msrpusher

[msrpusher]

I am adding this epilogue because of the kind comments people left asking for more. Comments make a huge difference to us writers. They are motivators, fuel to keep going.

I am not expereinced at writing explicit scenes. I hope you like it!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/172650235

Scully presents to the world as prim, proper, and exquisitely poised and guarded, a fortress of logic and reserve. But he is privy to a different side of her, a raw, uninhibited woman whose passion matches, even exceeds, his own. It is a side, if he has his way, he wants to see more and more of, to unravel every hidden layer. He remembers how she changes positions with him, her hand gliding over his hip, motioning for him to roll over so she can be on top, a silent, powerful command. Mulder is more than happy to accommodate and lets her be in the driver’s seat, utterly grateful to be along for the ride.

Her soft lips press against his chest, slowly making their way down his body. But he gently, almost frantically, grabs her arms. In a desperate whisper, raw with anticipation and a touch of fear, he says, "Scully... it's been a long, long time for me. And as much as I've dreamt of this, I'm afraid the festivities will be over too soon if you keep going." She simply smiles up at him, a knowing, utterly beautiful grin, and then, with a subtle shift, sits directly on him, settling her warmth over his pelvic bone, her skin radiating heat through his. He moves up, adjusting, so he can hold and caress her in his lap, her body fitting against his as if designed for him alone.

“What do you suggest, Mulder?” she asks, her voice a low wanton murmur, her eyes shining with mischief.

He tells her, his voice thick with desire, “I want to please you, Scully. What do you want?”

Scully’s grin widens, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that makes his heart pound. She leans in, stroking his jaw with a gentle finger. “Well, it’s been a while for me too, and I have wanted this for a long time as well, so I will tell you what I want, but this time may just be…”

His brilliant mind, which has been fuzzy with passion since the first kiss, hones in on "this time." This time. Which means there may be a next time. A future.

“…hot and fast, and I am perfectly okay with that.” She leans back, her gaze challenging and utterly desirable. “How does that sound?”

He responds by pulling her to him, kissing her with as much care and precision as possible, trying to savor every second. But the kiss soon grows frantic, their bodies heated and charged with a longing that is boiling up, impossible to contain. Scully instinctively, powerfully, grinds her clit into his pelvic bone, a movement that steals his breath, his words, his thoughts. The outside world no longer exists. It is their two bodies and their undulations only, a symphony of shared motion. They always work well together, their partnership seamless, and their bodies are no different. Scully can no longer wait, a fierce impatience seizing her. Mulder, however, is determined to have her achieve a climax, holding back with a will that he formerly puts towards his lifelong quest of finding the truth. The truth. She is his Truth.

Scully pulls back from their kiss, her eyes blazing with need, and unseats herself by lifting up to take his dick in her hand and guides it inside of herself. He is a large man, in both girth and length, and she sinks down slowly, taking him in, and he enters the sanctum of her bloom. He does not move. He watches, utterly captivated, as she begins to move over him slowly, then building up speed, her rhythm becoming more frantic, more desperate. He groans, a guttural sound torn from his throat. “Oh fuck!” he gasps, so close, so exquisitely close. He repeats her name, “Scully, Scully, Scully,” a chant, a mantra, a fervent prayer, a desperate plea, over and over again. She is moaning loudly now, a wild, uninhibited sound; no other sound on earth has ever had this effect on his libido. Her body is a taut wire, thrumming with an electric, consuming need, every nerve ending alive with desperate yearning. She gasps, “I am so close, Mulder.”

He asks, “What can I do?”

“Suck my tits!”

He eagerly abides, his mouth finding and feasting her breast, his tongue lapping, then sucking, first one, then the next, a deep, primal hunger driving him. She has her hand around his head, pressing him closer, her hips rocking faster. He grabs her ass, pulling her into him, the pressure of his hands on her flesh, the angle of her body, putting the exact pressure on her clit that she explodes in wave after wave of pleasure, screaming, “Oh God, I’m coming!” Mulder’s body immediately responds, erupting inside her so fast and hard and hot he is dizzy. He kisses her again, hard, in the throes of their shared orgasms. Together. Always together. It is the longest he has ever lasted, and Scully, too, takes a while to come down from the euphoria.

After a few minutes, Scully attempts to roll away, but he steadies her, his arms tightening around her, his eyes pleading. “Stay.”

She tries to explain, her voice still breathless. “The mess. I’m just getting up to clean up.”

He simply slips her to the side, situating her comfortably against the pillows, her body still humming with the aftershocks of their union. He then gets up himself, moving quickly to the bathroom to grab tissues. He quickly returns, offering them to her with a tender, solicitous hand. “Do you want water? Or anything? I can get you anything you want, Scully. Anything.”

Scully giggles, a soft, exhausted sound that fills the room. “Oh, Mulder,” she murmurs, her voice still husky. “It’s just your post coital dopamine talking, reinforcing those feel good chemicals. You’re simply wired for caretaking right now.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand and placing a gentle kiss on it, his gaze holding hers. “It’s not the chemicals talking, Scully,” he says, his voice low and utterly sincere, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that silences any medical explanation. “I meant what I said. I love you. I have for a long time.”

It is Scully’s turn to be overwhelmed with emotion. Her eyes fill with tears, her throat tightening. “I love you,” she confesses, her voice barely a whisper, yet firm with conviction, “I have for… for a long time.”

Mulder’s face breaks into a radiant smile, utterly vulnerable, utterly triumphant. He is proud of her. He knows how difficult it is for Scully to let her walls down, to be so raw, so vulnerable. And though he knows she loves him, hearing the words, spoken aloud, makes his soul unfurl like a sail catching the perfect wind, propelling him towards an infinite horizon.

_____________________________________________

Hours later, the first light of dawn, pale and tentative, seeped through the hotel curtains, painting the room in hues of soft pink and gold. Mulder was caught in a reverie, gazing at Scully, her head nestled against his chest. Her mouth, slightly ajar, was a tender curve against his skin, a faint line of drool tracing a path over his pectoral. He drank in her features: the delicate line of her brow, the alabaster skin of her cheek, the perfect, sculpted curve of her nose, the scattering of faint freckles across her temple. She was exquisitely beautiful, even in slumber, a masterpiece of quiet serenity.

He was content to simply exist in this moment, a quiet observer of the profound shift in his world, but he longed to hear her voice, to shatter the silence with her brilliance, to hear the logic and reason he so desperately needed to ground himself. As if she was capable of telepathy, she murmured, "I can feel you staring, Mulder."

"And they call me Spooky," Mulder responded, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Scully opened her eyes, looking up at him, a sleepy, utterly endearing shy smile on her face. "Hi," she whispered.

Mulder tried to dial down the goofy grin he assumed he was wearing. "Hi," he managed, his voice a little hoarse.

Scully shifted, her head still on his chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin. "So, now what?"

That was a loaded question. Did she mean, "Now what with the case? Breakfast?" or "Now what with their partnership? Relationship?" Mulder did not want to make any assumptions, not after a night that had defied all expectations.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice careful, gentle.

Scully sat up, turning to face him fully, pulling the sheet up to cover them both. Her gaze was direct, earnest. "I don't want this to change us."

Mulder’s negativity bias, his traumatic childhood, and his deep seated fear of abandonment immediately interrupted that to mean, "I don't want a relationship, Mulder." His heart plummeted, a cold dread seeping through him. He was trying to recover, to play it cool, to act as if he hadn't just bared his soul. But she knew him well enough. She was able to read his face, the sudden stiffening of his shoulders, the fleeting shadow in his eyes, and understood it to mean, "Wait, no, Mulder. I want this, I want this with you. I'm just afraid it may change how we work, how we operate."

Mulder breathed a profound sigh of relief, the tension draining from his body in a sudden rush. He let the chemicals that temporarily flooded the place where logic and reason usually lived, took a steadying breath, and reached for her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. "Scully, I have lived in a state of fear for so long. But my biggest fear, the one that eclipses all others, is losing you. I am willing to accept your terms, whatever they may be, as long as we're together."

Scully smiled reassuringly, a soft, tender curve of her lips. "Mulder, you get a say. You are half of this equation."

Mulder’s eyes lit up, a spark of pure hope igniting. "If I get a say, then I want to be with you."

Scully’s brow furrowed, a faint, almost bewildered expression. "As simple as that?"

"As simple and as complicated," Mulder replied, his gaze unwavering, full of fierce conviction. "I just want to be with you."

Scully nodded slowly, her eyes shining, and whispered, "I want that too."

Mulder brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one by one, a tender, reverent gesture.

"We will figure the rest out, Scully. And while we do..." He leaned into her, pulling her close, his lips finding hers, opening, moving softly. The kiss deepened, becoming hungry once more, a silent promise. And then, he was kissing her jaw, her ear, her neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

[msrpusher]

I am adding this epilogue because of the kind comments people left asking for more. Comments make a huge difference to us writers. They are motivators, fuel to keep going.

I am not expereinced at writing explicit scenes. I hope you like it!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/172650235

Scully presents to the world as prim, proper, and exquisitely poised and guarded, a fortress of logic and reserve. But he is privy to a different side of her, a raw, uninhibited woman whose passion matches, even exceeds, his own. It is a side, if he has his way, he wants to see more and more of, to unravel every hidden layer. He remembers how she changes positions with him, her hand gliding over his hip, motioning for him to roll over so she can be on top, a silent, powerful command. Mulder is more than happy to accommodate and lets her be in the driver’s seat, utterly grateful to be along for the ride.

Her soft lips press against his chest, slowly making their way down his body. But he gently, almost frantically, grabs her arms. In a desperate whisper, raw with anticipation and a touch of fear, he says, "Scully... it's been a long, long time for me. And as much as I've dreamt of this, I'm afraid the festivities will be over too soon if you keep going." She simply smiles up at him, a knowing, utterly beautiful grin, and then, with a subtle shift, sits directly on him, settling her warmth over his pelvic bone, her skin radiating heat through his. He moves up, adjusting, so he can hold and caress her in his lap, her body fitting against his as if designed for him alone.

“What do you suggest, Mulder?” she asks, her voice a low wanton murmur, her eyes shining with mischief.

He tells her, his voice thick with desire, “I want to please you, Scully. What do you want?”

Scully’s grin widens, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that makes his heart pound. She leans in, stroking his jaw with a gentle finger. “Well, it’s been a while for me too, and I have wanted this for a long time as well, so I will tell you what I want, but this time may just be…”

His brilliant mind, which has been fuzzy with passion since the first kiss, hones in on "this time." This time. Which means there may be a next time. A future.

“…hot and fast, and I am perfectly okay with that.” She leans back, her gaze challenging and utterly desirable. “How does that sound?”

He responds by pulling her to him, kissing her with as much care and precision as possible, trying to savor every second. But the kiss soon grows frantic, their bodies heated and charged with a longing that is boiling up, impossible to contain. Scully instinctively, powerfully, grinds her clit into his pelvic bone, a movement that steals his breath, his words, his thoughts. The outside world no longer exists. It is their two bodies and their undulations only, a symphony of shared motion. They always work well together, their partnership seamless, and their bodies are no different. Scully can no longer wait, a fierce impatience seizing her. Mulder, however, is determined to have her achieve a climax, holding back with a will that he formerly puts towards his lifelong quest of finding the truth. The truth. She is his Truth.

Scully pulls back from their kiss, her eyes blazing with need, and unseats herself by lifting up to take his dick in her hand and guides it inside of herself. He is a large man, in both girth and length, and she sinks down slowly, taking him in, and he enters the sanctum of her bloom. He does not move. He watches, utterly captivated, as she begins to move over him slowly, then building up speed, her rhythm becoming more frantic, more desperate. He groans, a guttural sound torn from his throat. “Oh fuck!” he gasps, so close, so exquisitely close. He repeats her name, “Scully, Scully, Scully,” a chant, a mantra, a fervent prayer, a desperate plea, over and over again. She is moaning loudly now, a wild, uninhibited sound; no other sound on earth has ever had this effect on his libido. Her body is a taut wire, thrumming with an electric, consuming need, every nerve ending alive with desperate yearning. She gasps, “I am so close, Mulder.”

He asks, “What can I do?”

“Suck my tits!”

He eagerly abides, his mouth finding and feasting her breast, his tongue lapping, then sucking, first one, then the next, a deep, primal hunger driving him. She has her hand around his head, pressing him closer, her hips rocking faster. He grabs her ass, pulling her into him, the pressure of his hands on her flesh, the angle of her body, putting the exact pressure on her clit that she explodes in wave after wave of pleasure, screaming, “Oh God, I’m coming!” Mulder’s body immediately responds, erupting inside her so fast and hard and hot he is dizzy. He kisses her again, hard, in the throes of their shared orgasms. Together. Always together. It is the longest he has ever lasted, and Scully, too, takes a while to come down from the euphoria.

After a few minutes, Scully attempts to roll away, but he steadies her, his arms tightening around her, his eyes pleading. “Stay.”

She tries to explain, her voice still breathless. “The mess. I’m just getting up to clean up.”

He simply slips her to the side, situating her comfortably against the pillows, her body still humming with the aftershocks of their union. He then gets up himself, moving quickly to the bathroom to grab tissues. He quickly returns, offering them to her with a tender, solicitous hand. “Do you want water? Or anything? I can get you anything you want, Scully. Anything.”

Scully giggles, a soft, exhausted sound that fills the room. “Oh, Mulder,” she murmurs, her voice still husky. “It’s just your post coital dopamine talking, reinforcing those feel good chemicals. You’re simply wired for caretaking right now.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand and placing a gentle kiss on it, his gaze holding hers. “It’s not the chemicals talking, Scully,” he says, his voice low and utterly sincere, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that silences any medical explanation. “I meant what I said. I love you. I have for a long time.”

It is Scully’s turn to be overwhelmed with emotion. Her eyes fill with tears, her throat tightening. “I love you,” she confesses, her voice barely a whisper, yet firm with conviction, “I have for… for a long time.”

Mulder’s face breaks into a radiant smile, utterly vulnerable, utterly triumphant. He is proud of her. He knows how difficult it is for Scully to let her walls down, to be so raw, so vulnerable. And though he knows she loves him, hearing the words, spoken aloud, makes his soul unfurl like a sail catching the perfect wind, propelling him towards an infinite horizon.

_____________________________________________

Hours later, the first light of dawn, pale and tentative, seeped through the hotel curtains, painting the room in hues of soft pink and gold. Mulder was caught in a reverie, gazing at Scully, her head nestled against his chest. Her mouth, slightly ajar, was a tender curve against his skin, a faint line of drool tracing a path over his pectoral. He drank in her features: the delicate line of her brow, the alabaster skin of her cheek, the perfect, sculpted curve of her nose, the scattering of faint freckles across her temple. She was exquisitely beautiful, even in slumber, a masterpiece of quiet serenity.

He was content to simply exist in this moment, a quiet observer of the profound shift in his world, but he longed to hear her voice, to shatter the silence with her brilliance, to hear the logic and reason he so desperately needed to ground himself. As if she was capable of telepathy, she murmured, "I can feel you staring, Mulder."

"And they call me Spooky," Mulder responded, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Scully opened her eyes, looking up at him, a sleepy, utterly endearing shy smile on her face. "Hi," she whispered.

Mulder tried to dial down the goofy grin he assumed he was wearing. "Hi," he managed, his voice a little hoarse.

Scully shifted, her head still on his chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin. "So, now what?"

That was a loaded question. Did she mean, "Now what with the case? Breakfast?" or "Now what with their partnership? Relationship?" Mulder did not want to make any assumptions, not after a night that had defied all expectations.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice careful, gentle.

Scully sat up, turning to face him fully, pulling the sheet up to cover them both. Her gaze was direct, earnest. "I don't want this to change us."

Mulder’s negativity bias, his traumatic childhood, and his deep seated fear of abandonment immediately interrupted that to mean, "I don't want a relationship, Mulder." His heart plummeted, a cold dread seeping through him. He was trying to recover, to play it cool, to act as if he hadn't just bared his soul. But she knew him well enough. She was able to read his face, the sudden stiffening of his shoulders, the fleeting shadow in his eyes, and understood it to mean, "Wait, no, Mulder. I want this, I want this with you. I'm just afraid it may change how we work, how we operate."

Mulder breathed a profound sigh of relief, the tension draining from his body in a sudden rush. He let the chemicals that temporarily flooded the place where logic and reason usually lived, took a steadying breath, and reached for her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. "Scully, I have lived in a state of fear for so long. But my biggest fear, the one that eclipses all others, is losing you. I am willing to accept your terms, whatever they may be, as long as we're together."

Scully smiled reassuringly, a soft, tender curve of her lips. "Mulder, you get a say. You are half of this equation."

Mulder’s eyes lit up, a spark of pure hope igniting. "If I get a say, then I want to be with you."

Scully’s brow furrowed, a faint, almost bewildered expression. "As simple as that?"

"As simple and as complicated," Mulder replied, his gaze unwavering, full of fierce conviction. "I just want to be with you."

Scully nodded slowly, her eyes shining, and whispered, "I want that too."

Mulder brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one by one, a tender, reverent gesture.

"We will figure the rest out, Scully. And while we do..." He leaned into her, pulling her close, his lips finding hers, opening, moving softly. The kiss deepened, becoming hungry once more, a silent promise. And then, he was kissing her jaw, her ear, her neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

[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.

[msrpusher]

Heller!

just finished your most recent fic & obsidian echo previously. Lovely writing all around (even if I am more of an rst enjoyer). was curious as to why you’ve decided to cap things off at part 2?

Thank you so much for reading them!

It takes a great deal of time to write and edit. Due to lack of engagement and little time to write and edit in the near future I am stepping back for now. Maybe I will come back in the future. ❤️

[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.

[msrpusher]

Chapter 6: Ring of Fire

Comments are as yummy as a Mulder and Scully cuddle!

https://archiveofourown.org/.../66617185/chapters/172493866

The interior of the Ford Taurus felt like a confessional booth, quiet save for the hum of the engine, but charged with a silent language that had become their native tongue. Mulder, behind the wheel, wore a grin so wide it threatened to split his face, his eyes crinkling with undisguised triumph.

“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully deadpanned, without even looking at him, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery.

He blinked, turning to her, his expression a masterpiece of feigned innocence. “Scully? I haven’t said a word. My lips have been sealed, my thoughts pure as the driven snow.” His grin, however, remained plastered firmly in place, broadcasting his smug satisfaction louder than any words could.

She finally turned, her brow arched, a silent challenge in her eyes. “Right. Don’t think I didn’t notice the look you gave Dr. Potts, as if you’d just claimed the last piece of pie.”

Mulder chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the quiet space. “Just a healthy dose of professional satisfaction, Scully. Nothing more. You were simply magnificent back there, truly. Your defense of the extraordinary, your steadfast belief in my… theories. It warmed the cockles of my heart.” He leaned back, utterly at ease, the picture of contentment.

Scully sighed, a mix of exasperation and something softer she refused to name. She knew, deep down, that his triumph was less about the case and more about the subtle, unspoken battle he’d won against Potts for her attention. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Instead, she pivoted, forcing the conversation back to the professional.

“Alright, Mulder,” she began, pulling out a small notebook. “Let’s discuss your ‘temporal distortion’ theory. You mentioned atmospheric readings correlated with the disappearance times. What kind of readings are we talking about? And how reliable is this data?”

Mulder, surprisingly, followed her lead without further prompting, his tone immediately shifting to one of intense focus. “Low-frequency, electromagnetic pulses, Scully. Subtle, easily dismissed, but consistent with each reported incident of missing time. It’s like a ripple in the fabric of space-time, localized, possibly caused by whatever energy source is creating the ‘blinding shimmer’ the eyewitnesses described.” He pulled out a worn printout from the dashboard, a complex graph filled with peaks and valleys. “I’ve cross-referenced this with NOAA data, satellite imagery, even local ham radio reports. There’s a pattern, Scully. A faint, almost imperceptible one, but it’s there.”

Scully took the printout, her professional curiosity kicking in, overriding her lingering irritation. Her fingers traced the subtle anomalies on the graph. “And your hypothesis is that these energy fluctuations aren’t just causing the electrical disturbances, but are actively affecting human perception of time, or even creating localized pockets of… displacement?”

“Precisely,” Mulder affirmed, his voice alight with the thrill of the chase. “It’s why these individuals are found hours later, disoriented, with no memory. Their brains are trying to reconcile a reality that defies conventional understanding.”

They drove for another twenty minutes, dissecting the theory, throwing out counter-arguments and potential avenues of inquiry. 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.

Their destination was a quiet, tree-lined suburban street, far removed from the coastal bustle. The house was unremarkable, a modest ranch-style home with neatly trimmed hedges. When Clara Simms, the woman who had reported missing time, opened the door, her eyes darted nervously from side to side, her grip on the doorknob white-knuckled.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” she whispered, her voice reedy with fear. She was a woman in her late forties, her hair a wispy gray, her eyes wide and haunted. “You’ve come. I knew you would.”

“Ms. Simms,” Mulder said gently, his voice soft, reassuring. “We’re here to help. Can we come in?”

Clara hesitated, her eyes scanning the street as if expecting an unseen threat. “I… I can’t talk here. Not with them watching.” Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible murmur. “They’re everywhere. They listen.”

Mulder’s gaze softened with understanding. He had seen this kind of paranoia before, the crushing weight of an invisible burden. He knew that arguing with her would only make her retreat further. “Where would you feel safe, Ms. Simms?” he asked, his voice even, devoid of judgment.

Scully, however, shifted her weight, a subtle skepticism etched on her face. Her scientific mind bristled at the clear signs of delusion, already forming a differential diagnosis. Paranoid ideation, possibly stress-induced, or even a pre-existing condition exacerbated by the trauma of her missing time. Her eyes met Mulder’s, a silent question passing between them: Are we really indulging this?

Clara’s eyes darted around her living room, then fixed on a narrow hallway leading to what appeared to be a utility area. “The… the closet,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperate urgency. “The broom closet. They can’t hear us there. It’s too… small.”

Mulder glanced at Scully, a hint of appeal in his eyes. Scully sighed, a quiet admission of defeat. The woman’s distress was undeniable, and if this was the only way to get her to speak, they would try.

Clara turned and scuttled down the hallway, beckoning them with a frantic hand. They followed, their footsteps muffled on the carpet. She pointed to a narrow door, barely wider than her shoulders. It was indeed a broom closet, the faint scent of lemon polish and dust motes hanging in the air. It could barely fit one person comfortably, let alone three.

Before they could even fathom how to properly angle themselves into the cramped space, a sudden, jarring crash echoed from the front of the house, like a heavy object falling. Clara gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

“They’re here!” she shrieked, a primal fear in her voice. Without another thought, she shoved Mulder and Scully forcefully into the tiny closet. They stumbled, propelled by her desperate strength, landing in a heap against the back wall. Clara slammed the door shut, plunging them into near-total darkness, then her muffled footsteps retreated, presumably to deal with the disturbance.

Mulder and Scully were pressed together, impossibly close. There was no space between them, not an inch of air. Her back was flush against his chest, his arms pinning her to the wall, their legs tangled in the desperate lunge. The thin cotton of their shirts, the soft fabric of their pants—it was all that separated skin from skin, yet it felt like too much space, a chasm separating bodies that yearned to connect. The faint glow from the crack under the door was the only light.

“Mulder,” Scully whispered, her voice strained, barely audible in the suffocating closeness. “That woman is clearly experiencing significant psychological distress. While her fear is palpable, her narrative, particularly the ‘them’ and ‘listening’ elements, appears largely delusional. I doubt it bears any direct scientific correlation to her episode of missing time.”

His breath ghosted over her ear, warm and ragged. “Do you really want to take that risk, Scully?” he whispered back, his voice a low thrum against her spine. He shifted infinitesimally, turning his head so he was looking down into the vast, luminous sea of her eyes, a cosmic expanse he always felt on the cusp of drowning in, drawn inevitably into their depths.

She sighed, a tiny sound of defeat, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her back, the heat of his body radiating through her clothes. The absurdity of their situation, crammed into a broom closet by a terrified woman, warred with the potent intimacy of their proximity.

“Potts thinks you are out of your goddamn mind,” Scully said, her voice a little louder than a whisper now, a desperate attempt to inject normalcy, to break the suffocating tension. The words were meant to create distance, but their effect was precisely the opposite.

His face was so close, she could feel the hot whisper of his breath on her cheek, the feral heat of his aftershave, and the clean, intoxicating scent of something uniquely wild—a complex alchemy that was, to her, the essence of “Mulderesqe.” It was a scent that both grounded and disoriented her, a powerful, primal signature.

“Oh, is that what he thinks?” Mulder whispered back, his voice thick, his lips so close to her ear, she could feel the slightest vibration of his words. He leaned closer still, his body subtly shifting, the pressure against her increasing, a silent invitation.

Scully twisted around to face him and felt hypnotized by him, her rational mind slowly dissolving under the intense, intoxicating pressure of his presence. “Actually, he thinks… he thinks….” Her mind screamed, He is emotionally unavailable! He is a blaring alarm bell warning passengers to deboard the ship before it sinks! Get out! But the warning was a distant echo, drowned out by the thunder of her own heart.

“What does he think, Scully?” Mulder prompted, his voice a low, urgent murmur, his breath warm against her lips now, their mouths almost touching.

“He… he… thinks you’re in love with me….” she confessed, the words escaping her without any conscious thought, a raw, undeniable truth she hadn’t meant to utter aloud.

He was so close now, in the near darkness, she could see the faint glint of his teeth as he bit his lip, a tiny, nervous gesture she knew so well. He nodded slowly, his eyes locked on hers, a world of unspoken longing in their depths. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.

She was beyond thinking. Thinking had left the building right about the time they were shoved into this closet together. She didn’t know who was leaning—her or him—but suddenly, thrillingly, his hands were on her face, bracing her, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw, as if to keep her there, as if she were capable of going anywhere else at this moment. A sudden thought, a question, pierced through the sensual haze: When did he become the center of the universe?

But the thought was abruptly, jarringly, interrupted. The closet door swung open, revealing Clara Simms, a sheepish expression on her face. “False alarm,” she announced, her voice surprisingly normal, the earlier terror gone. “Just the neighbor’s cat knocking over a planter.”

Mulder and Scully jumped apart, their movements frantic and uncoordinated, like two magnetic poles suddenly reversed, repelling each other with surprising force.

Later, in the Ford Taurus, the windows down, the humid air offering little relief, a different kind of tension permeated the space. They were leaving Clara’s house, the interview having yielded frustratingly little beyond her initial paranoid claims.

“So, Scully,” Mulder began, his voice flat, clearly trying to reignite the professional distance. “Your assessment. Anything beyond ‘delusional’ that might aid my… unconventional theory?”

Scully sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Mulder, her account was entirely consistent with paranoid schizophrenia. The ‘blinding shimmer’ and missing time were likely confabulations, or perhaps, at most, a disoriented interpretation of a mundane event.” She paused, glancing at him. “There was no concrete data, Mulder. No atmospheric readings, no physical evidence of a temporal distortion. Just her deeply held, if unsubstantiated, beliefs.”

“But the urgency, Scully,” Mulder pressed, his eyes fixed on the road, but his tone hinting at the deeper, unspoken frustration. “Her absolute conviction. She truly believes what happened to her. And the previous victims also reported disconnections from reality, even if they couldn’t articulate it in such… vivid terms.”

“Conviction doesn’t equal causation, Mulder,” Scully countered, her voice firm. “We need tangible evidence. Measurable phenomena. Not the ramblings of a woman who believes her cat knocking over a planter is part of a grand conspiracy.”

“Clara, Scully. Her name is Clara,” Mulder corrected softly, a subtle undercurrent of something that sounded like empathy in his tone. “And sometimes, Scully, the greatest truths are found in the places where no one else dares to look, where the conventional mind sees only madness.”

Scully simply shook her head, a silent acknowledgment of their fundamental difference, their opposing lenses on the world. They were discussing the case, analyzing the facts, debating the merits of Mulder’s theory—a safe harbor for their tumultuous emotions. Anything to avoid discussing the small, dark closet, the suffocating closeness, the raw, undeniable current that had surged between them, and the words that had hung, trembling, in the air.

Mulder, however, could not escape it. His mind drifted, replaying the scene. He’d been turned on countless times in his life, let’s face it, his proclivity for the esoteric and the frankly explicit meant his imagination was always fertile ground for arousal. But this, this proximity to Scully, was something entirely different. She was like no one else on the planet, a little unicorn—magical, rare, and utterly captivating.

When he first met her, he’d been too excited, too grateful, to have a partner, a friend in her. She was too important to him immediately to risk romance, to muddy the waters of their crucial intellectual and professional bond. He never let his mind wander to other possibilities, so focused was he on the mission, on finding the truth.

But that changed. It changed when they were separated, when the X-Files were shut down, when the space between them widened not by choice, but by cruel circumstance. And then, it changed irrevocably, when she was abducted. He’d walked around a shell of a man, his soul having left his body, desperate to search for her, to be with her. The only thing that tethered him to this world, to sanity, was the small gold cross she had worn, now hanging around his own neck. He would never have stopped searching for her, just as he had never stopped searching for Samantha.

And yet, Scully was never a proxy for Samantha. As much as he loved and missed his sister, he had chosen Scully’s life instead of his sister’s on that bridge, a choice that had burned itself into his very being. He had been living with this quiet, profound love for her for years, a deep undercurrent beneath their professional facade. He knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that he could do it for a lifetime, waiting, wanting, loving, even from the carefully guarded distance he believed he had to maintain.

But this profound, undeniable love anchored him, even as he navigated the most turbulent currents. She was his fixed point, his true north in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet. And no matter how intensely he burned, no matter how much he threatened to consume, he would always, always, find his way back to her. She was his equilibrium. His home.

[msrpusher]

Chapter 6: Ring of Fire

Comments are as yummy as a Mulder and Scully cuddle!

https://archiveofourown.org/.../66617185/chapters/172493866

The interior of the Ford Taurus felt like a confessional booth, quiet save for the hum of the engine, but charged with a silent language that had become their native tongue. Mulder, behind the wheel, wore a grin so wide it threatened to split his face, his eyes crinkling with undisguised triumph.

“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully deadpanned, without even looking at him, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery.

He blinked, turning to her, his expression a masterpiece of feigned innocence. “Scully? I haven’t said a word. My lips have been sealed, my thoughts pure as the driven snow.” His grin, however, remained plastered firmly in place, broadcasting his smug satisfaction louder than any words could.

She finally turned, her brow arched, a silent challenge in her eyes. “Right. Don’t think I didn’t notice the look you gave Dr. Potts, as if you’d just claimed the last piece of pie.”

Mulder chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the quiet space. “Just a healthy dose of professional satisfaction, Scully. Nothing more. You were simply magnificent back there, truly. Your defense of the extraordinary, your steadfast belief in my… theories. It warmed the cockles of my heart.” He leaned back, utterly at ease, the picture of contentment.

Scully sighed, a mix of exasperation and something softer she refused to name. She knew, deep down, that his triumph was less about the case and more about the subtle, unspoken battle he’d won against Potts for her attention. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Instead, she pivoted, forcing the conversation back to the professional.

“Alright, Mulder,” she began, pulling out a small notebook. “Let’s discuss your ‘temporal distortion’ theory. You mentioned atmospheric readings correlated with the disappearance times. What kind of readings are we talking about? And how reliable is this data?”

Mulder, surprisingly, followed her lead without further prompting, his tone immediately shifting to one of intense focus. “Low-frequency, electromagnetic pulses, Scully. Subtle, easily dismissed, but consistent with each reported incident of missing time. It’s like a ripple in the fabric of space-time, localized, possibly caused by whatever energy source is creating the ‘blinding shimmer’ the eyewitnesses described.” He pulled out a worn printout from the dashboard, a complex graph filled with peaks and valleys. “I’ve cross-referenced this with NOAA data, satellite imagery, even local ham radio reports. There’s a pattern, Scully. A faint, almost imperceptible one, but it’s there.”

Scully took the printout, her professional curiosity kicking in, overriding her lingering irritation. Her fingers traced the subtle anomalies on the graph. “And your hypothesis is that these energy fluctuations aren’t just causing the electrical disturbances, but are actively affecting human perception of time, or even creating localized pockets of… displacement?”

“Precisely,” Mulder affirmed, his voice alight with the thrill of the chase. “It’s why these individuals are found hours later, disoriented, with no memory. Their brains are trying to reconcile a reality that defies conventional understanding.”

They drove for another twenty minutes, dissecting the theory, throwing out counter-arguments and potential avenues of inquiry. 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.

Their destination was a quiet, tree-lined suburban street, far removed from the coastal bustle. The house was unremarkable, a modest ranch-style home with neatly trimmed hedges. When Clara Simms, the woman who had reported missing time, opened the door, her eyes darted nervously from side to side, her grip on the doorknob white-knuckled.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” she whispered, her voice reedy with fear. She was a woman in her late forties, her hair a wispy gray, her eyes wide and haunted. “You’ve come. I knew you would.”

“Ms. Simms,” Mulder said gently, his voice soft, reassuring. “We’re here to help. Can we come in?”

Clara hesitated, her eyes scanning the street as if expecting an unseen threat. “I… I can’t talk here. Not with them watching.” Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible murmur. “They’re everywhere. They listen.”

Mulder’s gaze softened with understanding. He had seen this kind of paranoia before, the crushing weight of an invisible burden. He knew that arguing with her would only make her retreat further. “Where would you feel safe, Ms. Simms?” he asked, his voice even, devoid of judgment.

Scully, however, shifted her weight, a subtle skepticism etched on her face. Her scientific mind bristled at the clear signs of delusion, already forming a differential diagnosis. Paranoid ideation, possibly stress-induced, or even a pre-existing condition exacerbated by the trauma of her missing time. Her eyes met Mulder’s, a silent question passing between them: Are we really indulging this?

Clara’s eyes darted around her living room, then fixed on a narrow hallway leading to what appeared to be a utility area. “The… the closet,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperate urgency. “The broom closet. They can’t hear us there. It’s too… small.”

Mulder glanced at Scully, a hint of appeal in his eyes. Scully sighed, a quiet admission of defeat. The woman’s distress was undeniable, and if this was the only way to get her to speak, they would try.

Clara turned and scuttled down the hallway, beckoning them with a frantic hand. They followed, their footsteps muffled on the carpet. She pointed to a narrow door, barely wider than her shoulders. It was indeed a broom closet, the faint scent of lemon polish and dust motes hanging in the air. It could barely fit one person comfortably, let alone three.

Before they could even fathom how to properly angle themselves into the cramped space, a sudden, jarring crash echoed from the front of the house, like a heavy object falling. Clara gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

“They’re here!” she shrieked, a primal fear in her voice. Without another thought, she shoved Mulder and Scully forcefully into the tiny closet. They stumbled, propelled by her desperate strength, landing in a heap against the back wall. Clara slammed the door shut, plunging them into near-total darkness, then her muffled footsteps retreated, presumably to deal with the disturbance.

Mulder and Scully were pressed together, impossibly close. There was no space between them, not an inch of air. Her back was flush against his chest, his arms pinning her to the wall, their legs tangled in the desperate lunge. The thin cotton of their shirts, the soft fabric of their pants—it was all that separated skin from skin, yet it felt like too much space, a chasm separating bodies that yearned to connect. The faint glow from the crack under the door was the only light.

“Mulder,” Scully whispered, her voice strained, barely audible in the suffocating closeness. “That woman is clearly experiencing significant psychological distress. While her fear is palpable, her narrative, particularly the ‘them’ and ‘listening’ elements, appears largely delusional. I doubt it bears any direct scientific correlation to her episode of missing time.”

His breath ghosted over her ear, warm and ragged. “Do you really want to take that risk, Scully?” he whispered back, his voice a low thrum against her spine. He shifted infinitesimally, turning his head so he was looking down into the vast, luminous sea of her eyes, a cosmic expanse he always felt on the cusp of drowning in, drawn inevitably into their depths.

She sighed, a tiny sound of defeat, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her back, the heat of his body radiating through her clothes. The absurdity of their situation, crammed into a broom closet by a terrified woman, warred with the potent intimacy of their proximity.

“Potts thinks you are out of your goddamn mind,” Scully said, her voice a little louder than a whisper now, a desperate attempt to inject normalcy, to break the suffocating tension. The words were meant to create distance, but their effect was precisely the opposite.

His face was so close, she could feel the hot whisper of his breath on her cheek, the feral heat of his aftershave, and the clean, intoxicating scent of something uniquely wild—a complex alchemy that was, to her, the essence of “Mulderesqe.” It was a scent that both grounded and disoriented her, a powerful, primal signature.

“Oh, is that what he thinks?” Mulder whispered back, his voice thick, his lips so close to her ear, she could feel the slightest vibration of his words. He leaned closer still, his body subtly shifting, the pressure against her increasing, a silent invitation.

Scully twisted around to face him and felt hypnotized by him, her rational mind slowly dissolving under the intense, intoxicating pressure of his presence. “Actually, he thinks… he thinks….” Her mind screamed, He is emotionally unavailable! He is a blaring alarm bell warning passengers to deboard the ship before it sinks! Get out! But the warning was a distant echo, drowned out by the thunder of her own heart.

“What does he think, Scully?” Mulder prompted, his voice a low, urgent murmur, his breath warm against her lips now, their mouths almost touching.

“He… he… thinks you’re in love with me….” she confessed, the words escaping her without any conscious thought, a raw, undeniable truth she hadn’t meant to utter aloud.

He was so close now, in the near darkness, she could see the faint glint of his teeth as he bit his lip, a tiny, nervous gesture she knew so well. He nodded slowly, his eyes locked on hers, a world of unspoken longing in their depths. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.

She was beyond thinking. Thinking had left the building right about the time they were shoved into this closet together. She didn’t know who was leaning—her or him—but suddenly, thrillingly, his hands were on her face, bracing her, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw, as if to keep her there, as if she were capable of going anywhere else at this moment. A sudden thought, a question, pierced through the sensual haze: When did he become the center of the universe?

But the thought was abruptly, jarringly, interrupted. The closet door swung open, revealing Clara Simms, a sheepish expression on her face. “False alarm,” she announced, her voice surprisingly normal, the earlier terror gone. “Just the neighbor’s cat knocking over a planter.”

Mulder and Scully jumped apart, their movements frantic and uncoordinated, like two magnetic poles suddenly reversed, repelling each other with surprising force.

Later, in the Ford Taurus, the windows down, the humid air offering little relief, a different kind of tension permeated the space. They were leaving Clara’s house, the interview having yielded frustratingly little beyond her initial paranoid claims.

“So, Scully,” Mulder began, his voice flat, clearly trying to reignite the professional distance. “Your assessment. Anything beyond ‘delusional’ that might aid my… unconventional theory?”

Scully sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Mulder, her account was entirely consistent with paranoid schizophrenia. The ‘blinding shimmer’ and missing time were likely confabulations, or perhaps, at most, a disoriented interpretation of a mundane event.” She paused, glancing at him. “There was no concrete data, Mulder. No atmospheric readings, no physical evidence of a temporal distortion. Just her deeply held, if unsubstantiated, beliefs.”

“But the urgency, Scully,” Mulder pressed, his eyes fixed on the road, but his tone hinting at the deeper, unspoken frustration. “Her absolute conviction. She truly believes what happened to her. And the previous victims also reported disconnections from reality, even if they couldn’t articulate it in such… vivid terms.”

“Conviction doesn’t equal causation, Mulder,” Scully countered, her voice firm. “We need tangible evidence. Measurable phenomena. Not the ramblings of a woman who believes her cat knocking over a planter is part of a grand conspiracy.”

“Clara, Scully. Her name is Clara,” Mulder corrected softly, a subtle undercurrent of something that sounded like empathy in his tone. “And sometimes, Scully, the greatest truths are found in the places where no one else dares to look, where the conventional mind sees only madness.”

Scully simply shook her head, a silent acknowledgment of their fundamental difference, their opposing lenses on the world. They were discussing the case, analyzing the facts, debating the merits of Mulder’s theory—a safe harbor for their tumultuous emotions. Anything to avoid discussing the small, dark closet, the suffocating closeness, the raw, undeniable current that had surged between them, and the words that had hung, trembling, in the air.

Mulder, however, could not escape it. His mind drifted, replaying the scene. He’d been turned on countless times in his life, let’s face it, his proclivity for the esoteric and the frankly explicit meant his imagination was always fertile ground for arousal. But this, this proximity to Scully, was something entirely different. She was like no one else on the planet, a little unicorn—magical, rare, and utterly captivating.

When he first met her, he’d been too excited, too grateful, to have a partner, a friend in her. She was too important to him immediately to risk romance, to muddy the waters of their crucial intellectual and professional bond. He never let his mind wander to other possibilities, so focused was he on the mission, on finding the truth.

But that changed. It changed when they were separated, when the X-Files were shut down, when the space between them widened not by choice, but by cruel circumstance. And then, it changed irrevocably, when she was abducted. He’d walked around a shell of a man, his soul having left his body, desperate to search for her, to be with her. The only thing that tethered him to this world, to sanity, was the small gold cross she had worn, now hanging around his own neck. He would never have stopped searching for her, just as he had never stopped searching for Samantha.

And yet, Scully was never a proxy for Samantha. As much as he loved and missed his sister, he had chosen Scully’s life instead of his sister’s on that bridge, a choice that had burned itself into his very being. He had been living with this quiet, profound love for her for years, a deep undercurrent beneath their professional facade. He knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that he could do it for a lifetime, waiting, wanting, loving, even from the carefully guarded distance he believed he had to maintain.

But this profound, undeniable love anchored him, even as he navigated the most turbulent currents. She was his fixed point, his true north in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet. And no matter how intensely he burned, no matter how much he threatened to consume, he would always, always, find his way back to her. She was his equilibrium. His home.

[msrpusher]

Sedimentary Rocks and Moonlight (Chapter 2)

Find it: a03 / Fandom: The X-Files / Rating: E

Tagging: @today-in-fic

Snippet: “I don’t have ghost-hunting plans,” he insisted.

“Really? Because Langly’s little reveal on the beach earlier suggests otherwise.”

“He shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?” she urged, lowering her voice. “Because you wanted to keep the truth from me?”

“Scully, that’s not—”

“That’s really why you asked me to come, right? So, you wouldn’t have to wait for me to drive up if you made some big discovery. I’d already be here with a scalpel and a smile.” She brushed by, almost knocking him off his feet. The fridge door rattled as she whipped it open.

“Scully?”

She removed a fruity-looking wine cooler and set it on the counter with a shatter-worthy clunk.

“Scully?”

She yanked open a drawer, then another, before finding a bottle opener. The cap popped off easily, and she tossed it toward the sink. It was careless. It was messy. It was so unlike her.

“Dana?”

She whipped around, the snap of her eyebrow answering his question: What the fuck do you want?

He rushed forward, hands landing on either side of the countertop to pin her in place. “That’s not why I asked you here.”

What It's About: When Byers’ new girlfriend invites Scully, Mulder, and the Gunmen to her lakeside house, Frohike encourages Mulder to tell his partner how he feels after six years of pining. But what was supposed to be a work-free trip gets upended when the group makes a gruesome discovery by the beach. And suddenly, Mulder’s fantasies of romance are met with new challenges.

What to Expect: Vacation, Pining, Slow Burn, Hot Tub, First Kiss, Making Out, First Time, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tensions, Angst and Fluff, Angst with Happy Ending, Case Fic... kind of

*New updates daily!

[msrpusher]

Chapter 5: Ignimbrite

Comments are a forehead kiss guys! A ten second long forehead kiss.

The quiet hum of the hotel room did little to soothe Scully’s restless mind as the morning light, pale and unforgiving, seeped through the curtains. Her hand automatically reached for the toothbrush, but her thoughts were already miles away, replaying the chaotic ballet of the previous night. The memory of Mulder’s body, heavy and warm over hers, still hummed in her veins, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of the bathroom mirror. His breath on her cheek, the unexpected weight of him, the raw awareness that had flared between them, it all pressed in on her, leaving her breathless even now.

Then there was Danny Potts. His words, delivered with such a gentle certainty, echoed in her head: "That man is in love with you. I ought to know, I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve." The declaration had stunned her, not just for its content, but for its effortless insight into something she had rigorously, stubbornly, refused to acknowledge.

No. It’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen, she told herself, her reflection staring back, a mask of fierce denial. She gripped her hair, flipping it aggressively, the sudden movement a physical manifestation of her emotional turmoil. She couldn’t take this limbo anymore, this agonizing space between them where everything was felt but nothing was spoken. Yes, she loved him. A truth so profound, so woven into the fabric of her being, it felt like she had always, always had this connection with him. He was the other half of her, the perfect complement to her logic, the wild counterpart to her reason.

The love of her life.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, was straightforward with them. Her dominant left hemisphere, the part of her brain that craved order and predictability, screamed for logic and reason. They would never get along. They already spent way too much time together, their lives intertwined in every conceivable way. If they dared to cross that line, to delve into something more, they would bicker. They would argue. They would eventually, inevitably, end up hating each other. The thought was a cold, hard stone in her stomach, heavy enough to outweigh the burgeoning hope in her heart.

A soft, insistent knock on the adjoining room door jolted her from her turbulent thoughts. She walked over, pulling it open. Mulder stood there, dressed in a crisp gray Armani suit, looking impossibly sharp, better than any human being had a right to at this ungodly hour.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice low, a velvet murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. His eyes, deep and searching, held hers for a moment too long, a silent question passing between them. Scully sighed, a sound caught between resignation and something akin to quiet acceptance. She offered him a half smile, a silent admission of defeat, and nodded.

__________________________________

The hum of the rental car was the only sound breaking the silence between them. Mulder gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but his mind was entirely on the woman beside him. One of his favorite things on earth was making Scully laugh; even a mere giggle was a massive win. To hear the genuine, unburdened sound of her laughter was, for him, as a burst of celestial fire, piercing the gloom of his soul, a brief, intoxicating draught of nectar from the gods themselves. Honestly, he thought to himself if this is what being in love does to a person, I think I'll stick to global conspiracies. Much less dramatic.

So he launched into niche questions, delving into the philosophical absurdities he knew sometimes caught her off guard. “Scully,” he began, “if a tree falls in the forest and an alien is there to observe it, but the alien’s perception is based on vibrational frequencies rather than sound waves, does the tree still make a ‘thud’?”

Nada. Not even a flicker of amusement.

He switched to jokes, then puns, each one falling flat in the charged silence. Nothing was working. Her profile remained impassive, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery. He sighed, deflating slightly. There was only one way to break this impenetrable silence.

“Scully,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

That did it. Her head whipped around so fast her hair momentarily obscured her face, her eyes wide with surprise, a sudden vulnerability in their depths. “Apologize for what, Mulder?”

He scrambled, his mind racing. This was a high stakes question. If he got it wrong, she’d freeze him out, perhaps for weeks. Was there more than one thing he should be apologizing for? He did a quick, frantic inventory of his misdeeds.

“I’m sorry for my obnoxious behavior to Puppy,” he blurted out, then quickly corrected, “I mean, Potts.”

Scully shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement that sent her hair swaying across her face like a curtain. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, gone before he could be sure it was real. She turned her attention to the hospital entrance now visible in the distance.

“Alright, Mulder. About these four incidents, and Potts’s neurological findings…” she began, her voice all business, pulling him back to the familiar ground of the case.

It worked! A wave of relief washed over him, so potent he nearly sagged.

When Mulder cut the engine, she turned to him, her hand reaching out to grasp his. Her touch was firm, serious, yet a spark of warmth ignited where their skin met. “Potts…” she started, her gaze intense, a silent warning in her eyes.

Mulder quickly cut her off, a reassuring smile on his face, determined to smooth things over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise.

Scully squeezed his hand in return, her half smile deepening into something more genuine, a hint of the playful teasing he cherished. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she held his gaze, a quiet challenge in their depths, “but you need to be on my best behavior.”

He grinned, a genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes, feeling a lightness he hadn’t realized he’d lost. “Deal,” he confirmed, squeezing her hand in return, the fleeting intimacy a secret language between them.

__________________________________

They stepped off the elevator into the hushed quiet of Dr. Potts’s office suite, the early morning light filtering softly through the blinds. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floors as they searched for him. As they rounded the corner into the main consultation area, Scully stopped.

Her eyes widened, taking in the sight before them: a large, gleaming table laden with an extravagant spread of breakfast delights. There were baskets overflowing with every imaginable bakery item—flaky croissants, glistening danishes, muffins studded with berries. Platters held perfectly sliced fruit, alongside bowls of yogurt and granola. A gleaming coffee urn steamed invitingly next to an array of exotic smoothie options, vibrant colors promising a burst of flavor.

Potts emerged from an inner office, a professional smile already in place, but it brightened considerably when he saw Scully. He gestured grandly to the table, his eyes twinkling. “Dana! Agent Mulder.” He moved towards them, a confident ease in his stride.

Scully, still staring at the culinary abundance, raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Potts,” she began, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Are you expecting guests? Royalty?”

Potts chuckled, a warm, resonant sound. He paused beside the table, sweeping an arm over the feast, his gaze fixed solely on Scully. “In a manner of speaking, it’s for you, Dana,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, intimate and earnest. “I thought you might be hungry. And I want to treat you right, because I truly hope you’ll come again.”

Both Mulder and Scully were taken aback, each for their own complicated reasons. Scully felt a strange, almost overwhelming sensation. It had been a long, solitary time since anyone had made such a grand, openly romantic gesture for her. A soft, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest, quickly followed by a familiar flicker of unease.

Mulder, on the other hand, was hit hard with a visceral pang of jealousy so sharp it stole his breath. He saw the genuine care in Potts’s eyes, the unmasked adoration, and it ignited a fierce, protective instinct he usually kept buried deep. But he had promised Scully he would be on his best behavior—or rather, her best behavior. He drew a deep breath, forcing a placid expression onto his face.

He stepped forward, his voice remarkably even, a thin veneer over simmering frustration. “Well, Dr. Potts, this is… quite the spread. Agent Scully and I were just discussing the metabolic benefits of complex carbohydrates and sustained glucose release for optimal cognitive function. This array certainly provides ample caloric density and a diverse macronutrient profile, essential for maintaining peak investigative stamina.” He even managed a polite nod toward a towering stack of pancakes, a masterclass in forced civility.

Now it was Potts’s turn to be taken aback. He blinked, clearly thrown by Mulder’s sudden, overly formal, and surprisingly scientific assessment of his breakfast offering. The usual Mulder would have scoffed, perhaps made a crack. But Potts was sharp; he saw right through the forced decorum, the thinly veiled possessiveness in Mulder's unusual politeness. A slow, knowing smile spread across Potts’s face. Oh, this was going to be fun. He was going to have a lot of fun testing Mulder today, breaking him today.

Scully, perhaps to diffuse the sudden, heavy silence, reached out and plucked a glistening chocolate danish from a basket. She took a large bite, the pastry flaking deliciously around her lips. Both men were openly staring at her now, one with a subtle admiration that bordered on reverence, the other with a silent, desperate plea in his eyes that she recognized all too well. Scully swallowed quickly, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, acutely aware of the unresolved tension.

She cleared her throat, pulling herself back to the reason they were there. “Right,” she said, wiping a crumb from her lip. “Dr. Potts, you mentioned more data on the neurological symptoms. Where should we begin?”

__________________________________

Five hours later, Mulder was dying a slow, agonizing death by a thousand paper cuts of charm. The relentless hum of the hospital room, coupled with Potts’s unwavering focus on Scully, had become a special kind of torture. It had been like this all day: Potts constantly vying for Scully’s attention, the unending stream of flattery, the way he leaned in, nodding so attentively at everything she said, as if her every utterance was a revelation etched in stone. Mulder had finally had it. He was ready to pull out a white flag and wave it.

He pushed back from the table, not even bothering to interrupt their ongoing, intense discussion of patient vitals. He simply tuned them out completely, the droning rhythm of Potts’s voice and Scully’s methodical questions fading into a meaningless buzz. He reached for the stack of patient files, ignoring the conversation that continued to flow over his head. He skimmed, then read, then re read, looking for anything, any pattern, any anomaly that might pull him from this purgatory. His eyes darted across dates, times, fragmented symptoms, geographic coordinates.

Then, a flicker. Not a pattern, not yet. More of a resonance, a faint echo of something he’d encountered before, buried deep in the archives of his mind. A subtle correlation between the missing time incidents and localized, low frequency atmospheric disturbances, readings that would typically be dismissed as background noise. It was a long shot, a wild theory, but it sparked a familiar thrill, a sense of purpose that cut through his earlier frustration.

“Scully,” Mulder interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through Potts’s detailed medical explanation of a patient's aphasia. He pushed a file across the table. “These atmospheric readings, correlated with the disappearance times. They’re too consistent to be coincidental. What if the ‘shimmer’ isn’t just some optical anomaly, but a localized temporal distortion, possibly a byproduct of an unknown energy source?”

Potts scoffed, a dismissive sound, his face already contorted in objection. “Agent Mulder, that’s highly speculative and entirely without scientific precedent here. We’re dealing with neurological trauma, not science fiction.”

Scully turned to Mulder, then back to Potts, her expression one of quiet determination. “Perhaps, Dr. Potts, but on the X Files, we have found that many cases go beyond what can be conventionally imagined. That is no reason to dismiss the extraordinary.” She paused, her eyes meeting Mulder’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. A shared history, a shared understanding etched in their very bones. “In fact,” she continued, her voice steady, “on our very first case together, Mulder and I experienced a loss of time. Nine minutes.” In her mind, she replayed that bewildering moment, how in the terrifying void of lost time, they had paradoxically found each other, truly found each other.

Mulder and Potts both looked at her, stunned, for wildly different reasons. Potts’s jaw hung slightly ajar, his disbelief evident. He saw her as utterly irrational, bordering on delusion, his scientific mind unable to reconcile her words. Mulder, however, was struck by a different kind of shock. He was stunned, not by the revelation itself, but by her willingness to admit it, here, now, to Potts, and most importantly, to herself. It was a concession, a raw, undeniable truth she rarely spoke aloud. Potts recovered, a harsh scoff escaping him in a mix of defense and frustration. “Agent Scully, with all due respect, that sounds like pure conjecture! We have patients with real, measurable symptoms, not… nine minutes of lost time!”

Mulder started to interject, a sharp retort forming on his tongue, but he knew Scully well enough to let her handle this on her own. He watched, a quiet pride swelling in his chest, as she stood her ground.

Scully’s gaze was firm, unwavering as she looked at Potts. “Dr. Potts, Agent Mulder and I are going now. We need to follow up on Mulder’s lead.” She stood, moving with a decisive grace that brooked no argument, and walked towards the office door.

Mulder leaned in towards Potts, a sly, fox like smile playing on his lips. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with a victory that had two distinct meanings. “That’s my girl.”

Scully turned just outside the doorway, her voice clear, pulling Mulder back into their orbit, back to where he belonged. “Are you coming?”

Mulder straightened, his smile widening as he met Scully’s gaze, then turned proudly back to Potts, a quiet challenge in his tone that left no room for doubt. “I am right behind you.” And he was, always, because she always had his back too.

[msrpusher]

Chapter 5: Ignimbrite

Comments are a forehead kiss guys! A ten second long forehead kiss.

The quiet hum of the hotel room did little to soothe Scully’s restless mind as the morning light, pale and unforgiving, seeped through the curtains. Her hand automatically reached for the toothbrush, but her thoughts were already miles away, replaying the chaotic ballet of the previous night. The memory of Mulder’s body, heavy and warm over hers, still hummed in her veins, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of the bathroom mirror. His breath on her cheek, the unexpected weight of him, the raw awareness that had flared between them, it all pressed in on her, leaving her breathless even now.

Then there was Danny Potts. His words, delivered with such a gentle certainty, echoed in her head: "That man is in love with you. I ought to know, I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve." The declaration had stunned her, not just for its content, but for its effortless insight into something she had rigorously, stubbornly, refused to acknowledge.

No. It’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen, she told herself, her reflection staring back, a mask of fierce denial. She gripped her hair, flipping it aggressively, the sudden movement a physical manifestation of her emotional turmoil. She couldn’t take this limbo anymore, this agonizing space between them where everything was felt but nothing was spoken. Yes, she loved him. A truth so profound, so woven into the fabric of her being, it felt like she had always, always had this connection with him. He was the other half of her, the perfect complement to her logic, the wild counterpart to her reason.

The love of her life.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, was straightforward with them. Her dominant left hemisphere, the part of her brain that craved order and predictability, screamed for logic and reason. They would never get along. They already spent way too much time together, their lives intertwined in every conceivable way. If they dared to cross that line, to delve into something more, they would bicker. They would argue. They would eventually, inevitably, end up hating each other. The thought was a cold, hard stone in her stomach, heavy enough to outweigh the burgeoning hope in her heart.

A soft, insistent knock on the adjoining room door jolted her from her turbulent thoughts. She walked over, pulling it open. Mulder stood there, dressed in a crisp gray Armani suit, looking impossibly sharp, better than any human being had a right to at this ungodly hour.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice low, a velvet murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. His eyes, deep and searching, held hers for a moment too long, a silent question passing between them. Scully sighed, a sound caught between resignation and something akin to quiet acceptance. She offered him a half smile, a silent admission of defeat, and nodded.

__________________________________

The hum of the rental car was the only sound breaking the silence between them. Mulder gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but his mind was entirely on the woman beside him. One of his favorite things on earth was making Scully laugh; even a mere giggle was a massive win. To hear the genuine, unburdened sound of her laughter was, for him, as a burst of celestial fire, piercing the gloom of his soul, a brief, intoxicating draught of nectar from the gods themselves. Honestly, he thought to himself if this is what being in love does to a person, I think I'll stick to global conspiracies. Much less dramatic.

So he launched into niche questions, delving into the philosophical absurdities he knew sometimes caught her off guard. “Scully,” he began, “if a tree falls in the forest and an alien is there to observe it, but the alien’s perception is based on vibrational frequencies rather than sound waves, does the tree still make a ‘thud’?”

Nada. Not even a flicker of amusement.

He switched to jokes, then puns, each one falling flat in the charged silence. Nothing was working. Her profile remained impassive, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery. He sighed, deflating slightly. There was only one way to break this impenetrable silence.

“Scully,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

That did it. Her head whipped around so fast her hair momentarily obscured her face, her eyes wide with surprise, a sudden vulnerability in their depths. “Apologize for what, Mulder?”

He scrambled, his mind racing. This was a high stakes question. If he got it wrong, she’d freeze him out, perhaps for weeks. Was there more than one thing he should be apologizing for? He did a quick, frantic inventory of his misdeeds.

“I’m sorry for my obnoxious behavior to Puppy,” he blurted out, then quickly corrected, “I mean, Potts.”

Scully shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement that sent her hair swaying across her face like a curtain. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, gone before he could be sure it was real. She turned her attention to the hospital entrance now visible in the distance.

“Alright, Mulder. About these four incidents, and Potts’s neurological findings…” she began, her voice all business, pulling him back to the familiar ground of the case.

It worked! A wave of relief washed over him, so potent he nearly sagged.

When Mulder cut the engine, she turned to him, her hand reaching out to grasp his. Her touch was firm, serious, yet a spark of warmth ignited where their skin met. “Potts…” she started, her gaze intense, a silent warning in her eyes.

Mulder quickly cut her off, a reassuring smile on his face, determined to smooth things over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise.

Scully squeezed his hand in return, her half smile deepening into something more genuine, a hint of the playful teasing he cherished. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she held his gaze, a quiet challenge in their depths, “but you need to be on my best behavior.”

He grinned, a genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes, feeling a lightness he hadn’t realized he’d lost. “Deal,” he confirmed, squeezing her hand in return, the fleeting intimacy a secret language between them.

__________________________________

They stepped off the elevator into the hushed quiet of Dr. Potts’s office suite, the early morning light filtering softly through the blinds. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floors as they searched for him. As they rounded the corner into the main consultation area, Scully stopped.

Her eyes widened, taking in the sight before them: a large, gleaming table laden with an extravagant spread of breakfast delights. There were baskets overflowing with every imaginable bakery item—flaky croissants, glistening danishes, muffins studded with berries. Platters held perfectly sliced fruit, alongside bowls of yogurt and granola. A gleaming coffee urn steamed invitingly next to an array of exotic smoothie options, vibrant colors promising a burst of flavor.

Potts emerged from an inner office, a professional smile already in place, but it brightened considerably when he saw Scully. He gestured grandly to the table, his eyes twinkling. “Dana! Agent Mulder.” He moved towards them, a confident ease in his stride.

Scully, still staring at the culinary abundance, raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Potts,” she began, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Are you expecting guests? Royalty?”

Potts chuckled, a warm, resonant sound. He paused beside the table, sweeping an arm over the feast, his gaze fixed solely on Scully. “In a manner of speaking, it’s for you, Dana,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, intimate and earnest. “I thought you might be hungry. And I want to treat you right, because I truly hope you’ll come again.”

Both Mulder and Scully were taken aback, each for their own complicated reasons. Scully felt a strange, almost overwhelming sensation. It had been a long, solitary time since anyone had made such a grand, openly romantic gesture for her. A soft, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest, quickly followed by a familiar flicker of unease.

Mulder, on the other hand, was hit hard with a visceral pang of jealousy so sharp it stole his breath. He saw the genuine care in Potts’s eyes, the unmasked adoration, and it ignited a fierce, protective instinct he usually kept buried deep. But he had promised Scully he would be on his best behavior—or rather, her best behavior. He drew a deep breath, forcing a placid expression onto his face.

He stepped forward, his voice remarkably even, a thin veneer over simmering frustration. “Well, Dr. Potts, this is… quite the spread. Agent Scully and I were just discussing the metabolic benefits of complex carbohydrates and sustained glucose release for optimal cognitive function. This array certainly provides ample caloric density and a diverse macronutrient profile, essential for maintaining peak investigative stamina.” He even managed a polite nod toward a towering stack of pancakes, a masterclass in forced civility.

Now it was Potts’s turn to be taken aback. He blinked, clearly thrown by Mulder’s sudden, overly formal, and surprisingly scientific assessment of his breakfast offering. The usual Mulder would have scoffed, perhaps made a crack. But Potts was sharp; he saw right through the forced decorum, the thinly veiled possessiveness in Mulder's unusual politeness. A slow, knowing smile spread across Potts’s face. Oh, this was going to be fun. He was going to have a lot of fun testing Mulder today, breaking him today.

Scully, perhaps to diffuse the sudden, heavy silence, reached out and plucked a glistening chocolate danish from a basket. She took a large bite, the pastry flaking deliciously around her lips. Both men were openly staring at her now, one with a subtle admiration that bordered on reverence, the other with a silent, desperate plea in his eyes that she recognized all too well. Scully swallowed quickly, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, acutely aware of the unresolved tension.

She cleared her throat, pulling herself back to the reason they were there. “Right,” she said, wiping a crumb from her lip. “Dr. Potts, you mentioned more data on the neurological symptoms. Where should we begin?”

__________________________________

Five hours later, Mulder was dying a slow, agonizing death by a thousand paper cuts of charm. The relentless hum of the hospital room, coupled with Potts’s unwavering focus on Scully, had become a special kind of torture. It had been like this all day: Potts constantly vying for Scully’s attention, the unending stream of flattery, the way he leaned in, nodding so attentively at everything she said, as if her every utterance was a revelation etched in stone. Mulder had finally had it. He was ready to pull out a white flag and wave it.

He pushed back from the table, not even bothering to interrupt their ongoing, intense discussion of patient vitals. He simply tuned them out completely, the droning rhythm of Potts’s voice and Scully’s methodical questions fading into a meaningless buzz. He reached for the stack of patient files, ignoring the conversation that continued to flow over his head. He skimmed, then read, then re read, looking for anything, any pattern, any anomaly that might pull him from this purgatory. His eyes darted across dates, times, fragmented symptoms, geographic coordinates.

Then, a flicker. Not a pattern, not yet. More of a resonance, a faint echo of something he’d encountered before, buried deep in the archives of his mind. A subtle correlation between the missing time incidents and localized, low frequency atmospheric disturbances, readings that would typically be dismissed as background noise. It was a long shot, a wild theory, but it sparked a familiar thrill, a sense of purpose that cut through his earlier frustration.

“Scully,” Mulder interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through Potts’s detailed medical explanation of a patient's aphasia. He pushed a file across the table. “These atmospheric readings, correlated with the disappearance times. They’re too consistent to be coincidental. What if the ‘shimmer’ isn’t just some optical anomaly, but a localized temporal distortion, possibly a byproduct of an unknown energy source?”

Potts scoffed, a dismissive sound, his face already contorted in objection. “Agent Mulder, that’s highly speculative and entirely without scientific precedent here. We’re dealing with neurological trauma, not science fiction.”

Scully turned to Mulder, then back to Potts, her expression one of quiet determination. “Perhaps, Dr. Potts, but on the X Files, we have found that many cases go beyond what can be conventionally imagined. That is no reason to dismiss the extraordinary.” She paused, her eyes meeting Mulder’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. A shared history, a shared understanding etched in their very bones. “In fact,” she continued, her voice steady, “on our very first case together, Mulder and I experienced a loss of time. Nine minutes.” In her mind, she replayed that bewildering moment, how in the terrifying void of lost time, they had paradoxically found each other, truly found each other.

Mulder and Potts both looked at her, stunned, for wildly different reasons. Potts’s jaw hung slightly ajar, his disbelief evident. He saw her as utterly irrational, bordering on delusion, his scientific mind unable to reconcile her words. Mulder, however, was struck by a different kind of shock. He was stunned, not by the revelation itself, but by her willingness to admit it, here, now, to Potts, and most importantly, to herself. It was a concession, a raw, undeniable truth she rarely spoke aloud. Potts recovered, a harsh scoff escaping him in a mix of defense and frustration. “Agent Scully, with all due respect, that sounds like pure conjecture! We have patients with real, measurable symptoms, not… nine minutes of lost time!”

Mulder started to interject, a sharp retort forming on his tongue, but he knew Scully well enough to let her handle this on her own. He watched, a quiet pride swelling in his chest, as she stood her ground.

Scully’s gaze was firm, unwavering as she looked at Potts. “Dr. Potts, Agent Mulder and I are going now. We need to follow up on Mulder’s lead.” She stood, moving with a decisive grace that brooked no argument, and walked towards the office door.

Mulder leaned in towards Potts, a sly, fox like smile playing on his lips. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with a victory that had two distinct meanings. “That’s my girl.”

Scully turned just outside the doorway, her voice clear, pulling Mulder back into their orbit, back to where he belonged. “Are you coming?”

Mulder straightened, his smile widening as he met Scully’s gaze, then turned proudly back to Potts, a quiet challenge in his tone that left no room for doubt. “I am right behind you.” And he was, always, because she always had his back too.

[msrpusher]

If you like a fic, any fic, please leave a comment. Comments feels as good as seeing Mulder (and David) tapping Scully's (and Gillian's) hip.

Chapter 4:  Subduction Zone

His mind, however, was miles away from pizza, lost in the echoing sensation of her. It can’t happen again, he swore to himself, the words a desperate, internal mantra against the rising tide of what he felt. Yet, he could still feel the tender softness of her hands playing with his damp hair, just moments before that goddamn chair had given out and he’d collapsed on her. It had been a clumsy, desperate fall that had felt, for one exquisite second, entirely too right. The phantom imprint of her body pressed beneath his, the soft gasp that had escaped her lips, the electric brush of her thigh against his—all replayed vividly behind his eyes, a tormentingly sweet loop.

Scully, meanwhile, smoothed down her own damp hair, her face warm with a flush that had nothing to do with the humid Virginia summer. You are too old for these games, Dana Scully, she chastised herself, her inner voice sharp with self-reprimand. Absolutely not entertaining his innuendo. Yet, the powerful imprint of his body, heavy and warm over hers, lingered like a phantom limb, a sensual echo. She could still feel the warm whisper of his breath on her cheek, the tautness of his muscles as he’d tried to shift, the sudden, raw awareness that had stolen her own breath. His scent, a dizzying mix of hotel soap and something uniquely, irrevocably Mulder, still clung to her, a persistent, delicious memory.

Mulder opened the door, pulling a forced smile onto his face for the delivery guy. He handed over a wad of bills, adding a modest tip, his movements automatic. The moment, the breathless, charged moment, had passed, or so they would both desperately pretend. But the air in the small room still thrummed with a memory too potent, too exquisite, to ignore.

Scully’s phone buzzed, a welcome clang of reality against the lingering hum of intimacy. She snatched it up, seeing Potts’s name flash across the screen. “Hello, Danny?” She listened, her brow furrowing, then her eyes darted to Mulder, who was now taking the pizza boxes from the delivery person. “Yes, I’m in 207,” she said, her voice dropping slightly, a note of caution. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

She hung up, her gaze still fixed on Mulder as he set the pizza down. “That was Potts,” she announced, her voice strained, betraying the sudden shift in her carefully constructed composure. “He says he has urgent information about the case, can’t wait until tomorrow morning. He’s on his way over here.”

Mulder rolled his eyes so far back they nearly disappeared into his skull. “I bet he does,” he muttered, his voice laced with an unmistakable sarcasm that made her skin prickle.

Scully lifted one eyebrow, a familiar, challenging glint in her oceanic eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mulder let out an exasperated sigh, a sound of profound frustration, setting the pizza down on the wobbly desk with a thud that punctuated his annoyance. He turned to her, his hands on his hips, his posture broadcasting his exasperation. “Scully, how can you not tell this man is completely into you? He’s looking for any excuse to get to you.”

Scully’s lips thinned into a tight line. “Mulder, I don’t need a protective older brother or, as you so aptly put it before, a ‘bestie.’ I’m a trained FBI agent. If Dr. Potts says it’s urgent, I’m inclined to believe him.” Her voice held a sharp edge, daring him to challenge her professionalism.

Just then, a sharp, urgent rapping sounded at the main door, before Mulder could even formulate a retort.

“That was fast,” Mulder deadpanned, glancing at his watch with an incredulous look. “What, did he call you from the parking lot?”

Scully ignored him, her spine stiff, striding to the door and pulling it open. Potts stood there, a tablet clutched in one hand, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and barely contained urgency.

“Dana!” Potts began, his gaze locked on Scully, sweeping over her with a warmth that completely bypassed Mulder’s hovering presence. “You’re not going to believe what I just uncovered. Remember the incidents we discussed? The unexplained electrical disturbances, the missing time?” He tapped the screen on his tablet, bringing up an intricate diagram. “We’ve now got four separate incidents in the past two weeks, all with unexplained electrical disturbances, significant missing time, and one eyewitness account of a ‘blinding shimmer’ in the woods near a residential community just outside Virginia Beach.”

He tapped again. A map of the coastline appeared, highlighted with small, ominous red markers indicating the affected locations.

“Now, here’s where it gets interesting,” Potts continued, leaning closer to her, his voice dropping conspiratorially, as if sharing the most profound secret. “The missing time isn’t just a few minutes. We’re talking about individuals found hours later, disoriented, with no memory of where they’ve been. And three of those four subjects, after being treated at local hospitals, developed some highly unusual, lingering neurological symptoms.” He tapped the screen, bringing up what looked like brief, fragmented medical reports. “Sensory processing issues, persistent disequilibrium, a constant feeling of imbalance, and in one case, a complete, temporary aphasia—the inability to speak or understand language. It’s like their brains took a direct hit from an invisible force they can’t explain.”

“Why can’t this wait until morning?” Mulder interjected from behind him, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Potts, startled, finally seemed to register Mulder’s presence for the first time. His excited expression immediately morphed into one of undisguised annoyance, a scowl replacing his earlier eagerness.

“Dr. Potts,” Scully interjected quickly, stepping forward, subtly placing herself between the two men. “Regarding the aphasia, was it global or expressive? And were there any other commonalities in their medical histories that might suggest a predisposition, or perhaps an environmental factor?” Her voice was all business, but her eyes subtly pleaded with Mulder for decorum.

Potts immediately turned back to Scully, his face brightening as he launched into a detailed medical explanation, pulling up more data on his tablet, completely dismissing Mulder. Mulder watched them, his jaw tightening, the muscle ticking imperceptibly.

“Well, Dr. Potts, this is all fascinating,” Mulder cut in again, his voice dripping with an exaggerated politeness that barely masked his simmering irritation. He gestured vaguely towards the open door, a blatant dismissal. “But as you can see, Agent Scully and I were just about to have dinner. There’s really nothing more to be done tonight. Thanks for dropping by.”

Scully bristled, turning her head sharply to glare at Mulder, a silent warning in her eyes. “Actually, Danny,” she said, her tone deliberately warm, ignoring Mulder’s blatant dismissal, her gaze softening. “Would you like to stay and have a slice of pizza with us? We just got it.”

Potts hesitated, his gaze flicking between Scully’s genuine invitation and Mulder’s rigid, unwelcoming stance. The awkwardness in the small room was palpable, a heavy cloak settling over them, even to him. He offered Scully a sweet, almost melancholic smile, a hint of resignation in his eyes. “That’s very kind, Dana, but I think… I think I’ll just head out. I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow, with even more data, I promise.”

Scully’s expression softened, a pang of genuine regret for the situation. “Alright, Danny. Thank you for coming by.” She walked him to the door, stepping out into the hallway with him, a brief escape from Mulder’s scrutiny.

Once out of earshot of Mulder, Potts leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, tinged with a raw vulnerability. “I thought you said he was just your partner, Dana.”

Scully shifted her weight, unable to meet his direct gaze. “He is.” Her voice was barely a whisper, a desperate plea for him to accept her words as truth.

Potts’s smile faded entirely, replaced by a look of profound understanding, tinged with a familiar, aching sadness. “Dana,” he said softly, his voice laced with a gentle accusation that broke her heart, “that man is in love with you. I ought to know, I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve.”

Scully’s mouth opened, a tangled response forming on her tongue, but a sudden, loud clatter from inside the room—Mulder loudly rearranging the pizza boxes on the wobbly desk, a deliberate, childish racket—distracted her. She flinched, glancing over her shoulder, the moment shattered.

Potts sighed, a sound of quiet, defeated resignation. “Goodnight, Dana.” He squeezed her arm gently, a last, lingering touch, and turned, walking away down the corridor, leaving her standing in the brightly lit hallway, a silent witness to his retreat.

Scully came back into the room, her hands immediately flying to her hips, her eyes blazing as she fixed Mulder with a furious stare. “What the hell is wrong with you, Mulder?!”

Mulder looked genuinely flabbergasted, a slice of pepperoni pizza frozen halfway to his mouth. “Me?” he asked, indignant, swallowing with difficulty. “What’s wrong with me? You know Potts has been in a series of relationships, nothing ever serious, he just strings these ladies along. One of them even claims he’s the father of her child and took him to court!” His outrage felt entirely real, if perhaps misdirected.

Scully’s eyes narrowed, a cold fury now replacing her frustration. “And how, pray tell, did you come by this… information? I’m quite sure you wouldn’t use an FBI database to research a potential love interest of mine.” Her voice was dangerously soft.

“Of course not,” Mulder scoffed, popping the rest of the pizza slice into his mouth, a gesture of feigned nonchalance. “I used Frohike.”

Scully stared at him for a long moment, the fight draining from her, replaced by a profound, weary disappointment. She slowly shook her head, a cold weariness settling over her. “Goodnight, Mulder.”

He swallowed, confused, pizza forgotten. “But we didn’t even eat yet.”

“I’m no longer hungry.” She walked past him to her bed, turning her back, dismissing him utterly.

Mulder watched her for a long, agonizing beat, the silence amplifying the weight of her words. He sighed, a sound heavy with deep, frustrated failure washing over him, and slowly, defeatedly, walked back to his own room.

The adjoining room doors, which had been stubbornly closed for so long, now stood open. Scully got up and shut her door with a decisive click, the sound echoing the finality of her decision. On Mulder’s side, the door remained ajar, casting a lonely sliver of light across the carpet. It was a silent testament to the vast, aching space between them, yet in that sliver of light, a fragile thread of hope still shimmered, a promise that the door, though momentarily closed by one, was still open to the other. He stared at that sliver of light, a battle raging inside him. "It can't happen again," he repeated, a hollow mantra in the sudden quiet. He knew what was best for Scully—a normal life, free from the shadows he inhabited—and he knew, in a million years, he didn't deserve her. But then he saw Potts, or any man, looking at her with that unmasked longing, and he couldn't seem to control himself. He knew she couldn't be his, but God, how he wished she was.

[msrpusher]

If you like a fic, any fic, please leave a comment. Comments feels as good as seeing Mulder (and David) tapping Scully's (and Gillian's) hip.

Chapter 4:  Subduction Zone

His mind, however, was miles away from pizza, lost in the echoing sensation of her. It can’t happen again, he swore to himself, the words a desperate, internal mantra against the rising tide of what he felt. Yet, he could still feel the tender softness of her hands playing with his damp hair, just moments before that goddamn chair had given out and he’d collapsed on her. It had been a clumsy, desperate fall that had felt, for one exquisite second, entirely too right. The phantom imprint of her body pressed beneath his, the soft gasp that had escaped her lips, the electric brush of her thigh against his—all replayed vividly behind his eyes, a tormentingly sweet loop.

Scully, meanwhile, smoothed down her own damp hair, her face warm with a flush that had nothing to do with the humid Virginia summer. You are too old for these games, Dana Scully, she chastised herself, her inner voice sharp with self-reprimand. Absolutely not entertaining his innuendo. Yet, the powerful imprint of his body, heavy and warm over hers, lingered like a phantom limb, a sensual echo. She could still feel the warm whisper of his breath on her cheek, the tautness of his muscles as he’d tried to shift, the sudden, raw awareness that had stolen her own breath. His scent, a dizzying mix of hotel soap and something uniquely, irrevocably Mulder, still clung to her, a persistent, delicious memory.

Mulder opened the door, pulling a forced smile onto his face for the delivery guy. He handed over a wad of bills, adding a modest tip, his movements automatic. The moment, the breathless, charged moment, had passed, or so they would both desperately pretend. But the air in the small room still thrummed with a memory too potent, too exquisite, to ignore.

Scully’s phone buzzed, a welcome clang of reality against the lingering hum of intimacy. She snatched it up, seeing Potts’s name flash across the screen. “Hello, Danny?” She listened, her brow furrowing, then her eyes darted to Mulder, who was now taking the pizza boxes from the delivery person. “Yes, I’m in 207,” she said, her voice dropping slightly, a note of caution. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

She hung up, her gaze still fixed on Mulder as he set the pizza down. “That was Potts,” she announced, her voice strained, betraying the sudden shift in her carefully constructed composure. “He says he has urgent information about the case, can’t wait until tomorrow morning. He’s on his way over here.”

Mulder rolled his eyes so far back they nearly disappeared into his skull. “I bet he does,” he muttered, his voice laced with an unmistakable sarcasm that made her skin prickle.

Scully lifted one eyebrow, a familiar, challenging glint in her oceanic eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mulder let out an exasperated sigh, a sound of profound frustration, setting the pizza down on the wobbly desk with a thud that punctuated his annoyance. He turned to her, his hands on his hips, his posture broadcasting his exasperation. “Scully, how can you not tell this man is completely into you? He’s looking for any excuse to get to you.”

Scully’s lips thinned into a tight line. “Mulder, I don’t need a protective older brother or, as you so aptly put it before, a ‘bestie.’ I’m a trained FBI agent. If Dr. Potts says it’s urgent, I’m inclined to believe him.” Her voice held a sharp edge, daring him to challenge her professionalism.

Just then, a sharp, urgent rapping sounded at the main door, before Mulder could even formulate a retort.

“That was fast,” Mulder deadpanned, glancing at his watch with an incredulous look. “What, did he call you from the parking lot?”

Scully ignored him, her spine stiff, striding to the door and pulling it open. Potts stood there, a tablet clutched in one hand, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and barely contained urgency.

“Dana!” Potts began, his gaze locked on Scully, sweeping over her with a warmth that completely bypassed Mulder’s hovering presence. “You’re not going to believe what I just uncovered. Remember the incidents we discussed? The unexplained electrical disturbances, the missing time?” He tapped the screen on his tablet, bringing up an intricate diagram. “We’ve now got four separate incidents in the past two weeks, all with unexplained electrical disturbances, significant missing time, and one eyewitness account of a ‘blinding shimmer’ in the woods near a residential community just outside Virginia Beach.”

He tapped again. A map of the coastline appeared, highlighted with small, ominous red markers indicating the affected locations.

“Now, here’s where it gets interesting,” Potts continued, leaning closer to her, his voice dropping conspiratorially, as if sharing the most profound secret. “The missing time isn’t just a few minutes. We’re talking about individuals found hours later, disoriented, with no memory of where they’ve been. And three of those four subjects, after being treated at local hospitals, developed some highly unusual, lingering neurological symptoms.” He tapped the screen, bringing up what looked like brief, fragmented medical reports. “Sensory processing issues, persistent disequilibrium, a constant feeling of imbalance, and in one case, a complete, temporary aphasia—the inability to speak or understand language. It’s like their brains took a direct hit from an invisible force they can’t explain.”

“Why can’t this wait until morning?” Mulder interjected from behind him, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Potts, startled, finally seemed to register Mulder’s presence for the first time. His excited expression immediately morphed into one of undisguised annoyance, a scowl replacing his earlier eagerness.

“Dr. Potts,” Scully interjected quickly, stepping forward, subtly placing herself between the two men. “Regarding the aphasia, was it global or expressive? And were there any other commonalities in their medical histories that might suggest a predisposition, or perhaps an environmental factor?” Her voice was all business, but her eyes subtly pleaded with Mulder for decorum.

Potts immediately turned back to Scully, his face brightening as he launched into a detailed medical explanation, pulling up more data on his tablet, completely dismissing Mulder. Mulder watched them, his jaw tightening, the muscle ticking imperceptibly.

“Well, Dr. Potts, this is all fascinating,” Mulder cut in again, his voice dripping with an exaggerated politeness that barely masked his simmering irritation. He gestured vaguely towards the open door, a blatant dismissal. “But as you can see, Agent Scully and I were just about to have dinner. There’s really nothing more to be done tonight. Thanks for dropping by.”

Scully bristled, turning her head sharply to glare at Mulder, a silent warning in her eyes. “Actually, Danny,” she said, her tone deliberately warm, ignoring Mulder’s blatant dismissal, her gaze softening. “Would you like to stay and have a slice of pizza with us? We just got it.”

Potts hesitated, his gaze flicking between Scully’s genuine invitation and Mulder’s rigid, unwelcoming stance. The awkwardness in the small room was palpable, a heavy cloak settling over them, even to him. He offered Scully a sweet, almost melancholic smile, a hint of resignation in his eyes. “That’s very kind, Dana, but I think… I think I’ll just head out. I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow, with even more data, I promise.”

Scully’s expression softened, a pang of genuine regret for the situation. “Alright, Danny. Thank you for coming by.” She walked him to the door, stepping out into the hallway with him, a brief escape from Mulder’s scrutiny.

Once out of earshot of Mulder, Potts leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, tinged with a raw vulnerability. “I thought you said he was just your partner, Dana.”

Scully shifted her weight, unable to meet his direct gaze. “He is.” Her voice was barely a whisper, a desperate plea for him to accept her words as truth.

Potts’s smile faded entirely, replaced by a look of profound understanding, tinged with a familiar, aching sadness. “Dana,” he said softly, his voice laced with a gentle accusation that broke her heart, “that man is in love with you. I ought to know, I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve.”

Scully’s mouth opened, a tangled response forming on her tongue, but a sudden, loud clatter from inside the room—Mulder loudly rearranging the pizza boxes on the wobbly desk, a deliberate, childish racket—distracted her. She flinched, glancing over her shoulder, the moment shattered.

Potts sighed, a sound of quiet, defeated resignation. “Goodnight, Dana.” He squeezed her arm gently, a last, lingering touch, and turned, walking away down the corridor, leaving her standing in the brightly lit hallway, a silent witness to his retreat.

Scully came back into the room, her hands immediately flying to her hips, her eyes blazing as she fixed Mulder with a furious stare. “What the hell is wrong with you, Mulder?!”

Mulder looked genuinely flabbergasted, a slice of pepperoni pizza frozen halfway to his mouth. “Me?” he asked, indignant, swallowing with difficulty. “What’s wrong with me? You know Potts has been in a series of relationships, nothing ever serious, he just strings these ladies along. One of them even claims he’s the father of her child and took him to court!” His outrage felt entirely real, if perhaps misdirected.

Scully’s eyes narrowed, a cold fury now replacing her frustration. “And how, pray tell, did you come by this… information? I’m quite sure you wouldn’t use an FBI database to research a potential love interest of mine.” Her voice was dangerously soft.

“Of course not,” Mulder scoffed, popping the rest of the pizza slice into his mouth, a gesture of feigned nonchalance. “I used Frohike.”

Scully stared at him for a long moment, the fight draining from her, replaced by a profound, weary disappointment. She slowly shook her head, a cold weariness settling over her. “Goodnight, Mulder.”

He swallowed, confused, pizza forgotten. “But we didn’t even eat yet.”

“I’m no longer hungry.” She walked past him to her bed, turning her back, dismissing him utterly.

Mulder watched her for a long, agonizing beat, the silence amplifying the weight of her words. He sighed, a sound heavy with deep, frustrated failure washing over him, and slowly, defeatedly, walked back to his own room.

The adjoining room doors, which had been stubbornly closed for so long, now stood open. Scully got up and shut her door with a decisive click, the sound echoing the finality of her decision. On Mulder’s side, the door remained ajar, casting a lonely sliver of light across the carpet. It was a silent testament to the vast, aching space between them, yet in that sliver of light, a fragile thread of hope still shimmered, a promise that the door, though momentarily closed by one, was still open to the other. He stared at that sliver of light, a battle raging inside him. "It can't happen again," he repeated, a hollow mantra in the sudden quiet. He knew what was best for Scully—a normal life, free from the shadows he inhabited—and he knew, in a million years, he didn't deserve her. But then he saw Potts, or any man, looking at her with that unmasked longing, and he couldn't seem to control himself. He knew she couldn't be his, but God, how he wished she was.

[msrpusher]

Chapter 3: Fissure

If you like this chapter, please comment. Comments make me weak in the knees like when Mulder sweeps Scully's hair behind her ear. If you know, you know.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/172055107

The Morning After

The morning arrived with the subtle cruelty of a hangman’s knot, tightening steadily around Scully’s temples. She groaned, pulling the pillow over her head, but the dull throb behind her eyes persisted, a rhythmic drumbeat to the regret of last night's whiskey. Every nerve ending seemed attuned to the low thrum of the hotel’s distant HVAC system, amplifying it into a relentless jackhammer. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, then left in the desert sun.

A soft knock sounded at her door, insistent but polite. Scully squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. Seven o’clock. Unconscionable.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice, blessedly modulated, floated through the wood. “You alive in there?”

Another groan escaped her. “Barely. Go away, Mulder.”

The front door cracked open anyway, a sliver of light invading her sanctuary. Mulder’s silhouette filled the frame, a tall, surprisingly crisp figure against the morning’s muted glow. They always got an additional key to each other’s rooms, a silent, unspoken agreement born of necessity, as you never knew if and when it would be needed.

“Are you decent?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yup,” she responded, her voice still rough with sleep and irritation.

Mulder muttered under his breath, “Too bad.”

“What?” Scully asked, pushing herself higher on the pillow, a frown creasing her brow.

“Never mind,” he replied, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He carried a small, clinking tray.

“Thought you might be needing this,” he said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic murmur. He stepped inside, placing the tray gently on her bedside table. It held a glass of water with a fizzing tablet dissolved within, a small cup of black coffee, and a single, perfectly peeled orange segment. “Electrolyte supplement, caffeine, and vitamin C. The trinity of resurrection.”

Scully pushed herself up on an elbow, wincing at the sudden rush of vertigo. “And you, ever the miracle worker,” she rasped, eyeing the offerings with a mixture of suspicion and profound gratitude. “What did you do, send down for it?”

“Intuition,” he replied, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips as he watched her, a quiet concern in his eyes. He sat on the edge of the other bed, giving her space but not leaving.

She reached for the fizzy drink, downing it in one go, the tartness momentarily shocking her senses but bringing a wave of mild relief. The coffee was next, a welcome jolt. “I blame you,” she stated flatly, setting the empty glass down with a clink that resonated through her skull.

“You accepted Potts’s invitation, Scully, not me,” Mulder reminded her, a hint of playful accusation in his tone. “Still your fault,” she retorted, and Mulder merely nodded, a wry smirk playing on his lips.

“I merely observed,” he chuckled softly, a low sound that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet room. “Though I must say, you were quite the showstopper on the dance floor last night.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes wide, a pouty lip forming. “And why, I might ask, do you never pull out those dazzling moves for me?”

A fresh wave of heat, fueled by residual anger and embarrassment from the night before, washed over her. The image of Amber, sleek and possessive, at their table still stung. “Oh, I saw you observing, Mulder. You seemed quite taken with Amber.”

Too early, Scully thought, a silent, deeply buried truth. Too early, that unburdened sway, that unfettered joy. When the night was still young, and the whiskey had yet to loosen her careful control, he was already too much, too captivating, too entirely irresistible. That kind of freedom, that utter abandon, it was for a soul already laid bare, a heart already surrendered. And hers, for all its yearning, was not yet ready to dance so freely for him.

He sighed, the amusement draining from his face, replaced by that familiar, guarded expression. He had seen the look she’d given Amber, the barely contained fire, and something in him had both bristled and subtly, selfishly, soared. But the memory of Potts, of his easy charm and the undeniable comfort Scully had found in his presence, still gnawed at him. Potts was a man who belonged, who offered stability, who could give Scully a life far removed from the shadowed corners and endless roads they traveled. He was normal, and the thought was a chilling, seductive poison. He could offer her what Mulder, in his own mind, could not. He could offer her a future.

He cleared his throat, shifting his focus, deliberately, to the case. “Scully, about today. I know you’re not thrilled about cutting short your beauty sleep, but we need to hit the ground running. Dr. Potts can give us some anecdotal evidence, but we need hard data, medical records, a comprehensive overview of these symptoms.”

Scully rubbed her temples, the coffee doing little to completely dull the ache. “I’m aware, Mulder. That’s why I took the case. I just hadn’t anticipated a social component that would leave me incapacitated.”

“Right,” he conceded, his gaze softening slightly. “Look, this isn’t just about collecting files. Your expertise, your medical intuition, it’s crucial here. These aren't typical neurological presentations. And the electrical anomalies, the missing time. It suggests something… beyond the ordinary. Beyond what a local trauma surgeon, however competent, can see.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, infusing the words with an earnestness that was undeniably persuasive. “We need your specific kind of scientific rigor, Scully. We need your ability to spot the subtle inconsistencies, to find the gaps in the conventional explanation. To connect the dots that no one else sees.”

He wasn’t just talking about the case, and they both knew it. He was talking about them, about their partnership, about the way their minds intertwined. He needed her to connect their dots, to bridge their divide. The words were couched in professional necessity, but the plea beneath was naked and undeniable.

Scully met his gaze, the oceanic blue of her eyes, despite being slightly bloodshot, piercing and intelligent. She saw the worry there, the quiet desperation, masked by the urgency of the case. She saw the ghost of last night's jealousy, the quiet battle he’d fought. A small sigh escaped her, less of annoyance now, more of resignation. He was right, of course. He usually was.

“Alright, Mulder,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the floor cold beneath her bare feet. The headache was still there, but a different ache, one she understood even less, was beginning to assert itself. “But next time, you’re the designated drinker. And you’re carrying my bag.”

A genuine smile, rare and open, touched Mulder’s lips. “Deal.” He stood, giving her a moment, before heading towards the adjoining door that, tonight, remained stubbornly closed. “Meet me in the lobby in thirty. Try not to spontaneously combust.”

Scully watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him. She was still hungover, still annoyed, but the quiet, unspoken conversation that had just passed between them had eased some of the tension. The space between their rooms, a symbol of their current distance, still felt vast, but for a moment, the possibility of crossing it felt a little less terrifying. __________________________________________________________

Virginia Beach General Hospital

By eight o’clock, the soft glow of the hotel room was replaced by the stark, fluorescent hum of Virginia Beach General Hospital. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to the air, a familiar backdrop to the quiet urgency of a medical crisis. Dr. Danny Potts stood waiting for them just inside the main entrance to the trauma unit, a professional air replacing last night’s casual charm, though his smile for Scully was still notably warmer than the curt nod he offered Mulder.

“Dana, Agent Mulder,” Potts greeted, his gaze settling keenly on Scully. “Glad you’re here. We’ve had another patient admitted overnight with similar symptoms. Their vitals are stable, but the cognitive deficits are alarming. I’ve prepped a brief on what we know so far, and I’ve got permission for you to access the secure medical files. I was hoping you could join me to review the new patient’s charts immediately.” He gestured toward a nearby consultation room, clearly expecting Scully to follow.

Mulder stepped forward, a subtle shift in his posture, a quiet assertion of his authority. “Thank you, Dr. Potts. But Agent Scully and I are going to start by interviewing the first victim. We need to hear their story firsthand, get a clearer picture of the incident from their perspective, before diving into the medical minutiae.”

Potts’s brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Agent Mulder, with all due respect, these aren’t typical cases. The physiological changes, the rapid onset of symptoms. Agent Scully’s medical expertise is paramount in deciphering the immediate data. Her clinical eye, combined with my observations from the attending staff, will be far more productive than simply taking a layman’s statement. Every minute counts here.” His argument was compelling, his tone persuasive, and his focus remained solely on Scully.

A familiar weariness settled over Scully as she watched the two men. This wasn't about the case, not entirely. This was a pissing contest, a subtle but unmistakable battle for her attention, for her professional collaboration, for her very presence. The air crackled with it, a low hum beneath the medical urgency.

She took a breath, then stepped between them, placing a hand on Mulder’s arm. “Mulder,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, pulling him a few steps away from Potts, into a less exposed alcove near the nurses’ station.

He looked at her, his expression a mix of frustration and guarded hope.

“Listen,” she began, keeping her voice low, for his ears only. “What you said this morning, about my expertise being crucial, about connecting the dots no one else sees... you were right.” She paused, letting her gaze hold his, reinforcing the unspoken understanding between them. “This case, it needs my medical eye on the ground, with him.” She nodded subtly towards Potts. “He’s the direct access point to these patients, the one immersed in the clinical details.”

Mulder looked at her, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. It was a weighted nod, heavy with understanding, acceptance, and a suppressed battle he was still fighting within himself. He knew she was right, professionally. But the concession felt like a small, sharp loss.

“We can catch up this evening,” Scully continued, her voice softening, a reassurance just for him. “Exchange notes, compare information, figure out our next steps. Fully debrief.”

“During dinner?” Mulder asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching hers, a question in their depths she didn’t immediately comprehend.

Scully blinked, a slight frown creasing her brow. “During dinner? Yes, of course. That’s usually how we do it.” The question confused her. Meals were always assumed, a natural extension of their long workdays, a comfortable routine he’d never questioned or formally asked about in the past.

Potts, who had been waiting patiently, offered Scully another expectant smile. She turned back towards him, a professional composure settling over her features once more. As she did, Mulder turned abruptly and walked away, heading towards the hospital exit without a backward glance, the lingering unspoken questions hanging in the sterile air. ___________________________________________________________

Back at the Hotel

Later that same evening, the oppressive humidity of the day, coupled with fruitless interviews under a relentless sun, left Mulder in a foul mood. But deeper than the heat or the uncooperative victims, his irritation festered, fueled by the lingering image of Scully and Potts's easy camaraderie at the hospital. He’d showered quickly, the cool water doing little to wash away the day’s frustrations. He was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, a towel slung over his shoulder.

In her own room, Scully, also fresh from a shower and similarly clad in comfortable sweats and a soft T-shirt, her hair damp strands curling gently around her face, stood before the adjoining room door. Her fingers, almost unconsciously, traced the faint line where it met the frame. This door. It was more than just painted wood and a brass knob. It was a membrane, a living, breathing symbol of everything unspoken between them, a tangible representation of the aching distance she felt in this "space between."

On the other side of that same door, Mulder paced, a restless energy vibrating through him. Potts’s over exuberant gestures, Scully’s unrestrained laughter—it had been a brutal, unwelcome sight. He knew, intellectually, that he should be supportive. He should want this for her, a life, a “normal life,” uncomplicated by dark theories, endless shadows, and a global conspiracy. He repeated the mantra in his head: platonic work partners, that’s what they are, what they must be. He glanced at the impassive door, his jaw tightening. It was best it remained shut. Safer for everyone.

But then, with a quiet sigh that was almost a surrender, Scully reached out. Her fingers found the knob, twisting it gently. The door swung inward with a soft click, revealing… another closed door. Mulder’s side was shut, a dark, silent barrier. A faint pang, disappointment mixed with a strange kind of relief, went through her. She lifted a hand and knocked.

A moment later, the muffled thud of footsteps. Mulder’s door opened, and he was there, looking just as disheveled and damp as she felt. His eyes, though weary, still held that sharp, questioning gaze.

“Hey,” she said, offering a small, tentative smile. ���We need to go over our day. Debrief.”

He nodded, and entered Scully’s room. The air in her room suddenly felt smaller, more charged with his presence. It was a simple space: her bed, a small, rinky-dink desk with one wobbly chair that she usually used to pile files on. Mulder, for lack of a better option, sat on it, turning it to face her.

They began to debrief, running through the details of their respective interviews. Scully, methodical as ever, recounted her findings, mentioning Potts’s name a few times, referencing his insights into the patients’ charts.

“He’s really into you, you know,” Mulder interjected, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. He watched her, waiting for a reaction.

Scully didn’t even look up from the file she was scanning. “Hm?”

“Potts,” Mulder clarified, a subtle edge creeping into his tone. “He reminds me of a Labrador puppy, all eager enthusiasm, just begging for a pat on the head. He’s very… keen to please.”

This time, Scully looked up, her eyebrow raising, a faint smile touching her lips. Mulder pushed, testing the waters. “He’s really perfect, isn’t he? Good looking, athletic, a brilliant surgeon…”

“Mulder, if you’re that interested,” Scully interrupted, a dry, amused tone in her voice, “I can pass him a note in study hall tomorrow.”

He leaned back slightly, a ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “I’m interested for you,” he corrected, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

Scully rolled her eyes. “Are you my Bubby?”

Mulder's face remained perfectly deadpan. “Bubby? I hear the kneading of challah is very therapeutic for existential dread.”

Scully let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “Alright, Mulder, back to reality. What about these victims? Did any of them recall anything about the… energy surge?” She tried to steer them back to the case, to the safety of facts and evidence.

Mulder, however, ignored the redirect. “So, are you into guys that fawn all over you like Potts does?” he pressed, his gaze piercing.

Scully paused, genuinely confused. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just trying to be the best bestie I can be,” he deflected, his voice light but his eyes serious.

Scully scoffed. “Great. After we braid each other’s hair, I’ll tell you all about my preferences with men.”

A mischievous glint lit Mulder’s eyes. “Great. I’m first,” Mulder declared, turning and straddling the wobbly chair with a sigh of mock resignation. Scully was already sitting on the edge of her bed, facing him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Alright, Bubby,” she teased, reaching out to touch his damp hair.

As her fingers grazed his scalp, a shiver unexpectedly traced its way down Mulder’s spine. He leaned his head back, offering her better access, the faint scent of his shampoo filling her nostrils. Scully began to idly separate strands, her touch surprisingly gentle.

The initial playfulness began to subtly shift. The quiet intimacy of the small room, the lingering heat of the day clinging to their skin, the casual comfort of their sweatpants and T-shirts—it all contributed to an atmosphere that felt charged.

Mulder shifted in his seat, a restless movement. As he did, his elbow brushed against her thigh. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The casual touch lingered for a beat longer than necessary. His fingers now, warm and surprisingly firm, pressed lightly against her skin through the soft fabric of her sweatpants. A different kind of heat began to rise within Scully, a slow burn that had nothing to do with the Virginia summer.

Mulder cleared his throat, his hand finally dropping away, leaving a lingering heat on her thigh. The air between them felt thick, almost viscous, heavy with unspoken things. He leaned back again, his damp hair now tickling her fingers as she resumed her tentative braiding, though her focus had blurred. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft sounds of their breathing, a primal rhythm starting to take hold. Scully’s gaze drifted from his dark, still-wet hair to the tantalizing curve of his neck, an inexplicable urge to reach out, to trace the bare skin there, pulling at her. Instead, her fingers tangled more deeply in his hair, the strands surprisingly soft and yielding beneath her touch, a sensual anchor.

Suddenly, the wobbly chair shuddered violently beneath Mulder. A startled sound tore from his throat as he lost his balance, toppling backward. Scully gasped, instinctively reaching out, but it was too late. He fell onto the bed, his body landing heavily, deliciously, on top of hers. Her breath left her in a soft gasp, a surprised moan escaping her lips.

For a moment, they were utterly still, bodies pressed intimately, perfectly, together. His weight was a solid, undeniable presence, pinning her to the mattress. He tried to shift, to right himself, his muscles coiling and tensing, but his movements only exacerbated the delicious friction. His hand brushed against her hip, then slid higher, briefly grazing the delicate curve of her bare skin where her t-shirt had ridden up, as he tried to push up. Their legs tangled, warm skin against warm skin, the soft fabric of their sweatpants doing little to mask the sudden, raw, overwhelming awareness. His chest was flush against hers, his breath a warm, ragged whisper against her cheek, sending shivers down her spine.

The air crackled, thick with unspoken desire, a potent, undeniable current passing like wildfire between them. Every slight movement, every shift of weight, seemed to heighten the intensity, drawing them deeper into a sensual trance. He lowered his head, just an inch, his eyes locking with hers, a deep, yearning hunger simmering in their depths, a silent question that echoed the frantic beat of his own heart. The scent of her—clean, warm, undeniably Scully—filled his senses, making him ache with a longing that was both ancient and utterly new.

Just as the tension threatened to snap, a sharp knock rattled the main door.

“Buon Giorno, It’s Pasquale’s Pizzeria!” a booming fake Italian accent announced from the hallway.

They both froze, then disentangled themselves quickly, scrambling to regain some semblance of composure.

Mulder, running a hand through his damp hair, strode to the door, pulling out his wallet as he went.

[msrpusher]

Chapter 3: Fissure

If you like this chapter, please comment. Comments make me weak in the knees like when Mulder sweeps Scully's hair behind her ear. If you know, you know.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/172055107

The Morning After

The morning arrived with the subtle cruelty of a hangman’s knot, tightening steadily around Scully’s temples. She groaned, pulling the pillow over her head, but the dull throb behind her eyes persisted, a rhythmic drumbeat to the regret of last night's whiskey. Every nerve ending seemed attuned to the low thrum of the hotel’s distant HVAC system, amplifying it into a relentless jackhammer. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, then left in the desert sun.

A soft knock sounded at her door, insistent but polite. Scully squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. Seven o’clock. Unconscionable.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice, blessedly modulated, floated through the wood. “You alive in there?”

Another groan escaped her. “Barely. Go away, Mulder.”

The front door cracked open anyway, a sliver of light invading her sanctuary. Mulder’s silhouette filled the frame, a tall, surprisingly crisp figure against the morning’s muted glow. They always got an additional key to each other’s rooms, a silent, unspoken agreement born of necessity, as you never knew if and when it would be needed.

“Are you decent?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yup,” she responded, her voice still rough with sleep and irritation.

Mulder muttered under his breath, “Too bad.”

“What?” Scully asked, pushing herself higher on the pillow, a frown creasing her brow.

“Never mind,” he replied, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He carried a small, clinking tray.

“Thought you might be needing this,” he said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic murmur. He stepped inside, placing the tray gently on her bedside table. It held a glass of water with a fizzing tablet dissolved within, a small cup of black coffee, and a single, perfectly peeled orange segment. “Electrolyte supplement, caffeine, and vitamin C. The trinity of resurrection.”

Scully pushed herself up on an elbow, wincing at the sudden rush of vertigo. “And you, ever the miracle worker,” she rasped, eyeing the offerings with a mixture of suspicion and profound gratitude. “What did you do, send down for it?”

“Intuition,” he replied, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips as he watched her, a quiet concern in his eyes. He sat on the edge of the other bed, giving her space but not leaving.

She reached for the fizzy drink, downing it in one go, the tartness momentarily shocking her senses but bringing a wave of mild relief. The coffee was next, a welcome jolt. “I blame you,” she stated flatly, setting the empty glass down with a clink that resonated through her skull.

“You accepted Potts’s invitation, Scully, not me,” Mulder reminded her, a hint of playful accusation in his tone. “Still your fault,” she retorted, and Mulder merely nodded, a wry smirk playing on his lips.

“I merely observed,” he chuckled softly, a low sound that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet room. “Though I must say, you were quite the showstopper on the dance floor last night.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes wide, a pouty lip forming. “And why, I might ask, do you never pull out those dazzling moves for me?”

A fresh wave of heat, fueled by residual anger and embarrassment from the night before, washed over her. The image of Amber, sleek and possessive, at their table still stung. “Oh, I saw you observing, Mulder. You seemed quite taken with Amber.”

Too early, Scully thought, a silent, deeply buried truth. Too early, that unburdened sway, that unfettered joy. When the night was still young, and the whiskey had yet to loosen her careful control, he was already too much, too captivating, too entirely irresistible. That kind of freedom, that utter abandon, it was for a soul already laid bare, a heart already surrendered. And hers, for all its yearning, was not yet ready to dance so freely for him.

He sighed, the amusement draining from his face, replaced by that familiar, guarded expression. He had seen the look she’d given Amber, the barely contained fire, and something in him had both bristled and subtly, selfishly, soared. But the memory of Potts, of his easy charm and the undeniable comfort Scully had found in his presence, still gnawed at him. Potts was a man who belonged, who offered stability, who could give Scully a life far removed from the shadowed corners and endless roads they traveled. He was normal, and the thought was a chilling, seductive poison. He could offer her what Mulder, in his own mind, could not. He could offer her a future.

He cleared his throat, shifting his focus, deliberately, to the case. “Scully, about today. I know you’re not thrilled about cutting short your beauty sleep, but we need to hit the ground running. Dr. Potts can give us some anecdotal evidence, but we need hard data, medical records, a comprehensive overview of these symptoms.”

Scully rubbed her temples, the coffee doing little to completely dull the ache. “I’m aware, Mulder. That’s why I took the case. I just hadn’t anticipated a social component that would leave me incapacitated.”

“Right,” he conceded, his gaze softening slightly. “Look, this isn’t just about collecting files. Your expertise, your medical intuition, it’s crucial here. These aren't typical neurological presentations. And the electrical anomalies, the missing time. It suggests something… beyond the ordinary. Beyond what a local trauma surgeon, however competent, can see.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, infusing the words with an earnestness that was undeniably persuasive. “We need your specific kind of scientific rigor, Scully. We need your ability to spot the subtle inconsistencies, to find the gaps in the conventional explanation. To connect the dots that no one else sees.”

He wasn’t just talking about the case, and they both knew it. He was talking about them, about their partnership, about the way their minds intertwined. He needed her to connect their dots, to bridge their divide. The words were couched in professional necessity, but the plea beneath was naked and undeniable.

Scully met his gaze, the oceanic blue of her eyes, despite being slightly bloodshot, piercing and intelligent. She saw the worry there, the quiet desperation, masked by the urgency of the case. She saw the ghost of last night's jealousy, the quiet battle he’d fought. A small sigh escaped her, less of annoyance now, more of resignation. He was right, of course. He usually was.

“Alright, Mulder,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the floor cold beneath her bare feet. The headache was still there, but a different ache, one she understood even less, was beginning to assert itself. “But next time, you’re the designated drinker. And you’re carrying my bag.”

A genuine smile, rare and open, touched Mulder’s lips. “Deal.” He stood, giving her a moment, before heading towards the adjoining door that, tonight, remained stubbornly closed. “Meet me in the lobby in thirty. Try not to spontaneously combust.”

Scully watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him. She was still hungover, still annoyed, but the quiet, unspoken conversation that had just passed between them had eased some of the tension. The space between their rooms, a symbol of their current distance, still felt vast, but for a moment, the possibility of crossing it felt a little less terrifying. __________________________________________________________

Virginia Beach General Hospital

By eight o’clock, the soft glow of the hotel room was replaced by the stark, fluorescent hum of Virginia Beach General Hospital. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to the air, a familiar backdrop to the quiet urgency of a medical crisis. Dr. Danny Potts stood waiting for them just inside the main entrance to the trauma unit, a professional air replacing last night’s casual charm, though his smile for Scully was still notably warmer than the curt nod he offered Mulder.

“Dana, Agent Mulder,” Potts greeted, his gaze settling keenly on Scully. “Glad you’re here. We’ve had another patient admitted overnight with similar symptoms. Their vitals are stable, but the cognitive deficits are alarming. I’ve prepped a brief on what we know so far, and I’ve got permission for you to access the secure medical files. I was hoping you could join me to review the new patient’s charts immediately.” He gestured toward a nearby consultation room, clearly expecting Scully to follow.

Mulder stepped forward, a subtle shift in his posture, a quiet assertion of his authority. “Thank you, Dr. Potts. But Agent Scully and I are going to start by interviewing the first victim. We need to hear their story firsthand, get a clearer picture of the incident from their perspective, before diving into the medical minutiae.”

Potts’s brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Agent Mulder, with all due respect, these aren’t typical cases. The physiological changes, the rapid onset of symptoms. Agent Scully’s medical expertise is paramount in deciphering the immediate data. Her clinical eye, combined with my observations from the attending staff, will be far more productive than simply taking a layman’s statement. Every minute counts here.” His argument was compelling, his tone persuasive, and his focus remained solely on Scully.

A familiar weariness settled over Scully as she watched the two men. This wasn't about the case, not entirely. This was a pissing contest, a subtle but unmistakable battle for her attention, for her professional collaboration, for her very presence. The air crackled with it, a low hum beneath the medical urgency.

She took a breath, then stepped between them, placing a hand on Mulder’s arm. “Mulder,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, pulling him a few steps away from Potts, into a less exposed alcove near the nurses’ station.

He looked at her, his expression a mix of frustration and guarded hope.

“Listen,” she began, keeping her voice low, for his ears only. “What you said this morning, about my expertise being crucial, about connecting the dots no one else sees... you were right.” She paused, letting her gaze hold his, reinforcing the unspoken understanding between them. “This case, it needs my medical eye on the ground, with him.” She nodded subtly towards Potts. “He’s the direct access point to these patients, the one immersed in the clinical details.”

Mulder looked at her, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. It was a weighted nod, heavy with understanding, acceptance, and a suppressed battle he was still fighting within himself. He knew she was right, professionally. But the concession felt like a small, sharp loss.

“We can catch up this evening,” Scully continued, her voice softening, a reassurance just for him. “Exchange notes, compare information, figure out our next steps. Fully debrief.”

“During dinner?” Mulder asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching hers, a question in their depths she didn’t immediately comprehend.

Scully blinked, a slight frown creasing her brow. “During dinner? Yes, of course. That’s usually how we do it.” The question confused her. Meals were always assumed, a natural extension of their long workdays, a comfortable routine he’d never questioned or formally asked about in the past.

Potts, who had been waiting patiently, offered Scully another expectant smile. She turned back towards him, a professional composure settling over her features once more. As she did, Mulder turned abruptly and walked away, heading towards the hospital exit without a backward glance, the lingering unspoken questions hanging in the sterile air. ___________________________________________________________

Back at the Hotel

Later that same evening, the oppressive humidity of the day, coupled with fruitless interviews under a relentless sun, left Mulder in a foul mood. But deeper than the heat or the uncooperative victims, his irritation festered, fueled by the lingering image of Scully and Potts's easy camaraderie at the hospital. He’d showered quickly, the cool water doing little to wash away the day’s frustrations. He was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, a towel slung over his shoulder.

In her own room, Scully, also fresh from a shower and similarly clad in comfortable sweats and a soft T-shirt, her hair damp strands curling gently around her face, stood before the adjoining room door. Her fingers, almost unconsciously, traced the faint line where it met the frame. This door. It was more than just painted wood and a brass knob. It was a membrane, a living, breathing symbol of everything unspoken between them, a tangible representation of the aching distance she felt in this "space between."

On the other side of that same door, Mulder paced, a restless energy vibrating through him. Potts’s over exuberant gestures, Scully’s unrestrained laughter—it had been a brutal, unwelcome sight. He knew, intellectually, that he should be supportive. He should want this for her, a life, a “normal life,” uncomplicated by dark theories, endless shadows, and a global conspiracy. He repeated the mantra in his head: platonic work partners, that’s what they are, what they must be. He glanced at the impassive door, his jaw tightening. It was best it remained shut. Safer for everyone.

But then, with a quiet sigh that was almost a surrender, Scully reached out. Her fingers found the knob, twisting it gently. The door swung inward with a soft click, revealing… another closed door. Mulder’s side was shut, a dark, silent barrier. A faint pang, disappointment mixed with a strange kind of relief, went through her. She lifted a hand and knocked.

A moment later, the muffled thud of footsteps. Mulder’s door opened, and he was there, looking just as disheveled and damp as she felt. His eyes, though weary, still held that sharp, questioning gaze.

“Hey,” she said, offering a small, tentative smile. “We need to go over our day. Debrief.”

He nodded, and entered Scully’s room. The air in her room suddenly felt smaller, more charged with his presence. It was a simple space: her bed, a small, rinky-dink desk with one wobbly chair that she usually used to pile files on. Mulder, for lack of a better option, sat on it, turning it to face her.

They began to debrief, running through the details of their respective interviews. Scully, methodical as ever, recounted her findings, mentioning Potts’s name a few times, referencing his insights into the patients’ charts.

“He’s really into you, you know,” Mulder interjected, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. He watched her, waiting for a reaction.

Scully didn’t even look up from the file she was scanning. “Hm?”

“Potts,” Mulder clarified, a subtle edge creeping into his tone. “He reminds me of a Labrador puppy, all eager enthusiasm, just begging for a pat on the head. He’s very… keen to please.”

This time, Scully looked up, her eyebrow raising, a faint smile touching her lips. Mulder pushed, testing the waters. “He’s really perfect, isn’t he? Good looking, athletic, a brilliant surgeon…”

“Mulder, if you’re that interested,” Scully interrupted, a dry, amused tone in her voice, “I can pass him a note in study hall tomorrow.”

He leaned back slightly, a ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “I’m interested for you,” he corrected, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

Scully rolled her eyes. “Are you my Bubby?”

Mulder's face remained perfectly deadpan. “Bubby? I hear the kneading of challah is very therapeutic for existential dread.”

Scully let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “Alright, Mulder, back to reality. What about these victims? Did any of them recall anything about the… energy surge?” She tried to steer them back to the case, to the safety of facts and evidence.

Mulder, however, ignored the redirect. “So, are you into guys that fawn all over you like Potts does?” he pressed, his gaze piercing.

Scully paused, genuinely confused. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just trying to be the best bestie I can be,” he deflected, his voice light but his eyes serious.

Scully scoffed. “Great. After we braid each other’s hair, I’ll tell you all about my preferences with men.”

A mischievous glint lit Mulder’s eyes. “Great. I’m first,” Mulder declared, turning and straddling the wobbly chair with a sigh of mock resignation. Scully was already sitting on the edge of her bed, facing him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Alright, Bubby,” she teased, reaching out to touch his damp hair.

As her fingers grazed his scalp, a shiver unexpectedly traced its way down Mulder’s spine. He leaned his head back, offering her better access, the faint scent of his shampoo filling her nostrils. Scully began to idly separate strands, her touch surprisingly gentle.

The initial playfulness began to subtly shift. The quiet intimacy of the small room, the lingering heat of the day clinging to their skin, the casual comfort of their sweatpants and T-shirts—it all contributed to an atmosphere that felt charged.

Mulder shifted in his seat, a restless movement. As he did, his elbow brushed against her thigh. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The casual touch lingered for a beat longer than necessary. His fingers now, warm and surprisingly firm, pressed lightly against her skin through the soft fabric of her sweatpants. A different kind of heat began to rise within Scully, a slow burn that had nothing to do with the Virginia summer.

Mulder cleared his throat, his hand finally dropping away, leaving a lingering heat on her thigh. The air between them felt thick, almost viscous, heavy with unspoken things. He leaned back again, his damp hair now tickling her fingers as she resumed her tentative braiding, though her focus had blurred. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft sounds of their breathing, a primal rhythm starting to take hold. Scully’s gaze drifted from his dark, still-wet hair to the tantalizing curve of his neck, an inexplicable urge to reach out, to trace the bare skin there, pulling at her. Instead, her fingers tangled more deeply in his hair, the strands surprisingly soft and yielding beneath her touch, a sensual anchor.

Suddenly, the wobbly chair shuddered violently beneath Mulder. A startled sound tore from his throat as he lost his balance, toppling backward. Scully gasped, instinctively reaching out, but it was too late. He fell onto the bed, his body landing heavily, deliciously, on top of hers. Her breath left her in a soft gasp, a surprised moan escaping her lips.

For a moment, they were utterly still, bodies pressed intimately, perfectly, together. His weight was a solid, undeniable presence, pinning her to the mattress. He tried to shift, to right himself, his muscles coiling and tensing, but his movements only exacerbated the delicious friction. His hand brushed against her hip, then slid higher, briefly grazing the delicate curve of her bare skin where her t-shirt had ridden up, as he tried to push up. Their legs tangled, warm skin against warm skin, the soft fabric of their sweatpants doing little to mask the sudden, raw, overwhelming awareness. His chest was flush against hers, his breath a warm, ragged whisper against her cheek, sending shivers down her spine.

The air crackled, thick with unspoken desire, a potent, undeniable current passing like wildfire between them. Every slight movement, every shift of weight, seemed to heighten the intensity, drawing them deeper into a sensual trance. He lowered his head, just an inch, his eyes locking with hers, a deep, yearning hunger simmering in their depths, a silent question that echoed the frantic beat of his own heart. The scent of her—clean, warm, undeniably Scully—filled his senses, making him ache with a longing that was both ancient and utterly new.

Just as the tension threatened to snap, a sharp knock rattled the main door.

“Buon Giorno, It’s Pasquale’s Pizzeria!” a booming fake Italian accent announced from the hallway.

They both froze, then disentangled themselves quickly, scrambling to regain some semblance of composure.

Mulder, running a hand through his damp hair, strode to the door, pulling out his wallet as he went.

[msrpusher]

Tagging @today-in-fic

The fic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66084478/chapters/171960721

I do ridiculous research. Here’s the clip from I Dream of Jeannie that they watch:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66084478/chapters/171960721

[msrpusher]

Chapter 2 of my new series The Space Between:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/171929872#workskin

After their unexpected reunion with Danny Potts, Mulder and Scully spent the remainder of the afternoon immersing themselves in the burgeoning case. They secured their hotel rooms, then immediately moved to the temporary FBI field office set up within the local sheriff's department. There, they delved into the initial incident reports, cross-referencing witness statements about light anomalies and tremors with the available medical records detailing the victims' peculiar neurological symptoms.

The bar across from the hospital was tucked beneath string lights and vibrated with a low, sultry hum. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, spilled beer, and something else, something warm and inviting that spoke of human connection, or perhaps, longing.

A lively Bruce Springsteen cover band played in the corner, their energetic brass and lively percussion cutting through the comfortable din, a vibrant soundtrack to the unspooling tension. The lead singer, shirt sleeves rolled up and brow glistening with sweat, channeled his best impression of The Boss, prowling the stage and belting out lyrics with a gravelly passion that echoed Springsteen's signature sound. Potts, charismatic and utterly at ease, flagged down a waitress and ordered drinks for them all.

“To reunions,” he declared, raising a glass, his eyes lingering on Scully with a warmth that was almost a physical touch.

Mulder offered a tight, unrevealing smile with closed lips, letting the whiskey slide down slowly. The burn was a welcome distraction to the quiet irritation simmering beneath his calm façade, a small fire against the blaze of jealousy he fought to contain. He watched Scully, how her eyes crinkled at the corners when Potts made her laugh, how she seemed to visibly relax in his presence, shedding layers she rarely did around him. It was a quiet ache, watching her give so freely what he craved, yet felt too broken to ask for.

Potts turned fully to Scully, his smile broadening, a confident invitation in his gaze. “You dance, right?”

She hesitated, a fleeting glance toward Mulder. Scully felt the whiskey’s warmth bloom through her veins, a loosening in her limbs, but the tension radiating from Mulder was like a second sun, a gravitational pull making her acutely aware of every move, every word, every breath she took. It was a live wire between them, constantly humming.

“I’m not sure I,”

“Come on,” Potts grinned, already on his feet, pulling out her chair. “One song. For old times’ sake.”

He stood, extending a hand, his palm open, inviting. Scully glanced at Mulder, a silent question in her eyes.

Mulder said nothing. He just met her eyes, unreadable, his expression a carefully constructed blankness that still managed to convey a universe of meaning.

She let Potts lead her to the floor. The easy familiarity of his touch was a stark contrast to the careful distance Mulder maintained, a distance that felt less like respect and more like self-punishment. As the upbeat strains of "Darlington County" filled the air, Scully moved with a lightness in her step, the infectious rhythm of the song drawing her in.

Mulder watched, jaw set, his hand tightening around his glass until his knuckles blanched. He wasn’t watching. He wasn’t. He told himself he was analyzing, observing, doing his job. But the knot in his stomach twisted tighter as he saw her sway to the music, a lightness he rarely witnessed, a freedom he secretly yearned to coax from her himself.

Then came a slow song, the tempo shifting, drawing dancers closer, bodies melting into one another. The unmistakable opening chords of "Stolen Car" drifted from the stage, a poignant melody of quiet longing. Potts stepped closer to Scully, guiding her arms around his neck like they were in middle school, his hand finding the small of her back. The casual intimacy of it was a brutal affront. Mulder bristled, a hot, uncontrollable surge of something akin to territoriality flaring through him, a primal urge to step in, to pull her away, to claim her. He fought it down, forcing himself to breathe, to look away, the bitter taste of helplessness coating his tongue.

Then, a woman, tall, brunette, slinky in a black slip dress that clung to her curves, approached their table, her gaze direct, unsettling, assessing.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice low and husky, her eyes fixed on Mulder, a predatory glimmer in their depths.

Mulder blinked, startled out of his self-imposed torture. The raw pain of watching Scully with another man was temporarily eclipsed. “No, go ahead.” He gestured to the empty chair beside him.

She smiled, a slow, confident curve of her lips, a silent invitation, and sat. Her scent, musky and sweet, momentarily filled the space. “I’m Amber.”

He barely registered her, her name a meaningless sound. His gaze snapped back to the dance floor, to Scully and Potts. Potts was saying something close to Scully’s ear, his head bowed to hers. She was smiling, her eyes fixed on him, that uninhibited, luminous smile. Mulder turned back to Amber, suddenly utterly exhausted. He wasn't sure if it was the whiskey, the jealousy, or the profound weariness of pretending not to care, of always holding back.

As Potts's hand gently guided her closer, preparing for the shift to a more intimate hold, her gaze drifted past his shoulder. Across the room, at their table, a tall, striking brunette in a slinky black slip dress was leaning in, her hand resting casually on Mulder's arm, her eyes fixed on him with a proprietary smile.

A visceral wave of jealousy, sharp and unexpected, slammed into Scully, so potent it stole her breath. Her body went rigid in Potts's arms, the easy rhythm of the dance instantly broken. This wasn't a prickle of annoyance; it was a raging inferno, a primal possessiveness she rarely acknowledged, let alone allowed herself to feel with such ferocity. The easy warmth she'd felt with Potts evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard knot in her stomach.

Potts, feeling her sudden stiffness, pulled back slightly, his brow furrowed with concern. He followed her rigid gaze to the table, then looked back at her, a subtle flicker of understanding, crossing his features before he masked it.

“So,” he asked, his voice softer, leaning in slightly, trying to reestablish their private connection, to pull her back from the distraction. “You and your partner...?”

Scully took a moment to answer, choosing her words carefully, acutely aware of Mulder and Amber at the table, of the fragile truce she maintained. “We’ve been through a lot together, but...” Her voice trailed off. The lie was a hollow echo even to her own ears. The truth was far more complicated, far more layered than such a simple definition could encompass. It was a lie, and they both knew it.

Potts nodded, but his gaze still held a question, an unspoken challenge, a knowing tilt of his head that said he wasn't buying it.

The song ended. They returned to the table. The warmth of the dance floor faded to a chill in the bar's air, the carefully constructed lightness of the evening crumbled.

Scully eyed Mulder, a tight knot forming in her chest, a prickle of something she refused to name. “Your new friend’s name?” The question was clipped, sharper than she intended, a demand for information, a barely veiled accusation.

“Amber,” she answered for him, with a warm, almost possessive smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a silent declaration of intent.

Scully nodded, forcing a casual air she didn’t feel. “Pretty.” The word tasted like ash in her mouth.

Mulder stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with a scrape, the sound harsh in the suddenly tense atmosphere. “It’s late. School night.” The excuse was thin, barely veiled, an urgent need to escape this suffocating proximity.

“I can take Dana back,” Potts offered smoothly, already rising, a flicker of triumph in his eyes as he looked at Mulder, a challenge accepted.

Mulder’s eyes narrowed, a cold, hard edge entering his gaze, a flash of warning that was barely perceptible to anyone but Scully. “We’re at the same hotel.” His voice was low, laced with a possessiveness that made Scully’s breath hitch.

Scully cut in, her voice firm, pushing back against the tension that stretched like a wire between the two men, against the unspoken battle for her. “How about I make it my decision?”

Amber, sensing the shift, touched Mulder’s arm lightly, proprietarily, her fingers tracing a path up his sleeve. “I can drive you,” she offered, her voice a soft purr, her gaze a clear invitation.

Scully stiffened, a flash of irritation, sharp and unwelcome, going through her. Of course she can.

Mulder turned to her, his face unreadable, his question hanging in the charged silence, a silent plea, a desperate challenge. “Well?”

“I’ll go with Mulder,” Scully said quickly, decisively, her eyes locking with his, a silent communication passing between them that excluded everyone else, a choice made not just for convenience, but for something deeper, something unspoken. “Makes more sense.” The small, almost imperceptible nod he gave her in return was enough. More than enough. It was a silent acknowledgment, a fragile victory in a war of attrition.

_____________________________________________

The Car Ride – Hotel

The car was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound, a dull thrum against the frantic beat of Scully’s heart. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken words, an electric current of tension crackling between them, a tangible weight she could almost taste.

“So, Amber,” Scully said flatly, her voice betraying none of the frustration simmering within her, but the flatness itself was telling.

Mulder didn’t miss a beat, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, a sardonic twist. “Yeah. We’re thinking about Wednesday for the wedding. Hope you and Potts can make it.”

She scoffed, a short, sharp sound of disbelief, but the humor was lost in the undercurrent of something else, annoyance, yes, but also a raw, unexpected pang of something that felt dangerously close to pain.

They reached the hotel. Scully paused at her hotel room door, fumbling with the key card, her fingers suddenly clumsy, until Mulder gently took it from her hand and unlocked it himself. She lingered in the doorway, silhouetted by the soft hallway light, unwilling to break the fragile connection, unwilling to step into the lonely space of her room.

They both knew what was on the other side.

Their rooms shared an adjoining door, a long-standing, unspoken agreement. During cases like this, when things got complicated or dangerous or just long, they kept it cracked open. For updates. For strategy. For the raw, visceral comfort of knowing the other is close, a thin wall separating them from the terrifying solitude of their individual lives.

Tonight, that door remained shut. It had been shut for months. A symbol of the careful, agonizing distance they now kept, a deliberate barrier against the overwhelming force that pulled them together.

She leaned against the door frame, her voice soft, almost a whisper, testing the air between them. “You’re always a gentleman, Mulder.” The words were a test, a gentle probe into the wall he'd built around himself, a question hidden in a compliment.

He looked at her for a long beat, his jaw tight, his eyes darker than usual, haunted by unsaid things, by the knowledge of what lay between them and what lay ahead, by the agonizing choices he believed he had to make. His voice was a low rasp, raw with suppressed emotion, a confession that barely escaped his lips.

“You make it difficult.”

The words hung in the air, thick with double meaning, a tantalizing glimpse into the desire he fought so hard to conceal.

Her breath hitched, a sudden, sharp catch in her throat. The truth of his words was a bitter, exquisite pain that resonated deep within her. He knew. He felt it too. But she nodded, a small, knowing acknowledgment of the complexities that defined their bond, the impossible, unspoken things. Then she stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind her with a muted, final click that echoed like a surrender.

In her room, Scully leaned against the adjoining door from the other side, staring down at the floor, arms folded tightly across her chest, as if holding herself together against an unseen force. The memory of Mulder's eyes, dark and wounded, when he looked at her, haunted her.

His "You make it difficult" replayed in her mind, a devastating admission.

They’d always kept that door open before. Always.

On the other side, Mulder sat on the edge of his bed, fists clenched in his lap, staring at the still, closed adjoining door between them. He felt the cold press of the wall against his back, the barrier between them a physical manifestation of the one within himself, the one he believed he had to maintain to keep her safe, to keep her. He closed his eyes, the image of her laughing with Potts, dancing with him, searing behind his lids.

He opened them again, the anger at Potts and himself giving way to a profound, aching tenderness. He envisioned Scully now, just on the other side of this thin wall, perhaps still slightly tipsy and disheveled from the night, her weariness a soft halo around her. He loved every version of Dana Scully: the brilliant scientist, the fiercely loyal partner, the prim, buttoned-up agent. But it was this version, the one glimpsed at the end of a long day, with her guard a little down, her hair softened by the evening, that truly choked him. There was something about her unguarded fatigue, her raw humanity, that pulled at a place deep within him he rarely acknowledged.

He had just spent the entire day with her, every shared glance, every dry comment, every charged silence etched into his memory, and still, the prospect of this closed door, of being separate until morning, was a fresh torment. He could never get enough of her, not truly. He yearned for her presence with a hunger that defied logic and professional boundaries.

So much unsaid. And neither of them, tonight, brave enough to say it. The space between them stretched, vast and terrifying, filled with unspoken truths and the desperate hope that one day, one of them would find the courage to cross it, to shatter the silence and bridge the agonizing, delicious divide.

#xf fanfic

[msrpusher]

Chapter 2 of my new series The Space Between:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/171929872#workskin

After their unexpected reunion with Danny Potts, Mulder and Scully spent the remainder of the afternoon immersing themselves in the burgeoning case. They secured their hotel rooms, then immediately moved to the temporary FBI field office set up within the local sheriff's department. There, they delved into the initial incident reports, cross-referencing witness statements about light anomalies and tremors with the available medical records detailing the victims' peculiar neurological symptoms.

The bar across from the hospital was tucked beneath string lights and vibrated with a low, sultry hum. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, spilled beer, and something else, something warm and inviting that spoke of human connection, or perhaps, longing.

A lively Bruce Springsteen cover band played in the corner, their energetic brass and lively percussion cutting through the comfortable din, a vibrant soundtrack to the unspooling tension. The lead singer, shirt sleeves rolled up and brow glistening with sweat, channeled his best impression of The Boss, prowling the stage and belting out lyrics with a gravelly passion that echoed Springsteen's signature sound. Potts, charismatic and utterly at ease, flagged down a waitress and ordered drinks for them all.

“To reunions,” he declared, raising a glass, his eyes lingering on Scully with a warmth that was almost a physical touch.

Mulder offered a tight, unrevealing smile with closed lips, letting the whiskey slide down slowly. The burn was a welcome distraction to the quiet irritation simmering beneath his calm façade, a small fire against the blaze of jealousy he fought to contain. He watched Scully, how her eyes crinkled at the corners when Potts made her laugh, how she seemed to visibly relax in his presence, shedding layers she rarely did around him. It was a quiet ache, watching her give so freely what he craved, yet felt too broken to ask for.

Potts turned fully to Scully, his smile broadening, a confident invitation in his gaze. “You dance, right?”

She hesitated, a fleeting glance toward Mulder. Scully felt the whiskey’s warmth bloom through her veins, a loosening in her limbs, but the tension radiating from Mulder was like a second sun, a gravitational pull making her acutely aware of every move, every word, every breath she took. It was a live wire between them, constantly humming.

“I’m not sure I,”

“Come on,” Potts grinned, already on his feet, pulling out her chair. “One song. For old times’ sake.”

He stood, extending a hand, his palm open, inviting. Scully glanced at Mulder, a silent question in her eyes.

Mulder said nothing. He just met her eyes, unreadable, his expression a carefully constructed blankness that still managed to convey a universe of meaning.

She let Potts lead her to the floor. The easy familiarity of his touch was a stark contrast to the careful distance Mulder maintained, a distance that felt less like respect and more like self-punishment. As the upbeat strains of "Darlington County" filled the air, Scully moved with a lightness in her step, the infectious rhythm of the song drawing her in.

Mulder watched, jaw set, his hand tightening around his glass until his knuckles blanched. He wasn’t watching. He wasn’t. He told himself he was analyzing, observing, doing his job. But the knot in his stomach twisted tighter as he saw her sway to the music, a lightness he rarely witnessed, a freedom he secretly yearned to coax from her himself.

Then came a slow song, the tempo shifting, drawing dancers closer, bodies melting into one another. The unmistakable opening chords of "Stolen Car" drifted from the stage, a poignant melody of quiet longing. Potts stepped closer to Scully, guiding her arms around his neck like they were in middle school, his hand finding the small of her back. The casual intimacy of it was a brutal affront. Mulder bristled, a hot, uncontrollable surge of something akin to territoriality flaring through him, a primal urge to step in, to pull her away, to claim her. He fought it down, forcing himself to breathe, to look away, the bitter taste of helplessness coating his tongue.

Then, a woman, tall, brunette, slinky in a black slip dress that clung to her curves, approached their table, her gaze direct, unsettling, assessing.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice low and husky, her eyes fixed on Mulder, a predatory glimmer in their depths.

Mulder blinked, startled out of his self-imposed torture. The raw pain of watching Scully with another man was temporarily eclipsed. “No, go ahead.” He gestured to the empty chair beside him.

She smiled, a slow, confident curve of her lips, a silent invitation, and sat. Her scent, musky and sweet, momentarily filled the space. “I’m Amber.”

He barely registered her, her name a meaningless sound. His gaze snapped back to the dance floor, to Scully and Potts. Potts was saying something close to Scully’s ear, his head bowed to hers. She was smiling, her eyes fixed on him, that uninhibited, luminous smile. Mulder turned back to Amber, suddenly utterly exhausted. He wasn't sure if it was the whiskey, the jealousy, or the profound weariness of pretending not to care, of always holding back.

As Potts's hand gently guided her closer, preparing for the shift to a more intimate hold, her gaze drifted past his shoulder. Across the room, at their table, a tall, striking brunette in a slinky black slip dress was leaning in, her hand resting casually on Mulder's arm, her eyes fixed on him with a proprietary smile.

A visceral wave of jealousy, sharp and unexpected, slammed into Scully, so potent it stole her breath. Her body went rigid in Potts's arms, the easy rhythm of the dance instantly broken. This wasn't a prickle of annoyance; it was a raging inferno, a primal possessiveness she rarely acknowledged, let alone allowed herself to feel with such ferocity. The easy warmth she'd felt with Potts evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard knot in her stomach.

Potts, feeling her sudden stiffness, pulled back slightly, his brow furrowed with concern. He followed her rigid gaze to the table, then looked back at her, a subtle flicker of understanding, crossing his features before he masked it.

“So,” he asked, his voice softer, leaning in slightly, trying to reestablish their private connection, to pull her back from the distraction. “You and your partner...?”

Scully took a moment to answer, choosing her words carefully, acutely aware of Mulder and Amber at the table, of the fragile truce she maintained. “We’ve been through a lot together, but...” Her voice trailed off. The lie was a hollow echo even to her own ears. The truth was far more complicated, far more layered than such a simple definition could encompass. It was a lie, and they both knew it.

Potts nodded, but his gaze still held a question, an unspoken challenge, a knowing tilt of his head that said he wasn't buying it.

The song ended. They returned to the table. The warmth of the dance floor faded to a chill in the bar's air, the carefully constructed lightness of the evening crumbled.

Scully eyed Mulder, a tight knot forming in her chest, a prickle of something she refused to name. “Your new friend’s name?” The question was clipped, sharper than she intended, a demand for information, a barely veiled accusation.

“Amber,” she answered for him, with a warm, almost possessive smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a silent declaration of intent.

Scully nodded, forcing a casual air she didn’t feel. “Pretty.” The word tasted like ash in her mouth.

Mulder stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with a scrape, the sound harsh in the suddenly tense atmosphere. “It’s late. School night.” The excuse was thin, barely veiled, an urgent need to escape this suffocating proximity.

“I can take Dana back,” Potts offered smoothly, already rising, a flicker of triumph in his eyes as he looked at Mulder, a challenge accepted.

Mulder’s eyes narrowed, a cold, hard edge entering his gaze, a flash of warning that was barely perceptible to anyone but Scully. “We’re at the same hotel.” His voice was low, laced with a possessiveness that made Scully’s breath hitch.

Scully cut in, her voice firm, pushing back against the tension that stretched like a wire between the two men, against the unspoken battle for her. “How about I make it my decision?”

Amber, sensing the shift, touched Mulder’s arm lightly, proprietarily, her fingers tracing a path up his sleeve. “I can drive you,” she offered, her voice a soft purr, her gaze a clear invitation.

Scully stiffened, a flash of irritation, sharp and unwelcome, going through her. Of course she can.

Mulder turned to her, his face unreadable, his question hanging in the charged silence, a silent plea, a desperate challenge. “Well?”

“I’ll go with Mulder,” Scully said quickly, decisively, her eyes locking with his, a silent communication passing between them that excluded everyone else, a choice made not just for convenience, but for something deeper, something unspoken. “Makes more sense.” The small, almost imperceptible nod he gave her in return was enough. More than enough. It was a silent acknowledgment, a fragile victory in a war of attrition.

_____________________________________________

The Car Ride – Hotel

The car was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound, a dull thrum against the frantic beat of Scully’s heart. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken words, an electric current of tension crackling between them, a tangible weight she could almost taste.

“So, Amber,” Scully said flatly, her voice betraying none of the frustration simmering within her, but the flatness itself was telling.

Mulder didn’t miss a beat, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, a sardonic twist. “Yeah. We’re thinking about Wednesday for the wedding. Hope you and Potts can make it.”

She scoffed, a short, sharp sound of disbelief, but the humor was lost in the undercurrent of something else, annoyance, yes, but also a raw, unexpected pang of something that felt dangerously close to pain.

They reached the hotel. Scully paused at her hotel room door, fumbling with the key card, her fingers suddenly clumsy, until Mulder gently took it from her hand and unlocked it himself. She lingered in the doorway, silhouetted by the soft hallway light, unwilling to break the fragile connection, unwilling to step into the lonely space of her room.

They both knew what was on the other side.

Their rooms shared an adjoining door, a long-standing, unspoken agreement. During cases like this, when things got complicated or dangerous or just long, they kept it cracked open. For updates. For strategy. For the raw, visceral comfort of knowing the other is close, a thin wall separating them from the terrifying solitude of their individual lives.

Tonight, that door remained shut. It had been shut for months. A symbol of the careful, agonizing distance they now kept, a deliberate barrier against the overwhelming force that pulled them together.

She leaned against the door frame, her voice soft, almost a whisper, testing the air between them. “You’re always a gentleman, Mulder.” The words were a test, a gentle probe into the wall he'd built around himself, a question hidden in a compliment.

He looked at her for a long beat, his jaw tight, his eyes darker than usual, haunted by unsaid things, by the knowledge of what lay between them and what lay ahead, by the agonizing choices he believed he had to make. His voice was a low rasp, raw with suppressed emotion, a confession that barely escaped his lips.

“You make it difficult.”

The words hung in the air, thick with double meaning, a tantalizing glimpse into the desire he fought so hard to conceal.

Her breath hitched, a sudden, sharp catch in her throat. The truth of his words was a bitter, exquisite pain that resonated deep within her. He knew. He felt it too. But she nodded, a small, knowing acknowledgment of the complexities that defined their bond, the impossible, unspoken things. Then she stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind her with a muted, final click that echoed like a surrender.

In her room, Scully leaned against the adjoining door from the other side, staring down at the floor, arms folded tightly across her chest, as if holding herself together against an unseen force. The memory of Mulder's eyes, dark and wounded, when he looked at her, haunted her.

His "You make it difficult" replayed in her mind, a devastating admission.

They’d always kept that door open before. Always.

On the other side, Mulder sat on the edge of his bed, fists clenched in his lap, staring at the still, closed adjoining door between them. He felt the cold press of the wall against his back, the barrier between them a physical manifestation of the one within himself, the one he believed he had to maintain to keep her safe, to keep her. He closed his eyes, the image of her laughing with Potts, dancing with him, searing behind his lids.

He opened them again, the anger at Potts and himself giving way to a profound, aching tenderness. He envisioned Scully now, just on the other side of this thin wall, perhaps still slightly tipsy and disheveled from the night, her weariness a soft halo around her. He loved every version of Dana Scully: the brilliant scientist, the fiercely loyal partner, the prim, buttoned-up agent. But it was this version, the one glimpsed at the end of a long day, with her guard a little down, her hair softened by the evening, that truly choked him. There was something about her unguarded fatigue, her raw humanity, that pulled at a place deep within him he rarely acknowledged.

He had just spent the entire day with her, every shared glance, every dry comment, every charged silence etched into his memory, and still, the prospect of this closed door, of being separate until morning, was a fresh torment. He could never get enough of her, not truly. He yearned for her presence with a hunger that defied logic and professional boundaries.

So much unsaid. And neither of them, tonight, brave enough to say it. The space between them stretched, vast and terrifying, filled with unspoken truths and the desperate hope that one day, one of them would find the courage to cross it, to shatter the silence and bridge the agonizing, delicious divide.

#xf fanfic