Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dana Scully doesn’t read the newspaper. Save for the occasional crossword, most of what gets dropped off at her door every Sunday morning ends up in Queequeg’s crate as floor lining. The news stress her out more than they do anything else, the comic strips are too political for her liking, and the advice columns simply piss her off. Who in their right mind would willingly start their Sunday morning with that kind of negativity?

Except, one such Sunday, Queequeg tears a chunk out of her couch with his teeth, and— ah, hell, she’s been overdue for a new couch for a few years now. She takes it as a sign, pulls out some furniture store catalogue from her bookshelf, and settles down on the undamaged half of the cushions.

Half an hour of catalogue-surfing later, she concludes that everything on the market is either overpriced or ugly. With a dejected sigh, she slumps back against the couch and lets the catalogue slip from her fingers and onto the floor with a loud thud . The noise rouses Queequeg, who charges into the room with a mouthful of crumpled up newspaper — from the crate, she assumes. She groans, burying her face in her hands.

“Queequeg…” she mutters, stretching out each syllable of his name in exasperation and annoyance. Not that it does anything — he is just a dog, after all. He’s sitting in front of her with his head tilted to the side and the paper dangling from his mouth.

“You are just… extra disobedient today, aren’t you? Gimme that!” She shouts, reaching out to grasp at the newspaper. Just as her fingers close in around it, Queequeg jerks away, tearing off towards her bedroom, leaving her with nothing but a ripped up, slobbery half-page. She considers going after him, then promptly decides against it. Whatever. A newspaper will be far from the worst thing he’s ever eaten. He’ll be fine, that she’s certain of. She glances down at the crumpled paper in her hands.

Dana Scully does not read the newspaper. But she’s curious. And really, how much weekend-ruining information can fit on this little scrap? 

With a sigh, she un-crumples the page, smoothing out the folds as she lays it flat in her lap. It’s the classifieds — at least she thinks it is, based on what’s left of the writing at the top of the page and the mess of names and phone numbers below it. Oh well. Maybe someone’s selling a couch. She skims the page, disappointed to find nothing but real estate, daycares, and law firms. She flips the paper over — perhaps there’s something useful on the backside?

What she finds instead is a million times better. Or worse, she supposes. Depends on who you ask. 

Right there, in the center of the page, surrounded by low-budget movie casting calls and old appliances for sale, printed in size 12 Times New Roman. 

WANTED. A partner, someone to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. You’ll get paid after we get back. I’ll provide weapons. Scientific background preferred but not required. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before.

She reads it once. Then she reads it again. The third time she reads it, she spots the phone number just below the ad. Arlington area code. That’s not too far from where she is. She reads the ad a fourth time.

“What the fuck,” she whispers under her breath, equal parts amused, disbelieving, and intrigued. Amused, because who puts an ad in the paper for this, of all things? Disbelieving, because she’s certain that this so-called ‘time traveler,’ whoever it is, is totally full of shit. Intrigued, because she was a physics major back in university and she’s a scientist by nature. She refuses to draw conclusions without seeing things for herself. And the ad does say that someone with a scientific background is preferred. Maybe...

No. She stops that train of thought before it has the chance to really develop itself. The rational thing to do would be to ignore the ad, trash the paper, and move on with her life. She doesn’t have to think about any of this ever again. And she intends to do just that. Balling up the paper in her hands, she stands up and walks towards the wastebasket by her desk, fully intent on getting rid of the damned page.

Instead, she finds herself with her cell phone in her hands, dialing the Arlington-area-code number.

She hears the dial tone, then something that resembles hold music. Puzzled, she prepares to hang up, when a smooth male voice says, “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m Dr. Dana Scully. I’m calling you regarding your, um… ad in the paper. The one about the—”

“Wait, stop. They might be listening,” he interrupts her. Ah. So that’s what the music is for. 

“They?” She questions, even more intrigued now.

“Shh, I’ll tell you everything later. You’re interested, you say? Meet me by the reflecting pool tonight at 11:21pm. Bring the paper as proof of identity. I’ll be the one with the sunflower seeds and the long coat. I’ll explain everything then,” he says, his voice lower and rougher than before, as if he’s talking under his breath. She nods, then realizes that he can’t see her.

“I’ll be there,” she affirms, and the next thing she hears is a click as he hangs up on her. She sets the phone down on the desk and folds the paper, slipping it into her back pocket.

This is crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Unbelievable. Ridiculous, even. The guy — she realizes that he never even told her his name —  is probably a prankster, or maybe just a nut. Maybe she’s a nut, herself, for even considering responding to the ad.

Still, she finds herself walking along the reflecting pool at 11:20pm, glancing periodically at the people around her. The paper, folded into a neat little square, is in her coat pocket. She reaches for it every so often, making sure it’s still there.

It’s late, so it’s not especially busy, but people still gather in pairs and small clusters here and there. She’s pretty sure the man she’s looking for will be alone, wearing a long coat like he told her he would be and — what was the other thing he said? Something about sunflower seeds? She surveys the area, trying to spot anyone who would fit the description. Long red coat to her left, and — oh. It’s a woman. Beige trenchcoat across the square, but the guy wearing it looks at least fifty and the ‘time traveler’ sounded considerably younger than that on the phone. Frustrated and at a loss for what to do, she reaches for the paper and unfolds it, squinting at the fine print. She’s not sure what she’s hoping to find — she’s read the ad so many times throughout the day she’s got it pretty much memorized. Still, she moves until she’s standing under the dim orange glow of the nearest streetlamp, positioning her hands in a way that allows light to hit the page.

A whistle from somewhere behind her breaks her focus, and she whirls around to face a bench, occupied by a man. His silhouette is barely visible in the dark, but she can just barely make out a long black coat draped over his shoulders and a small pile of sunflower seed husks by his feet. She approaches him slowly, cautiously, keeping a good two feet of space between them.

“Dr. Dana Scully?” He asks, his lips drawn out in a half smile. She gives him a skeptical side-eye, and he makes a vague hand gesture to the paper she’s holding. She takes another careful step towards him. He pats the bench next to him, and she curtly shakes her head.

“Yeah, and you are?” She questions. He draws a badge out of his pocket and holds it open for her to see.

“Fox Mulder, FBI. Please, take a seat,” he requests, slipping the badge back into his pocket and patting the bench again. FBI, huh. At least this way she knows he’s not just some random creep. With a sigh, she closes what’s left of the distance between them and sits down, although she presses herself right against the far armrest. What kind of a name is Fox, anyways?

Now that she’s closer, she can make out more of his features. She can’t lie to herself — he’s handsome. His nose is a little big, but it seems to work well with the rest of his face. His jaw is sharp, a stark contrast to his soft lips. Dark hair falls over his forehead, framing his hazel eyes. There’s a certain mystery to him, but some kind of openness, too. He’s leaning ever-so-slightly towards her, his expression curious. She realizes that while she was studying him, he was doing the same to her.

“So, Scully,” he begins. Normally, she’d correct him, but she likes the way he says her name so casually and, in a way, so sweetly. “You’re interested in my project, you say?” She nods. He’s looking at her sort of expectantly, and she takes that as a sign to speak. 

“Well, Fox, I—” He holds up a hand and she stops.

“Mulder, Scully. Call me Mulder,” he corrects her. It’s easily the most normal thing he’s said all night, which speaks volumes as to the impression he’s made on her so far. Still, she responds with a curt nod, which he mirrors, before continuing. 

“I majored in physics before medical school. Time travel, although fascinating, is still technically impossible — for now, anyways. I guess I just wanted to see this — to see you — for myself,” she explains, toying with the paper in her hands. “Can you really go back in time? Have you really done it before?”

He nods, his face taking on a solemn expression. “I’ve done it once, yeah. I… wasn’t as prepared as I should’ve been, I didn’t weigh out the risks, I didn’t plan for the worst case scenario, and multiple people paid the price. It wasn’t pretty,” he says, his voice taking on a grave undertone. His expressive eyes cloud over, and she wonders what it was, exactly, that happened, to cause him such pain. She takes a moment to mull over his words, tries to make sense of the vague bits and pieces of his story. After a moment of heavy silence, she clears her throat.

“I’m assuming you have a better plan this time around?” She asks, and he nods.

“I want to go back and fix my mistake,” he tells her, and there is such sincerity and regret in his voice that any doubts she’d had earlier dissipate immediately. She’s not sure what it is about him, but she’s drawn to him, eager to help him with whatever he needs. “The machine needs some work before we leave, and you need training. Ever shot a gun before?”

“Do BB guns count?” She quips, and he chuckles.

“Sorry, Scully, no they don’t. No worries though, I’ll teach you that and everything else you need to know. You just need to say yes,” he says, a distinct note of hope in his voice. She glances up at his face again and finds that same hope in his eyes.

“Alright then, Mulder. I’m in,” she says, extending a hand for him to shake. He takes it, his grip as soft and warm as the smile on his lips. “So, when do we start?”

He looks around, suspicion painting his features. Then, he leans in even closer, totally invading whatever personal space she had left. She leans back — a reflex — but she’s not uncomfortable with his proximity.

“Scully, remember what I told you about them listening?” He half-whispers, his voice low and rough in her ear. 

“Mhm.” Curiosity builds inside her. Is this it? Will he finally tell her who they are?

“I don’t want to say too much out here, just in case they followed me.” He pauses, his eyes flickering up to meet hers. “Do you trust me, Scully?”

She stares at him for a moment. Loaded question, considering she just met him not even 20 minutes ago. And yet she finds herself nodding in the affirmative, despite what instinct tells her. A smile plays on his lips, and he stands, offering her a hand. She takes it and he pulls her to her feet in one smooth motion.

“Good. That’s good. Trust is of the utmost importance for our mission. I want you to come with me somewhere, okay? I’m parked right down there, you see?” He gestures towards a lone sedan parked under a flickering streetlight. “I want you to get your car and follow me. You can turn around at any time if you feel unsafe — I know this is an odd request — although I hope you don’t choose to do that. I want you to be comfortable with me. Once we get there, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

She looks up at him, pondering her options. With both of them standing at full height, he’s a good head taller than her, but she doesn’t feel threatened even despite her small stature compared to him. Maybe it’s just knowing that he’s an FBI agent, but she’s pretty sure that it’s just his demeanor. She’s not sure how to explain it — a rare occurrence for her — but there’s a certain warmth to him, a certain charm. One more look at his face makes her decision for her.

“Lead the way, Mulder.”

Chapter Text

An hour, give or take a few minutes, of navigating through late-night DC traffic later, they end up in the rural forests and fields outside the city. The road ahead of them is empty and unlit. They’ve long since passed any and all heavily populated areas, and the road they’re on is surrounded by nothing but cornfields and trees. Buildings are scarce, save for the occasional barn, stable, or farmhouse. A squirrel scurries in front of her car, startling her, and she finds herself wondering if she should regret her decision to come out here — she’s a little spooked, now.

Meanwhile, Mulder turns onto some overgrown gravel road, one so surrounded by trees that she likely wouldn’t have noticed it had she been driving alone. This new road is narrow and winded, twisting and turning in between the trees as they drive deeper into the woods. The trees get thicker and thicker until the only light she sees are the headlight beams from both their cars.

“Damn it, Mulder, where the hell are you taking me?” She mutters under her breath. As if he’d heard her, he flashes his hazard lights at her, and she gains an odd sense of comfort from the gesture. It’s a reminder that he’s there with her, that she’s not alone. 

The road widens ahead of them, and Scully realizes that it’s really been just a long driveway this whole time as she makes out the darkened silhouette of a house. Mulder pulls over to the side of the wider area, and she parks behind him. As soon as the engines go out, so do the headlights, plunging the area into darkness. Mulder steps out of his car, flicking on a flashlight and aiming the beam in her direction. She hurries out, too, and rushes to stand next to him. He repositions the flashlight, casting a dim glow onto the front of the house. Even in half-light, she can tell that it’s a nice house, brick and wood and big windows. A beautiful property, too, surrounded by trees on all sides. Honestly, she’s a little surprised — surely it’s more than what he can afford on a g-man’s salary?

“It was my mother’s,” he explains — he must’ve noticed the look on her face. “My parents owned lots of real estate. I inherited it all when they passed.” He sounds distraught, distant. She places a gentle hand on his upper arm and he looks down at her, surprised.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mulder,” she says softly. He nods.

“It’s alright, Scully. It’s been a long time,” he replies, and she finds herself wondering if there’s more to the story, if this has something to do with his first… trip. “Remember all that stuff I told you about people watching me? That’s why we’re here. They’ve figured out how to bug my apartment out in the city. This, however, is far enough out for privacy. There’s no phone, no satellite, no nothing. And no one knows about it — except for me and you, of course.”

He presses a warm hand to the small of her back; a friendly and strangely familiar gesture; and leads her towards the front porch. He keeps the light angled down, illuminating the four rickety wooden porch steps so they don’t trip on the way up. At the door, he hands the light to Scully, who in turn trains the light on his hands as he struggles to find the right key on his mess of a keyring.

Finally, the door opens with a loud creak, and he steps aside to let her in. He’s right behind her, pulling the door closed and flicking the light switch on the wall.

“Damn, the power’s out. Give me the flashlight and stay here, I’m gonna go down to the basement and mess with the circuit breaker, alright?” He says, and she nods, letting him pry the flashlight from her hands. His fingers are warm, and his touch sends jolts of electricity through her body. He disappears down a long hallway, taking the light with him. In pitch darkness, she presses her hand to the wall and drags it along as she walks the perimeter of the room, trying to get a feel for the space. The wallpaper is rough under her fingertips, crumbling and crackling, and she pulls her hand away before she can cause any damage. 

The lights flicker on right then, and she can hear Mulder’s footsteps in some other part of the house as he hurries back. The room she’s in, now flooded with light, is large and open. It’s obvious from the thick layer of dust on just about every surface and the white sheets draped over the furniture that no one’s lived here in a long time. There’s a fireplace across the room with picture frames lined up on the mantelpiece. She steps closer to them, trying to get a better look.

There’s a good variety of photos — different sizes, different frames. A few headshots of Mulder, much like the kinds that get taken at school, some older, some more recent. Pretty standard. A few similarly-styled photos of a girl, although they’re obviously not as new. Side-by-side, she resembles Mulder quite a bit.

“That’s Samantha,” Mulder’s voice reaches her from somewhere behind her and she whirls around, startled. He splays his hands up in front of him. “Sorry I scared you, Scully.”

She rolls her eyes, grinning at him. “You didn’t scare me, Mulder. I just didn’t hear you walk in,” she mutters, glancing back at the photos. “Samantha?”

There’s that look on his face again, kind of like he’s in pain. She doubles back.

“Sorry, I, um… You don’t have to tell me, I just—”

“No, no, I want to— I need to tell you. You need to know. Come, take a seat,” he says, pulling the white dust cover off the couch. She sits, toeing off her shoes and drawing her knees up to her chest. He falls into the cushions on the opposite end, leaning against the armrest. She has the fleeting desire to ask him if he’d consider selling her this couch.

“Scully, you still with me?” He questions, brushing her arm with his fingertips. She snaps out of her daze, blinking at him.

“Yeah, um… sorry, I got distracted,” she explains, sheepish. He nods, pulling his hand back.

“Okay. Samantha. I’m telling you this, Scully, because you need to know. It’s for your own safety. Think of it as a cautionary tale of sorts.” He’s leaning towards her again, and she finds herself leaning in, too. Something about all this reminds her of her childhood, sharing stories around the campfire with her brothers, all hushed voices and wide eyes. 

“Samantha was my sister. Younger than me, four years. I was 12 and she was 8 when she was… abducted,” he says. A pause. Scully ponders the words.

“Abducted? How?” She asks.

“I’ll spare you the gory details. Long story short, in my uh… How do I say this? Original timeline, so to speak, I devoted my life to finding her and figuring out what happened. I joined the FBI, where I found the x-files. Cases that weren’t quite unsolved, but unexplained, paranormal. The bureau buried them somewhere in the basement, but I found them and took over.”

“Mulder, I don’t understand. How were these paranormal cases meant to help you find your sister?” She questions, struggling to connect the dots. He looks away, briefly, then looks back at her.

“Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?” She stares at him in total silence for a moment, bewildered. He holds up a hand to stop her as soon as she opens her mouth to speak.

“Don’t answer that. I don’t believe either. But I did back then — or at least I wanted to. I was so desperate, and I was dead convinced that aliens abducted her. In hindsight, I think I just didn’t want to think that humans were capable of such evil. And with those beliefs, the x-files seemed like the perfect place to look.”

“And did you find her? Or anything, for that matter?”

“Not quite. I uncovered some big conspiracies, though, and I dug up some serious dirt on a bunch of big figures. Somewhere in the process, we became involved in this huge government game of cat-and-mouse. Everyone was out to get us. We couldn’t trust anyone, only each other.”

“We?” Scully asks, curious about this new second player. Something flickers in Mulder’s eyes.

“I got assigned a partner,” he explains, his voice strained all of a sudden. Based on his reaction, this partner meant a lot to him.

“And where is he now?” She asks.

“She, Scully. They assigned her to me to debunk my work, to counter it with science. She was a doctor — a pathologist. We were meant to be enemies, to work against each other, instead we became a team — and a damn good one, at that. The trust we shared, the faith we had in each other… I don’t think I’ll ever find that in anyone else.”

“Seems like you cared about her a lot,” she says — more of a thought out loud than a question to be answered. He answers anyway.

“I was in love with her, Scully.” He grows silent then, staring down at the floor. She reaches out, slowly, cautiously, and places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Mulder.”

“There’s more,” he says, straightening up a bit. “We found this file together once, an old case, never closed. Something to do with time travel and alternate timelines. She warned me, but I thought it held all the answers. God, Scully, she warned me! She told me not to do anything reckless, she told me there would be consequences, and I didn’t listen! I ignored her, I wanted to go back and save Samantha, and even though she didn’t want to, she came with me.”

“And did you? Save Samantha, I mean.”

“No. Turns out the whole alien abduction flashback was a false memory. Planted, or developed as a result of trauma, I don’t care either way. Samantha wasn’t abducted by little green men, that damn cigarette smoking bastard killed her! And then—” he breaks off into a sob.

“It’s alright, Mulder, you don’t have to keep going—”

“No! I have to tell you, Scully. I need you to know the risks. I don’t want you to meet the same fate that she did,” he pleads, looking at her with red-rimmed eyes. She nods. “He killed my partner too, Scully. I didn’t save Samantha, and I lost the most important person in my life. She meant everything to me, and she died all because I couldn’t accept the truth.” His voice breaks as he speaks. He hunches over, burying his face in his hands. She’s not sure what compels her to do it, but she draws him into her arms. His lack of resistance surprises her — he comes willingly, clutching at her like a lifeline. His strange openness towards her contradicts everything he’s been telling her about trust (or lack thereof). There were personal details in what he’d told her that he could’ve simply glossed over or generalized, but he didn’t. He chose not to, he offered this part of himself to her for one reason or another. And now he’s crying in her arms. 

All because of her stupid couch.

She shifts them both around until he’s practically in her lap, his face pressed into the front of her shirt and his fingers wrinkling the back. She strokes his hair, mutters a stream of reassurances into his ear, pointless little phrases meant to soothe him. She’s no stranger to grief and she doesn’t want to be a stranger to him, either. 

Time passes. How much, she doesn’t know — that seems to be the effect he has on her. But his breathing evens out, and he’s no longer trembling. She worries that he may be asleep — that would be quite the situation — but he loosens his grip on her and sits up. This time, however, he doesn’t move to the other end of the couch, instead choosing to stay close. In a moment of impulse, she takes his hand, tracing soft circles on his open palm with her fingertips.

“I’m sorry I got all… emotional on you, Scully. Sometimes I forget that we only just met earlier today,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. It confuses her, too — what does that mean? But she simply shakes her head and offers him her warmest smile.

“It’s okay, Mulder. It sounded like you’ve been needing to talk about it for a while,” she replies, and the look in his eyes makes her worry that he might cry again.

“I want to go back for her, Scully. I need to make things right. I need to save her. I can only hope for your help and support, but I would understand if you wanted to back out. I won’t stop you. Just say the word and you’ll never hear from me again. It’ll be like this day never happened.” He turns his head, actively avoiding her gaze. With a soft sigh, she cups his cheek and gently pushes him to face her.

“Look at me, Mulder,” she says softly, tenderly. He does. She brushes away some remaining moisture from his face with the pad of her thumb. “I’m in, okay? I said I wanted to help you, and I still do. I want to help reunite you with your partner. I’ll do everything in my power, okay?” She promises, and he nods. “Great, so it’s settled then. You mentioned some kind of training? When do we start?”

The next half hour is spent setting up a loose schedule for the next few weeks. Somehow, their conversation wanders off-topic after those thirty minutes, and next thing she knows it’s closer to morning than to night.

“Mulder, I should really go,” she mutters over her cup of now lukewarm tea from a few hours ago. He glances at the wall clock.

“Oh, sorry. We really did lose track of time, didn’t we,” he says, and she laughs.

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow night, like we agreed. Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

He takes the cup from her and leads her back to the front entrance. Just as she’s about to leave, he places his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place. His eyes lock on hers.

“Drive safe, Scully, alright?”

She nods. On her way home, it’s just her, her thoughts, and the dim headlights of her car.

Chapter Text

That night, she dreams.

She’s with Mulder. They’re standing side-by-side on the front lawn of a house — not the forest house, a different house. Smaller, a bit more modern, with neighbors within visible distance. He seems nervous, uncertain, worry practically radiating off of him. She’s not sure how she can tell what he’s feeling, but she grabs his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. He turns his head, looking down at her. The dazzling smile he offers her is just as uncertain as everything else about him.

“This is it, Scully,” he says, his voice soft, intimate, as if he’s sharing a secret. She’s not sure what it is. She doesn’t ask. And then they’re rushing into the house. His hand is still in hers and he’s pulling her along, leading her through the hallway and up the stairs into a bedroom. Two beds, scruffy carpet, and a light that’s way too bright for her eyes. She squints against it. Mulder isn’t holding her hand anymore. She wants to ask him what’s going on, but she can’t see him in the light. 

She hears a gunshot. It echoes in her ears, and she finds herself looking for the source. The smell of smoke fills the air as questions fill her mind. Where’s Mulder? Is he alright? Is someone else here?

Time seems to slow down. Then, she’s falling, her hand clutching at her suddenly burning chest. She hears a scream, loud and piercing. She’s not sure if it had come from her or from Mulder. 

“Scully!” She hears him shout. Finally, something that makes sense. Her name. His voice. His voice saying her name. She reaches for him, desperate for the comfort of his hand in hers. He does her one better, catching her before she can hit the floor and gently lifting her into his arms.

“Scully, oh God, Scully, no no no no no Scully I’m so sorry, stay with me, come on Scully,” he whispers, his breath warm against her ear. All she feels is burning hot pain and him, his arms around her, his lips brushing her skin as he speaks. She keeps her eyes closed so that she can’t see the damage, but according to Mulder’s reaction, it’s pretty bad. She’s a doctor, she should know what to do, but she can’t seem to string two coherent thoughts together.

She barely notices as he carries her back outside and lays her down in the grass, barely notices as he moves to cradle her head in his lap and applies pressure to the wound. She opens her eyes then, just a crack, and the world swirls around her in a dizzying mess of shapes and colors.

His fingertips brush the side of her face, and her vision refocuses on him.

“Scully, hey, can you hear me? Scully, I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Don’t close your eyes. I’m going to call for help, you’re going to be just fine, just keep your eyes open,” he begs. He looks terrified, his eyes wide and watery. She wants to reach out and touch him, comfort him, anything, but she can’t even find the energy to nod. She does as he’d asked, however, even as he leans away and rummages through his pockets. She hears him curse under his breath, then his face reappears in her line of sight.

“Oh, Scully, my cell phone doesn’t work here. Oh, God, Scully, I’m so sorry. Don’t leave me, okay, Scully? I need you. Just keep your eyes open,” he begs. He’s crying now, she can feel his tears on her skin. She needs to tell him— What does she need to tell him?

“M...Mulder,” she chokes out. He leans down, bringing his face closer to hers.

“Yeah, Scully? Talk to me, what is it?” 

“Mulder, I love y—” Her breath catches in her throat and she coughs. She tastes blood, and then it’s harder to breathe, and there’s more blood and oh, God, it’s everywhere, all over her and all over him and all over the grass. Her vision darkens around the edges, his silhouette becoming blurrier by the second.

The last thing she hears before the world goes dark around her is Mulder’s strangled cry of “No!” 

She realizes that she never heard his reply.

She wakes up with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. She’s too hot, — smothered, even — and she shoves the blankets away from her. They fall onto the floor into a heap. She stares at the pile as she tries to calm her erratic breathing and irregular heart rate.

“What a dream,” she whispers aloud into the silent room. Queequeg stirs in his doggy bed in the corner, startled by the commotion, and pads over to sit by the nightstand. All it takes for him to jump onto the bed with her is one firm tap on the mattress. She scratches him behind the ears as she mulls over the dream.

Really, there’s not much to ponder. Mulder had told her the story of his partner last night. It only makes sense that it would leave an impression on her. It was quite the tragic story. And the whole ordeal has had her on some kind of emotional high since Sunday morning. This dream was just a manifestation of that, she decides. Nothing more.

She makes a mental note to get more details about the death of his former partner anyways, dream or not.

Her work breaks that day are spent thinking about the project (and about Mulder, but she chooses not to dwell on that). She’d taken some time that morning to trace the route to Mulder’s forest house onto the roadmap she keeps in her glovebox. Considering what he’d said, she’d rather not feed the address to any kind of sat nav device. Even the markings she makes on the map are in the faintest of pencils, virtually unnoticeable unless you’re looking for it. Last night’s dream is a thing of the past, no longer haunting her.

The day seems to drag on and on. Nothing of interest comes into the ER and she spends more time aimlessly roaming the halls than doing anything productive. Usually, on a day like this, she’d go to the resource library and read up on some medical journals she’d missed. Today, however, her mind is elsewhere. Maybe a slow day is a good thing — she’s too excited to focus properly.

Her shift finally ends at 5pm, and she hurries through the busy staff lot in search of her car. She takes another minute to study the map again before driving off. 

The road seems a lot less creepy now that it’s light out, but the drive feels longer without Mulder’s car in front of her. She manages not to miss the turn onto the driveway, by some stroke of dumb luck perhaps.

Mulder is on the porch, leaning against the railing with a grin on his face as she parks her car and steps out. There’s a certain awkwardness in his stance, as if he isn’t sure what to do with his hands or how to plant his feet. He pushes back from the railing as she approaches, moving to meet her halfway on the rickety wooden porch steps.

“Hey there, Scully,” he says, and she smiles up at him. “Ready to learn how to shoot a gun?”

The thought of learning to shoot makes her nervous, but she nods in the affirmative, and he lifts a large black bag from behind the railing, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

He leads her around the back of the house and down a narrow trail. He picks up the pace, encouraging her to do the same. They jog side-by-side, their shoulders touching. Either she’s more in-shape than she thought she was or he’s going easy on her — she has no trouble keeping up with him despite his longer legs. He glances down at her every now and then, almost as if to make sure she’s still there. 

They eventually arrive at a clearing. A small field, about 40 feet in length and half as wide. A few steps away from where she’s standing, there’s a shed built out of wood. The outside is painted a dark shade of green, the paint peeling away in strips. The whole structure looks a little unsteady, seemingly skewed to one side.  On the far end, three scarecrows are lined up in a row, each with a bullseye pinned to their front. 

Mulder drops the bag on the grass by his feet and crouches down beside it. She watches as he rummages through it and pulls out a gun.

“Here, hold this. Get used to the weight, the feel of it in your hands. You need to be comfortable holding it to use it properly,” he says, handing her the weapon. She takes it from him, turning it over in her hands. It’s heavier than she’d expected it to be. She lifts it up, brings it closer to her face to get a better look. Mulder catches her wrist and gently pushes her hands back down. “Keep it pointed down and away from you. I’ll be right back.” 

With that, he disappears into the shed, the door swinging back and forth behind him. He comes back out moments later, carrying two vests. He approaches her, slipping one vest on over his head and helping her into the other one. 

“Thanks,” she mutters, and he smiles. 

“Of course.” He reaches into the bag at her feet again, pulling out two pairs of safety goggles and ear covers. “Here, put these on too,” he orders, taking the gun from her. She slips the goggles on over her eyes and lets the ear covers hang around her neck. She sneaks a glance at him, watching as he tightens the strap on his goggles.

“You ready, Scully?” He asks, turning to meet her gaze. She nods, and he moves to stand in front of her. He takes a few minutes to show her how to load the gun and take off the safety, then guides her hands into a proper hold on the handle. He talks her through taking aim, pulling the trigger, following through. He encourages her to run through the steps a few times until she gets it down to some sort of routine. Then, he leads her to stand directly across from one of the scarecrows.

Slightly nervous, she glances first at him, then at the gun in her hands, then at the target in front of her, then finally at him again. 

“What now?” She asks. He looks her up and down.

“You have to stand properly. Here, put one leg out in front like this, bend your knees a little, and lean forward,” he instructs, and she does as she’s told. He moves to stand behind her, lightly placing his hands on her shoulders. “This okay?” She nods, and he very gently helps her position her arms. His touch is soft, careful, almost loving. His hands are warm against her skin, the heat seeping through the thin material of the long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing. He lifts the ear guards onto her ears and steps away.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he shouts, raising his voice to make sure she hears him. She nods, takes a moment to aim for the right place. She hesitates before pulling the trigger — she’s seen enough gunshot wound victims in her career to know that this stuff is no joke. She sees Mulder nod reassuringly in her peripheral vision, and she tightens her finger.

If she hits her target, she doesn’t see it. Despite the ear protection, the sound of the gunshot is loud, jarring, enough to startle anyone. Then, the smell of smoke registers in her startled mind and it’s like she’s back in the dream again. She squeezes her eyes shut, the weapon slipping from her fingers as she stumbles back a few steps. She remembers the bright light, the pain in her chest, Mulder calling her name…

“Scully!” 

Oh. He’s actually calling her name. She feels him lift the ear protection off her head and pull the goggles down so that the strap hangs around her neck. She sucks in a shaky breath and opens her eyes, coming face-to-face with his concerned expression. His lips are moving, he’s saying something, but she can’t hear him over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. His hands come up to rest on her shoulders, grounding her.

“Scully, come on, sit down,” he says, applying gentle pressure. It doesn’t take much to convince her, and she lets him guide her down to the grass. Once they’re both sitting and the ground seems a bit more solid beneath her, she looks up at him. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern, and one hand comes up to gently cup her face.

“Scully, are you alright? What happened?” He questions, stroking her hair away from her cheeks and forehead. She shrugs.

“Mulder, I…” she trails off, taking a moment to compose herself. “I had this dream last night. Well, I suppose it was more of a nightmare. And I… I guess it’s still on my mind,” she explains.

“Tell me, Scully,” he encourages, and she nods.

“We were somewhere — a house of some kind. I’ve never seen it before, I—”

“We?” He asks, confusion painting his features.

“You were there with me,” she clarifies, before continuing. “You led us inside, took me upstairs with you. You were holding my hand. And then the next moment you weren’t. And I heard a gunshot and I smelled smoke — just like a minute ago — and then there was just pain, and lots of blood everywhere, and you were calling my name. I think I was dying, Mulder. I think I died in my dream last night,” her voice fades out to whisper, the words leaving her mouth like a secret, a confession.

“Scully…” he breathes, but whatever words he meant to say next seem to have died on his lips.

She glances at him. There’s fear in his eyes. Worry, too. He’s looking at her with such intensity she thinks she might combust. She clears her throat, averting her gaze. “I’m sorry I freaked out like that. I guess it just… reminded me of… all that.”

Mulder shakes his head, his eyes pensive. “No, no, don’t apologize. I understand. I’m no stranger to nightmares. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. I get it, Scully, it’s alright.”

Struck by some impulse, she lunges forward, wrapping her arms around him. He freezes up, and she’s afraid for a moment that she’d done something wrong, crossed a line, but then he relaxes and his arms come to rest around her waist. The touch is warm, welcoming, both a reassurance and a reminder that she’s still alive — that they’re both still alive. 

After a minute or two, she loosens her grip, pulling away. She smiles at him gratefully, and he mirrors the gesture.

“You okay, Scully?” He asks.

“I’m okay. Thank you, Mulder,” she says, standing up. She offers him a hand, and he takes it, letting her pull him up. They both take a second to brush the dust off their clothes.

“Ready to try again, Scully?”

“Bring it on.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon together, and by the end of it she’s perfectly comfortable with the gun and manages to hit the targets often enough. By the time they call it a day, the sun is setting and there’s a deep, exhausted ache in her bones. She drives home in peaceful silence, content and thoughtful.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks find them settling into some sort of routine. Every day, she shows up at his house after her shift, and he trains her in something. They stick with the guns for the first week or so, before moving on to other things.

“You’re a quick learner, Scully. I’m proud,” he tells her one day after a particularly grueling training session. She smiles at him from underneath a curtain of her hair, damp with sweat.

“What can I say? I’ve got the best teacher.”

Alongside all the work, they joke and they laugh. She grows to trust him, not just professionally, but personally, too. She tells him about work, and he tells her about his childhood. Nothing about his sister’s abduction, however, and he avoids the subject of his former FBI partner at all costs. By week seven, she considers him her best friend. She tells him once, and he confesses that he considers her his, too.

Scully knows she can count on Mulder for anything. She makes sure that he knows he can count on her, too. She scribbles down her address on a sticky note for him, sticks it onto his fridge behind a flip-flop shaped magnet from some tropical family vacation his family had gone on. He gets a burner phone and tells her the number. She memorizes it, recites it every night before falling asleep. She has the dream sometimes, but it doesn’t scare her as much, not anymore. Mulder wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She knows that.

She knows she can count on him for anything, which is why when she comes home one night to find a bug in her apartment, his is the first face to pop into her mind. She tears the offending device out from behind the wall socket where it’s been meticulously placed by someone, yanks out the wires until the blinking red light fizzles out. With shaky hands, she digs through her kitchen in search of a container. Dropping it into an old tupperware, she slips it into her pocket and rushes out of the house.

As much as she hates to admit it, she’s scared. They’d found her. Perhaps if she were thinking a bit more clearly, she’d refrain from seeking Mulder out, lest they follow her. She’s not, however — thinking clearly, that is. She’s scared. Someone’s been watching her, listening to her, and who knows for how long? She just needs to get to Mulder, he’ll know what to do. She just needs to get to Mulder, and everything is going to be okay.

She drives way faster than she should, especially considering the rain-slick roads. She finds that she doesn’t care. She just needs to get there, get to Mulder. Someone’s been watching her in her own apartment. Her home — perhaps no longer home to her, now that it’s been invaded in such a way, but that doesn’t matter now because Mulder’s house is as much of a home to her as her apartment had been. 

She barely pays attention to the road as she drives, and the whole way there is a blur to her. She parks her car crooked in front of the house and doesn’t bother locking the doors when she gets out. The rain is coming down so heavy that she’s almost completely soaked by the time she makes the short journey . She knocks, her hand shaky from the cold and uncertain from the fear. She can only pray that he heard her. She presses her ear to the door, and she can hear his heavy footsteps as he approaches. She sighs in relief. Moments later, the door swings open to reveal Mulder, clad in loose pants and a black t-shirt — obvious sleepwear. His hair is messy, his eyes tired. Guilt pools somewhere deep inside her. She’d woken him up. He blinks, his gaze sweeping her head-to-toe, and then she sees the recognition and concern in his eyes.

“Mulder, I want you to take a look at something,” she blurts out as soon as their eyes meet.

“Scully? Come on in,” he says, grasping her shoulders and pulling her over the threshold. He shuts the door, locks it, and slides the chain into place. He turns back to her, helping her get her soaked coat off. She lets him, saying nothing. He hangs it up on the rack, trying to smooth out the fabric so it dries quicker. Once it’s up and somewhat secure on the hook, he returns his attention to her. “Okay, Scully, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the small plastic container, holds it out in front of him. He pries it out of her fingers, holding it up to the light.

“I, uh… I found it in my apartment today. I don’t— I don’t know how long it’s been there, Mulder. I don’t know how long they’ve been watching me,” she chokes out, staring down at the floor. He drops the container onto the console table, then moves to stand in front of her.

“I don’t think you need me to tell you what it is, Scully,” he says, and she looks up at him, her eyes wide and afraid.

“What do I do, Mulder? It’s my apartment, Mulder, I don’t know—”

“Shh, Scully, it’s alright. We’ll figure it out. It’s okay,” he soothes, drawing her into his arms. She nods against him, her face pressed to his chest. He runs his hands up and down her back and arms. She shivers at the touch, and he stops abruptly. He pulls back slightly, looking down at her.

“Hey, you’re cold— oh, of course, you just came in from the rain, of course you’re cold. God, I’m sorry, Scully. Come, sit, I’ll find you something dry to wear,” he rambles, leading her to the couch with a hand on the small of her back. She sinks down into the cushions, grateful for him and his presence and his hospitality. He rushes off, disappears into his bedroom. She can just barely hear drawers being pulled open and shut again, and then he emerges, carrying a wad of dark-colored clothes.

“Here, go into the bedroom and change. Hang your wet stuff up over here. I’ll make you some tea, alright?” She nods, taking the clothing from him. He closes the door behind her, and she hears him walk away. 

She drops the handful of items onto the bed, spreading them out. There’s a pair of pants, thick wool socks, and a soft-looking sweater with his name embroidered on the sleeve in fine white letters. She gets dressed quickly, surprised at how well the pants and socks fit her. The sweater, however, totally drowns her, the hem falling down below her knees. She pushes up the sleeves and gathers her wet clothes, draping them over the radiator like he’d told her to do. She opens the door to find him standing right there, his hand poised to knock. He smiles, letting his hand fall to his side.

“I was just about to check on you. Come on, come with me,” he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He leads her back to the couch, pressing a warm mug of tea into her hands once she’s sitting down. Her hands tremble, but she manages not to spill any as she takes a careful sip. He’s silent beside her, watching her closely. She sets the mug down on the coffee table and turns to look at him. He’s leaning in towards her, his expression concerned. Her fingers absentmindedly tug at the sleeves of the sweater she’s wearing as she mulls over what to say. She clears her throat, takes another sip of her tea, tries to compose herself before speaking.

“Mulder, I’m scared,” she admits, her voice soft, raspy. It’s a confession in every sense of the word, a secret she’s trusting him with because she knows that she can.

“Oh, Scully…” he mutters, pulling her against his side. She leans into his warmth, wrapping her arms around his midsection. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this whole mess, Scully. I’m sorry they’re on your back now. We’ll figure it out, I promise. I won’t let them do to you what they did to me.”

She nods against him. He continues.

“I could stop by tomorrow, check your place out. We should probably get your locks changed. Or I could find you somewhere else to stay. Whatever you need, Scully,” he whispers into her hair, his lips brushing the top of her head. “I want you to stay here tonight, okay?”

He’s so good to her, so gentle, and she wants nothing more than to stay right here with him, where the rest of the world can’t touch her. Still, she finds herself shaking her head — he’d been sleeping before she came. And it’s late. She should let him be.

“No, Mulder, I don’t want to intrude. I’m sorry I woke you, I’ll just leave now. Thank you for the tea and the dry clothes. I’ll see you tomorrow, as always,” she rambles.

“Scully—” he starts, but then she’s pulling away from him, rushing to grab her coat. Every part of her wants to turn around and run back to him, to hold on tight and never let go. Instead, she busies herself with doing up the buttons. She can’t rely on him like that.

She pauses. No. She can rely on him like that, she knows he’d let her. But she doesn’t want to. She needs him to know that he can rely on her, too, that she’s capable of watching his back, that she won’t crack under pressure. Which is why she’s leaving. She can handle the night alone.

“Scully, wait. Don’t go. Let me—”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she interrupts him, trying to keep her voice level.

“You’re shaking, Scully,” he points out. “At least stay here long enough to get warm again.” He’s right, but she’s not about to tell him that.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she repeats, unsure whether she’s trying to convince him or herself of the fact. She fumbles with the lock and chain, her frozen fingers too stiff to get a decent grip. Finally, she gets the door open.

Lightning flashes as soon as she steps out onto the porch, followed by the loud clap of thunder. Normally, she’d be entirely unaffected, but she’s startled in her already highly emotional state, and she stumbles back into the house. The rain seems to have gotten heavier, too, coming down so thickly that she can’t even see her car from where she’s standing.

She whirls around to face Mulder, who had come closer while her back was turned. He reaches behind her, pulling the door shut. His movements are quick, rough, and she expects to see anger when she looks up at his face. Instead, she finds concern and care.

“Scully, you’re not driving home in this weather. Not in the state you’re in. There’s plenty of bedrooms in this house, you can sleep in one of them. Please, Scully. The city is a long way out, and the roads are probably flooded already. It’s dark, visibility will be low, and phone lines might be down. If something happens, you might not be able to call for help. Please just stay here tonight.” He’s practically begging her now, his eyes burning into hers. She’s so close to just giving in. But she doesn’t. She shakes her head again.

“Mulder, I can’t take advantage of your hospitality—” her voice wavers, and he steps forward to softly press a finger to her lips.

“No, shh, Scully. That’s nonsense. You’re not taking advantage of anything. Come here,” he says, pulling her into his arms for the third time that night. She wants to fight him for a brief moment, to pull away, to stick with her original plan to leave and run home and let him be, but he’s here and he’s warm and he’s holding her so gently and someone’s been watching her apartment. She can have this one thing with him. She can allow herself this little bit of comfort.

She relaxes against him. Her hands come up to clutch at the back of his shirt, her fingers become the only tense part of her body. She feels him press soft kisses to the top of her head.

“Besides,” he mutters, an afterthought, a continuation of a conversation nearly forgotten, “I’ll sleep better if I know you’re safe.” That just about does it. She finds herself overwhelmed with emotion all of a sudden. She tries to press herself even closer against him, her choked sob muffled against the front of his shirt. His arms tighten around her as her shoulders start to shake.

“It’s okay, Scully, I’m here. I’ve got you. I won’t let them get to you. You’re safe with me,” he whispers, and she really does believe him. He’s here. He’s got her. She’s going to be okay.

Once the fear fades and her breathing evens out, she lets him lead her through the house and to an empty bedroom. It’s almost entirely unfurnished, save for the queen bed in the center and an old dusty mirror up on the wall. She realizes that despite spending most of her free time these past few weeks with Mulder, she doesn’t know her way around his house. Perhaps it’s because most of their time together is spent outside somewhere.

She’s tired, the day’s events finally catching up to her. Mulder guides her to sit on the edge of the bed. “Stay here, Scully, I’m just gonna go grab another blanket for you. This part of the house gets cold at night, you’re gonna want to layer up,” he explains, and she nods. He hurries off into the hallway, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She finds herself mulling over the evening. She thinks about finding the bug in her apartment, thinks about her fear. Mostly, though, she thinks about Mulder. His hands in her hair, his arms around her, his soft voice whispering in her ear. She’d never liked getting emotional in front of others, always chose instead to do so in the privacy of her own home where no one would try and offer her empty comfort or teasing remarks. With Mulder, however, she felt welcomed, accepted, unjudged and unquestioned. And unlike most of the useless reassurances people usually offer, Mulder’s really had helped. In all her years, she’d never felt so safe as when she was in his arms. Even now, as she’s alone in a room, one that could arguably be considered creepy by, well, just about anyone else, she’s safe and secure because he’s close. This isn’t just a room, it’s a room in Mulder’s house, and he’s there with her.

He walks back in then, carrying a neatly folded blanket under his arm.

“Scully, do you need anything else? A shower? More tea? Anything?” He asks her as he spreads the blanket over the bed. It’s thick, fluffy, and she smells a hint of laundry detergent — the same one she usually smells on Mulder’s clothes when he gets close to her.

She shakes her head in the negative. “No, Mulder, I’m okay. Thank you.”

He smiles. “Of course, Scully. Bathroom’s down the hall. My bedroom is the third door on the left once you pass the kitchen. Will you be alright here?”

“Yeah. Thank you again, for letting me stay,” she says, looking up at him. The grin on his face widens.

“Anytime, Scully. Anything for my best friend.”

“Goodnight, Mulder.”

“Night, Scully.”

With that, he leaves, shutting the door behind him. She flicks on the bedside lamp and pulls the covers back, settling in against the pillows.

Chapter Text

The bed is soft, and the blankets do a fine job of keeping her warm, but sleep doesn’t come to her even after she turns off the light. An hour goes by. She tosses and turns, flips the pillows over to the cool side, tosses and turns some more. Nothing. The room is too large, too empty, too full of noise. Every breath she takes echoes off the walls, every movement she makes causes some creaking or crackling somewhere. It’s a little unsettling.

With a dejected sigh, she sits up, the blankets slipping from around her shoulders. She stretches her arms, turns her neck from side to side to relax the muscles a little. More parts of the room catch her eye. There’s a large window to her left, the curtains pulled back and tied off with ribbons. She can’t make out their color in the dark, but she can see the silhouettes of trees, leaves, and branches on the other side of the glass. It’s still raining, and lightning flashes every so often, flooding the room with light and creating threatening shadows on the walls around her. After one such flash, she flicks on the light and stumbles out of bed to tug the curtains closed.

With that taken care of, she thinks she might be able to finally get to sleep. She trudges back to the bed, and she’s just about to get back under the covers when she realizes that she’s thirsty. Her throat is dry, and she can feel a headache coming on — no doubt a result of all the crying she’d done earlier. She drops the corner of the blanket that she’s been holding and tiptoes towards the door.

The hallway is dark, a little difficult to navigate but she manages not to trip over anything. She keeps her hand firmly pressed against the wall, just in case. She keeps her pace slow, measured, careful not to make the floorboards creak — easier said than done, considering the old age of the house.

Her fingers find a light switch and after considering it for a moment, she flicks it on. Jackpot. It’s the kitchen. The lights flicker for a moment before the small space floods with warm yellow light. It’s big, spaced out, much roomier than the one in her cramped little apartment. Large fridge, old gas stove, and cupboards floating above all three long counters. She pulls open a cupboard at random, hoping to find cups or glasses or mugs or literally anything suitable. No luck. Plates. Fancy ones, too, by the looks of it. Careful not to make any noise, she shuts it and moves on to the next one. 

A whole row of cupboards later and still nothing. Exasperated, she tries her luck with the nearest drawer and — lo and behold. Cups, mugs and glasses. The whole nine yards.

It makes sense in her head, oddly enough. Of course Mulder, of all people, would keep his drinkware in a drawer instead of a cupboard like most people. With a shrug, she picks up a glass.

The tap creaks and groans as she turns the knob, and the water sputters for a bit before flowing freely, but she eventually gets it going. The water pressure is practically nonexistent, however, and her glass is only about half full when she hears a muffled noise from somewhere in the house.

Curious — and a little afraid — she shuts off the tap and moves to take a sip, listening carefully. Maybe it was just an animal outside, or the wind, or something.

No, there it is again. A muffled… scream? Oh. Mulder.

Something he’d said to her earlier flashes through her tired mind.

“I’m no stranger to nightmares. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

Well, it’s either that or he’s hurt. Or maybe someone broke in. Either way, she’s not taking any chances. 

She hears him call out a third time, and this time she can just about make out her name. She places the glass on the counter and rushes off towards where he’d said his bedroom was — third door from the kitchen, if her memory isn’t deceiving her.

She opens the door and stumbles in. The room is dark, but thanks to the light she’d left on in the kitchen and the occasional lightning she can make out Mulder’s form in the bed. He’s restless, thrashing around, the covers pushed aside and tangled around his legs. She hurries over to his side as he calls out for her again.

“Mulder, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re dreaming,” she whispers soothingly, reaching out to stroke his damp hair. He grasps at her other hand, his fingers curling around her wrist with a surprising amount of strength. She presses her palm to his, threading their fingers together. He’s mumbling something unintelligible — she can just about make out bits and pieces.

“Scully… help…” 

She tightens her grip on his hand. Something in the way he says her name threatens to break some part of her.

“Mulder, it’s okay. I’m right here,” she soothes, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s pressed up against her, his warmth seeping through her clothes.

“Scully… no, no! Don’t… Scully!” He cries out, and then he sits bolt upright, panting. She pulls her hands away and stands up, wanting to give him space. His eyes are open now — he’s awake — and he’s looking around with such panic in his eyes. When his gaze lands on her, briefly, it’s almost as if he’s looking through her, not at her. His breath comes in short gasps, and she worries he may start properly hyperventilating if she doesn’t help him.

She places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shudders at the touch, but doesn’t pull away.

“Mulder, hey, it’s me. You’re okay. It was just a dream. You’re at home, you’re alright, I’m right here,” she whispers, and he seems to finally realize that she’s there.

“Scully..?” He croaks, squinting at her in the dim light. She nods slowly.

“Yes. I’m here—”

“Oh, Scully…” he cuts her off, throwing his arms around her and pulling her down next to him. She comes willingly, reclaiming her spot on the edge of the mattress. In between shuddering sobs, he’s mumbling again, clearer this time. 

“Scully, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that to— I didn’t mean for— That’s not how it was supposed to go. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I lost you, Scully,” he mumbles against her. Worry pools in her stomach. He must still be delirious, half asleep, not thinking clearly.

“Mulder, what are you talking about? I’m right here. You didn’t lose me. It was just a dream, I’m okay. You’re okay too— oh, Mulder, shhh. I’ve got you,” she whispers against the top of his head. His cheek is resting against her shoulder, and the rest of him is slumped against her. She tries to get comfortable against the headboard, dragging him almost fully into her lap. She holds him, strokes his hair and his back until the shaking subsides and his sobs die down into mere sniffles. He loosens his grip on her eventually, but doesn’t let go completely. She lets him stay right where he is, pressed up against her, even when he relaxes almost completely.

“Mulder, do you want to tell me what you saw?” She asks, brushing her fingers through his hair. He takes a shuddery breath.

“It was… about my partner, I suppose,” he says, and there’s a hint of something in his voice, something she isn’t sure what to make of. “I never did tell you much about her, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” she confirms. He hums against the crook of her neck.

“I’m going to tell you what happened, okay?”

“Okay, Mulder. I’m listening.”

“Scully, I… I probably should’ve told you this sooner. I just… didn’t want to scare you off, I guess.” 

She nods. “Go on.”

“I dreamt about your death, Scully. Again. I see it every time I close my eyes. I see you, and I see all the blood, and it’s exactly like it was. We get there, and it’s my childhood home, and Samantha’s there and then he shoots you like he did the first time around and I can never do anything. I’m always seconds too late, and then—” he breaks off with a sob. There’s a nagging thought somewhere in the back of her mind. Too familiar. His story is too familiar. She shakes it away.

“What then, Mulder?”

“Scully, I couldn’t save you! I screwed up. I practically led you to your death and, and— you warned me! You told me it was a bad idea, you told me about the risks and the potential consequences and— goddamnit, Scully, I should’ve just listened to you!” He cries. She smooths his hair, pressing her lips to his warm forehead. He’s still delirious — he has to be. His subconscious mind must’ve put her in the place of his partner, and he’s not conscious enough to realize that none of it was real. 

“Shh, Mulder, it’s alright. You’re awake now. It was just a dream, Mulder, just a dream. I’m right here, you’re okay,” she whispers, cradling the side of his face against her chest. He’s clutching at the back of her shirt, muttering something incoherent into her skin. She brushes a few tears away with the pad of her thumb, a soft, feather-light touch.

“Mulder, how about I get you some water, okay? I’ll be right back,” she says, moving to stand up. Immediately, he’s pulling her back down, clutching at her like a lifeline. “Mulder, hey, what is it?”

“Scully, don’t go,” he begs. She feels something break inside her.

“Mulder, I’m just going to the kitchen. I’ll be right—”

“Scully, please, ” he presses, and she finds that she can’t deny him anything. She stops her half-hearted struggle against him, allows him to hold her close. In all the time she’s known him, he’s never been particularly hesitant to touch her — not that she’s ever minded. She’d initiate some of the touching, too. Still, this level of proximity is unusual, although not at all unwelcome. 

He’s warm. She’s always noticed it, but it’s especially obvious now that he’s all over her. His skin is soft — that’s a new observation. And as much as she hates the cliche, they fit together in some odd, unbelievable way. He may be significantly taller than her, but the way he’s pressed against her side, the way she’s so comfortable with it, makes her feel like he truly belongs there.

He’s quiet — he has been for some time now. She’s not sure how long it’s been since… well, since any of it. It’s too dark for her to make out the time on the wall clock. Does it really matter? She holds him a little tighter.

Next thing she knows, the room is full of light. Slowly, she opens her eyes — when had she closed them? She’s warm, comfortable, content. There’s a subtle pressure against her front and side, gentle and familiar.

Right. She’s in Mulder’s room. His bed, to be more exact. And he’s in said bed with her, wrapped around her in the loveliest of embraces. He’s asleep, still, his eyelashes grazing his pale cheeks. He, too, looks at peace. 

For a brief moment, she considers getting up. Except he turns his head, presses his nose further into the crook of her neck and says her name, and this time it’s not in fear or worry. He knows she’s here, and he’s happy about it, even in his unconscious state. 

It’s the best sleep she’s had in weeks — nightmare free — and she chooses not to deny herself this pleasure. She settles deeper into his arms, brushing a fingertip across his jaw. He smiles at the touch, sighing contentedly.

She decides not to try and sleep again, opting instead to watch him. The storm seems to have ended sometime during the night, and the sun is out again. Rays of light stream in through the cracked blinds, painting his face and hair in shades of gold. She doesn’t get to look at him often, not like this, not so close. They’re always on the move, in action, doing one thing or another. She loves it, but she loves this, too, this intimacy, this calm, this peace. She finds herself absentmindedly playing with his hair, running the soft locks in between her fingers. She can smell a hint of some kind of soap on him, light and subtle and manly and kind of perfect for him in some strange way. The light allows her to make out the faintest dusting of freckles on his cheeks and nose. She traces his slightly parted lips with her finger and pretends that she didn’t just imagine what it would feel like to kiss him.

He stirs in her arms sometime later. She realizes she’s still playing with his hair — and has been, the whole time — as he opens his eyes and looks at her, confusion flooding his features. He blinks at her a few times, and she smiles.

“Scully..?” He mumbles. She nods.

“Yeah, Mulder, it’s me. Good morning,” she replies, giving his hair one last ruffle before pulling her hand away. Recognition fills his eyes and he relaxes, falling against her again.

“Morning,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leans down and presses a soft kiss into his hair.

She wonders how much he remembers of last night. The dream? The story he’d told her? Does he remember the way she held him before he fell asleep? He must’ve noticed something change in her body language, because he pushes away from her ever-so-slightly and looks up into her face. She doesn’t meet his eyes, her gaze flickering between his chin and his forehead. He frowns.

“Scully, what’s on your mind?” He questions, his thumb tracing feather-light circles on her shoulder. She swallows against her suddenly dry throat.

“Just… last night, your dream—”

“I’m sorry you had to see that, it’s—”

“No, Mulder, don’t apologise. Do you have dreams like that often?”

He’s quiet for a too-long second, his gaze shifting away from her. 

“Almost every night since I lost her,” he whispers. She doesn’t need to ask him who he’s talking about. It’s his partner — who else would it be? She inhales sharply, shocked and concerned, and he immediately shakes his head.

“Actually, I’ve been having them less since I met you. That’s why I never told you — it wasn’t really a problem until last night. I think… I think the stress got to me or something. I was worried about you,” he admits, and something in his voice makes her pull him back down into her arms. He buries his face in her chest, the hair on his head brushing the underside of her chin. She tilts her face down to press another kiss to his forehead.

He moves then, leaning back out of her grasp. Their eyes meet, and she finds herself getting lost in the depth of his gaze. The man’s got beautiful eyes. She’s noticed them before, but now he’s so close to her and the light is hitting him just right and if he moved forward even another inch they’d be—

His lips touch hers. Softly, gently, the most fleeting of touches.

She’s stunned for a moment, freezing under the touch. She feels him hesitate. Then, before she can think too much about any of it, she grabs his face and kisses him with a passion she didn’t think was possible. He tastes sweet and warm, his lips soft and smooth against hers. She wishes the moment could last forever.

It doesn’t, of course. They both run out of breath eventually and are forced to break apart. She doesn’t let go of his face, and he keeps his forehead pressed to hers as they gasp for air. His face is flushed, lips parted and pupils dilated. She can feel his breath on her skin.

“Scully—” he breathes, his mouth forming the most subtle of smiles. Reality comes rushing back, and she’s rendered speechless.

Oh, God.

She just kissed Mulder.

Mulder, her nutcase stranger turned business partner turned best friend.

Mulder, whom she would trust with her life — whom she has trusted with her life.

Mulder, who she’s somehow fallen in love with.

Mulder, who is still in love with his partner from a different timeline

Shit.

In one smooth motion, she shoves him back and scrambles out of bed.

“God, Mulder, I’m so sorry, that shouldn’t have happened. We’re friends, and you see me as a friend, and God! You’re in love with your partner! I gotta go. I gotta go! Thank you for everything,” she stammers out, rushing towards the door. She can see him moving, obviously trying to catch up with her. She can’t let that happen, so she picks up her pace.

“Scully, wait—!” He calls out after her, but it’s too late, she’s already racing out the front door. She digs in her pockets for her car keys and — bingo! — there they are. She keeps her eyes on her target, pulling out of her spot in one swift motion.

One last quick glance in the rearview mirror reveals Mulder, barefoot and shirtless, standing on his porch with an expression full of pain and regret. It takes everything in her not to turn around and go back, to apologize to him and to wrap her arms around him and to hold him and to never ever let him go. Instead, she floors the pedal, leaving him behind in a cloud of dust.

She doesn’t make it very far. As her luck would have it, her car starts to sputter as she drives along the gravel driveway, and the engine gives out on her only a few metres down the paved road. She manages to get her car over to the shoulder just before it stops completely and flicks on the hazard lights.

Her knowledge of cars is limited at best, but she pops the hood and squints at the tangled mess of metal and wires. There’s no obvious fault, no smoke coming from anywhere or liquid where it’s not supposed to be. With a sigh, she reaches for her cell phone. Time to call the towing company.

Of course considering her current location — the middle of absolute nowhere — they’ll be a while. Defeated, she slumps against the side of the car, burying her head in her hands. It’s about to be a long two hours and forty minutes.

Chapter Text

She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting there when a hand on her shoulder makes her jump. She lets her hands fall away from her face and scrambles to her feet, instinctively reaching for the weapon Mulder had insisted she carry with her at all times. No luck — she remembers now that she’d left it in Mulder’s guest room while she was changing. She looks up, preparing for a fight, only to come face-to-face with Mulder. He looks sheepish, apologetic, and now a little bit shocked. He takes a step back.

“Whoa, hey, Scully, it’s just me,” he mutters, taking note of her defensive stance. She relaxes a little, leaning back against the car. She crosses her arms, carefully avoiding his gaze.

“You alright? I thought you’d be halfway home by now,” he says. His tone of voice surprises her. She’d expected anger, disdain, some kind of negative emotion. Instead, he sounds truly concerned. She allows herself a quick glance up at his face, and she finds the same sentiment in his eyes. It warms her heart. She takes a deep breath before speaking.

“My car broke down. I’m just waiting for the towing company,” she explains. He nods. “Mulder, I’m sorry about this morning. I just… I care about you a lot and I don’t want you to do something you regret. You told me you were in love with your partner. I don’t want to get in the way of that,” she explains. He takes a step towards her, and she doesn’t make any attempts to move away.

“Scully, I—“ She holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“No, Mulder. It’s okay. I just—“

“Scully, can I… Can I hold you?” He pleads, looking her straight in the eye. She nods silently, and he steps forward, drawing her into his arms. His large warm hand rubs her back in soothing circles as her own arms fall around his waist. She relaxes against him. The hurt in his voice was evident, despite his efforts to conceal it. This may be the last time she’ll hold him, so she might as well let herself enjoy it. 

She’s not sure exactly how long they stand there, but it’s clearly a while because what causes them to finally break apart is the sound of tires on gravel. She steps back from him, missing his warmth the very moment their bodies are no longer pressed against each other. 

“Towing company is here,” she mutters under her breath for no one in particular. The car that had pulled up in front of them has Tony’s Towing written on the front in bold blue letters; there’s absolutely no need for her to state the obvious. More than anything, she wants to fill the empty silence. In all the time she’s known him, it’s never been so awkward between them.

The next half-hour passes in the same silence. Scully gives the towing guy her address and gets into the passenger seat once her car is secured at the back. She says a half-hearted goodbye to Mulder just before they drive off, and she doesn’t turn around to see if he’s still standing there with that forlorn expression on his face.

She goes through the rest of her day on autopilot, trying her very best not to think about what happened too much. At night, in bed, as she stares up at the ceiling of her still bugged apartment, she thinks about all the things in her life that she regrets. She decides that this, what had happened with Mulder, wasn’t really one of them. She’d enjoyed kissing him. She’d enjoyed being in his arms. She didn’t enjoy leaving him behind, but they still had a date set for tomorrow for more preparations. For all she knows, things will go on as if nothing ever happened. With that knowledge, she closes her eyes and lets sleep take her.

She leaves work early the next day, eager to get to Mulder’s house as soon as possible. She parks her car in her usual spot and jogs through the woods to the field where he usually waits for her.

Today, he isn’t waiting. There’s no duffel bag of stuff, no water bottle, no sweater draped over a branch of some tree. There’s no Mulder, either. Just an empty field and the realization that last night had, in fact, changed everything. 

She stands there for a minute, before turning around with a resigned sigh. Her walk back to her car is slow, pensive. She mulls over everything that’s happened between her and Mulder these past few months, from their first meeting to him teaching her how to shoot to the lunches and dinners they shared and finally to the way he held her the previous night. 

If she had to do it all over again, she decides that she wouldn’t change a thing. 

Still, the road in front of her on the drive home is blurred by the tears in her eyes.

Mulder hasn’t been part of her life for long, but he’s so familiar, so close, that she feels that she’s known him forever. Now, she’s not sure what to do. His absence from their meeting place seemed so final, so deciding. She doubts she’ll ever see him again.

At her apartment, she collapses on the couch, strangely exhausted despite her day being mostly uneventful. Queequeg comes rushing into the room from her bedroom, carrying something in his mouth. She groans, exasperated.

“Queequeg, give that here!” She cries out, thrusting out a hand towards him to grab whatever it is he’s holding. Surprisingly, he drops it immediately, right underneath her outstretched hand. She scoops it up as he races back to her bedroom.

It’s her calendar, the one she keeps on her night stand. The same calendar she’d penciled all of her and Mulder’s planned meeting into. She flips ahead to today’s date to find her own careful scrawl — the time she was meant to meet him. The time she did go to meet him and he never showed. The rest of the week is clear, but the next one has similar times written under every date. She flips ahead to the next month to find even more times and — oh. Of course.

The day they’d planned to go through with his whole time travel thing. The 13th of March. A Friday. Because of course he’d pick Friday the 13th to do something like this. A smile finds its way onto her face, bittersweet and uncertain. 

God, she’s going to miss him so much.

She sets the calendar onto the coffee table, still opened to the page for March. Then, she makes a decision.

So what if he’s given up on trying to prepare her? She’s prepared enough. On the 13th, she’ll show up anyways, just like they’d planned on that first night. If not for herself, then for him — how can she let him go and do this alone, with no one to watch his back? The least she can do for him is this; be there for him in the moment of truth. She can help him save his partner just as she was intended to since the very first day they met.

She counts the dates from today to the 13th, tracing each square of the calendar with her finger. Eighteen days, a little over two weeks. That gives her more than enough time to pull herself together and make some kind of plan.

The first two weeks fly by, almost unnoticed. A few times, she finds herself driving the wrong way from work, towards Mulder’s house instead of her apartment. Every time she catches herself taking a wrong turn, a bittersweet ache grows in her chest. This used to be their time. Now it’s just hers.

Three days before the day, she talks to her mother. She doesn’t go into much detail regarding where exactly she’s going, but she makes arrangements with her so that she can watch Queequeg while she takes a ‘short vacation.’ Two days before, she packs up Queequeg’s things and brings him over to her mother’s house. The 12th is spent tidying up her apartment and tying up some last-minute loose ends. She takes the next three days off of work, waters her one half-dead houseplant, and settles into bed at 9:30pm.

Sleep seems miles away. She stares at the clock on her night stand, way too aware of time passing. The minutes change, and the hour does too, eventually. She counts the seconds along with the two blinking dots. She finally passes out sometime around 2am, just after setting an alarm. He mentioned once that he wanted to start early on in the day, just in case something were to malfunction and take longer than anticipated.

She dreams of him. She tries to forget about it in the morning.

Her hands shake the whole way there. She’s finally going to see him again, after all this time. She wonders how he’ll react, what he’ll say — if anything at all. Will he treat her with polite professionalism, the impersonality of strangers forced to work together? Or will he tell her to turn around and go home?

What will she do, in either one of those scenarios?

No matter. She’s on the gravel driveway now, squinting to see his house in the distance. There it is, her home away from home. She wonders when it had come to mean so much to her, and why it still does despite everything that’s happened.

One last time, she parks her car off to the side of the road and makes her way over to the same field. Deja-vu clouds her mind. She’s been here before, just like this, so many times. She misses it. She barely realized just how much she misses it until now.

She swipes a stray branch aside with her hand, ducking under it to enter the field.

And there he is. Mulder. Tall, dressed in black jeans and a matching sweater. His hair is slightly disheveled, falling over his eyes and forehead. He’s crouching next to some enormous and complicated contraption, twisting knobs and connecting various wires.

She takes a step forward. A branch snaps underneath her foot and he freezes, slowly rising to his feet. He turns around, and she finally sees his face.

He’s still so, so beautiful. Suspicion paints his features until his gaze finds her. Then, the expression warps into one of awed surprise. 

“Scully?” He exhales, disbelieving.

“Mulder,” she responds, offering him the smallest of smiles.

“Scully, I thought I… You… Oh, Scully!” He exclaims, and then he’s rushing towards her. She stays put, watching as he approaches her. Then, his arms are around her and he’s holding her so close and he’s so warm and he’s her best friend and everything is right in the world. She clings to him even tighter than he’s clinging to her.

“Scully, oh, Scully, I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispers into her hair.

“I had to be here, Mulder. I couldn’t let you do this alone,” she sobs — when did that happen? He presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

“You stopped showing up. You never came, that day after the kiss, you never came back. I really thought I’d lost you forever,” he confesses.

What?

“Mulder, I was here. I came here. You weren’t there,” she chokes out. He pulls back then, steadying her with both his hands on her shoulders.

“I— What?” He mutters. Then, his eyes widen. “Oh, God. I slept through my alarm that day. I was about ten minutes late. I thought— I thought you’d wait for me, on a regular day, so when I came and you weren’t there, I assumed you just didn’t show up. Scully, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to feel like I didn’t want to work with you — that I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, Mulder, it’s okay. I know now that you didn’t mean to. It’s alright. I forgive you,” she soothes, reaching out to cup his face. He leans down, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Thank you, Scully,” he breathes, his lips curling up into a smile. She presses a kiss to his nose before pulling away.

“So, today’s the day?” She asks. He nods. She mirrors the gesture. “Tell me about the machine.”

He leads her over to it with a hand on the small of her back.

"This is what's going to take us into the past, Scully. It's stupidly complicated and I barely understand parts of it myself, but all you need to know are these three things right here," he explains, pointing to a row of two knobs and a single button. "This one's for the time, this one's for the place, and this one's the emergency stop button. I added it recently. Listen to me carefully, Scully. If anything — and I mean anything — happens to me, you are to press this button and it'll take you right back here. It'll be like nothing ever happened," he says, his voice stern and straightforward. She looks up at him. There's a grave look in his eyes. He steps towards her, placing a finger under her chin and gently tilting her face up.

"Promise me, Scully. Promise me that if something goes wrong that you'll save yourself," he whispers. She shakes her head.

"Mulder, no. What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll figure it out. Scully, I can't— I can't lose you again," he admits. She stares up at him, wide-eyed, before lurching forward to throw her arms around him.

"You won't, Mulder, you won't. I trust you to keep us both safe," she whispers. He pulls back, looking her in the eyes again.

"Okay. You ready?"

"I'm ready."

He flips a switch on the side of the machine, and it whirs into action. 

“Grab on, right here, and hold on tight,” he orders, pointing to a place just below his own hand where it’s wrapped around a metal bar. She does as she’s told, and he places his other hand over hers, locking it in place. There’s a bright light, and she closes her eyes against it.

When she opens them, they’re somewhere else. It’s dark, and it takes her a second to adjust to the lack of light. When she can finally make out the basic shape of things around her, she gasps.

Chapter Text

This is the place she used to see in her dreams — her nightmares. The same street, the same house, the same too-green lawn. Panic rises in her throat.

“Mulder…” she whispers as realization washes over her. He presses a soft finger to her lips.

“Shh, Scully, I know. It’s okay. Just trust me,” he whispers back. She does. They both stay silent.

His hand drops to his side, searching for hers. She twines their fingers together, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

There’s another flash of light — not as overwhelming this time, more like the flash on a camera. She glances in the direction where it came from, and watches as two people and a similar machine to Mulder’s appears where there was once empty space.

She can’t quite make out the people’s faces, but she can tell from their silhouettes that one’s a man and the other is a woman. He’s taller than her, too, by a good head at least. She realizes suddenly that the man must be Mulder, and the woman must be his partner. 

The man leans down, whispering something in his partner’s ear. She grabs his hand. Oh, God. This is her dream, but in the third person. It’s a little hard to breathe, all of a sudden.

Mulder is suddenly dragging her in their direction, taking off with such speed that she can barely keep up.

“Hey!” He calls out, producing a flashlight from his coat pocket and shining it at the pair. They look up, and Scully feels her blood run cold.

The man is Mulder, alright. A little different looking, wearing a weirder tie and slightly less casual clothes. Nothing too surprising.

The woman, however. His partner.

Turns out Mulder wasn’t delirious that night.

She finds herself staring into the face of.. herself. 

It’s not like looking into a mirror. Her own hair is just a little above her shoulders, but this woman’s barely falls past her chin. It’s a brighter red, too, obviously dyed from her natural strawberry blonde shade. She looks older, more tired, with the eyes of a person who’s seen and experienced way more than they were ready for. But it’s definitely her. She can tell from the face shape and her stance and the sound of her voice when she turns to her partner and, squinting against the light, says, “Mulder, what the hell is going on?”

Her Mulder takes a side step in front of her, shielding her from view. She supposes she’s grateful for that.

“Listen to me,” he says, looking pointedly at his counterpart. “Turn around. Go home. Don’t fuck with this stuff or you’ll regret it forever. I learned the hard way. It’s not worth it and you won’t change anything for the better. Just go home, okay?” He practically begs them. The other Mulder looks confused, but not defensive.

“Or what?” He challenges.

“You go in there, and only one of you makes it out alive. Turn around. Please,” he explains. The other Scully turns to her partner again.

“Maybe we should listen to him,” she offers. The other Mulder shakes his head.

“Scully, this is everything we’ve been working for. Please, I have to do this. I don’t care if it kills me,” he states. There’s no hesitation in his voice.

“You don’t die, but she does. And you don’t save your sister, either. You can’t change the past, you can only fight the future. Go home, both of you, if you know what’s good for you. And maybe… maybe talk to each other, while you’re both at it. You and I both know you guys can use some of that,” her Mulder says, gently squeezing her hand behind his back. She shudders at his words. She really had died here. Her dream was not a dream, it was a memory. Her own memory, from this alternate timeline.

Meanwhile, the couple in front of her exchanges a glance. There’s this broken look on his face, complete and utter horror.

“She… What? No, no, no, no, that can’t happen!” He says, his voice disbelieving. Her Mulder nods his head.

“You’re right, it can’t. That’s why you both need to turn around, get your asses back to your machine, and go home, ” he repeats, giving the other Mulder a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

The other Scully — has she mentioned yet how weird it is to be watching herself in the third person? — grabs her partner’s arm.

“Mulder, he’s right. This is a bad idea. Even if no one dies, who knows what else we’ll manage to screw up? You know, butterfly effect and all that,” she says. The other Mulder seems to deflate a little, his defensive stance melting away. He sighs.

“But, Samantha…”

“You heard what he said. He seems to know what he’s talking about. I’d say just this once we should listen,” she replies. There’s a long moment during which they just stare at each other. There seems to be a whole conversation in that stare, and she’s a little amazed. Her alternate timeline self has got a pretty good thing going, if this is any indication.

He’s in love with her, she thinks. She’s got it good.

Whatever wordless exchange transpires between them seems to convince him. He glances back towards her Mulder and gives him a curt nod. 

“I don’t like this, and I certainly don’t trust you. But I do trust Scully, and she seems to think you’ve got a point. I suppose I have no choice but to listen to you,” he says, almost as if he’s thinking out loud. “Come on, Scully,” he says, moving to lead her back to the machine. Then, he hesitates for a second, turning back around to face them. She continues walking, leaving him a few steps behind her. He squints against the flashlight beam, and she realizes that the way Mulder shone the light was deliberate, meant to conceal their identities. “Who the hell are you, anyways?”

“That doesn’t matter,” her Mulder answers, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Go now. Get out of here. And make it count.”

Moments later, there’s another camera-flash of light, and then the second machine and the two people it came with disappear into thin air. Scully looks up at Mulder, her eyes wide.

“Mulder—”

“I know, Scully. I know. To be fair, I did try to tell you that night. I guess you just didn’t believe me,” he explains with a shrug. Still holding his hand, she begins walking towards the machine, only for him to pull her back.

“Mulder, what? Aren’t we going back?” She questions, confused. He shakes his head.

“No, just give it a moment,” he replies. That doesn’t explain much, and she’s about to ask why when he speaks again. “That night I kissed you, Scully… It wasn’t because I was grieving the loss of my partner or because I was emotionally distraught. Don’t you see? It’s been you all along. She is you and you are her, even if you didn’t know it, just like I am him. It’s always been you, Scully. Not you and her. Just you. One and the same, don’t you see?”

She stares at him, eyes wide and teary. The sun is rising, painting the world in shades of dark blues and purples.

“Mulder, I—”

Everything is very bright around her all of a sudden. She can’t see Mulder anymore. She’s dizzy, her head spinning. She stumbles forward, closing her eyes, and then she can’t feel anything anymore.

The world goes dark.

She wakes up in her own bed. 

As soon as her eyes are open, she sits bolt upright, scrambling for the phone on her night stand. Her thoughts are going a mile a minute — what’s real, and what isn’t? Was it all a dream? What happened?

She remember’s Mulder’s words as she lets muscle memory dial his number.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Scully?”

“Mulder, I—”

“I know, Scully, I know.”

“Did all that… Was that… Did it happen, Mulder?”

“Oh, it happened alright.”

“Wow,” she breathes. The jumble of memories in her sleep-addled mind are starting to fall back into place.

“Yeah.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment before she places the phone back in its cradle. As she pulls her hand away, her fingers brush the leather casing of her FBI badge.

The world rights itself on its axis. She’s back, right where she needs to be.