Work Text:
The digital clock on Scully's nightstand blinked 1:07 AM in big, pulsating red numbers. She was approximately three seconds away from smothering Mulder with a pillow.
Not in a murderous way. Actually, scratch that. At this point, she was so pissed it might as well be violent. But mostly in a 'please shut up and let me sleep' way.
Scully lay on her back, one hand thrown over her eyes. Red hair splayed across her pillow like she was posing for some sort of Renaissance painting. The sheets were tangled around her waist, and she could feel Mulder's body heat radiating from where the man was sprawled on his stomach beside her, propped up on his elbows.
Outside the window, the city was a blur. Her apartment was the kind of quiet you only got after midnight—quiet enough, filled with small domestic sounds: the refrigerator humming, a car going by, the faint ssss of heat in the hall. These sounds were almost reassuring to Scully on nights when she was alone, a reminder that the world outside was still operating, that it was still there.
"Okay, but seriously," Mulder said as he sat up a bit more, a piece of his hair flopping on his forehead. "If you punch yourself and it hurts, are you strong or weak?"
Scully groaned, "Mulder," but didn't move her arm from her face.
"No, consider it—"
"Mulder."
"Because if you're strong enough to hurt yourself, that means you're strong, right? But if you're weak enough to get hurt by yourself, then you're weak. So which one would it be?"
Well, at least it wasn’t his usual choice of theories and questions.
Scully finally lifted her hand just enough to glare at him with one eye. Mulder was looking at her with those ridiculously beautiful green eyes, daring to look genuinely invested in this question.
"It means you're an idiot for punching yourself," Scully responded flatly.
The man in front of her grinned, unfazed. "You're dodging the philosophical question."
"The only thing I'm trying to avoid is consciousness." Scully rolled onto her side, presenting Mulder with her back. "Go to sleep; we have work tomorrow."
“But Scullyyyy, I’m not tired. I’m a night owl at heart.”
"I can tell."
"Did you know," he continued, because it appeared that her suffering was his favourite late-night entertainment, "that Romans cultivated strawberries? And they were used as a medicinal herb as early as the 13th century."
Scully pulled the pillow over her head. Her voice came out muffled: "That's great. Tell the strawberries about it."
She felt him shift closer, and felt fingers trail down her spine and trace her tattoo in a way that made goosebumps follow in his fingertips' wake. "You're so grumpy when you're tired."
"I'm grumpy when someone won't let me stop being tired."
“You know you like it.”
Scully did not dignify that with a response, mostly because, frankly, he wasn't entirely wrong. This was their thing—had been for the past four months. After work, they'd get takeout, talk for a bit, and sometimes—okay, maybe most of the time—things would get heated; they'd have incredible sex, and then Mulder would get chatty (well, he always was, wasn't he?), and Scully would pretend to be more annoyed than she actually was.
It was casual. Easy. Uncomplicated.
Who was she kidding? Scully was maybe, possibly, definitely catching feelings since the very first day, but that was a problem for future her.
Present Scully just wanted to rest.
"Did you know," Mulder said, his voice closer now, breath warm against her shoulder, "that octopuses have three hearts?"
Damn him. How did he even know all of this?
"Mulder, I swear to God—"
"Two pump blood to the gills, and one pumps it to the rest of the body. And the heart that delivers blood to the body actually stops beating when the octopus swims. That's why they prefer crawling."
Despite herself, Scully turned back over. "That's actually kind of sad. Imagine your heart stopping every time you try to go somewhere."
Mulder's face lit up like she had just given him a gift. "It's like, damn, octopus, you good?"
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Mulder, you’re so strange.”
"You're still here," he shrugged with a silly smile plastered on his face.
"I live here."
"You know what I mean." He was doing that thing where he looked at her a little too long and a little too softly, and Scully had to look away before she did something foolish like kiss him. Well, they kissed during sex, obviously, but kissing after felt different. Felt like it meant something.
She cleared her throat. A wave of heat swept up her neck and into her cheeks. "Can you let me sleep now?"
"One more question."
"Mulder—"
"If you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?"
Scully stared at him, blinking. "That's your question? That's not even… existential; that's just simple."
"I'm easing you into the next one."
"Oh my god." But Scully was smiling now; he could feel it. "Fine. Probably—"
“Is it a non-fat Tofutti Rice Dreamsicle?”
“No,” she said, eyeing him for interrupting her. “A good chicken rice with salad on the side. And maybe ice cream, too.”
Mulder grinned. "That's a solid choice. I'd probably go with tacos. You can do infinite variations."
"Would that not be cheating?"
He shrugged. “It’s strategic, Scully. Work smarter, not harder.”
They were close now, faces inches apart on the pillow, and she could see the outline of his nose, could smell his shampoo—that earthy stuff he always used. This was dangerous territory. This was the kind of moment that made her forget they were supposed to be casual. Just really good friends. Platonic coworkers that had benefits.
Mulder reached out and pushed a curl behind her ear with a gentleness that wasn't part of their usual… list. It was a small gesture, but it had the same effect as his attention.
"Serious question now," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Do you think we're just matter that happened to arrange itself in a way that became conscious? As if we were simply the universe's experience of itself."
Scully groaned. "Mulder, it's one in the morning. We're FBI agents."
"That's not a valid answer."
"The answer is I don't care because I am far too tired to be the universe right now."
"But, Scully, doesn't that freak you out? That we're just... here? And we don't know why?"
There was something in Mulder's voice now, something a little less playful, a little more real. Scully recognised it—the shift that happened sometimes when his jokes gave way to actual vulnerability, when he was genuinely passionate about what he was talking about.
"I think," Scully said carefully, "that it's too late for serious crises. Those are problems for another day. Notice how I said day, Mulder?"
He laughed, soft and breathy. "Fair enough."
"Can I sleep now?"
"Did you know that when you sleep, your brain actually cleans itself? There's this system called the glymphatic system that flushes out toxins."
“Mulder,” she scolded before waiting a beat. “Of course I know that; I’m the medical doctor here.”
He put a finger on his chin thoughtfully. "So really, I'm preventing you from essential brain maintenance."
"I'm going to smother you if you don't close that mouth of yours."
"You got something you enjoy that you're hiding from me, Scully?" he asked playfully, his eyebrows wiggling at her suggestively.
Scully rolled her eyes, grabbed the pillow, and half-heartedly swung it at Mulder's head. He caught it, laughing, and suddenly they were wrestling—gentle, playful, the kind of physical contact that felt easy between them. He ended up on top, pinning her wrists above her head, both of them breathless and grinning.
"Yield," Mulder demanded with a teasing tone.
"Never."
"I can do this all night."
"That's the problem."
They were both smiling, faces close again, and she felt that flutter in her chest. The one that whispered, 'This is more than what friends do, and you're in trouble, and what if he feels it too?'
His expression softened, and for a moment, Scully thought he might say something genuine. Something that could change everything.
But then Mulder just released her wrists and flopped back onto his side of the bed. "Okay, fine. I'll let you sleep."
"Thank you," she breathed with triumph and fatigue.
"But tomorrow I'm asking you about the flavour of time."
"I don't even know what that is."
"Exactly. My question is gonna blow your mind, Scully."
She turned onto her side again, smiling despite herself. "Goodnight, Mulder."
"Goodnight."
Silence settled over them, calm and peaceful, and Scully felt herself starting to drift. Finally.
Then: "Hey, Scully?"
"What now?" she mumbled into her pillow.
“Did you know—”
Scully grabbed another pillow and blindly threw it in his direction.
“First of all, you missed. Second, you have to hear me out.”
“No, Mulder. I’m utterly exhausted.”
He gasped dramatically and threw a hand over his head. “Dana Katherine Scully, you have officially hurt my feelings. Oh, my soft, fragile heart can’t handle this.”
She turned away from him again, her lips curling into the smallest smile. “Sweet dreams, Mulder.”
At last, she felt tranquility.
Until she heard the blankets shifting as Mulder moved about the bed.
“If you don’t stop moving, Mulder, I will not hesitate to kick you out to sleep on the couch.”
“It’s just—” He paused before deflecting, switching gears. “You have a comfy couch.”
Scully sighed, “Please. Go to sleep.”
For a while, it was quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were the wind blowing through the windows, until it changed.
“One final question.”
Scully chose to ignore him and kept her eyes shut.
“Did you know that I'm in love with you?” This time, his words didn’t waver.
Her eyes snapped open. She sat up and faced him, then squeaked in the tiniest, most embarrassing, high-pitched voice ever, “What?”
He sat up along with her, trying to avoid the awkward position, and scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”
Scully had an unreadable expression on her face, completely immobilized from shock.
“Say something,” he blurted out, “please.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish; however, no words came out.
“Are you okay, Scully?” His brows knitted together in concern.
Why did he always have to be so handsome with his pouty lips?
She managed a small "Mhm."
“Scully, I need to hear you speak a complete sentence.”
“I,” she said; she could feel the blood rising as her face erupted with colour. “I love you too, Mulder.”
He let out a long, slow breath, “Phew. You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that. I thought I screwed everything up.”
Then there was another period of quietness, and it was filled with small noises—their breathing, the creak of the mattress as they both shifted, the loud silence. Scully's heart was pounding ridiculously fast; it wasn’t the same as Mulder had described the octopus's heart-stops, but it was an odd, hammering thing in her chest.
Her hand went up to her face to cool her burning cheek, and the corners of her lips curled up in a smile. “Goodnight for the last time tonight.”
“Scully, wait.”
He leaned towards her and captured her lips in a soft kiss.
The kiss itself was careful and sincere, not sloppy or rushed—more like a promise. When it ended, both of them lingered with their foreheads touching, their warm breaths mingling.
“I’m sorry for keeping you up,” he said as he fell back into the mattress. “I hope you get some damn good sleep, Scully.”
Another smile flitted across her face. Summoning her courage, she wrapped her hands around his frame and rested her head on his chest.
They didn’t need to speak about labels or plans right then, they had the rest of their lives to do so afterall.
The last thing she heard before exhaustion finally, mercifully, pulled her under was Mulder’s barely audible snores.