he whispers playfully into her ear, "I told you that I could be a gentleman."

"I wish you wouldn't be."

Groaning, he adjusts his hand to insert one finger and then two.

"If you don't want a gentleman, then what do you want?"

"I want you to take what's yours," she says, lowering her voice an octave as she looks over her shoulder at him.

The look she gives him is one of permission. There is a time for loving and a time for fucking. And at the moment, she's only interested in the latter. Removing his fingers from within her, he presses her flush against the wall of the shower, his hot breath rustling the side of her face as he lifts her to accommodate for her their height difference.

"Does Dana enjoy getting fucked against a shower wall?"

"Dana's never been fucked against a shower wall, so she's not sure if she enjoys it or not … but she'd like to find out."

Although they have yet to have any conversations about the ones that have come before them, she has seen the curiosity in his eyes when he drives himself inside of her. From their very first time, he has touched her in a way that has sought out to erase the touches of the others before him. It's as if he sets a bar for each and every encounter. One that seeks to ruin her for anyone else. When he loves her, he possesses her. Which is why, now, as she is pinned against the wall of a shower in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, she has made a confession that she suspects will awaken the primitive beast inside of him that is screaming to come out.

When she feels the hot steel of his arousal at her entrance, she knows she's not wrong. Arching her back and spreading her legs, she places her palms flat against the shower wall to give him the leverage that she suspects he needs to fuck her like he really wants to.

The feel of him behind her, appraising her as the water cascades over them, is incredibly intoxicating, but before she can put much stock into the novelty of their positioning, he thrusts into her in one swift motion, taking her breath away.

She's not sure if it's the angle or the fact that she's given him permission to completely possess her, but he feels harder and larger than he has ever felt before. At first, his penetration is a little painful, but the positioning of their bodies in combination with the cascading water and echoes of his grunts of exertion as he drives into her is so sinfully erotic that she doesn't dare ask him to stop.

Arousal shoots through her like a rocket when his hand wraps around her, and his fingers begin to play with her clit. Her sex swells even more with the knowledge and recognition that even in his drive to entertain his own fantasies, he is still going to see to her pleasure.

"Scully," he groans, "I've never … you feel so good … too good … Jesus."

He's pumping into her with vigor, struggling to maintain control as his fingers begin to move more aggressively, encircling her clit and providing just the right amount of pressure to make her entire body clinch as she gasps for air.

"God, Mulder, I'm gonna — ohhhhh fuuuuck."

Within seconds she's coming apart in the most wonderful way. Her earlier discomfort completely forgotten as she goes limp against the wall. She is so lost in a sea of bliss that it takes her moment to realize that he's still inside of her … and he's not flaccid.

"Mulder, you didn't …?" she asks, unable to hide her surprise.

"No," he says, nibbling at her ear as he reaches down between them to remove himself from her depths. "As amazing as that was … I want to see you … I want to kiss you and look into your eyes. Is that okay?"

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she relaxes her legs and places her toes back down on the shower floor as their bodies separate. As Mulder's words wash over her, she becomes overwhelmed with emotion. Sensing a change in her demeanor, Molder's hands drop to her hips.

"Scully? Did I hurt you?"

"No … No, you didn't hurt me. You could never ... I just … I wasn't expecting …"

Placing pressure through her right hip, he encourages her to turn and face him. When she does, his hands raise to her cheeks and wipe at her tears.

"Scully, I meant what I said last night … This … It isn't just anything to me. The sex … it's amazing, but it's not the only thing I want."

Before she can formulate a response, he kisses her lightly on the lips and then reaches off to the side, grabbing a bottle of shampoo on a lower shelf that she hadn't noticed before. It too is a perfect match to what's in her suitcase.

"You could have told me that you had the toiletries covered," she says, finding her voice as she watches him pop open the top and lather the shampoo in his hands.

"When I tried to pilfer through your things, I was shooed away."

Raising his hands to her hair, he begins to massage her scalp, filling her hair with suds in a gentle reverence that she has come to expect from him. Mulder can be an ass, but he's also incredibly soft and loving. The care relayed in his touch is hopelessly romantic. Which is why, at this moment, he could have her in any way that he wanted, and she wouldn't object. She trusts him implicitly.

"I thought you were snooping in search of other things," she says, giving him a look of meaning.

"What other things?"

"Things like what I was wearing last night."

"Ah. Well, did you pack more of those things?"

"You'll have to wait and see," she says, raising her hands to place them on his chest as she looks up into his eyes.

Not giving him time to speak, she raises up on her toes and places her lips against his. The kiss is slow and sweet at first but quickly amplifies in intensity as his hands drop to fondle her breasts. Moaning into her mouth, he pulls her body flush against his own, pressing the length of his firm arousal into her toned stomach as a not so subtle reminder of how he wants to finish.

Reaching between them, she grasps him firmly in her hand and begins to stroke him as he shifts her under the water and rinses her hair. She's so engrossed in the task of kissing and stroking him, that it takes her moment to realize how much cooler the water has become. She's not sure how long they've been in here, but it's certainly been long enough to exhaust the hot water reserve.

Mulder appears to have realized it too, taking one of his hands off of her breast long enough to shut off the water as he pushes her firmly against the wall. Bringing his hand back to rest along her hip, he strokes her side and looks down at her dripping wet body with a transparent sense of awe.

"You're beautiful, Scully. Absolutely, beautiful."

She doesn't return the sentiment or thank him with words. Instead, she raises her hands to rest on his shoulders and lifts her right foot off the shower floor, raising her leg to rub her inner thigh on the outside of his left leg signaling to him that she's ready.

Grasping her hips, he lifts her to align their sexes. She tilts her pelvis in anticipation of his penetration, but to her surprise, he doesn't enter her immediately. Rubbing himself against her entrance, he rests his forehead against hers and looks deeply into her eyes as his lips ghost over hers.

"This is what I want."

His lips cover hers, preventing her from commenting as his tongue slips into her mouth. There are many things about the physical aspect of their relationship that Scully adores, but the first to catch her attention had been what a masterful kisser Mulder was. Pressing her more firmly into the wall, he kisses her with an intensity that steals the air from her lungs, pulling back only as he begins to enter her. When they had first embarked on this journey of exploration, his voyeurism had made her self conscious and a bit uncomfortable. As the physical aspect of their relationship has progressed, however, she has come to adore the fact that he likes to watch.

This time, his intrusion into her body is slow and calculated. His eyes remain on hers as he adjusts his hands on her to control his penetration and support her weight. Raising and wrapping her legs more tightly around his waist, she groans as he bottoms out within her. He's so deep and so thick within her that her muscles struggle to accommodate him and grip him adequately enough to provide the friction they are both craving.

Taking a deep breath, she tries desperately to relax as he begins to move within her. The addition of her body weight bearing down on him in this position is new and more aggressive than what she has experienced with him before. Sensing that he's going slow and holding back for her benefit, she bears down on him as hard as she can and begins to rock her pelvis against his to facilitate his thrusts.

"You don't have to go slow or be gentle. I'm not going to break," she murmurs into his ear, tilting her head to nibble at his neck.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, the current of charge that surrounds them ignites.

Shifting his hands to grip the cheeks of her ass, he moves his body against hers, grasping, grinding, and penetrating her with a force that he has never used with her before. She feels him everywhere all at once, and for the first time, she feels him begin to lose all semblance of control. It's all-consuming and far more erotic and sensually satisfying than she could have ever have imagined.

Together, they race towards ecstasy, cursing and moaning each other's names as they move against each other. Her only goal as they reach the summit is to last a few moments longer than he does. Mulder has always been so controlled, always seeing to her pleasure and delaying his own. For once, she wants to see him lose it. She wants to be the one to rip away his exterior locus of control and tickle the beast inside of him.

"Stop waiting," she pants in his ear. "Take me. Take all of me."

"Fuck, Scully, I can't … not when you haven't—"

"This isn't about me. This is about you taking what is yours."

The command she finds in her voice surprises even her. Clamping down on him as hard as she can, she scrapes her nails across his back and then lowers them to caress his low back and cup his balls. When she begins to massage him, he loses it, coming inside of her with copious spurts as he curses, speaks her name, and adjusts his hands to rub her in all the right places. Unable to hold back any longer she tilts her head back to look into his eyes as she joins him in nirvana.

For a moment, neither of them speaks, each of them fighting to catch their breath and reorient themselves to their surroundings. Resting his forehead against hers, he moves his hands to her thighs and eases her legs down as he pulls himself from her depths.

"Good morning," he whispers across her lips, smiling at the look of awe and wonder she knows he must see plastered across her face.

"Good morning," she repeats softly. "Again."

To this, he chuckles, running his hands along her sides as he looks into her eyes. She knows she should say something more, but she's too weightless and overwhelmed by endorphins to come up with anything profound.

"Stay here, I'll get you a towel," he says, tucking a piece of her wild, wet hair behind her ear.

He returns moments later with a large, fluffy, white towel that he wraps around her to keep the chill of the cooling air off of her skin.

"That was … amazing, Scully," he says quietly, raising his hand and sweeping it across her cheek as she arranges the towel to cover herself more fully.

"Yes … yes, it was."

"So … Dana liked the shower wall?"

Given what they were just doing, the blush that rises in her cheeks as he searches her eyes feels silly and juvenile. She knows he sees it when a small smile forms on his lips, and his hand shifts to allow his thumb to slip across the surface of her lips. In the heat of passion, Scully can allow herself to be wanton and commanding, but in the cold light of day, there is still an element of shyness and insecurity that engulfs her. Looking into his eyes now, she can't help but wonder if her goal is also his. When he watches her face as she comes, is he looking to strip her bare? To make her completely lose control? Breaking down her walls until there is nothing left that his eyes cannot see?

"Scully?" he asks, breaking her away from her thoughts.

She's been quiet for too long.

"Dana liked the shower wall," she whispers, putting his mind at ease by raising up on her toes to kiss him lightly on the lips.

"Hmm …"

Running her hands down his bare chest, she gives him one more peck on lips before lowering herself.

"You said something earlier about fixing me breakfast. Is that offer still on the table?"

"Most definitely," he says, kissing the top of her head as he reaches for his own towel. "Get dressed. I'll take care of breakfast."

"Hey, Mulder," she says, calling after him as he makes his exit.

"Yeah," he says, peeking back in the door.

"If there's a bagel in there with light cream cheese, it might be love."

—

AN: I wrote this story back in February for The X-Files Valentine Fanfic Exchange (2019) created and orchestrated by OnlyTheInevitable\\ @gaycrouton​ in response to a prompt written by LizzieBee828: "I love tropes - undercover, shared bed, stuck/snowed in, formal events."  

This is a WIP, so for those of you who have enjoyed part 1, there will be more. 

[its-flicked-switch]

Just Because

Mulder surprises Scully with an early morning breakfast.

Rating: Teen and Up

This short, early morning drabble is a gift to @kikocrystalball and @kyouryokusenshi, who have both been huge supporters of my work and also happen to be huge fans of Mulder/Scully family/baby fics. Ladies, this is your ‘just because’ appreciation story. 

Set early January following the birth of baby girl Mulder. Enjoy.

When he hears the first whimper, Mulder rolls and reaches for the monitor, stilling himself on his side and breathing out a soft sigh of relief when the warm body nestled behind him remains unmoved.

Thankful that he had been able to reach the monitor in time, he gets out of bed as stealthy as possible, careful not disturb the sheets or comforter beyond what is necessary to exit. Experience has taught him that there is only a short window of time following the initial whimper. His daughter is a lot of things, but patience, thus far, has not been her virtue. Grabbing a pair of sweat pants from the floor, he tip-toes across their room and closes the door lightly behind him before making his way into the nursery.

Pulling on his sweatpants, he silently celebrates his impeccable timing when the beginnings of a soon-to-be cry face immediately shift into an opened-mouthed grin as he reaches the side of her crib.

"Good morning, beautiful," he whispers to her.

Returning her smile, he picks her up and cradles her onto his bare chest, placing kisses along the beginnings of her fine, strawberry blonde hair as he takes in her scent. The fresh smell of clean baby still clings to her skin from her bath the night before, but he also smells Scully, who had bathed and fed her before putting her down for the night.

Her happy coos and early morning babbles fill Mulder with a sense of happiness and contentment that he has never experienced before. Rocking her gently on his chest, he carries her over to the changing table and lays her down. Every time he looks at her, his heart threatens to burst. The fact that she's here and that she's theirs still shocks him in the best possible way.

Before Scully, there had always been layers of protection to ensure that a pregnancy was not possible. As traumatic as his own childhood had been, the prospect of having a child of his own had terrified him to no end. It wasn't until he fell in love with Scully that he came to understand the desire to procreate. His love for her had filled him with an unquenchable thirst that he had never experienced before. The desire to please her and fulfill her desires had negated all of his preconceived notions and fears regarding family. All these years later, Mulder has many regrets, but combining his DNA with Dana Scully's has never been one of them.

In the years that followed William's adoption, he and Scully had done little to prevent additional pregnancies. Though they had never spoken about it in the traditional sense, he was not naive to Scully's desires or intentions. The hormones he found in their medicine cabinet in combination with the subtle, almost indistinguishable dots and lines in her planner had required no translation.

She wanted to be a mother. She wanted to try again.

In his own way, Mulder had prayed for another miracle just as she had. The silence that followed had only served to solidify to him that there was nobody up there who was listening. Until, of course, the day that there was.

The little bundle in front of him had changed everything. Scully had taught him what love was, but even his love for her hadn't prepared him for the love he felt for his daughter. Katherine Margaret Mulder's entrance into their lives had been a shock. Being in their fifties, a baby had been the furthest thing from either of their minds, but now, neither of them can image their lives without her. She is Scully made over but with his goofy disposition and sense of wonder.

"Not too loud, Kit-Kat," he says softly, in an attempt to keep her coos quiet. "We don't want to wake Mommy — again."

She looks up at him with an expression of pure delight, smiling up at him as if he has told her the funniest the story she's ever heard as he seals her new diaper and puts her tiny little feet back into her footed pajamas.

"That's Daddy's girl," he says, lifting her to his lips and kissing her little nose and forehead before bringing her back to rest against his chest.

Taking extra care to avoid the creaky spots on the stairs, Mulder carries her downstairs and retrieves one of her pre-made bottles out of the refrigerator to warm. Keeping her cradled securely in against his chest, he turns on the burner beneath the tea kettle and begins to gather the ingredients he had hidden the night before. Warming the bottle just as Scully had shown him, he shakes it and then tests it on his forearm before offering it to her.

"Now, I know this isn't the same as Mommy. But Daddy needs Mommy to sleep a little while longer, so I'm going to need you to be a team player this morning and take this bottle like a champ, okay?"

When he brings the bottle up to her lips, she fusses a bit, but with some gentle rocking and soothing whispers, he's able to get to her settle enough to take it. The first time he tried this, she had outright refused, her Scully temper flaring at being denied the comfort of her mother's breast. But with Scully working again, she has gotten a lot better at taking a bottle in her mother's absence.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he lowers his head to kiss her little head, stilling his movement when her tiny hand comes into contact with the morning stubbles on his chin. When he looks down at her again, she stops suckling with an audible pop and smiles up at him. Tears threaten the edges of his eyes as he runs his thumb across her cheek and nestles her deeper into his embrace in a way that encourages her to continue to suckle.

"You know, there was a time in my life that I didn't believe in miracles," he whispers to her softly. "I've always wanted to believe, but deep down, I didn't. Not really. The power of belief … I didn't have that until I met your mother. I was broken, damaged, and flawed beyond measure, but she loved me anyway. Her love was my miracle. It's what gave me the courage to believe."

The room is silent as he continues to rock her and watch her feed.

"When I look at you, I see her … which is why daddy keeps buying guns."

"Ah, so that's why," a voice from behind says softly.

Her voice is raspy from sleep, but there's underlying emotion to it that brings a soft smile to his lips. He doesn't have to turn to know that he's made his wife cry.

"How long have you been standing there, Scully?"

"Long enough."

Having heard her voice, their daughter begins to squirm and turn her head away from the bottle.

"Well, now that you're here, this just won't do. Though I can't say that I blame her. Daddy prefers the real thing too."

He turns around to find Scully leaning against framing of the entryway to kitchen clad in a robe and fuzzy house slippers that help to explain her silent entry. He starts to rise from the chair, but the nod she gives him as she begins to move across the room, stills his movement.

When she reaches him, she bends forward and gives him a lingering kiss as she takes their daughter from him.

"Good morning," he says to her as their lips part.

"Good morning."

Bringing the squirming infant to her chest, Scully settles in the chair next to him.

"Patience, Katie …. patience," she says, chuckling at the impatience their daughter is displaying as she undoes the sash on her robe.

The sounds of her impatient fuss are quickly quieted and replaced with the sound of suckling as she latches on and settles in her mother's arms. Watching their daughter feed is something Mulder will never tire of, but his love for his daughter doesn't overshadow the fact that he is still very much a man.

It had taken several months for Scully's body to recover from Katie's delivery, but last week she had surprised him in the shower and announced her body was ready, coaxing him into pinning her up against the shower wall and having his way with her. He has had trouble keeping his hands off of her ever since then. Last night had been no exception.

Looking at her now as she feeds their daughter, it's quite apparent that she's wearing nothing aside from her robe, slippers, and a smile.

What's all of this?" she asks, nodding her head towards the various packages on the countertop.

The light in her eyes as she speaks only makes him want her more.

"Just a little something," he replies with meaning.

"Hmmm … just a little something?" she asks, raising her brow.

"The plan was breakfast in bed, but I guess me and Kit-Kat weren't quiet enough, huh little one?" he asks, standing and raising his hand to brush across his daughter's cheek as she continues to feed.

"It was actually the quiet that woke me. That and the cool sheets behind me," she says with a smile. "You should have woken me."

"You've been working long hours, and I kept you up late last night."

"That you did … but I didn't mind."

Chuckling, his mind drifts back to the night before. After putting Katie to bed, Scully had put in a movie and joined him on the couch. If he were to be asked at gunpoint what movie she put in, he wouldn't be able to answer to save his life.

"You could refrain from looking so pleased with yourself," she says, her eyes following him as walks over to the countertop and begins to organize the ingredients he has pulled out for breakfast.

"I could."

Her hearty laughter diverts his attention back to her. With her sash untied and their daughter cuddled up against her breasts, she is a vision. In the comfort of their own home, there is no need for modesty, but comfort isn't her only motivation. Scully knows damn well what she's doing. If she weren't feeding their daughter, he'd lay her out on the kitchen table and wipe that teasing smirk right off of her face, but there are certain things little eyes don't need to see, even if she is only two and half months old and unlikely to remember.

"What's the occasion?" she asks, eyeing the pancake mix and fresh fruit out on the countertop.

"Occasion?"

"Breakfast in bed?"

"Does there have to be an occasion?"

"No," she replies, her voice dropping an octave as she questions me with her eyes.

Before she can question him further, Katie becomes restless, wiggling in Scully's arms and demanding her attention as she unlatches and begins to fuss. Shifting her in her arms, Scully raises her onto her shoulder to burp, which only serves the intensify the level of fuss.

Knowing she will quiet when Scully repositions her, Mulder continues to gather ingredients without offering assistance, pulling out a few eggs, fresh strawberries, and a package of bacon from the refrigerator. Pans, utensils, measuring cups, and a mixing bowl follow. By the time he's gotten everything organized and the first few pieces of bacon in the skillet, Katie has quieted and is contently feeding.

"I could get used to this. You, shirtless … making me breakfast," she says.

To this, he can only smirk. He's frying bacon with no shirt. He fears nothing, and she has made him this way.

"You could, but then it wouldn't be a ‘just because’ breakfast anymore. It would just be breakfast."

"So that's what this is? A ‘just because’ breakfast?"

Yes, he thinks. That is precisely what this is.

Giving her knowing smile, he doesn't answer with words. Instead, he cracks eggs, flips bacon, cuts strawberries, and mixes pancake batter. Surprising her in bed would have been fun, but he is by no means disappointed in the view he has as he works. If the smile that adorns her face now is any indication, Scully is perfectly content to let him keep her guessing, which is good, because he has significant plans for the whipped cream hidden in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator.

[its-flicked-switch]

I’d like to say that I’ve learned, but let’s be real, I keep posting. I do this to myself. It’s why I don’t sleep at night. 

Writer’s Guilt 📙