Work Text:
1.
She hesitates for just a moment, hand raised in indecision before she knocks firmly on the door between their rooms. It takes him no more than a few seconds to answer.
“Scully?” he asks, and the dark circles under his eyes are prominent even in the dim light of the bedside lamp, which is his only light source in the room.
“I could hear you pacing,” she says.
He winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”
“You didn't,” she assures him. “I guess I shouldn't have had all that soda before bed.” She draws her robe tighter around herself – these rooms are always drafty. “I saw the light through the gap underneath your door.”
The corners of his mouth twitch; not quite a smile. “Yeah, I guess that's one of the drawbacks of adjoining rooms.”
“What's going on, Mulder?”
He sighs and takes a step back, letting her inside. “I can't sleep.”
“That much is obvious. Any reason?”
He's still in his clothes, shirt sleeves rolled up, only his suit jacket tossed carelessly onto the bed. The exhaustion in his eyes is more than just lack of sleep. She stands there and watches him, waits as he starts pacing again.
“We had it, Scully,” he finally says, his voice full of frustration. “Proof. Evidence. We had it and we lost it. It's all gone. They won again. And again, there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.”
She nods and takes a step closer, puts a hand on his arm to stop him from treading holes in the carpet. “I know,” she says. “I really wish -” She pauses, lifts her shoulders in a helpless shrug. She wishes so many things. That just for once, they would have been able to have something tangible to take back to their superiors. That all of this wouldn't seem so hopeless. “I really wish we had something.”
He runs a hand across his tired face and tries to smile it all away. “Go back to bed, Scully. It's after two a.m.”
She takes hold of his wrist and leads him over to the bed, sits down on the edge of the saggy mattress and waits for him to sit down next to her. “They won't always win,” she promises, a hope they keep trading back and forth among themselves depending on who needs to hear it more. “We'll keep going. Like we always do.”
“For how long?” he asks.
“For however long it takes.”
“They're always two steps ahead.” His voice cracks, and her heart breaks for him. His eyes are red-rimmed, a whole history of defeat in them, and without thinking, she pulls him close, one hand on the back of his head until he leans his face against her shoulder.
It really felt like they were getting close this time, and his disappointment cuts deep into her soul.
She has never felt this protective of anyone. He never hides his pain from her, never has, and the thought only makes her hold on tighter to him. He trusts no one, and yet he puts his sore, trembling heart into her hands and trusts her to be gentle with it. And she will be, she will keep it safe, she will keep him safe. Can a soul be touch-starved?
You can fall apart, she wants to tell him, I’m here. You’re no longer on your own. There’s two of us now and I’m not going anywhere.
She can feel him relaxing into her arms. Maybe he already knows.
2.
His heart is beating double-time in his chest as they pull her out of the narrow cave – she's deathly pale and her eyes are closed and oh god she's not . . . she can't be . . .
He grabs under her arms and pulls her the rest of the way out, a good few feet away from the mouth of the cave before carefully lowering her to the ground and kneeling down next to her.
“Scully,” he says, voice pleading, one hand cupping her face, the other brushing wet hair from her forehead. She's covered all over in some slimy substance and the acrid smell of it makes him gag, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he just needs her to be alive, please let her be alive . . .
She flutters her eyes open, gaze unfocused for a second before it lands on him, and it takes her a long moment before she manages to speak. “Mulder? What happened?”
“It's okay, you're okay,” he assures her. She has to be. She has to be. “We've got you. You're okay.”
He can see the moment she remembers everything, the confusion on her face turning to realization, a shadow of fear in her eyes. “How long was I -”
“Two days,” he says, and is proud of the way his voice isn't shaking. His hands definitely are and he wonders if she can feel it where his palm is still resting against her grimy cheek.
“Oh.” She closes her eyes again for just a second, and when she opens them again he can see the remnants of shock fading, slowly giving way to relief. “Thanks for finding me.”
He lets out a long exhale before he pulls her up into his arms and hugs her close. “We almost didn't,” he says.
“Mulder,” she protests, “I'm covered in slime, you'll get it all over your suit.”
“Too late,” he answers, and squeezes her tighter, so relieved when he feels her arms sliding around his back, holding onto him almost as fiercely as he's holding onto her. “We'll burn our clothes in a celebratory bonfire later.”
That makes her laugh, even though her voice still sounds weak, and he can feel her turning her face into his chest. He hears the throbbing of his pulse in his ears and he feels like crying, but he won't, he will be strong for her. God, he was scared, he was so scared, he can't even imagine what she must have been feeling.
“I think I need a shower,” she says.
“The medics will want to check you out first.”
“I know.”
“They’ll want to take you to the hospital for -”
“I don’t need a hospital. I need a shower.”
“Once they tell me that you’re fine, I'll take you home.”
“I'm not going in your car like this.”
“I'll cover the seats in plastic,” he says. “Besides, I’m definitely as gross as you are by now.”
“Thank you,” she says, and he knows it's time to let go, but he can't, he simply can't, and she's not letting go either. He will hold her until she stops shaking. The stuff she's covered in is seeping through the fabric of his shirt and it's entirely disgusting, but it doesn't matter, all that matters is that she's safe and breathing and he didn't lose her. Nothing else is important. Not right now. Not ever.
3.
“So you're off the hook?” she asks from her seat on his couch. “Kersh let it go?”
“He wasn't happy,” he says, the anger still burning in his chest. “Apparently I'm reckless and could have gotten us killed, and I can't keep wasting the Bureau's money on my personal vendettas.”
“You didn't,” she says, outrage in her voice. “That was an official case. He's got my report on it too and he didn't want to talk to me about it.”
“Guess who was in the room with him,” he says.
“Of course.” She lets her head fall back against the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “I thought I smelled cigarette smoke on you. But that means -”
“I know,” he interrupts her. “I'm just so sick of it. Of having every single one of our moves under constant scrutiny. Never knowing what they'll let us get away with and what they'll suddenly see as 'crossing the line.'”
“We just have to live with that,” she points out, then looks at him until he meets her eyes. “I'm sorry he chewed you out like that. It was uncalled for. I don’t think we did anything wrong.”
“Yeah, well.” He sits down next to her on the couch and reaches for the bowl of popcorn. “Let's just . . . move on, okay? Have you picked a movie?”
She shakes her head. “You pick one.”
“It's your turn,” he says. “I picked last time.”
“But I can't think of anything.”
“I know you have a tape in your bag.” He nudges her shoulder with his own. “What did you bring?”
“Nothing,” she answers. “It doesn't matter. I changed my mind. I don’t wanna watch it anymore.”
He gives her a long look. “Are you letting me pick a movie because you feel sorry for me?”
She pats his knee and leaves her hand there. “You've had a bad day. I'm not going to make you sit through a movie I know you'll hate.”
“What if you hate what I choose?” His anger is all but gone, replaced with something tender and warm and entirely for her.
“Then I'll let you know all about it afterwards.”
“I know you will,” he says, and covers her hand on his knee with his own. “You may not believe me, but I'm always looking forward to that part of our movie nights.”
She turns her hand palm up to give his fingers a quick squeeze before nodding at the TV. “Pick something then. I'll get us drinks.”
“Deal,” he says, “but you will definitely regret it.”
His palm misses the touch of hers immediately as she lets go and he quickly busies himself with his VHS collection. He will let her pick the next two movies. It’s the least he can do.
4.
“Can't you get out of it somehow, if you really don't want to go?” he asks.
She sighs deeply, not even lifting her head off the desk as she answers, “No. I already said yes, and I have absolutely no excuse not to go.” She sighs again. She thinks she's allowed to make the full extent of her suffering about this known loudly and repeatedly. “A whole afternoon, all by myself surrounded by couples who will talk about nothing but the houses they've just bought, about their kids, about their vacations in Europe, and about the stock market. And I’ll have to listen to the same questions over and over again: when will I finally settle down, don't I want a normal life, do I even know what I'm missing . . . Just kill me now. Please.”
“I could come with you,” he offers, and she knows he means it.
“What would I tell them? They know you're my partner. My work partner. If you come with me, they'll all think . . . You know.”
“Let them.” He shrugs. “What's the big deal?”
She finally lifts her head and gives him an incredulous look. “The big deal is that it's a family friend’s birthday and my mother's going to be there too, and that she will think that you and I are -”
“She likes me,” he says with a grin that's way more charming than it has any right to be. “She'll be excited for you.”
“She does like you. Which would make it even worse.”
“Well, the offer stands anyway.”
“Thank you,” she says. “But I think I'll just have to get through this by myself. It will be fine. Even though I'd rather walk right into a serial killer's den. But no. It'll be okay.” The sad part is, she really is only half joking about the serial killer's den part. But there simply is no excuse she can come up with that would get her out of this. She thinks even if a serial killer actually did murder her, they’d still expect her to come back to life for long enough to have cake and hear all about the ticking of her biological clock. There’s nothing else for it; she will just have to put on a fake smile for one afternoon and count fluffy kittens in her head until it’s over.
**
It's as bad as she imagined it would be, maybe worse. Most of them are nice, really nice, but there’s always that one couple. It takes all of ten minutes before she finds herself at the receiving end of an enthusiastic speech about the bliss of motherhood and family, and even if it were any of their business, there wouldn’t be any point telling them that the option had been taken from her forever anyway so they can save their energy. Apparently she isn't married because she hasn't met the right guy yet, and she has a career because she hasn't met the right guy yet, and if she doesn’t hurry up and nail down the right guy this very minute, somebody else is going to snatch him up. Worst of all is the husband though: apparently he wouldn’t mind at all if his wife went back to work part-time, once the kids were old enough. So she can still have a job and do the cleaning and cooking and childcare on top of it. She wishes she’d chosen pointier shoes, it would hurt more that way if she kicked him in the groin.
It's been half an hour and the two are still following her around like puppies shoving pictures of their kids under her nose, and she's just contemplating if it would be too overly dramatic to cut her wrists open with a stainless steel cake server in front of the entire party, when the doorbell rings. She thinks nothing of it until one of the women whose name she doesn't quite remember waves her over. “Dana? Someone at the door for you.”
She raises her eyebrows, but the woman doesn’t volunteer any more information.
When she gets to the door, Mulder is standing there, a very serious look on his face.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. There are at least two women and three men hovering in the background behind her to see if anything exciting is about to go down.
“Scully, I'm sorry,” he says, “but we have a new lead on our case, and I know you said you were taking the afternoon off, and I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t absolutely necessary, but this is very time-sensitive and I can't do it alone.”
She tries to figure out what could possibly be this important – they didn't even have a case when she left the office early this afternoon. “What case? What lead?”
He looks over her shoulder and then leans in closer, whispering so loudly everyone else in the hallway is definitely going to hear him, “Top secret. I'll tell you in the car.”
Her confusion is complete, but at least she supposes she has a way out of here now. “Okay,” she says. “I just have to find my mom and tell her that I'm leaving and that she'll have to get a lift home from someone else.”
“Of course,” he says. “But hurry up, our flight is in one hour.”
She nods and turns back into the house.
Mulder is waiting for her by the car once she’s made her excuses and escaped the house, and she joins him on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” he says. “I hope that was okay.”
“Well, if it's that urgent,” she says, “that's not your fault. So, will you fill me in on our new case on the way?”
He looks sheepish for a second before he meets her eyes and his expression turns to something between guilty and amused.
“There is no case, is there?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
She has no choice but to smile back at him. “If half the neighborhood weren't watching, I'd hug you,” she says, and he shrugs.
“It would give them something to talk about.”
“They're probably already plotting how they’ll get me to marry you. At least two of them are most likely compiling a list of venues and flower arrangers as we speak.”
“If you really want to shock them, I'll get down on one knee right here on the sidewalk,” he says, and for a moment she can't help imagining him actually doing that, and oh god those vibes in that house must have altered her brain chemistry in a big way. She pushes the thought away.
“How did you even know where I was? I don’t remember giving you an address.”
“I’m with the FBI,” he says and the corners of his mouth lift in a sly grin. “I know everything.”
“Of course you do,” she says, “Let's get out of here.” And he seems happy enough to do just that.
5.
He feels like he's dying. Really, actually dying. His head hurts, his whole body feels weak, his muscles and bones are aching so badly he can barely move. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this awful, and his body has been through a lot over the past years.
“Mulder?” a familiar voice says from his bedroom doorway, and with great effort he lifts his head up far enough to see Scully standing there, arms crossed, face worried.
“Scully, I'm dying,” he tells her. His throat is sore and speaking hurts. He can’t even breathe through his nose.
She walks over and sits down on the edge of his bed, putting a cool hand to his sweaty forehead. “You have a fever.”
“Yeah,” he says and sinks back into the pillows.
“I was worried when you didn't show up to work this morning.”
“Oh, shit.” He tries to get a look at his alarm clock. “What time is it?”
“After ten,” she says. “You wouldn't answer your phone either, so I decided to come check on you.”
“Fuck, I'm sorry,” he says. He's just so weak, too weak. “I don't know what's wrong with me, maybe it's from that stuff we were exposed to in -”
“No, it's not,” she interrupts him. She hands him a tissue from the box on the nightstand and he blows his nose.
“Then what's wrong with me?”
She takes his hand and she looks so calm, and he wonders if she's trying to break it to him gently that he won't survive the day. “It’s a bad cold, Mulder. It's going around.”
He blinks at her. “Are you sure?”
She smiles. “I'm a medical doctor, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“I promise you, there are no aliens or government viruses at play here. You're sick. It happens.”
“I hate it.”
“I know. You'll be fine. I'll get you some water.”
“It’s okay, I can get it myself,” he says. “Can you wait while I get dressed? I’m not sure I should be driving.”
She raises her eyebrows at him. “Driving where?”
He doesn’t understand the question. “To work,” he says.
“You’re not going to work like this, Mulder.”
“I thought you said it was just a cold.” He reaches for another tissue and she holds out the box for him.
“You have a fever.”
“I’ll be okay.” He sneezes. That tissue box isn’t going to last long at this rate. He’ll have to get more.
“Fine.” She stands up and takes a few steps backwards. “Get up, then.”
With great effort, he pushes himself up to sit. The air is unbearably cold on his bare legs as he slides them out from under the covers, and the soft carpet feels rough under his feet. Every particle of air touching his skin makes it ache even worse.
“Come on,” she says. “If you’re feeling well enough to work, we really should get going. No time to waste.”
“Sure,” he says, and grits his teeth, gathers all his strength, and stands up off the bed. Immediately the room starts spinning circles around him and the rushing in his ears swells until his vision fades. He quickly sits back down, letting himself fall onto his back with a groan. “Shit.” Once he feels good enough to lift his head and look at her, she is wearing that smile, the one she smiles when she knows that she has won a fight, and he sighs. “Scully?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I’m coming in to work today.”
“No,” she says. “I don’t think you are.”
“But maybe you could call me from the office and -”
“I’m not leaving you on your own like this.”
He shakes his head. “You'll catch it if you stay.”
She sits back down on the edge of his mattress and brushes a hand over his hair, and the look in her eyes is soft, so soft. “I'll take my chances.”
“I don’t want you to get sick.”
“And I don’t want you to be alone. I’ll just drive back to the office and get a few things. I can do some overdue paperwork from here.”
He’s too tired to argue. And he knows he’d lose anyway, so it’s really not worth the energy.
**
“Here,” she says, putting a steaming mug down on his nightstand. “Let it cool a bit before you drink it.”
He eyes the mug carefully. “Is that . . . herbal tea?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have anything like that in my kitchen.”
“You do now.”
He feels guilty, more guilty than he already did about putting her through this. “Did you go shopping?”
“Yeah, on the way back here. I also picked up more tissues for you and some crackers, if you feel hungry later.”
“You shouldn’t have,” he says. “I’m sorry that I -”
“Get some sleep,” she interrupts him, and brushes her fingers through his hair. She’s been doing that a lot. It feels nice.
“Thank you.”
She smiles.
He drifts in and out of sleep all day, but every time he opens his eyes, she's there, making him drink, helping him to the bathroom, wiping his hot face with a cool cloth. She even helps him change into a clean T-shirt when he's sweated through the one he's wearing.
“It's okay,” she tells him, and “you'll be feeling better soon,” and “don't worry, I'm not going anywhere.” He has no idea how he will ever repay her for this, for sticking around when he’s this gross and disgusting, for helping him. He has always coped alright with being sick on his own, but he has to admit that it’s nice having someone around.
When he wakes up the next time, he actually does feel a little better. It's dark. It must be night. He lets out a long breath. That probably means she's gone home. At least he no longer feels like his meeting with the grim reaper is imminent. He will take that as a win.
He has to pee, so he carefully climbs out of bed, the air of the room no longer hurting his sensitive skin. The fever must be gone. Everything seems fine until he stands up and the room starts spinning again. Head rush. He sits back down quickly and groans a little as his knees give out halfway down.
“Hey.”
He turns his head and there she is standing in the doorway of his bedroom. “Scully?” he asks.
“Are you okay?” She comes over and kneels in front of him, taking his hands in hers, a look of concern on her face.
“I thought you'd gone home,” he says.
“I told you I wouldn't leave you on your own. And your couch is actually pretty comfortable.”
He knows the way his heart beats a little harder at her words has nothing to do with being ill. “Thank you.”
She's wearing one of his T-shirts and a pair of his shorts to sleep in, and she looks so beautiful with her sleep-tousled hair and an imprint of a pillow crease on her cheek. He wants to tell her that, but his brain is still foggy and when he tells her important things, he wants to be able to remember them later.
The next morning, she's still there. And all through the day, until he can make it onto his couch with her help. She sets him up there with a warm blanket, a fresh mug of tea, a big box of tissues and the phone and TV remote within easy reach before she heads out to get more things from the office. She says she won’t be gone for more than an hour. She makes it back in just over forty-five minutes.
She stays another night, even after he tells her it's okay, he's feeling better, she can go home if she wants to.
Still she stays. And he thinks about that a lot. And about whether or not they're ever going to talk about it.
1
They should really be getting back, she thinks, or they will miss their flight home. It’s quite a drive to the motel from here, and they haven’t even packed yet. But the sun has come out after the rain and the air is clear and fresh and she doesn’t want to leave.
They've had a lot of beautiful days recently. And she's not just thinking about the weather.
“We should go back to the car,” she says, and he nods.
“We should.”
Her heart is full of him, and when he looks at her, she can see it in his eyes that he feels the same way about her. She takes his hands and links her fingers with his and closes her eyes as he leans down for a quick kiss. She can feel his smile in the gentle touch of his lips against hers and she answers it with one of her own.
“Sorry,” he says. “I couldn't help myself.”
“That's okay,” she says, “I would have if you hadn't.” And it's true. She never wants to not be kissing him, now that she can.
A sudden gust of wind shakes the boughs of the trees and showers the last of the rain down onto their heads. He laughs and she laughs with him, remembering a night in the rain so many years ago, and she can’t look away. His eyes meet hers as they have done from the very beginning, and in the soft light of the forest with a birch leaf in his hair and raindrops on his lashes he is perfect. Every inch of him.
“I love you,” he tells her, and her chest doesn't feel big enough for all the feelings rushing in at once.
This is what it's all about. This is what they're fighting for. A world that's whole and safe, so that everyone can be feeling like this all the time.
“I love you too,” she says, and pulls him behind a tree, just in case the sheriff should pick this moment to come and check up on them; this is private. She rises up on her toes and kisses him again.
They’ve carried the words inside of them for all these years and shaped their world around them. But some words deserve to be spoken, and she can’t imagine ever getting tired of them.