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February 28th, 1996
THE X-FILES OFFICE
We stood by Modell's bed, watching the instruments read out his life signs. I reached for her hand, and her fingers felt warm in mine.
It was odd how little contact we'd had over the time we'd known one another--Scully's never been the touchy-feely sort, so I've always tried my best to maintain that distance, out of respect.
Even when I wanted nothing more than to pull her close to me.
She told me we shouldn't waste another moment on him. I couldn't help but agree. I didn't want to let go, but she moved away, gently, and I released her hand. I couldn't help but think of the stakeout--she fell asleep on my shoulder, eyes closed. Her face had a serenity in sleep that reminded me of Samantha--and it was agony and ecstasy watching her.
I was too close. I knew all along that I was becoming too close to her. Dana Scully, you'll be either my salvation or damnation. I know that now. I know that every time I catch the gaze of your eyes--a shade of blue I don't have a word to describe. Yeah, me, with a smartass remark for every occasion, caught speechless at your eyes, Scully.
Bet you'd be amazed if I told you my truth.
So now I'm sitting here at my desk, watching her pack up her briefcase for the day. Going home to the dog and a good book and a salad or something, most likely. Or maybe*
"Scully," I hear myself saying, "You wanna grab some Chinese food and watch the Grammy awards? I hear Alanis Morrisette is going to get bleeped if she says 'fuck.'"
She looks up, her face wearing that strange expression only she can do right, that look made up of half surprise, half curiosity. "Um, sure. Where? Wait…" She gave me one of her rare smiles and said, "Not your place. That couch hates me."
"Okay, yours then." I hope I sound casual. I feel like my stomach's in a knot. I feel like an idiot.
"All right. Do you want to meet me there*?"
Her own tone is perfectly smooth. I suppose she's so accustomed to thinking of ol' Spooky as her pet lunatic that she didn't see me as anything else--no, that's not fair. Not true, either. Even if she thinks of me like a brother, it was all right. She's the only one I'd die for, and I know the risks she took to save me this summer.
Dana Scully is the only living person I can trust*and I love her. I denied it at first. I've thrown myself at so many women since I figured it out, hoping it was just the isolation Scully and I share that made me think this way. Like Bambi*she's a beautiful and brilliant woman, but I felt out of sync with her. Same with Angela White.
Scully acted awfully strange for those few days in Comity; I kept wondering if she was jealous. I know I said some hateful and hurtful things to her* and afterward, we never discussed it. I tried once, and she told me, "It's done, Mulder. Leave it behind."
I left it behind, for her sake.
"Mulder--? Do you want to meet me there?"
I blink. She's talking to me and I missed it. "I'm sorry, Scully, just thinking. Sure. Six-thirty good?"
"Perfect. See you later!" She scoops up her coat and heads out the door, those heels she wears clicking neatly against the tiles. I watch her walk, liking the strong, uncompromising way she moves, despite her size.
I pull on my coat and think how sweet the curve of her calves look in stockings. I've seen her in various stages of undress. She's probably seen me naked one of the times she pulled my ass out of the fire, but I try not to think about it.
If I believed in God, I'd be praying for strength right about now.
6:20 PM
SCULLY'S APARTMENT
I must be an idiot. Here I am, vacuuming the dog hair off the rug--this for Mulder, whose apartment looks like a nuclear test site. What the hell am I trying to prove anyway? I changed clothes three times tonight before settling on jeans and a loose shirt. I don't think I was this nervous before the prom.
I must be losing my mind.
Queequeg yaps at me and yanks on the hem of my jeans. I turn off the vacuum and scratch the little monster behind his ears, just the way he likes. Then I toss one of those doggie treats into the kitchen. He goes after it, of course, and I can finally finish my cleaning.
I know I'm going crazy, because I'm breaking the biggest rule of all.
I've never been needed the way Mulder needs me. There's something so vulnerable about him, sometimes, but he protects himself with jokes. I've heard more one-liners since I met him than I had in the entire lifetime before then.
I've never told him how much I love his silly sense of humor.
My mind keeps going back to the case we just finished. I still have no idea how Modell was able to do the things he did--there's no logical explanation for his apparent abilities, and I refuse to believe it was "the whammy."
It still scares me a bit that Mulder was never much of a marksman, but he managed to hit the heart on that practice target with every bullet. When Mulder is angry, he is absolutely terrifying. There's a fine line in him that separates his genius from insanity, and I keep praying that I can keep him on this side of the line. So many of the agents in the bureau think he's just a kook, some sort of off-the-wall paranoid.
I know better. Mulder's theories are not always grounded, but he is too often underestimated.
The dog starts yapping and running in circles by the door. Usually that means that either Queequeg has to go out, or someone is here. I walk over to the door and slide it open.
Mulder, of course. Holding a big bag of what smells like Szechuan and a plastic bag from the 7-11 with a six-pack.
I chuckle. "Come on in," I say, hoping to sound casual. He slides past me and gives me one of his lazy halfway smiles. I grab the six-pack from him and put it on the dining room table. The TV drones listlessly in the background. Mulder puts down the Chinese food and detaches Queequeg from his ankle.
"Sorry," I tell him. "He's just affectionate."
"That's one way to put it," Mulder quips. "Brought him a little something too." He reaches inside the 7-11 bag and comes out with a deli package of liverwurst. Queequeg sits up and drools. Must be easy being a dog. The TV drones listlessly in the background. Mulder puts down the Chinese food and detaches Queequeg from his ankle.
We settle in. I open a pair of the bottles of Tsingtao he brought, then try to offer him a plate for his dinner. Mulder shakes his head and says something about being used to eating from the carton. He attacks the Kung Pao chicken with chopsticks. I mix the garlic shrimp with brown rice and eat from a plate.
Mulder looks so much like a boy when he eats, all elbows and fingers, his face animated as he talks between (and occasionally *during*) mouthfuls. "So, Scully," he asks, around a mouthful of chicken, "What do you think? You think Seal or TLC for Record of the Year?"
"Joan Osborne," I offer. "There's enough publicity over that song."
"Nah," Mulder dismisses. "Never happen. Alanis Morrisette for Song of the Year?"
"Doubtful," I comment. "There's already been one song with the f-word chosen as Song of the Year this decade."
"You mean Nine Inch Nails? Nah, that was Metal Performance." He chases the words with a mouthful of rice.
I shrug. It's hard for me to think about the damned Grammy awards while I'm close to him, lost in his scent and the warmth emanating from his body. I spoon another forkful of shrimp into my mouth. He reaches over, unconsciously, and wipes a bit of the garlic sauce from my cheek.
Goddamn it, Mulder, you don't make this easy.
"Mulder," I begin, "about Modell--"
The hand holding the chopsticks freezes. His eyes meet mine, falsely casual. "Yeah?" I can see him closing up, tucking away his emotions. It scares me.
"You'd have shot yourself. But not me*"
"Not you, Scully," he agrees, his voice rough, almost raw. "Never you."
"Why?" I keep my voice even, though it's difficult. I can feel how hard it is to draw a breath.
Mulder shakes his head, wordlessly. His eyes are filled with the spectres of the past.
"Not you, Scully. You're the only one I can trust." His voice is soft. "I won't lose you. Not after all that's happened."
"Mulder--"
He places a finger over my lips. The intimacy of that gesture feels so odd and yet so right. "Leave it alone, Scully. For now. It's not time."
I stare at him for a moment, then nod. He is right--it's not time yet. But I believe that someday it will be. Someday--after we find what we both are seeking now.
His hand covers mine for just a moment and I know he believes, too.