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She wakes slowly, consciousness fighting an uphill battle against the soporific warmth of her bed. Awareness arrives gradually, starting with the realization that Mulder has slipped his hand beneath the fabric of her shirt to trace lazy patterns across her chest and abdomen. She stretches, arching into the contact, which is when she becomes aware of another, more insistent pressure against her backside.
“Good morning.” His voice is husky with sleep or arousal or both.
“Mmm. What time is it?”
“Quarter to seven.”
She yawns. “We have a little while before the alarm, then?”
“I already shut it off.” His lips find the edge of her jaw, and she sighs as he begins to work his way slowly toward her ear.
They’ve been operating under a policy of sleeping over only on the weekends, but then Mulder showed up last night with a sheepish grin and puppy-dog eyes and a bottle of wine, and now here they are. She has to admit, this is without question her favorite way to wake up, but she prefers when they can take their time, not be beholden to the clock.
Still. It’s not as if she’s going to ask him to stop.
Besides, the time constraint isn’t really an issue, not when her body responds so readily to his touch. His fingertips dance feather-light down her arm, raising gooseflesh in their wake, and then his warm hand closes over the swell of her hip to pull her firmly back against him, sparking a rush of heat low in her belly. All the while, his lips caress the sensitive places on her neck, lingering in the hollow behind her ear; shivers run through her when his tongue grazes her earlobe and again when he sucks gently on her pulse point. Within a matter of minutes, she’s gone from mostly asleep to very, very much awake, and she pushes her pyjama pants down and reaches backward for his hip.
They both sigh when he slides into her. They both stop breathing for a moment when he begins to move.
It’s still so new -- this, them together -- but at the same time already so familiar. She knows the curves and planes of him, knows where and how he likes to be touched, knows the precise way his breath hitches when he’s close. And he has learned her, too, studying her with the singular focus he usually reserves for chasing lights in the sky. Add to this the fact that they’ve had more than six years of practice reading each other and communicating without words, and the result is an extraordinary ability to anticipate each other’s needs even as they continue to try new things and explore all the possibilities of this increased level of intimacy. Mindblowing doesn’t even begin to describe it.
He stays wrapped around her after, his heart thudding against her back, his breath making a lock of her hair flutter out of the corner of her eye. It would be so easy to linger here, surrounded by the feel and smell of him, work and responsibilities be damned. Very quickly, Mulder’s breathing begins to deepen, his hand on her chest slackening as he drifts rapidly back toward sleep.
This is exactly the reason for their weekends-only policy.
With a reluctant sigh, she squeezes his arm and turns her head to look back toward him. “Don’t fall asleep.”
He makes an indistinct grumble and takes advantage of her position to press a haphazard kiss somewhere in the vicinity of her mouth. It makes her laugh, and she turns her head further to kiss him properly, smiling against his lips. When that starts to hurt her neck, she rolls over to face him, taking the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at the clock. They are not, she is pleased to note, running horribly late yet, but it is definitely time to get a move on.
“You want the first shower?”
“You know, Agent Scully, I was under the impression that we knew each other well enough to shower together, now.”
She swats him lightly on the arm, chuckling. “That may be true, but it’s also true that we have to be out the door in about twenty minutes. We can’t afford to get sidetracked.”
“Please, Scully, I’m a big boy. I promise I can stay focused on the task of getting washed and ready for work while standing in close proximity to your wet, naked body.” He looks up, as if considering. “I mean… probably.”
She arches an eyebrow at him. “Who says it’s your impulse control I’m worried about?”
His eyes widen. “Okay, I take it back. Keep saying stuff like that and I am definitely not staying focused on getting ready for work.”
He leans forward to kiss her, even as she’s laughing again.
“Mulder--”
“Nope, you were right.” His words are punctuated by kisses pressed down her neck, across her collar bones. “We are absolutely in danger of getting badly sidetracked. You’d better get out of this bed and into the shower while you’ve still got the chance.”
Smiling, if a little regretfully, she extracts herself from his embrace, gives his arm a last squeeze, and sits up. The cool air on her bare skin prompts her to quickly make her way to the shower, though not without tracking Mulder’s eyes on her all the way across the room.
***
He walks out of her bathroom with one towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand, rubbing his hair dry. She’s still unaccustomed to the sight -- a casually half-naked Mulder in her bedroom -- but it’s one she doesn’t think she could ever tire of. Her eyes roam unabashedly over him, and when he notices, he makes a show of stretching his arms overhead to flex muscles honed by running and swimming. She fights the impulse to look away; old habits die hard, and she has to actively remind herself sometimes that she is absolutely allowed to stare.
“You like what you see, G-woman?”
“Yep.” She meets his smug grin with an exaggerated leer, which makes them both laugh. “But if we don’t get moving, we’re going to be late for our meeting with Chuck Burks.”
“It's okay, I called him while you were in the shower. Told him to just let himself into the office if he gets there first.” She raises an eyebrow, and he shrugs. “He's still got the spare key I gave him when he was helping us out on the Hoffman case.”
Her jaw drops. “Mulder, that was over a year ago! Are you telling me that a civilian has had a key to our office since last fall? There is no way that's permissible.”
“C’mon, Scully, it's just Chuck. What’s he gonna do, sneak in and analyze evidence?”
“That’s not… it doesn’t…” She gives up, pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes with a sigh.
“I hardly think this is going to be the thing that gets me kicked out of the Bureau,” he says with a chuckle. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll be sure to get the key back from him today.”
***
I chickened out again, Dana.
The wine was supposed to help. I got the call just before I left the office. My latest test results are, apparently, not exactly promising. It’s strange though, because I feel fine. Actually, I feel better than fine. I haven’t had a headache since Christmas, and if I hadn’t gone to the hospital then, I probably wouldn’t know anything was wrong at all.
I’m not sure if that would be better or worse, to be ignorant of the danger supposedly lurking in my brain, but also free from having every happy moment in my life tainted by worry.
There have been a hell of a lot of happy moments, lately.
But anyway. The doctor called that evening after we got back from Pittsfield. He wants to put me on some drug they use for Lou Gehrig's, something to slow the degeneration in the brain. It won't stop it, but it might help. And at this point, it's the only thing he can think of to try, since he still doesn't know what exactly is wrong with me.
I wanted to talk to you about it. It's hard to know what to think about any of this without hearing your opinion. So instead of going home that night, I picked up my dry cleaning and some wine and drove to your place instead. I was going to to fill you in on everything, come clean about all of it. A little liquid courage to help things along, etc.
Clearly that all worked out really well.
It's hard to say this without sounding like I'm blaming you, Dana, but I promise that I'm not. This is on me. I’m the one who can't look you in the eye and tell you…
The thing is, I know I’m only making things worse by putting it off. The longer I keep this from you, the more upset you’re going to be when I finally do tell you. And I’ve waited too long already. So now I’m thinking about how hurt you’ll be on top of how upset the news itself might make you, and I just… how can I bring you that much pain when the alternative is to steal a few more moments of happiness? It already took us so long to get here; it feels far too soon to wreck everything.
It’s too bad we never figured out how those kids were able to do what they did. If there were ever a reason to want to stop time, to take full advantage of every moment, wouldn’t this be it? I know, I know. We’re not teenagers, and the physical toll would be even greater on us than it was on Max. But it’s still a pretty thought.
(You know, for what it’s worth, you are absolutely still a Betty. Forget “back in the day.” Granted, I will admit I am not a hundred percent sure what a Betty is , but I take it to be complimentary.)
Anyway, if the doctors are right, and my decline is inevitable, then there will come a point at which I can no longer hide this from you. And when that happens, I won’t expect your forgiveness for not telling you sooner, but maybe I can hand you this journal and you will understand, at least a little, why I put it off as long as I did. I might be able to fool myself into thinking it’s for your sake, but I know that’s not the truth.
It’s for mine.