#MulderAndScully

[thexfileswithoutcontext]

yes

[loubetcha]

[precedex-files]

Trying this text post thing 😅

[peefdogz]

my anatomically correct drawing of mulder 🫡

[msrpusher]

A one shot today-

The Weight of Uncertainity

If you like a story please comment. It has the same effect that Mulder gazing at Scully has on all of us.

The late afternoon sun beat mercilessly on the windshield as Mulder adjusted his sunglasses, already regretting the long-sleeved suit. The air in the car felt thick with humidity and something unspoken. The AC coughed with futility.

"You ever notice how funerals always happen on the hottest damn days?" Mulder muttered.

Scully didn’t look up from the funeral program she’d been thumbing through. “Maybe the universe wants to make us sweat for our decency.”

"Speaking of," Mulder said, slouching further into his seat, "if I die before you—and I realize that's statistically likely—will you give the eulogy?"

Scully blinked. “Are you serious?”

Mulder shrugged one shoulder, eyes on the road. “Just curious. What would you say?”

She turned to look at him, skeptical. “I’d say we shouldn’t be joking about this.”

He smirked, a flicker of mischief dancing at the corner of his mouth.

Scully gave him a long side-eye. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

He snorted. “Morbid, Scully. I never knew you were so dark.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her. She smiled.

They pulled up outside the cemetery, a modest patch of green surrounded by chain link and sorrow. Mulder popped the door open and stepped into the heat.

Scully spotted Skinner near the front, already engaged in quiet conversation. She made her way toward him, graceful even in the oppressive air, her black capped-sleeve dress swaying just below the knee. Modest. Respectful. Still, Mulder couldn't help but notice the way every male head—and probably a few female ones—turned slightly as she passed. She, of course, noticed none of it.

Mulder kept a calculated distance, mostly because he still hadn’t turned in that budget report and Skinner had the memory of an elephant. He was mid-regret when a woman approached him, tall, polished, heels sinking into the soft grass.

“You with the Bureau?” she asked, voice silky.

Mulder nodded politely. “Yeah. We were on the last case together. Didn’t know him well. Bright kid. Seemed like he had potential.”

“I’m Bryce’s cousin,” she said, placing a soft hand on his arm. “It means a lot that people from the Bureau showed up.”

She had long dark hair, big almond eyes, and absolutely zero effect on him. Still, she lingered, her touch a beat too long.

He shifted slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice dipping lower. “It’s been hard.”

Across the lawn, Scully glanced back, catching sight of the woman's hand on Mulder’s sleeve. Her eyes narrowed. She turned sharply and began walking toward the casket, her heels biting the grass. She didn’t need to look again—she’d already memorized the posture, the smile. She told herself she was annoyed at Mulder’s lack of professionalism.

But the truth?

Jealousy.

God, she hated herself for it.

Then her heel slipped—gravel or a root—her body tipping backward. But he was already there.

Strong hands caught her arms, steadying her. He pulled her upright with ease.

“You okay?” he murmured, closer than necessary.

Her cheeks flamed. She looked anywhere but at him. “Are you okay?”

He smiled, crooked and impossibly warm. “Good thing I never keep you out of my sight.”

Damn him. He always knew exactly what to say.

The service ended with somber murmurs and reluctant goodbyes. As Mulder gently guided Scully back toward the car with a hand on the small of her back, the Cousin reappeared.

“It was nice meeting you,” she said, breathy, dropping a small slip of paper into his hand before slinking off.

Scully's eye-roll could’ve powered the Hoover Dam.

Back in the car, Mulder started the engine. “So… Chinese or Thai?”

Scully stared out the window. She told herself to let it go. “Maybe you should call your friend from the funeral and see what she wants.”

He laughed, deep and delighted. “Whatever do you mean, Scully?”

“I saw her pass you her number.”

Mulder pulled a tiny crumpled note from between two fingers and, without ceremony, flicked it onto the street. “Yeah. She’s not my type.”

They drove in silence for a moment, the tension still hanging like a storm cloud. Once inside her apartment building, they entered the elevator in silence. Scully held her keys like they were a shield.

“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” she said quietly.

“By what?”

“She just seemed like your type. Tall. Leggy. Brunette. Bountiful.” God. Bountiful? What the hell, Dana.

Mulder chuckled. “I mean… Phoebe. Diana. I see your point. But you know, Scully—types change.”

She gave him a look.

“There’s a psychological study out of Stanford,” he added, shifting into Professor Mulder mode, “that suggests prolonged exposure to a certain archetype can change one’s baseline of attraction. It’s all neurological imprinting.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Especially when the archetype is brilliant. And beautiful. And constantly challenges you to be better.”

They stepped into her apartment. She headed for the kitchen. He went for the glasses.

He poured them both a glass of red—something he didn’t usually drink, but it was what she kept around, and he’d grown to like it because it reminded him of her.

He stepped up behind her, lips just grazing her ear. “For the record… my interests lie entirely in flame-haired pathologists with a penchant for skepticism and second-guessing my every move.”

Heat bloomed up her neck. She tried to keep her tone cool. “If you’re so interested, Mulder, why don’t you ever act on those interests?”

His hands slipped around her waist. His voice dropped. “Because if I do… I might mess everything up. You’re everything to me, Scully. I can’t lose you.”

She turned to him slowly, heart thudding.

“You’re so short,” he said suddenly, as if his brain had short-circuited.

She burst out laughing. It was perfect. And it gave her the courage to reach up, cup his jaw in both hands.

“Mulder,” she said softly.

But the word said so much more: Take me. I’m yours.

He lifted her onto the counter, strong hands gripping her waist, eyes locked on hers.

“What are we doing, Scully?” he asked, breathless.

She answered him not with words—but with a kiss. Fierce. Hungry. Long overdue.

He responded with every ounce of emotion he'd held back for years, his lips devouring hers, his body pressing into hers, solid and needing. She could feel every inch of him, and he made no effort to hide what he wanted.

The paper, the funeral, the rest of the world faded. Right now, there was only this—Scully's legs wrapped tightly around his waist, anchoring him to her. Mulder's mouth moved hungrily over hers, the years of restraint unraveling in every urgent kiss. His hand slid eagerly up the smooth curve of her thigh, lifting her dress inch by aching inch, fingertips grazing bare skin like he was discovering something sacred. She gasped against his lips, arching into him with a desperation that made him groan. Her fingers clawed into the back of his hair, needing him closer, deeper, needing everything. The unspoken was no longer hidden; it poured out of them in breathless whispers, in the way her hips tilted to meet his hand, in the way he touched her like he’d been starving for her—and finally, finally allowed to feast.

[xolasdoesntknow]

One of the comfort shows 👽🛸💚

[athenanfaymont]

🔥 Another nighttime dalliance: Slow burn is not just a cliché, it's a philosophy 🧘

Love not as lightning, but as architecture.

There’s a reason we keep coming back to the slow burn.

Not just because it’s romantic. Not just because we like to suffer (though… we do). But because at its core, the slow burn isn’t just a storytelling device. It’s a worldview. ✨

It tells us that love isn’t always a thunderclap or a glance across the room. Sometimes love is built. Quietly. Brick by brick. Sometimes love is a choice made over and over, across battles and betrayals and misunderstandings and time. ⏳

It’s a philosophy that says: Love is not the thing that hits you. It’s the thing you learn. It’s patience. It’s attention. It’s noticing. It’s two people who don’t immediately get each other, but who keep showing up anyway.

🌱 Slow Burn is trust. It’s knowing that if you build something slowly, it’s less likely to fall apart.

🔥 It’s tension. Because when characters don’t fall in love instantly, we get to watch them fall. In bits. In pieces. In stolen glances and shared silences.

🛠️ It’s work. Because it asks for vulnerability, for change, for self-reflection. A slow burn couple will teach each other things they didn’t know they needed to learn.

And that’s powerful.

We see this everywhere in fiction:

💞 Aziraphale and Crowley — literal centuries of ineffable tension. 💞 Kagome and Inuyasha — from bickering and misunderstandings to trust, friendship… and something much deeper. 💞 Superbat (if you feel it) — they start at odds. They grow through challenge. 💞 Feyre and Rhysand — from enemies to lovers, navigating trauma, trust, and love in a relationship forged slowly and carefully. 🌙💖 💞 Anne and Gilbert, Mulder and Scully, Pining Steve Rogers, Jane Austen’s entire bibliography — all slow burns at heart.

The slow burn says: You don’t have to fall fast to fall deep. That you can want someone before you understand why. And that maybe the best kind of love isn’t the one that erupts— —it’s the one that endures. 💖

[Hello Clio]

[cecilysass]

I always think the question with MSR isn’t so much who fell first or fell harder—mainly because I personally think it was pretty simultaneous / parallel—but rather who became self-aware about their feelings first.

In my take on this ship, they may well have gone years without fully admitting to themselves how they felt, or fully addressing the feelings head on. They were so distracted by the work and the Truth and the heady emotional power of Partnership and Trust. It was just really possible for them to stay in denial, these two characters in particular.

I tend to think Mulder faced the music first—that he was the first to accept the feelings weren’t platonic. Maybe I think that because he’s the believer, or he’s a doomed Romantic in a big R sense. I could see this realization coming as early as Scully’s abduction, but it could have been as late as Never Again or the cancer arc, too.

But I think @randomfoggytiger might argue it was Scully who understood her feelings first and waited for him to get his act together. I can be convinced of this, too, especially in fanfic. In The End, Scully has to have some awareness when she is stewing over Diana in that car. That could be her first realization, although it could have been earlier, too.

I listened to the XF Diaries podcast’s recent interview with Frank Spotnitz, and he talked about how he viewed Mulder and Scully in season 6 and the FTF near-kiss. He said they didn’t talk about it because they both thought it was something they shouldn’t have been doing. He said the show couldn’t spell it out for the audience because the characters didn’t have their own feelings figured out.

I thought that was striking, thinking about how all the way as late as season 6 the 1013 writers imagined them in this state of not fully realized feelings. I do get frustrated with this kind of talk because it seems so disembodied and unrealistic. I mean, six years, and they haven’t thought seriously about this?

But … also I admit to kind of liking this really repressed version of MSR. This version of MSR that just can’t get its shit together to admit what is happening. In other words, they aren’t exactly pining. They are more just in massive mutual denial. Fingers in ear, nah, nah, nah, I can’t hear you, no feelings here. That does make dialogue in season 6 episodes like Rain King and HTGSC and Milagro seem especially tense and loaded and fun.

And I do like fanfic that depicts them being forced to come out of denial; it’s much rarer than fanfic with one or both of them consciously pining. I mean, please. Do not mistake me. I like the pining fanfic very much, too, and I write it more. It’s just interesting to think about.

[jjohnt84]

🧊🍵

jjohnt444:

[kyouryokusenshi]

hi :)

can you write something about post S11 Mulder found TikTok and asks William to explain it and later Mulder asks Scully to do a TikTok with him (something cheesy or very dorky but cute)

It had been a quiet afternoon at the Unremarkable House, the kind of day where everything seemed to move at a slower pace. Mulder had been sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of him, scrolling through the endless stream of what seemed like nonsensical videos when he stumbled upon something called "TikTok." The name alone intrigued him, and soon enough, he found himself down a rabbit hole of short, fast-paced clips—people dancing, pranking, lip-syncing, and generally doing things that he couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

"Jackson’s got to know about this," he muttered to himself, grabbing his phone and sending a quick text to his son.

It didn’t take long for Jackson to respond, and before Mulder knew it, they were on a video call. Jackson appeared on the screen, his face a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Hey, Mulder. What’s up?"

"Do you know what TikTok is?" Mulder asked, as though he were about to crack some major conspiracy wide open.

Jackson grinned, already sensing where this was headed. "Yeah, of course. It’s everywhere. Why?"

"Well, I’ve been watching these videos, and I don’t get it. What’s the point? People are just dancing, and then there’s music, and sometimes they’re doing… well, I don’t know what they're doing, but they’re all just—having fun?"

Jackson chuckled. "That’s kind of the point, Dad. It’s just a place where people can post quick, funny, or even ridiculous videos. It’s supposed to be chill. There’s no deeper meaning or conspiracy here unless you want to claim that niche. You can do anything on it—dances, challenges, jokes, pranks, even educational stuff. You name it."

Mulder leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. "So, it’s like… a place to embarrass yourself in front of millions of strangers?"

"Pretty much," Jackson replied, still smiling. "But in a fun way."

Mulder pondered this for a moment, incredulous. "And people watch this stuff? Like, a lot of people?"

"Yeah, tons of people. Some of these creators are huge. People love it. And you can make your own TikToks too if you want."

Mulder’s eyes narrowed mischievously. "Interesting. And how do you make one?"

Jackson laughed. "I can walk you through it if you want, but I have a feeling Dana's going to find it hilarious if you try."

"Well, speaking of which…" Mulder glanced toward the living room where Scully was sitting with a book in her lap, completely unaware of his budding plan. "What do you think of me convincing your mother to do one of these TikToks with me?"

Jackson’s laughter grew louder. "I think you’re going to have your hands full with that. But I’d love to see it if you can pull it off."

"Challenge accepted," Mulder said, a grin spreading across his face.

Later that evening, Mulder approached Scully with the same determination he used when presenting his wildest theories. She was still on the couch with Lily fast asleep upstairs, now curled up with a cup of tea, and looked up at him, raising an eyebrow as he stood there, clearly plotting something.

"Mulder…" she said cautiously. "What are you up to?"

"I’ve discovered something today," he began dramatically, pacing a little as he built up to his request. "It’s called TikTok. Have you heard of it?"

Scully blinked at him, half-amused, half-bewildered. "I know what TikTok is. Why?"

"Well," Mulder continued, rubbing his hands together. "I was thinking… we should do one."

Scully stared at him for a moment, then let out a small laugh. "We should do a TikTok?"

"Yes. You and me. Together. Something fun, something… cheesy," he said, throwing in his best attempt at a charming smile.

Scully looked up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to figure out if he was serious. "Mulder, we are not teenagers. What could we possibly do that anyone would want to see on TikTok?"

Mulder took a seat next to her, leaning in with a gleam in his eye. "That’s where the genius of it lies. We don’t have to do something crazy. We could do one of those cute, couple-y things people seem to love. I’ve seen some of these challenges where people throw stuff at each other and then hug or… I don’t know, something dorky."

Scully shook her head, smiling despite herself. "So, you want us to humiliate ourselves on the internet for the entertainment of the masses?"

"Exactly," Mulder said, beaming. "Come on, Scully. When was the last time we did something completely ridiculous together?"

She sighed, giving him a long look, but there was a softness in her eyes. "Okay, fine," she said finally, much to Mulder’s delight. "But I get to veto anything that involves dancing. Or singing, you know I cannot carry a tune to save my life."

"Deal."

The next day, they found themselves standing in the living room, Mulder holding his phone, looking way too excited for Scully’s liking. He had picked something simple���a cute couple’s challenge where one partner points to themselves or their partner in response to a series of questions about their relationship. Harmless, cheesy, and dorky enough to satisfy Mulder’s newfound fascination with TikTok.

Mulder propped the phone on the table, setting it up to record. "Okay, ready?" he asked, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

Scully crossed her arms, giving him a skeptical look but unable to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "Let’s just get this over with."

They started the video, answering questions like "Who’s the better cook?" and "Who’s more likely to make the first move?"—pointing at each other and occasionally exchanging playful eye rolls. By the time it got to "Who’s the bigger nerd?", Scully pointed at Mulder without hesitation.

"I’m not a nerd!" Mulder protested, though he was clearly enjoying himself.

Scully shot him a look. "Mulder, you’re doing a TikTok with me right now. That speaks for itself."

When the video ended, Mulder stopped the recording, looking incredibly proud of himself. "That wasn’t so bad, was it?"

Scully shook her head, laughing. "You know, I’m actually surprised. That was… kind of fun."

Mulder grinned. "See? Now we’re officially TikTok stars. The internet’s going to love us."

"I don't know about that," Scully rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling as Mulder fiddled with the phone, uploading the video with a caption that read: When your partner’s still obsessed with the truth, but you just want to read a book.

As the video uploaded, Mulder leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We make a good team, don’t we?"

Scully smiled, leaning into him. "Yeah, we do. Even if you are a dork."

Mulder laughed, wrapping an arm around her. "I’ll take it."

And as they stood there side by side watching their silly video on the screen, Scully couldn’t help but feel a sense of lightness. It was a reminder that, even after everything, they could still find joy in the little moments—TikTok or not. @today-in-fic

[thexfileswithoutcontext]

one of my greatest purchases was this contact sheet from the x-files preservation museum

[loubetcha]

[karinanic]

I love when I see The X-Files questions on game shows

[precedex-files]

The FB algorithm showed me this little snippet of a poem from David Jones’ Love and Space Dust Volume II. Could not help but think of Mulder and Scully. I also thought about us the fans and the impression they left upon us from their very first meeting to their final embrace. Obviously I don’t mean to imply that is the last time Mulder and Scully see each other, but it is the final time that we get to bear witness to it. Unless of course Chris Carter has more tricks up his sleeve. But maybe they can just be happy in the unremarkable home with unremarkable lives and a non-alien baby.

[msrpusher]

Chapter 7: Paroxysm

https://archiveofourown.org/.../66617185/chapters/172574743

Final chapter!

This was supposed to be Part 2 in a 3 Part series but I am going to stop here.

Thanks to all those that took the time to comment on the fic! It meant a lot especially as this was my first foray at posting a fanfic!

The quiet hum of the hotel room did little to soothe Scully’s restless mind as the evening wore on. Her hand automatically reached for the untouched case files, but her thoughts were already miles away, replaying the chaotic ballet of the afternoon. The memory of Mulder’s body, heavy and warm over hers in that tiny closet, still hummed in her veins, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of the lampshade. His breath on her cheek, the unexpected weight of him, the raw awareness that had flared between them—it pressed in on her, leaving her breathless even now. She needed to talk to him. About the case, yes, but about everything else too.

A soft knock, polite but firm, sounded at her adjoining door.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice, blessedly modulated, floated through the wood. “Are you decent? I was thinking we should review the latest atmospheric data I pulled last night, compare it with your medical findings. It’s a lot to process alone.” His voice was muffled, but the underlying invitation was clear.

A professional reason. A credible, perfect excuse. Scully’s pulse quickened. “Come in, Mulder.”

The door cracked open, and Mulder’s silhouette filled the frame, tall and familiar. He had changed into a comfortable, worn T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still damp from a recent shower, a rogue strand falling over his forehead.

“Hey,” he said, his gaze searching hers, reflecting the unanswered questions swirling between them. He stepped fully into her room, looking around for a place to sit. The only real option was her small, rinky-dink desk chair, which was currently piled high with case files.

“You can just sit on the bed, Mulder,” Scully offered, her voice soft, indicating the neatly made queen size bed. “It will be easier to spread out the files.”

He nodded, a flicker of surprise, perhaps, but also a quiet acceptance in his eyes. He moved to the bed, settling down with an ease that felt both natural and profoundly intimate. Scully sat at the foot of the bed, spreading her own notes, their knees almost brushing as they leaned over the scattered papers. They worked for what felt like hours, dissecting the atmospheric readings, cross-referencing them with the victims’ fragmented medical records. Their minds clicked together effortlessly, two halves of a whole, each challenging and complementing the other. It was a familiar, comforting rhythm, a sanctuary from the unspoken tension that still simmered beneath their carefully constructed professional masks.

“Alright, Mulder,” Scully finally said, stretching slightly, the professional discussion wrapping up. “I think we’ve covered everything we can for tonight. We’ll follow up with the local precinct in the morning regarding those seismic anomalies.” “Sounds good, Scully,” he replied, gathering his scattered notes into a neat pile. He glanced at her, a silent question passing between them, before standing. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mulder,” she echoed, her voice softer than she intended.

He turned to leave, walking towards the adjoining door that connected their rooms. His hand went to the knob, and he began to pull it closed, a reflex born of years of professional distance, of respecting the private space between them.

“Mulder,” Scully said softly, her voice barely a whisper, yet firm enough to stop him. “You can… you can leave it open.”

He paused, his hand frozen on the knob. He looked back at her, his eyes searching hers, a profound understanding passing between them. He nodded, a slow, almost imperceptible movement, acknowledging her daring invitation. Without another word, he simply stepped through the doorway into his room, leaving his adjoining door wide open, revealing the twin doorway to his room. It was a silent, profound testament to the fragile thread of hope that connected them, an open invitation in the face of so much unsaid.

Scully watched him, her breath catching in her throat. In the sudden, silent expanse of their two rooms, separated only by a threshold, not a barrier, the delicate dance of their shared history, their entwined souls, felt profoundly real. A convection current of unspoken desires rose in the charged air, thick and palpable.

Then, a sharp, insistent rap echoed from Mulder’s main door. Scully froze, her head snapping up. Her heart gave a sudden, hard thud against her ribs. Who the hell could it be? If it was Potts, surely he would knock on her door, not his. An uneasy tremor ran through her.

Mulder, already striding to his main door, pulled it open. Potts stood there, looking even more impeccably groomed than yesterday, a confident smile already forming.

“Agent Mulder,” Potts began, but Mulder cut him off, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Potts. Agent Scully’s room is next door.” He gestured vaguely in her direction, his hand brushing against the open frame of his own door, a subtle barrier.

Potts’s smile faltered, but his eyes, sharp and direct, met Mulder’s. “I know where her room is, Agent Mulder. I was there last night.” His voice was low, deliberately challenging, a velvet barb.

Mulder’s jaw tightened, the mask of polite indifference cracking. “So what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a low growl, barely controlled. The question was a demand, a challenge.

Scully, straining to listen through the now open adjoining doors, could hear their voices, but they were frustratingly indistinct, a murmuring tide against the frantic beat of her own heart. She moved closer to the threshold, her ear cocked, desperate to catch a clear word.

Back in Mulder’s doorway, Potts stepped closer, his voice dropping, though clearly intended for Mulder’s ears alone, a final, cutting blow. “You know, Mulder, you are the luckiest son of a bitch on earth to have someone like Dana Scully in your life.” His gaze held a surprising depth of sincerity, mingled with a harsh, cutting edge. “She’s brilliant, she’s loyal, she’s more fiercely devoted than anyone I’ve ever met. And you, you take her for granted, burying your head in your conspiracies while she’s right there, right beside you. You need to wake up, Mulder. Because eventually, someone will eventually come along and worm his way into her heart. Someone who knows what she’s worth.”

Mulder’s lips thinned, a caustic retort forming on his tongue, a desperate defense mechanism. “Oh, I assure you, Dr. Potts, I’m quite awake. And I’m also quite sure you’re confusing the concept of appreciation with something far less… professional.” His voice was laced with a sarcasm so thick it could be cut with a knife, a desperate attempt to deflect the truth.

Potts’s expression remained unperturbed. He simply looked at Mulder, a slow, pitying shake of his head. “You’re pathetic, Mulder.” He didn’t wait for a response. He simply turned, a quiet dignity in his posture, and walked away down the hall, leaving Mulder standing in the frame of his open door.

As Potts’s footsteps faded into the distant hum of the hotel, Mulder stood rooted to the spot, the word “pathetic” echoing in the sudden silence of his room, mingling with the raw truth of Potts’s earlier words. "I know," he whispered, the admission a raw, ragged sound, barely audible, a confession to the empty air and to himself. He knew.

He turned slowly, his gaze drawn, as if by an invisible thread, to the adjoining room door, the portal to Scully’s space. A whirlwind of emotions coursed through his veins: anger, humiliation, a searing jealousy, but beneath it all, a profound, aching tenderness that threatened to overwhelm him. He took a single, deliberate step, then another, drawn forward as if being pulled by an irresistible, ancient force. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and touched the knob. Slowly, with a reverence that spoke of years of unspoken longing, he turned it.

The door swung inward with a soft, almost imperceptible click, revealing Scully standing there, framed in the soft light of her room, her gaze fixed on him. Her eyes, wide and luminous, met his. “I thought I heard someone at your door?” she asked, her voice a little breathless, a little too soft, betraying her desperate need to know.

He nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight with a surge of emotion. He bit his lip, a tiny, nervous gesture she knew so well, a tell of his deepest vulnerabilities. She took a step closer, her own gaze searching his face, picking up on the profound, shattering shift in his demeanor. “Who was it, Mulder?”

He looked at her then, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, reflecting the vast, luminous sea of her own. His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, raw with a truth he had guarded for years, a confession whispered from the very depths of his soul, cracking through the carefully built defenses he’d maintained for so long. “Did you know Scully?” He cleared his throat, “Did you know that you are the best friend I have ever had, Scully?”

She nodded slowly, her own eyes softening with understanding, agreeing with the familiar, comforting truth that had been their anchor.

Then, he took another breath, a shaky, desperate intake of air, and added, his gaze never leaving hers, his voice barely a tremor, heavy with the weight of absolute certainty, “And the love of my life.”

The words, profound and utterly unexpected, yet undeniably true, rooted her to the ground. The weight of his confession, whispered into the charged silence of their now open space between them, held her captive, breathless. He moved, slowly, gently, raising his large hands to cup her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw, possessive, tender, as if to finally claim what had always been implicitly his. And then, finally, after six years of shared shadows and unspoken longing, of a bond that defied logic and conventional understanding, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was a kiss born of years of held back passion, of stolen glances and silent yearning, of shared terror and unwavering loyalty. At first it was a pressing of the lips, an experiment, and then the ache, the longing broke through the swell of their emotions, and their quiet kiss turned into a torrent. His lips, soft at first, quickly grew hungry, pressing against hers, demanding a response she was powerless to deny. His mouth opened, a silent invitation, then consumed hers, a possessive, breathtaking claim. A low moan escaped him as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, then plunged, deep and seeking, into the warm cavern of her mouth. She met him, tongue tangling with tongue, a dizzying current sweeping through her as their mouths explored, tasting, learning, a raw intimacy igniting every nerve ending. The friction, the heat, the wet slide of their tongues made her head spin. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes still locked on hers, searching her soul, needing to know. His breath, hot and ragged, ghosted across her swollen lips. “Do you,” he asked, his voice rough with emotion, raw with a vulnerability that stole her breath, “do you want this? Want me?”

A soft, almost wry smile touched Scully’s lips, a familiar, comforting part of her reemerging even in this dizzying moment. “Ever the gentleman, Mulder,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion, a sudden rush of tears blurring her vision. She could only quickly nod her head, a desperate, frantic reassurance, her eyes pleading with him to understand, to know, that she had always, always wanted him.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound of relief and fervent hunger, and resumed the kiss. Suddenly, Scully’s arms reached out, finding purchase around his neck, pulling him tighter, holding him fast to her as if to anchor herself in the storm. Her fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging gently, deepening the angle of their embrace. In one fluid, powerful motion, he swooped her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly against his chest. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, the sheer intimacy of it breathtaking. He carried her backwards, across the short expanse of her room, and gently, carefully, laid her down on the soft expanse of her bed. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, yet filled with a desperate, burgeoning hope, devoured her face.

This was them. This was finally them. He couldn’t quite believe it, but God, he wanted to, with every fiber of his being. He wanted to believe this was finally real, finally hers, finally theirs.

The years of space between them compressed into this single, burning moment.

[flyingacehole]

I want to believe...

,.... the Truth is outthere.