Archive of Our Own

i. When he’s hurt

Stupid, she thinks, that was so, so absolutely beyond stupid of him. 

It was supposed to be a simple case. An ordinary drug bust, routine, normal, safe. Scully and Mulder were only there because some other guy was on sick leave and more backup was needed. It wasn’t an x-file, they were a well-equipped group, there wasn’t supposed to be that big of a risk.

At first, everything was going well. Everyone followed orders, even Mulder, despite her expectations. They’d gotten in the house with minimal issue and were just about to arrest those involved, when some crazy guy with a shotgun came charging out of the broom closet. He’d pointed his weapon at Scully when her back was turned, and before she could react to anyone’s warnings, Mulder had stepped in, shielding her just as the man pulled the trigger.

It took her a moment to realize exactly what had just happened.

The man might’ve been restrained and an arrest might’ve been made, but if any of that did happen, Scully hadn’t seen it. As soon as the shot rang out, she’d rushed over to be by Mulder’s side, catching him as his knees buckled. She’d lowered him to the ground, quickly moving to put pressure on the wound with one hand. With her other hand, she’d gently cupped his face, brushing back his hair with her fingertips.

“Stay with me, Mulder, come on,” she’d whispered, trying her very best not to burst into tears right then and there. “Help is on the way.”

The paramedics had to practically drag her away from him when they’d arrived. When they’d finally gotten her to let go of him, she’d stood over them, ordering them around as they lifted him onto a gurney and loaded it into the back of an ambulance. 

“Sorry, ma’am, you can’t come with us. Immediate family only,” one of them had told her. 

With shaky hands, she’d shoved her badge in his face and muttered, “I’m his partner!” Something in her tone of voice must’ve gotten through to him, because he’d moved aside, allowing her to enter the vehicle. 

She held his hand on the way to the hospital, and hadn’t let go until he’d been taken into surgery.

She sits in an uncomfortable waiting room chair, staring off into space. Mulder’s blood is still all over her hands and blouse, but she makes no effort to clean herself up. The hospital reeks of antiseptic and death and she just wants to go home, but she won’t leave him. She can’t. Not until she knows for sure that he’ll be okay. So she sits and she stares at the bright green bulletin board on the opposite wall and she counts the minutes. There’s footsteps around her, nurses and doctors in a flurry of movement, but after two hours of sitting there she’d learned to tune it out. She clutches at the armrest, clings to it like a lifeline, and she waits.

Somewhere at the two-and-a-half-hour mark, the automatic doors at the entrance slide open. She glances up and sees A.D. Skinner walking determinedly towards her. She stands up on shaky legs.

“How is he?” He questions, and all she can do is shrug because not even she knows.

“He’s still in surgery,” she croaks. Her voice comes out shaky and uncertain, so unlike her. Skinner places a comforting hand on her shoulder, and even that slight pressure causes her to sink back down onto her chair.

“He’s strong. He’ll be okay,” he assures her, but he sounds uncertain, too, and she can’t really tell if he’s trying to convince her or himself.

Skinner sits down next to her. This time, they wait together.

Scully manages to doze off at somewhere around hour three. Skinner flips idly through some health magazine, sparing an occasional glance at the clock on the wall. By hour four, she’s awake again, and takes to pacing nervously back and forth in the waiting room. Her shoes click rhythmically against the floor. Step, step, step, turn. Repeat. 

A doctor walks in, donning wrinkled and bloody scrubs. She stops pacing for a moment, tries to read his face when their eyes meet. He looks exhausted. Defeated.  A look she’s seen many times, a look she’s probably worn herself at some point of time.

The look of someone who has lost a patient.

He takes a step towards her and her knees give out. Skinner catches her by the shoulders and leads her back to her chair, that damned waiting room chair with the dirty, dark red cushions and the uncomfortably stiff backrest. She draws her knees up to her chest, closing in on herself both physically and emotionally. Skinner’s face, blurred by the tears in her eyes, hovers in her line of sight, but everything else fades into the background. He’s talking to her, his lips are moving, but she can’t hear him. The dull beeping of hospital machinery, the footsteps, the piercing hum of fluorescent lights, the subtle conversations of others in the waiting room. It’s all too bright, too colorful, too much, and it’s making her head spin. She shuts her eyes tight, wills herself to wake up. This is all just some crazy nightmare, she thinks. This is not happening. 

“...ot him! Agent Scully, listen to me! It’s not him! It’s not Mulder!” She makes out Skinner’s words over all the white noise, and ever so carefully, she opens her eyes. Blinks once. “Agent Scully, he’s not Mulder’s doctor.”

She glances around the waiting room, and finds that the doctor had gone to speak to some other family. A woman clings to her husband and cries, and it’s terrible and tragic and someone has just lost a loved one, but all Scully feels is relief. It’s not him. He’s alive. He’s okay.  

A nurse comes by to offer her some clean scrubs to change into by hour five, and she considers denying the offer, but Skinner gives her a light shove in the direction of the bathroom, followed immediately by a stern look and she complies, gathering the clothing into her arms. She walks in, locks the door, stares at herself in the mirror. Blood coats her hands and her clothing, and there’s droplets of it on her face. Moving on autopilot, she flicks the tap on, scrubs at her skin until it's red and raw. When she’s somewhat clean and changed, she glances at the mirror again, looks herself in the eye. Her hair is disheveled, makeup smudged. She can barely recognize herself. She clutches the edge of the sink, numb fingers curling around the smooth marble, and finally allows herself to cry.

There’s a knock at the door, and she’s quick to compose herself. Her face is flushed and her eyes are tired but she looks somewhat sane at the very least and right now, all things considered, that’s good enough.

“Sorry, I’m coming,” she calls out as she collects her things. She pulls open the door to find a nurse standing there. She’s taller than Scully, with dark, shoulder-length hair and soft brown eyes. That same tired look fills her features, except hers is almost… hopeful. It’s refreshing.

“Agent Scully?” She questions. Scully nods.

“Yes, that’s me. Are you..?” 

“Agent Mulder’s out of surgery. You may go see him now.”

The bloody clothing she’s holding slips from her grasp, falling to the tile floor in a heap. She blinks back the tears in her eyes and takes off running through the hospital hallway.

Mulder is a sight for sore eyes — pale, bruised, and bandaged in a hospital bed that looks too big for him despite his usually overwhelming height. Wires and IV lines are sticking out all over his body. Miraculously, his face has stayed mostly intact. His eyes are closed, jaw relaxed, and he might appear asleep to those who don’t know any better —  just as long as they disregard the stark white bandage around his head and the tube coming out of his mouth.

Scully settles down in a large plastic chair she’d dragged up to his bedside. She sits, hunched over, her elbow resting on the empty space on Mulder’s bed. 

“Mulder,” she whispers, reaching out with her free hand to run her fingers through his hair. She doesn’t say anything else, just his name. A call, a plea, whatever it is. She lets it hang in the air. Maybe he can hear her. She stares at him, committing every detail to memory. She’d come close to losing him one too many times, and every time there’s been something left unsaid. She’s never told him how much he really means to her, how much she loves him.

She loves him.

The realization catches her by surprise.

She loves him.

Deep down, she figures she’s always known. They’ve always been closer than coworkers, closer than partners, closer than friends. She’s just never really thought about it. But there it is.

She loves him.

She vows to herself, that when he wakes up, she’ll tell him. No more half-truths, no more running, no more biting her tongue.

She loves him. And he deserves to know that.

She falls asleep in his hospital room, her head resting on her folded arms, and when she wakes up the next day, it’s to find him staring at her. He smiles, and every coherent thought leaves her head in a single instant.

“Mulder,” she whispers, voice breaking, “You’re awake.” He nods, and she feels tears in her eyes again. He reaches out to cup her face with a gentle hand, and she leans in, relishing in the touch. Soft fingertips brush away her tears as she cries. “You took a bullet for me,” she chokes out. He’s here, he’s alive, but some twenty minutes ago there had been no guarantees of a good outcome and why were they always the ones who got hurt? Why him? Why for her?

“I’m okay, Scully. It’s okay. We’re okay,” he reassures her, snaps her out of her internal monologue, and she believes him wholeheartedly. He pulls her down onto the hospital bed and wraps his arms around her, and she returns the embrace, careful to avoid his injuries. He’s okay. It’s okay. They’re okay.

(She doesn’t tell him. Maybe some other time, she tells herself as they walk out of the hospital, arm in arm. For now he’s okay, he’s alive, they’re on their way home, and at this moment, it’s enough.)

ii. On a bad day 

She wakes up fifteen minutes late on a gloomy, rainy Thursday, because the power had gone out during the night and reset her alarm clock. Muttering a string of curses under her breath, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and curls her toes into the rug, only to find that she’d somehow managed to knock last night’s (full) cup of tea off her nightstand.

Maybe today just isn't her day.

“Dammit!” She shouts at nobody in particular. Maybe at the universe. Maybe at God. Maybe at herself. She makes a mental note to leave mugs in the kitchen from now on, where the floor is tiled and easy to clean. With a sigh, she shoves her blankets aside and heads to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, her bad luck seems to follow her around, because her shower runs out of hot water almost immediately and she drops her powder blush into the sink and why is everything going wrong today??? There’s no time to blow-dry her hair, so she hastily rubs it with a towel and brushes out the damp locks. Hopefully, Mulder won’t mind her slightly disheveled appearance. Great, she thinks, now I’m overly concerned with his opinion, too. This should be interesting.

She rushes towards her closet, skillfully avoiding the tea stain on the rug, only to be faced with the reminder that most of her work clothes are at the dry cleaner’s. Shit. She pulls out a dark grey pantsuit that’s never quite fit her right and resigns herself to a full day of being uncomfortable. 

Her struggles continue in the kitchen, as she burns her toast and finds out that her milk is expired. She pulls open a window to rid the apartment of burnt-toast smell, but the latch gets stuck and she can’t get it past the halfway point, nor can she close it.

“Great. Just great. First the tea, then my blush, then my toast, and now, this!?” She throws her arms up in exasperation as she storms out of the kitchen. No breakfast today, then. Maybe Mulder will buy her a coffee or something later. Maybe she’ll buy one for herself. Whatever. She shoves her badge and gun into her purse and heads out the door.

The rain is still going strong, and by the time she gets to her car her feet are soaking wet. On the plus side, she now has an excuse for her untamed hair, so at least she can be grateful for that. She dumps her purse onto the passenger seat and the contents spill out all over the floor. She groans, letting her forehead fall against the steering wheel. Then, she digs through the mess of objects underneath the seat and produces her keys. The safety pin she’d attached to the keyring slices her palm open, and she hisses in pain as she jabs the keys into the ignition. Her car stalls twice before starting, but eventually the engine roars to life and she pulls out onto the road.

Maybe Mulder will be able to come up with some less-than-plausible theory to explain why her luck has gone to shit today, of all days.

She ponders the possibilities as she waits at a red light, and then again at the next one. By the fourth consecutive red light, she wants to personally track down whoever invented the damned things and strangle them with her bare hands. Her fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel when the light turns green and some teenager in a convertible cuts in front of her. She resists the urge to flip him off. 

When she finally arrives, she finds someone else’s car parked in her spot in the underground lot, so she’s forced to park above ground. Trudging through the wet parking lot, she wonders what it was that she’d done to deserve a day like this.

Some jerk speeds past her in front of the Hoover building, effectively covering her front with muddy rainwater. She stares after his retreating car in open-mouthed shock, right up until it turns a corner and leaves her sight. The metal detector in the lobby malfunctions when it’s her turn to go through, and she has to wait an extra twenty minutes for the maintenance guy to show up and twist some knobs. No one holds the elevator for her, and after another ten-minute wait she opts to take the stairs. It’s only a few flights down anyways. Manageable. Most likely.

Maybe she’d spoken too soon, because she manages to trip over her own feet a few steps away from the bottom. She ends up sprawled out on the floor, and when she gets up, her left ankle gives out on her almost immediately. She braces herself against the railing to regain her balance.

"What a day," she mumbles as she pushes away from the railing and limps towards her and Mulder's office.

“Scully? Is that you?” He calls out to her from the storage room as she walks into the office. His voice is slightly muffled by the piles of boxes he’s hiding behind, and the constant drone of his projector drowns out some of the consonants, but it might just be the best sound she’s ever heard.

“Yeah, Mulder, it’s me,” she replies, peeling off her soaking wet coat and hanging it up. In two long strides, she’s behind his desk, and she flops into his chair with a huff. Her hair is still wet, she’s cold, and her ankle is really starting to bother her. And now, she has to pretend like everything is just fine, for Mulder’s sake. She leans back in the chair, stares up at the ceiling, counts the pencils still stuck in the tiles, then the holes where pencils used to be. She can almost imagine him sitting there, leaning back like she is with a sunflower seed between his teeth, staring up at the same ceiling and twirling a pencil out of sheer boredom, then tossing it up in the air for the same reason. She pictures the look of surprise on his face when it sticks, then the determination as he scours the office for more pencils and the concentration as he sharpens each and every one of them. She remembers quite vividly his look of sheepish apology when she’d discovered what he’d been up to during her vacation. The images almost bring a smile to her face.

Keyword, almost.

It’s still too cold, and she pulls herself up from the chair and staggers towards the door, quickly pulling it closed. That should keep the draft out. She fondles the front of her jacket, but it’s still soaked and will likely only make her colder. She’s about to return to her previous spot when she hears Mulder’s footsteps approaching from the storage room.

“Hey, Scully, I found us a case. This small town in—” he trails off as he finally gets a good look at her, scanning her from head to toe. She stands awkwardly by the door, arms crossed and leaning obviously to one side. Her hair is frizzy and her clothes are wrinkled and damp. She’s staring at the floor, the walls, the ceiling — anywhere but him. He steps closer to her, amused but slightly concerned, too.

“Scully, what happened to you?” He questions, and she fixes him with a glare that could probably cause spontaneous human combustion. He splays his hands up in front of him in silent defense, but continues to watch her expectantly. She huffs.

“Nothing happened, Mulder, I’m…”

“Fine, I know. You’re fine. But really, what is it? You’re never this late,” he presses on, and it’s the last straw. She takes a shaky breath.

“You wanna know what happened to me? My power went out last night, so my alarm didn’t go off this morning, and I spilled tea all over my rug, then I had to take a cold shower. A cold shower, Mulder! Then my milk was sour and I burnt my toast and my kitchen window broke! Just like that, Mulder, it broke! All my clothes are at the dry cleaner’s so all I had was this really old outfit, and I didn’t even have time to blow-dry my hair! Then my car wouldn’t start and I got stuck in traffic and it’s raining and some crazy guy soaked me in the parking lot! And then I had to wait out front for twenty whole minutes because the new security guard’s an idiot and then I tripped down the stairs and probably sprained my ankle so now I’m wet and cold and I can barely walk! That’s what happened to me, Mulder!” She yells, her voice shakier than she would’ve liked it to be. She immediately feels a little guilty — it’s not his fault her day sucks — so she averts her gaze, staring down at her muddy shoes. To her surprise, he places a soft hand on her arm, and she looks up to see his concerned expression. Gentle. Caring. Kind. 

She just yelled at him for no reason and he’s touching her arm and looking at her like that and something about his look makes her strangely emotional. She turns her head to the side and closes her eyes. He lets go of her arm, and she feels the absence of warmth deep within herself. She hears him moving, feels the air shift in front of her. She wonders what he’s doing, and she glances up at him to see him pulling off his suit jacket. He turns back to her and drapes it around her shoulders. She slips her arms into the sleeves, and he pulls it closed in the front.

“Better now?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, soft and low. All she can do is nod, and he mirrors the action. “Come on, you should sit down.”

He wraps an arm around her waist, and she leans against him, careful not to step on her injured foot. He leads her over to his desk chair, and she doesn’t bother telling him that she’d be fine on her own. He cares about her, and this day is utterly terrible, and maybe it’s just nice to have someone to lean on every once in a while. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She pulls his jacket tighter around herself. With a quiet gasp, he catches her wrist with his hand and gently turns her palm to face him.

“Scully, what happened to your hand?” She looks down, taking note of the dried blood and the reddened skin around the cut. She tries to pull her hand away, but his grip is firm, strong, solid — like him. 

“I, um… I cut it on a safety pin. It’s not that bad, it barely hurts, I promise,” she reassures him, and he smiles, brushing a finger across her palm.

“Stay here, Scully, and I’ll go get you some ice for your foot, okay?” Another nod. He hurries out of the room, and she finds herself staring at the door long after he’s gone.

And just like that, it hits her again. Unforeseen, unexpected, but so very perfect. Kind of like the first drop of rain on a scorching hot summer day.

She loves him.

She’d admitted it to herself not too long ago, and it still manages to stun her, sometimes. 

She thinks about telling him. Tries to picture the look on his face once he hears the words. Maybe he’ll be surprised, and he’ll stare at her in wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe. Maybe he’s come to expect it, and he’ll just smile that 100-watt smile and lean in to kiss her. Or, maybe he’ll frown and turn away from her, tell her that she’s ruined their friendship and partnership.

Maybe she should accept that this is the one thing that can’t really be proven or predicted by science. Which is kind of a big deal for her — she likes having the science to fall back on, it’s been her only constant, other than him. When all else fails, there’s always her rationality, that well-practiced sense of clinical detachment, meticulously trained by medical school and Quantico. This, unfortunately, is far too personal for any of that.

Mulder returns, and the sound of the door creaking open snaps her out of her reverie. He’s carrying a first aid kit in one hand and a cup of coffee in his other, and there’s an icepack in between his clenched teeth. She watches him nudge the door closed with his shoulder and some warm fuzzy feeling flutters in her chest. The cup is placed in front of her, and he pulls out a second chair, positioning himself next to her. He cracks the ice pack and shakes it, waiting for it to become cool. Once it’s cold enough, he carefully removes her shoe and presses it to the side of her foot.

“Is that good, right there?” He glances up at her, and she gives him a watery smile.

“Yeah, that’s good.” The words hang there, on the tip of her tongue, and she wants oh-so-badly to say them out loud, to make it real, to show him. Instead, what comes out when she opens her mouth is, “Thank you, Mulder.”

Maybe that’s okay, too, because he smiles at her, and it’s the 100-watt smile of her dreams, and today sucks but he’s here and he brought her coffee and maybe that’s all she needs.

“You’re welcome, Scully.”

He pries open the first aid kit and begins work on her hand. The disinfectant stings a little and he pulls the bandage a little too tight, but his touch is careful and loving and it’s making her insides melt.

A pencil falls from the ceiling and clatters to the floor between them, and they both laugh.

iii. After he saves her

“I’m just saying, Scully, it could be aliens!” Mulder exclaims, waving around a small evidence bag containing some kind of white powder.

“Mulder, that’s crazy,” she replies, carefully prying the bag from his fingers. She holds it up to the light, squinting at the contents. 

“Scully, you said it yourself. You haven’t identified the substance, so anything’s possible.”

“Mulder, just because I haven’t identified it doesn’t mean that it’s aliens. It’s probably crushed-up medication or… or maybe some kind of bootleg household cleaner. In any case, I sent some to the lab. They’ll be able to tell us what it is for sure,” she explains, dropping the bag onto a metal tray. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. She doesn’t realize she’s staring at him until their eyes meet and he winks. Sometimes, his tendency to flirt really gets to her. Flustered, she turns back to the body on the autopsy table and picks up a scalpel. 

Without looking back at him, she mutters, “You can go back to the motel, if you want. I can finish up here on my own.”

“No, that’s okay. I think I’d rather stay here with you. It’s—” he pauses, there’s some shuffling around and she assumes he’s checking his watch, “—almost one in the morning. Aliens or not, something’s been killing all those people, and I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

At that, Scully rolls her eyes, mostly for show. “Mulder, I can take care of myself,” she replies, but deep down she’s grateful — this case so far has been tough, and she’s just a little on edge.

“I know that, Scully, but please. I’ll sleep better if I know you’re in the motel room next to mine. Let me stay for my own sake, at least.” She glances back at him and sees absolute sincerity and concern in his eyes. She smiles. 

“Fine, whatever, you can stay. Just don’t get in my way, alright?” He nods enthusiastically, grinning at her, and pulls out a small office chair from somewhere. As she makes the first cut, she can hear his feet tap against the floor as he spins the chair in circles, accompanied by the occasional crackle of his sunflower seeds. Still smiling to herself, she clutches her tape recorder.

Click.

“Case file number X-176389…”

An hour later, she’s finally done. Her hands are shaky and tired and she drops the scalpel onto an instrument tray. The sharp metallic clatter wakes Mulder, who had dozed off in his chair some 20 minutes ago. He sits up straight with a start, and the chair wobbles in place, seemingly ready to topple over. Scully instinctively sticks out a hand to steady him. She is rewarded with a grateful smile.

“Scully? Are you done?” He questions, and she nods.

“I just have to finish some notes. I need, maybe, ten more minutes? You can start heading out, I’ll catch up,” she reassures, and he stands up, stretching. She can see some reluctance in his expression, but she pointedly shoves him towards the door before he can protest. “Go. I’ll be fine alone for ten minutes.”

Once he’s out the door, she turns around and snaps off her gloves, dropping them into a medical waste bin. She covers the body with a sheet and reaches for her notes. The bright white fluorescent lights of the morgue are starting to give her a bit of a headache, and she blinks as the words on the page swirl together. Exhaustion sets in deep in her limbs, and she stumbles back, reaching out blindly for the chair Mulder had previously occupied. Instead, her hand finds something warm and solid, and she whirls around with a gasp, finding herself face-to-face with a person — a man, probably, but a ski mask conceals most of his face. She realizes a few things in that moment.

One: She’s all alone. Mulder has probably made it to the parking lot by now, and (as far as she knew) they were the last two people left in the building.

Two: Her phone is all the way across the room, where she’d ditched it on some random counter. 

Three: The man’s hands are on her arms and he’s nowhere near gentle.

The papers she’s holding flutter to the floor as he slams her back against the wall before she can react. Her head hits the concrete with a resounding crack, and the doctor in her knows that that’s probably not a very good thing. She, however, is too exhausted — and dizzy now, too — to do anything about it at the moment. Stars dance around in her vision and the room spins nauseatingly. She blinks, trying to clear her head, and digs her nails into the man’s forearms in an attempt to get him to let go, but he’s got a good foot and a half on her and he’s about twice as heavy, so she seems to pose no threat. Panicked, she reaches for her gun, only to remember that she’d given it to Mulder before they’d even entered the hospital. The man sticks a hand into one of his pockets, and she screams — maybe Mulder will hear and come to her rescue before anything more happens. No such luck. He throws a fistful of something at her — white powder of some kind — and she inhales at just the wrong time. As she coughs, she realizes that this might be Mulder’s ‘alien’ powder. Before she can really contemplate it for much longer, her knees give out and she slides down against the wall. She can see the man moving around somewhere near the autopsy table, and she knows she should try to stop him before he tampers with any evidence, but her vision is slowly fading out and breathing is still a struggle. Her limbs feel heavy, not only with exhaustion but with the effects of whatever she’d inhaled.

Her last thoughts are of Mulder as she slips into unconsciousness.

“—lly! Scully! Can you hear me? Come on, Scully, wake up. Scully!”

There’s a hand pressed up against the side of her face. 

“Scully! Come on, come on!”

It’s definitely not her hand.

“Please, Scully.”

Oh. Mulder. It’s gotta be Mulder’s hand.

Her headache returns with a vengeance. She moans.

“Scully, come on, open your eyes. Talk to me.”

His voice is so gentle. And his hand. His hand is gentle, too. Both his hands, actually. But especially the one that’s currently touching her, rubbing soft circles on her cheek. Slowly, she opens her eyes, squinting against the light. His face is the first thing in her line of sight, blurry and way too bright for her liking, but he’s there and he’s beautiful. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern, and he’s saying something to her, but there’s a ringing in her ears and her head is pounding too much for her to figure out what exactly that something is. She closes her eyes again, and her head stops pounding for a moment.

“No, Scully, don’t close your eyes, come on.”

“Mmmm… Mulder,” she mumbles in protest, but opens her eyes anyways. He asked her so nicely, and when could she ever really refuse him? She’s met with a small smile when she looks up, and she tries to return it but it just makes her head hurt more. She swallows. “What… what happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She thinks for a moment. She remembers the man, remembers him grabbing her, remembers hitting her head on the wall, and from there it’s all pretty fuzzy.

“There was… there was a man, I think,” she mumbles. Her voice comes out raspy and weak, but she’s sure he hears her anyways. “He grabbed me, and I th—” her voice cracks, and she breaks off into a coughing fit. Mulder rubs her back as she struggles to catch her breath.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. Deep breaths, come on. Shh, you’re alright,” he whispers in her ear, and even though she’s still dizzy and out of breath, she believes him. When she can somewhat breathe again, she falls forward against his chest. His arms are around her almost immediately, holding her close.

“Okay, come on. Can you stand?” He questions, and she nods, although she isn’t certain. She doesn’t want to depend on him. She pushes back from him and he kneels in front of her. She stands up on shaky legs, bracing herself against the wall. His hand clutches her arm, ready to catch her if she falls again. She glances around the room. The pale blues and sterile greys of the room blur together and she rubs at her eyes. The action deems no results, so instead she takes to staring at the floor. Then Mulder’s hand is on her face again, fingers gently tilting her chin up.

“Hey, Scully, come on, look at me.” He produces a flashlight from his pocket, shines it methodically at her face. She’s performed the same action herself many times, on him, even, so she knows the importance of it, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant and honestly, she’s a little too tired to care. She squints and splays a hand out in front of her eyes, trying to block out the blaring white light. “I think you might have a concussion,” he explains, slipping the light back into his pocket. She presses her fingers to her temples, rubbing in a slow, circular motion. “Does your head still hurt? Are you dizzy?” She nods yes to both, and he wraps an arm around her shoulder and leads her over to the chair. 

“Stay here, I’ll go find you some water.” He turns around to walk away, but she feels a sense of dread and panic wash over her, and before she even realizes what she’s doing, her fingers are wrapped around his wrist. He doubles back quickly, crouching in front of her.

“Hey, what is it?” He’s still wearing that concerned look, and he looks a little scared now, too. Her heart flutters.

“Mulder, don’t go,” she whispers. Her voice is rough and breathless, and his concerned frown deepens. He pulls his arm back, freeing his wrist from her grasp, and takes her hand. It’s a comforting gesture, a welcome one.

“Okay. I won’t go. What else can I do for you?” At that, she shrugs. Water, in all honesty, doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, but the last time she’d been left alone in here, someone had attacked her. So she simply sits there, holding his hand, trying her best to catch her breath.

In reality, they spend no more than a few minutes in this position, but to her it feels like hours. Every inhale sends sharp pains through her chest, and she can’t quite seem to take in enough oxygen. She leans over to the side to cough into the crook of her arm. Mulder rubs her back again.

“Mulder, the powder you found, I think that’s… that’s what he threw at me and I inhaled it,” she rasps out.

“You sent a sample to the lab earlier today, didn’t you?” A nod. He mirrors the gesture. “Okay, I’ll get a team up here to collect the residue and they’ll compare the two specimens. How are you feeling?”

“Not… good. Can’t… can’t really breathe that well,” she manages to say, and he nods again.

“Okay, I think we should get you to a hospital.” His voice is calm, level, a stark contrast to the panic she can see dancing around in his wide eyes. To that, she responds with a firm shake of the head, only to immediately regret the action. White hot pain shoots through her skull and she bites her lip to keep from crying out. He must’ve noticed her distress, because he presses a cool hand to her forehead. The gesture brings some relief, and she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch. 

“Alright, no hospital then. You’re the doctor here, so I trust that you know what you’re doing. I’ll take you back to the motel and I’ll stay with you, just for tonight, so don’t argue with me on that, but if anything — and I mean anything — gets worse, we’re going straight to the hospital.” Normally, she’d roll her eyes, or glare at him — although the idea of him spending the night has always appealed to her —  but she’s too hurt and too tired to argue, so she simply nods against his hand. It speaks volumes to how she’s feeling at the moment. Mulder draws his hand back, and she misses the touch, but she’s not about to vocalize that. She squints at him as he walks around the room, gathering up their belongings. She watches as his hands shuffle around her papers, long, slender fingers dancing around the pages. Her eyes travel up to his face. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his nose scrunches as he squints at the documents in his hands. His brows are furrowed in concentration, as well as concern for her well-being. The sentiment warms her heart. He really does care about her.

Of course, she’d already known that, she reasons as he slips the papers into his bag and turns to walk towards her. He’d always cared for her, she’s quite certain of that, but isn’t it just so nice when it shows? I love him for that, she thinks, I love him, I love him, I love him, IlovehimIlovehimIlovehim—

“Scully,” his soothing voice breaks her out of her trance. He’s in front of her, bent over at the waist, hands on his knees. Their faces are level, his eyes boring into hers. “Are you okay to walk on your own?”

She nods, but he extends a hand towards her anyways. She gratefully accepts it, and he pulls her to her feet. She takes a moment to steady herself, but the room starts to spin again and she’s glad Mulder is still at her side. She manages a wobbly step towards the door when her legs give out again and she pitches forward. Mulder catches her, moving with the speed of someone who’d seen it coming. Knowing him, he probably had. 

“Easy now. Come on, let’s get outta here.”

He slips an arm under her knees and wraps the other around her back. Almost effortlessly, he lifts her into his arms, holding her securely against his chest. She instinctively encircles his neck with her arms. Her head falls against his shoulder, and she relaxes in his hold, closing her eyes.

“It’s okay, Scully. I’ve got you.”

She dozes off in his comforting embrace. 

The jingling of car keys rouses her from her sleep. There’s an almost surprising lack of warmth, a chill that’s settled deep into her bones, and she realizes that she is no longer in Mulder’s arms, but instead in the passenger seat of his government-issue rental car. The realization, much to her surprise, disappoints her. A shiver passes through her body, and she wraps her arms around herself in an attempt to warm up.

“Scully?” Mulder questions, and she opens her eyes to see him crouching in front of her. The passenger door is open, and he’s holding a set of keys in his right hand. His left comes up to brush a stray strand of hair aside.

“I’m just trying to find the right key. I always get confused with these rentals,” he explains. "You okay?"

"Mm… I’ll be fine," she mumbles, and he gently rubs her back.

"That’s good to hear. I think you'll feel better once you get some rest," he offers.

She takes in a shaky breath. Darkness ebbs at the edges of her vision and she allows her eyes to slip closed.

“Hey, come on, stay with me for a moment,” Mulder mutters to her, and she can feel the open neck of a plastic water bottle press against her lips. Shaky hands reach out to grasp at it, and her fingers brush against Mulder’s as he tips it back, allowing her to take a few long sips.

“Scully, slow down,” he warns, and she obeys, taking in less water. Her throat is dry and she just wants it to ache a little less. Then, she weakly pushes the water bottle away and leans forward with a dry cough. He strokes her hair back and runs a hand down the side of her pale, clammy face. She shivers again, mostly because it's cold but also because of his soft touch.

“Thank you,” she whispers, punctuating the words with another cough. Mulder responds by pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Anytime, Scully.”

“Mulder, ‘m cold,” she mutters, drawing her knees up to her chest. He caps the water bottle and tosses it haphazardly into the backseat, and before she can ponder the reasons behind his actions, his jacket is draped across her front like a blanket. He tucks it around her shivering form and presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. 

“Better?” He questions, and she nods. There’s definitely a draft in the underground lot, and she worries briefly about Mulder’s body temperature, but he leans down to press another gentle kiss to her forehead and all coherent thoughts leave her brain immediately. She barely notices when he closes her door and walks around the car, settling into the driver’s seat. 

He calls her name multiple times throughout the drive back, but she’s just too tired to reply. His hand brushes the side of her face every so often, and she wishes he’d just keep it there. 

She’s still only half-conscious when he pulls up in front of their motel. Their change in location barely registers with her until he pulls her door open and their eyes meet again. Yellow-orange light floods the car, and she presses her palms against her eyes to block it out. Next thing she knows, she’s up in his arms again, and it might just be the best thing she’s ever experienced.

She’s not sure how he manages to unlock the door without letting go of her, but she’s incredibly grateful that he’d figured it out. He’s warm, strong, solid, her one true constant. She grasps at him with weak fingers, and doesn’t let go even when he places her onto the bed and tucks the dusty motel room covers around her trembling form. 

“Hey, Scully, do you need anything? Some more water maybe?” He questions, and she responds with a shake of the head. He moves to pull away from her — return to his motel room, maybe — but she tightens her grip on him.

“Stay,” she mumbles, and he understands despite the fact that her voice is totally hoarse and quiet. It’s unusual for her, out of character, even, to be so vulnerable, but she knows he won’t complain. Ever so carefully, he shoves the blankets aside and sprawls out next to her. She turns to face him, allowing him to pull her into his arms. His scent fills her senses — cologne and formaldehyde and sunflower seeds — and she wants to bare her soul to him, tell him everything about how she feels, but she’s just so tired.

The last thing she feels before she falls asleep are his lips pressed to her temple.

iv. When he calls her late at night

Friday nights are a welcome break from sketchy motels and lukewarm coffee, and a decidedly less-welcome break from Mulder. Sometimes, Scully manages to coerce him into a movie night — she lets him pick, rents a tape from the local Blockbuster, and they spend the night on her couch with a bowl of popcorn and, occasionally, a pizza. Mulder jokingly flirts with her, she tosses popcorn at him, and he gets sent home closer to dawn than dusk. That, of course, does not guarantee him actually going home, and she keeps one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants in her closet for nights when he’s too tired to drive or passes out before the credits roll. She’d never tell him, but she loves those nights and the subsequent mornings. Her pantry is stocked with some sunflower seeds and his favorite cereal, and sometimes she gets to wake up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee on Saturday mornings. And then he’s there, in her kitchen, in his rumpled clothes, leaning against the counter or sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal. And when she walks in, he smiles at her in that way that makes her heart beat faster and her head spin, and she thinks she might be willing to do anything to see him smile like that every day. 

Tonight, however, is not one of those wonderful nights.

She curls up on the couch after work, alone and busy enough with household chores and paperwork to only be a little bored. She cleans around her apartment, then settles down in front of the TV. Sheets of paper and a few files are spread out on the coffee table and the couch, and she’s holding a black pen, twirling it around between her fingers. A fleece blanket is wrapped around her shoulders, protecting her from the chill. Her heater broke down last week, and her landlord is too preoccupied to fix it.

If only Mulder were here.

He’d joke with her, maybe. Maybe he’d whine about how much he hates paperwork, or maybe he’d convince her to go out for a run with him — and she would, of course, oblige.

Except Mulder’s not there, and she’s got work to do.

She signs off on a report, jots down some notes about an old case on a blue post-it, and skims over the description of their newest assignment.

Small town, weird murders, no suspect, and no conclusive evidence. Local PD baffled, case almost closed, except Mulder read about it in some tabloid and immediately claimed it. You know — the usual.

With a sigh, she sets the folder aside and stretches out on the couch. There’s not much else she can do tonight, so she tosses her pen onto the coffee table and stares up at the ceiling. Her mind runs through a to-do list. Paperwork? Check. Dishes? Done. Laundry? Yesterday. She’s not hungry enough to cook, and somehow not tired enough to sleep. With a sigh, she pulls herself up and heads for the shower.

After a ten-minute soak under hot water, she blow-dries her hair and brushes her teeth. By the time she’s done it’s close to midnight, and she slips under the covers, flipping the lights off on her way to the bed.

She stares up at the ceiling, counts the cracks. There’s eight of them, all left over from that one time the apartment above her had a leak in one of the bathrooms. A car drives by, illuminating the room for a moment. With a sigh, she turns to the side, covering her head with the blanket. Maybe then sleep would come. 

What comes instead is a phone call. 

The shrill ringing fills the silent room, echoing off the walls, and Scully paws at her nightstand, trying to get to her phone. When her fingers finally find the device, she presses it to her ear.

“Scully.”

“Scully, it’s me,” she hears from the other line, and she sits up, now grinning.

“Mulder? Where are you?” She asks, trying to ignore how happy hearing from him makes her.  

“Home. Couch. Can’t sleep — just a regular Friday night.” His smooth monotone, slightly altered by the phone, fills her senses and warms her heart. She misses him. Never mind the fact that they were together at work no more than a few hours ago.  She misses him, and that’s that.

“Mulder, why’d you call me?” 

“Why, Scully, are you not happy to hear from me?” He replies without missing a beat. His tone is joking, light, but there’s a hint of something else in his voice, sending a pang of guilt through her. 

“No, Mulder, not at all. I’m very happy to hear from you. I’m just… surprised, I guess,” she reassures him. It’s true, his phone call had surprised her. She’d hoped he would call, but she didn't think he actually would . 

A soft, “Mhmm,” from his end. Then, “Hey, Scully?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you an alien?”

What..?

“Mulder..?”

“Because you’re out-of-this-world!” He punctuates his statement with the smallest of laughs, and Scully finds herself smiling despite herself. Typical Mulder, calling her just to hit her with a bad pickup line — and she decides to tell him as much.

“Mulder, how many times has that line actually worked for you?” She asks.

“Considering this just now was the only time I’ve used it? Never.” At that, she laughs. Quietly, as not to stroke his ego, but laughs nonetheless. Except he hears her anyways and he laughs along with her and she swears she feels the room get a few degrees warmer. Somewhere in the back of her mind she makes note of the fact that he doesn’t laugh nearly as often as he should. She should really make an effort to change that.

“Scully, can I come over?” He asks, and it’s so out of the blue and random but so perfect and she loves it. She loves him.

“Bring pizza,” she almost whispers into the receiver, “And a sweater. My heater’s broken.”

“See you in 10,” he replies, and then there’s the click of the phone and a dial tone and words of love spinning endlessly in her head. She sets the phone back in its cradle and flops back onto the rumpled covers of her bed.

“I love you, Mulder” she whispers into the silence of her empty apartment, vowing to tell him the truth, one of these days. 

v. After a nightmare

7 years of working on the x-files with Mulder have left Scully with a certain tolerance towards certain horrors of the world. Things that would make even the most seasoned of agents cringe. Death, for the most part, doesn’t bother her, and neither do those monsters her and Mulder spend most of their time chasing. Of course, there is a limit — there always is.

And Scully thinks she may have reached hers. 

The case was pretty normal by their standards. Some small-town serial killer with that trademark ‘paranormal bouquet’ Mulder so often describes. Another one of those cases that gets passed around the bureau for days on end until her partner hears about it and drags it down to the basement for them to share. Weird, sure, but what else is new? Kersh had approved it, and soon enough they were on a flight to God-knows-where in the late hours of the night.

Usually, Mulder is the one with the gut feelings and the odd vibes, but this time, Scully was the one on edge. She’d followed Mulder inside the rental place while he was signing off on their shabby government-issue car — something she never does — and insisted on adjoining rooms at the reception desk of the local sketchy motel. On the very first evening, she’d requested that Mulder leave his side of the connecting door unlocked, and he hadn’t questioned it — not out loud, anyways. 7 years of partnership have taught him something, too.

All through that first night, she just couldn’t shake that feeling of unease. Deep, slimy terror that had settled deep in her bones. No logic behind it, no good reason, just fear. She’d tossed and turned the whole night, comforted only by the fact that Mulder was next door.

Mulder had woken her up at 7:30 sharp with a knock on their shared door, and she’d let him in immediately. He’d tossed a handful of files onto her bed, and the two of them had spent the day going through crime scene photos and eyewitness reports.

The contents were horrifying even by Scully’s standards. The man — according to Mulder’s profile — targeted women. No real pattern other than that. 23 bodies, all found missing various internal organs and — much to Scully’s terror — their fingernails. Images of Donnie Pfaster flashed through her mind, but she was quick to brush them away. She could freak out about it later, in the comfort and safety of her Georgetown apartment. 

And freak out about it she did. Only it wasn’t as much later as she’d hoped.

They’d caught the killer, of course, but not without close calls. He’d gotten his hands on Scully for a few brief moments, and it was just so similar to Pfaster that she’d been caught off-guard. She froze up, and had almost ended up being the guy’s dinner.

Luckily, Mulder had been there, and he’d managed to cuff the freak and hand him off to the local P.D. If there was anything paranormal about him, Mulder didn’t stick around to investigate — he was much more focused on Scully and her state of wide-eyed shock.

The rest of the night had passed in even more of a blur. Mulder had brought her back to her motel room, and even though he insisted on staying she was quick to send him on his way. He seemed hurt, but she didn’t want him to see her fall apart, so she closed their connecting door and locked it, for good measure. 

He will not see her fall apart.

Scully sits cross-legged on the bed, her back pressed up against the wall and a scruffy hotel blanket around her shoulders. She’d triple-checked the windows and the lock on both doors. She knows the killer’s been put away, but she still feels like the world is out to get her.

It’s raining outside. The wind blows, the windows rattle, and she wishes she hadn’t kicked Mulder out. 

She unlocks the connecting door. 

Then, she curls up under the same scruffy blanket and tries to sleep. Their flight home is tomorrow, and she’d really rather avoid the headache that comes with losing a night of rest.

Rest doesn’t come. She lays awake all night, tossing and turning until Mulder knocks on the door to wake her up. She makes her way through the airport in a zombie-like state, but doesn’t manage to fall asleep on the plane, either. She’s exhausted and achy, but she’s restless, too. 

She’s alone in the basement office, leaning over a stack of papers on Mulder’s desk, pencil in one hand and a cup of lukewarm coffee in the other. She makes note after note after note on various theories and cases, pasting sticky notes onto crime scene photos and scribbling in a composition notebook. It’s dark out, probably about 9 or 10, but she really needs to finish. 

She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s cold now, and a little unpleasant as it slides down her throat. She sets the cup on the desk and pushes it away.

The phone rings. Why would someone be calling the office this late at night? She picks up anyways.

“Scully,” she says, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Hey there, girly-girl.”

She almost drops the phone in horror.

Pfaster.

Isn’t he dead?

She swallows.

“Who is this,” she manages, somehow keeping her voice steady.

“You know who this is.”

“No. No, this can’t be happening. You’re dead! I killed you!” She hollers into the phone.

“No, I’m not dead. But your partner may be soon, if you don’t do as I say.”

At the mention of Mulder, her blood runs cold.

“Where is he?” She shouts, determination taking the place of fear. 

“That’s not important. What’s important is where I am. Come to your apartment. Alone. Don’t try to bring backup. Do not attempt to contact your partner, you will not reach him and I will know if you try. Bye now, girly-girl.”

Click.

Then, the monotone beep of a dial tone.

“Dammit!” She cries out, slamming the phone back into its cradle. She storms out of the office, not even bothering with her coat. She’s not sure what Pfaster wants with Mulder, but she has to get him back. She needs him, and Pfaster may be her worst nightmare but she’s willing to go through him to get to Mulder. She drives on autopilot, speeding the whole way, and leaves her car in a no-park zone. The elevator is broken so she takes the stairs two at a time, anxious to get to Mulder. She pounds on her apartment door, waiting for Pfaster to open up. 

The door swings open, and she finds herself staring right into the face of her worst nightmare.

He leans forward, invading her space. He smells strongly of cigarette smoke — much unlike the first time she’d encountered him.

“There you are, girly-girl,” he singsongs, and then his hands are on her and she’s being dragged inside.  

“Where’s Mulder!?” She yells as he shoves her down to the ground. 

“Right there,” he whispers, pointing towards the couch. She follows his hand with her eyes and gasps when her eyes fall upon Mulder. He’s sprawled out on her couch, blood covering his clothes. 

He doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“No! Mulder!” She cries, scrambling up from the ground and leaping over to the couch. Pfaster reaches for her, and she immediately pulls out her gun. Her hands somehow remain steady as she aims for his head and fires. She doesn’t miss, and he crumples to the floor in a pool of blood. She pays him no mind.

She crouches down beside Mulder’s head, shaky fingers pressed to his jaw in an attempt to find a pulse.

Nothing. Just cold skin, sticky with blood.

“Mulder,” she sobs, laying her head down on his chest. 

“Come on, you can’t be gone. I love you, you hear me!? You can’t die! You can’t leave me!” She screams, but he doesn’t stir. She straddles him, tries CPR and rescue breathing.

Still, nothing.

She screams.

“Scully!”

Mulder? No, that can’t be. He’s dead. She’s all alone now. She falls to her knees, sobbing.

“Scully, wake up!”

She sits bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. There’s hands on her, and she flinches away, eliciting a gasp from whoever’s holding her.

“Woah, hey, Scully, it’s me,” his voice rumbles against her ear. She looks up, blinking away tears. Mulder’s worried expression enters her line of sight.

“Mulder?” She croaks, and he nods. “How did you get in here?”

“You left your door unlocked. I heard you screaming and I—”

“Mulder, where are we?” She cuts him off. He frowns.

“We’re at the motel, Scully. Wh—”

She lunges forward, wrapping her arms around him. He leans down, making it easier for her to reach him. She buries his face in the front of his shirt as she sobs. 

“It’s okay, Scully, you’re alright,” he whispers into her hair, rubbing her back gently. She mumbles his name, over and over again, holding on to him, breathing in his scent. “Scully, what happened?” He asks her once the sobs subside. She takes a shaky breath and pulls back a little, patting the spot on the bed next to her. Mulder takes the hint and sits down, leaning back against the headboard. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She shakes her head emphatically. He raises his eyebrows at that, and her certainty wavers. Normally, she’d stand her ground until he left, but tonight she’s tired and a little afraid, and maybe it would be good to talk to him. She takes a shaky breath, preparing to speak.

“It was… I was at the office, one day. It was late, and I—I got this call. I picked up and Pf—Pfaster was on the phone and I—I went home because he told me—told me to go and so I went and he was there. He opened the door to my apartment, Mulder,” she stutters out, voice shaky.

“Mhmm,” Mulder replies. “Is there more?” Another nod.

“He—On the phone, he told me he had you and—and when I came to my apartment, you…” she trails off, trying to calm her erratic breathing. He presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Shh, Scully, it’s alright, you don’t have to tell me anymore,” he soothes, but she shakes her head.

“No, Mulder, you were dead! Dead and cold! And I tried to bring you back but I was too late and I shot him and you were dead, Mulder!” She rambles. He’s silent for a moment, shocked, almost, and she worries she’d said too much. She pulls away — or tries to, anyways. He’s quick to tighten his hold on her, keeping her close. She lets herself feel his warmth, basking in his gentle touch. She feels the words on her lips again.

She could lose him tomorrow, or the day after, or even the day after that , and he wouldn’t know.

She opens her mouth, but the right words catch in her throat like the breath in his. 

“I can’t lose you, Mulder,” she whispers instead, and she feels him nod against her.

“I can’t lose you either, Scully,” he replies. 

That night, she falls asleep in his arms, peaceful and content.

+1. When she thinks he’s leaving her

It’s a Monday morning, it’s raining again, and she’s uncharacteristically late for work. She’s in a hurry, power-walking through the busy halls of the Hoover building. If she’s going to be late, she might as well get some coffee for Mulder and for herself, right? So she sets out towards the second floor breakroom — typically the emptiest one at this time of day. The second floor consists mainly of green, fresh-out-of-Quantico agents, and they’re far too busy trolling for cases and kissing up to their superiors to waste time on coffee, so Scully is certain that she won’t have to wait around very long for empty counter space or the coffee machine itself.

To her surprise, when she walks in, there are three agents crowded around the water cooler. They seem to be too deeply immersed in whatever conversation they’re having to notice her presence, and they’re not really in her way, so she simply ignores them, focusing on the task at hand. She’s just about to start the coffee machine, when she hears her name.

“...wonder what’s gonna happen to Scully, now that he’s gone.”

She pauses. Now that who’s gone?

First and foremost, she’s here to make coffee. She gets the coffee machine going before walking over to face the group. She clears her throat.

The three men immediately look at her, their features painted with various expressions of surprise, shock, and that look people get on their face when they’re caught doing something they know they’re not supposed to be doing. Now that she’s finally gotten a good look at the bunch, she notices how young they really are. Not as young as most of the agents on the second floor, but still young. Young enough to see her as somewhat of an authority, at the very least. She raises an eyebrow at them.

“Agents. What, exactly, is being discussed here?”

A pause. The trio exchanges nervous looks. Scully feels a little nervous herself, all of a sudden. 

“Agent Scully, we, uh… we thought you knew,” one of them — the taller, bulkier one of the three — stammers, clearly intimidated. She fixes him with her steeliest glare, and he visibly cowers.

“Knew what, agent?” She speaks slowly, every word sharper than the last.

“About, um, agent Mulder’s resignation.”

Any words she’d had escape her head immediately. She stands frozen, gaping at the trio as she processes the words. She swallows, glances around the room, tries not to panic (yet).

“Excuse me, agents,” she mutters and rushes out the door, leaving three confused agents and half-done coffee in her wake.

She rushes through the hallway, shoes clicking against the tile floor. She’s eager to get down to the office where she’s certain she’ll see Mulder, because he wouldn’t resign without telling her, right? She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, and this time she doesn’t trip on the way down. Her whole body is buzzing with determination, yet her hands tremble with worry. Some small, irrational part of her, isn’t entirely convinced of the implausibility of something like this. Mulder’s ditched her many times in the past, hadn’t he? What makes this any different? 

Everything, some other part of her mind supplies. You’re in love with him now, and he told you he couldn’t lose you, didn’t he? 

He did. But who’s to say those weren’t just empty words?

This mental debate continues until she’s face-to-face with the door to the office. She stares at it, runs her fingers up and down the solid surface, then lets her hand drop to the handle. She wraps her fingers around the cool metal, but hesitates before turning it. Whatever is on the other side of that door may or may not change her life forever. 

She takes a deep breath. Her eyes fall onto the two plaques on the door — one reading Special Agent Fox Mulder, and the one directly underneath it reading Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully. She blinks, pushes the door in, and then the world falls apart around her.

The office has never looked so clean. Mulder’s desk is free of its usual clutter, as is every other horizontal surface. Cardboard boxes are stacked along the wall. But worst of all is the sight of Mulder’s corkboard. Where there were once newspaper clippings, photos, and that ridiculous poster he liked so much, there were now ugly, discolored patches of cork. She staggers forward, presses the palm of her hand to the largest patch as if to test if it’s real, half-expecting it to melt away like it did that one time with the hallucinogenic mushroom spores. 

It doesn’t, of course. This is as real as it gets. Mulder is leaving the x-files — and leaving her along with them.

The realization hits her like a pound of bricks. Mulder is leaving. The worst ditch. The ultimate betrayal. She feels dizzy, the world blurs around her in a mess of shapes and colors. She stumbles back, lets herself fall into Mulder’s chair and presses the palms of her hands against her eyes.

I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry. She repeats the words in her head like a mantra, over and over again, until she calms down a bit. When she drops her hands from her face, she takes another good long look around the room. Her eyes fall upon the phone, still plugged in, still on the desk, the last little bit of normalcy left in the devastation.

Oh my God.

The phone. How hadn’t she thought of this sooner?

She jumps up from where she’s sitting, crosses the room, and picks up the handset. With shaky fingers, she dials the only number she knows off by heart and prays as the dial tone rings in her ear.

“Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please pick up— Damn it, Mulder!” She throws the phone down on the desk and grabs onto a corner of it to keep herself upright. Gone is the sadness, the heartbreak, the loneliness. She’s angry now, angry at Mulder, angry at those agents upstairs, angry at herself.

It’s cold, all of sudden, and she realizes that the window is open. She shoves the chair up against the wall and stands precariously on it, bracing herself with one hand on the nearby filing cabinet as she slams it shut. She remembers the last time she’d been up here, and she has to resist the urge to punch the glass.

How dare he do this to her? How dare he leave without telling her first? She’d only recently realized that she’s in love with him, and now she may never get to tell him. It’s unfair, unfathomable, more ridiculous than any one of Mulder’s nutty theories.

Mulder, I can’t believe you’d ditch me like th—

Her train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She whirls around, her guard high. The chair she’s standing on slips out from beneath her feet and suddenly she feels herself falling, barely managing to throw her arms out in front of her to hopefully lessen the impact. She hears a gasp from the doorway, the sound of a mug shattering, and then there’s a set of strong arms around her, holding her up. She struggles against the grip for a moment. Then, she realizes just who is holding her, and she fights even harder.

“You alright, Scully?”

“Let me go! Mulder, let me go, now !” She shouts, and thankfully, he complies. Once her feet are on the ground, she takes a few steps back and plants her feet firmly on the floor, trying to put as much distance — both physical and emotional — as possible between them. She looks up at him, her gaze burning with rage. He looks… confused?

“Scully, what—”

“Mulder, how could you!” She yells, unable to stop herself. If this is the last time she’s going to see him, she might as well tell him exactly what she’s thinking. Maybe that’ll get that puzzled look off his way-too-pretty face.

“What did I… Scully, I don’t unders—”

“Yeah, of course you don’t understand! You never do! You ditch me, time and time again, and yet you still haven’t realized how much it hurts me when you do! And now this? How dare you do this to me, Mulder? How dare you quit without telling me? How dare you try and leave me alone? This is our life’s work here, Mulder!” She pauses to catch her breath. Mulder somehow looks even more confused, and that just makes her angrier. She continues before he gets the chance to speak

“Oh, what, you didn’t think I’d react like this? You didn’t think it would matter? You thought I’d find out, and go home, and be fine with this, like I always am!? Well guess what, Mulder, I’m not at all fine with this! And I’m not about to pretend for your sake! I’m not fine, and I’m not going to be, and do you know why!? Do you!? Did it even cross your mind, how much you affect me!? I care about you so much, Mulder, it’s like you’re a part of me! When you’re hurt, I hurt too, and when you’re happy, I’m happy, and I miss you when I’m alone and I can’t get enough of you when you’re with me, and do you have any idea what you do to me? Do you have any idea at all? Do you have any idea how much I love you!? How in love with you I am!? And I know that I never told you, but damn it, Mulder! Didn’t you know!? Did you—”

“ Scully!” Mulder’s voice, sharp and smooth, breaks her out of her rambling. He’s staring at her, dumbfounded, awestruck, disbelieving. She takes a breath — tries to, anyways; it ends up shaky, a half-sob. She isn’t sure when she’d started crying, but her cheeks are hot and wet. She buries her face in her hands and sinks down to the ground, no longer able to stop the tears.

“I love you, Mulder. You can’t leave me,” she manages, her voice shaky, uneven, breaking on the last syllable. She hears his footsteps against the tile, and then he’s in her space, wrapping his hands around her wrists and trying to pull her hands away from her face.

“Scully, Dana, hey, look at me,” he whispers, and his voice is so gentle she can’t help but obey. She lets him take her hands in his, and he brings them up close to his face, pressing soft kisses to the back of each knuckle.

“Dana, did you mean it? What you said about you… me… did you mean it?” He asks, and she nods, teary-eyed. 

“I meant every word, Mulder. I’m in love with you,” she whispers. He drops her hands, reaches out to brush a stray tear off her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She shivers at the soft touch, and he pulls her into his arms.

“Oh, Dana—”

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, I just thought I should tell you, now that you’re—”

“Whoa, hey, what?” He cuts her off, bewildered. He pulls back from the embrace, holding her shoulders. They’re face-to-face now, noses almost touching. She can feel his warm breath against her lips. He cups her cheek with his hand, gently stroking her skin with his thumb. Her heart pounds inside her chest. This is it, she thinks, he’s about to break my heart once and for all.

“Dana Katherine Scully, I have been completely, shamelessly, head-over-heels in love with you for seven years now. I love you.”

She freezes. Stares at him, wide-eyed. Am I hearing him right? Did he say…

“I love you, Dana. You’re everything to me,” he whispers, and then he’s leaning in and she’s leaning in, and then their lips are touching and it’s perfect and amazing and wonderful and better than anything she’s ever dreamed of. His hands are in her hair, pulling her closer, and she wishes the kiss could last forever. She shifts around, trying to make them both more comfortable. Her elbow collides with a cardboard box.

Oh, shit. He’s still quitting.

She pulls back, then, sitting back on her heels. They’re both panting, out of breath, lips red and swollen. He notices the look on her face and his eyebrows draw together into a concerned frown.

“Dana, what’s wrong?”

“Mulder, this is great and all, but you’re still quitting. I just want to know wh—”

“Hold on, what? Who told you I was quitting?” He questions. She averts her gaze.

“I ran into some agents in the breakroom this morning. I was making coffee, and I heard them say my name. I asked them what they were talking about and they told me that you resigned,” she explains. 

He blinks at her. Recognition is clear in his eyes. Then, he bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny, Mulder?” She asks, now annoyed.

“Scully, Dana, I’m not quitting. I didn’t resign. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures. Now it’s her turn to look confused.

“Mulder, then what… why are all these boxes everywhere? What happened to all your pictures, the poster?”

“Scully, they’re renovating the office. I was gonna call you and tell you before you came in, but I didn’t want to bother you. Skinner told me to pack everything up this morning. I guess one of your agents must’ve seen me walking out with a bunch of boxes and jumped to conclusions,” he explains. She gasps, relieved.

“Oh, Mulder,” she breathes, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest. His arms wrap around her back, holding her tight against him. 

“Dana, I… I know I’ve been inattentive at times, and I know that I’ve ditched you far too often, and I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt how much I care about you. I can’t change the past, I know that, but I can make it up to you — if you let me, that is,” he whispers into her hair. 

“Mulder, I love you. Forgiven immediately,” she affirms, running her fingers up and down his back. He kisses the top of her head.

“Thank you, Scully.” She nods against him.

“Oh, and Mulder?”

“Yeah, Scully?”

“Feel free to call me and ‘bother me’ anytime.” She feels him smile against the top of her head. He presses another kiss to her hair, then sits up straight.

“I should probably clean up that coffee I spilled,” he mutters sheepishly. Scully turns to look at the mess on the floor.

“Mulder…”

“Hey! In my defense, it was to save your life!”

“Mulder, my life was not in danger! I would’ve been okay even if I did fall,” she argues, but they’re both grinning wildly at each other.

“Sure, Scully, whatever you say,” he says, teasing her. “Come on now, let’s deal with the rest of these boxes, and then we can go home.” He stands up and extends a hand towards her to help her up. She takes it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. They both take a moment to dust themselves off. She looks up at him, and their gazes meet — it seems he was already looking at her.

“Your place or mine, Mulder?”

He just smiles in response. 

“Anywhere you want, Scully.”

After all, home is where the heart is .

~fin~