4On the short drive from the hospital to Scully's apartment, Mulder feels like the air between them is almost tangible, heavy with their unspoken words. He glances over at Scully every few minutes and he can't help but notice the small imperfections that tell the story of what she's been through - the smudged makeup, the spot of dried blood she missed below her ear.
His hands tremble. He tightly grips the steering wheel when he thinks about how he almost lost her. He takes a deep breath, and reaches his hand out between them, touching the side of her leg with the backs of his fingers. Her fingers grasp his wrist - briefly, gently - and she leaves them there, skin against skin. Barely a handhold, but enough to know he's not unwelcome.
When they arrive, Mulder walks her up to her apartment and unlocks the door for her. He's reluctant to let her out of his sight but he's not sure how much she'll let him hover. She isn't pulling away from him - her usual strategy after experiencing any sort of trauma. He keeps silent, afraid that if he said something wrong, she'd snap back into the Scully he knew and that she'd insist she was fine and tell him to leave.
She enters in front of him, the space barely big enough for her to fit but she slips through effortlessly, like she takes up no space. Her hand reaches towards him, inviting him in.
Mulder shuts the door behind them and stands there awkwardly. He's not sure what she's thinking, not sure how long he'll be wanted or needed.
He thinks back to that moment he found her in his apartment, covered in her own blood and so quiet and still on the floor. His relief upon her awakening shattered by her fear and desperation. Her desperate need to be reassured and held. Images flash through his head of her hand seeking his when the police questioned her, her shoulder leaning towards him when he insisted on taking her to the hospital, her forehead pressing against his chest while they waited for a doctor to check her over.
It's just a lingering need for comfort, he concludes, she just needs to know she's alive. Soon she'll go back to keeping her distance. He hopes that this uncharacteristic mood will stick around for awhile though, because he doesn't want to stop being close to her. He offers to make them tea, a hopeful waver in his voice.
Scully smiles warmly, her eyes finally connecting with his. He sees a strange calmness there.
"I'm just going to have a quick shower and get changed. Make the chamomile." Her first words are soft and scratchy, just barely loud enough in her silent apartment. She places her hand on his arm, brushes it down to his hand, where she squeezes their fingers together briefly before walking towards her bedroom.
He doesn't know if she needs him, but he needs her.
Mulder heads to the kitchen, fills the kettle and places it on the stove. There are three boxes of chamomile, and he can't tell which one he should use. He walks to her bedroom, thinking he'll just tap on her door to ask which one she'd prefer; instead, he finds the door wide open and Scully's pale, slim back visible just inside, the dim light from her bathroom illuminating her from behind. She's pulling on her robe and for a moment Mulder swears that time slows down. He watches the glow of her skin disappear under the blue silk of her robe, and as his gaze travels upwards he sees her watching him over her shoulder. The fan of her hair covers half of her face, but he can see her mouth turned up faintly in another smile.
She ties the sash on her robe, walks over and taps one of the boxes of tea in his hands. "This one," she says, still smiling. He tries to respond, but finds himself unable to come up with just the right sort of joke to hide behind and regain some measure of control. He's floundering, frozen in place, unsure and speechless. Her smile widens and she walks towards her bathroom, closing the door with a soft click.
Normally, Mulder would have felt like an intruder after having witnessed such an intimate moment, but her warm expression seemed to welcome him, or was that simply wishful thinking? Either way, he takes a few minutes to recover before heading back to the kitchen.
On the way, he absentmindedly picks up something hard and smooth from a table in her living room - a shell. He pauses, rotates it in his hands, wondering what this item means to her. Is it something that represents a significant memory, that she smiles at every time she notices it? Or was it a gift, equally precious because of its reminder of a special person? Maybe it caught her eye in a shop, and she simply admired its appearance.
He is suddenly and desperately filled with the desire to know, and saddened by the fact that he has never bothered to simply ask her these things. So much of her past is shrouded in mystery, only because he's been so selfish and obsessed with his damn quest. He demands so much, and she gives of herself always and without hesitation. If something were to happen to her or she finally decided to leave, what memories would he have to hold onto? How much of her would he actually have?
Mulder's depressing, rambling thoughts are broken by the tell-tale rattling of pipes that signals the end of Scully's shower - he hadn't realized how long he'd been standing there beating himself up. He places the shell back on the table and rushes to finish the preparations for the tea. His fingers tap restlessly on the countertop as he waits for the kettle and he shakes his head to try to clear his thoughts, not wanting to bring any more darkness into their time together tonight.
The kettle whistles and he pours the hot water into two mugs - an elegant cup for her that he knows she favors and the "Albert Einstein was an alien'' mug for him, a gift he got her several years ago that he always uses when he's here. Just as he's carefully fishing out the label that dropped inside, he feels a small hand on his lower back.
Scully.
She inserts herself beside him and underneath his arm, her small form surprising him with its graceful agility. Her hand grazes from his back to his waist, wrapping around him with ease and strange familiarity. She looks up at him and smiles, her face scrubbed clean and hair curled and towel-dried from her shower. Her glance moves from his eyes to his mouth, where he's sucking on his burned finger.
"Thank you." she murmurs. She tugs on his shirt and pulls him towards her living room, grasping her cup of tea in the other hand. He follows, feeling oafish and gangly compared to her sudden transformation into some sort of ethereal sylph.
They sit close together on her couch, sipping their tea. It's not something he would normally drink, but he sips slowly, tolerating the smooth, slightly bitter flavor for as long as it lets him stay. He fidgets and can't quite figure out how to sit next to her, discomforted by his awareness of her physicality and his inability to define this shift that has taken place within her.
Scully rests one of her hands, warm from the tea, on his thigh. Her calm seeps into him and he feels content to just sit and be. A few minutes pass, and Mulder finds his voice. He begins to tell a rambling tale of a dryad who loved a mortal, trailing off when he nears the inevitable tragic ending. She finishes the story for him, a dimple forming in her cheek, that she should finish his tale for him.
"Keep talking." she urges. He obliges, talking of nothing and everything, until their tea cools and they seem to relax into each other.
He turns to look at her, shifting away slightly so he can study her face. Such a contrast to her panic and fear from earlier today - she seems to have recovered remarkably quickly. Maybe it's not the quickness he's noticing but the distance she's come, the complete turnaround from before. He's not sure what it is but she's... still touching him. Smiling frequently. It's definitely good - great, even - but he feels like he's in a dream. This version of Scully leaves him disoriented and self-conscious.
She turns to face him as well, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a half-smile. The mug of tea makes a muffled click as she sets it on a coaster.
"Like what you see?" her voice is amused, teasing. He realises he's been staring.
Mulder continues to look at her. Impulsively, he reaches out a hand and runs his knuckles delicately over her cheek.
"Very much." His voice is tender and sweet, and he's not sure what possessed him to diverge from their usual playful banter.
Scully's eyes flicker, her pupils dilate slightly, and they lower briefly to his lips. Her tongue slides out and wets her upper lip and she seems, somehow, to be closer without moving an inch. Mulder feels a spark travel from his chest to his groin. An overwhelming feeling of intense anticipation rises within him - like he's at the top of a roller coaster about to take the first fall.
The silence stretches between them for too long. Scully's eyes shift away and sudden shyness and insecurity seems to take hold of her. Him too - what is he thinking?
They both turn away with a sigh, chuckling at their synchronized stumbling. The moment lost, they lean back against the couch, still joined from shoulder to thigh.
Mulder breaks the silence by clearing his throat. "You seem really OK - more than me, Scully." Mulder tilts his head in her direction. Scully seems to be watching the ceiling; her damp, wavy hair fanning out around her, the ends tickling his arm.
"Yeah. I'm... OK." Scully's mouth lifts slightly, but doesn't quite reach a smile this time. "I don't think I've ever been that scared before but... after my, uh, outburst I felt..." her hands wave as she searches for the right words. "I don't know, I felt peaceful. Like some sort of darkness I've been holding on to for a long, long time just melted away." Her eyebrows are slightly knitted together, the way they do when she's deep in thought.
"This case made me realize something, Mulder, something we've been trying to avoid for a very long time." She turns her head to look at him, still lying back on the couch. They're sitting even closer than usual, and Mulder can feel the warm puffs of each breath as she thinks about what she's trying to say.
"I... " She drops her gaze. He can see the war within her, the arguments taking place, a decision being made. She meets his eyes with a steely determination, and utters a single word.
"Us." Staring at him directly. There is no mistaking her meaning. There is no room to hide from the implications. Mulder is knocked sideways, his mouth dry. It's not strange that Scully is the one confounding him, but he's definitely unaccustomed to feeling like she has all the answers and he's left behind, trying to catch up.
And with that she pats his leg, smiles again and rises from the couch, taking their cups to the kitchen.
"You can sleep on the couch. I know you probably want to stay and make sure I'm alright." She returns with a pillow and blankets, all business and common sense now, a familiar Scully that comforts him but makes him feel as if he's squandered something special.
"I know you're really tired. Please don't leave. I don't want to worry about you driving." She ruffles his hair as she passes behind him, not waiting for an answer. "Good night, Mulder."
With that, she's gone, her slippered feet making only the barest of whispers on the carpet as she shuffles towards her bedroom.
He needs to think, to finally allow himself to contemplate what happened between them tonight. It's something he's pushed aside and didn't allow himself to seriously consider because he always paired relationships with their painful and inevitable end, and that absolutely couldn't happen with him and Scully. She seemed so sure though, and if there was one thing he learned over these years, it was that she never made a decision without weighing all of the possible consequences. Maybe he should trust her with this as well.
Not knowing what else to do, Mulder makes his bed on the couch, strips to his t-shirt and boxers and lies down. Exhaustion pulls at him as the last pulses of adrenaline fade from his bloodstream.
As he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend she's still here beside him, her scent lingering on the cushions. He smiles and thinks, Soon.
