Mulder hadn't thought she was pretty when they first met. Looking back on it now, he knew his smugness was born out of a bone-deep insecurity about his place in the FBI. But at that time, he'd dismissed her as dowdy and earnest, all baby fat and puffed up shoulders. Dana Katharine was no threat to his position there at the X-Files. The least they could have done was to send a more seductive spy to undermine him.
A few nights after that, she'd stood cackling in an open grave, rain plastering their clothes to their bodies and he could swear she wanted him to kiss her. The idea flashed in his head—by the book Scully would immediately resign if they spent a night rolling in the mud. He could read her right down to that little gold cross on her neck. Catholic girls and their guilt. He could show her the time of her life and be truly rid of her in the morning.
But he hadn't, because even at that early date in their partnership the thought of being rid of her made his chest pinch. Mulder knew they worked well together; her strong intellect and rigorous discipline was a complement to his untamed mind. Even though rationality said he shouldn't, he trusted her. When had he ever been rational. His growing admiration of her was just as arbitrary as his initial rejection of her had been. Mulder accepted it though, just as he'd accepted her. She'd investigated one case with him and already he felt a like he'd finally found his partner.
The longer they worked together, the more he knew his intuition had steered him right. He could rely on her even when he could not rely upon himself. Though it infuriated him, her regimented approach saved their asses over and over again. Still, sometimes when they talked he craved for her to simply believe him, just once. Each reasoned argument felt like a subtle rejection, like he was stripping naked and all she could do was roll her eyes.
When they lost the X-Files, she'd tried so hard to see him socially. He'd resisted, unwilling to be placated by contact with her. If he had Scully in his life, half of his attraction to the X-Files would be gone. Though he needed to speak with her, craved her company, the little play dates she set up felt like poor substitute for their work.
Once she'd invited him over for dinner. It was only once.
Since she'd had so much spare time without him having to fly across the country chasing aliens, she'd taken a cooking class. He came over to her apartment with a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa, and she'd created handmade pasta and Bolognese sauce. He wished he'd bothered to ask what they were having, since he'd assumed pizza.
Scully had set her table with linen and busted out the good china. The candles in the middle were the last, farcical touch. He'd blown them out with a chuckle and flicked the lights on, noticing too late how her face fell.
Mulder tried to relight the tapers, but she wouldn't be patronized. They ate her splendid meal in front of the television at her insistence. The food was heartbreakingly good, the pasta light and airy complement to the rich sauce. Guilt killed his appetite because all her effort had been wasted on him. If this was a date it was a tacit acceptance that their professional partnership was over. He couldn't let that go.
He tried to start the conversation, but it kept freezing in place.
"Scully, did you know that Marco Polo didn't introduce pasta to Italy?"
"Yes, I did. It was a marketing ploy concocted in 1929 by the National Macaroni Manufacturers Association."
"That's right."
"I know it's right. I'm the one who showed you that article."
"Oh yeah."
She'd set her plate down on the coffee table and crossed her legs. He noticed that she'd gained a little weight since they stopped working together, but wisely thought now would not be the time to bring it up. There would never be a time to bring it up.
"The Knicks game is on. Didn't you want to watch it?"
"Not really."
"I thought that was why you invited me over."
"Mulder, when have I ever expressed any interest in basketball?" She sighed, her eyes going skyward.
"But when we spoke earlier, I mentioned the game."
"I thought you were coming over in spite of it." She smiled for the first time since they'd started eating. Short and rueful and not really a smile at all. "You can watch it. I'll clean up."
"No, I'll help you with the dishes."
They washed and dried in silence, mutual embarrassment making the mundane activity even less bearable than usual. At 7:30 he made a hasty exit, when he got home he was unable to sleep the rest of the night. The next day he called her, and she pretended it never happened. He let her, because it was easier, because Mulder couldn't deal with his own feelings, let alone hers.
Two weeks later she vanished, kidnapped by a psychopath he himself had mollycoddled and enabled. As Mulder stared at the last photograph of her face peeking out of a car trunk, a gag jammed in her mouth, he wondered how he could have ever thought she was plain. How did he ever look at her without his breath catching in his chest? How could he catch his breath now, when he might never see her face again?
He searched and flailed, fell into bed with a beautiful, doomed woman. Someone else who he couldn't save. Then, indifferent to all his efforts and failings too, Scully returned. She lingered between life and death. Mulder wanted to believe their reunion was a miracle, but he knew something more sinister was at play. The cigarette smoking man confirmed it.
"I like you. I like her, too. That's why she was returned to you."
He hovered by her bedside as much a ghost as she was, until the thread holding her in this world got stronger and pulled her back. She returned to herself, whole and well, against all reason. Mulder wanted to believe his need for her had sustained her through the worst. His faith was all he had against the chaos of the universe, and even though he'd never been a praying man, he wasn't too proud to beg. He'd supplicated at her bedside and pledged eternal devotion—any and all worship, body, mind soul.
When she looked at him, miraculously restored, none of the dark reasons behind her kidnapping mattered. She held his hand, smiled at his feeble jokes and thanked him for never giving up on her.
As the days went by, she moved further into health, away from the dark. Instead of returning to a temple befitting a savior who'd come back from the dead, she shuffled down to his basement office and her half of the desk. Her face was a mask, her vulnerability all buttoned up in a suit. He couldn't tell her about his tardy realization, that he loved her, needed her more than anything. Not when she was more closed off than ever. His love would be just another thing to process.
Weeks turned into months. He got comfortable with the weight of his love sliding back and forth in his chest. Its dull ache had a reassuring quality, reminding him he was indeed alive.
Then suddenly Scully went missing again and the weight expanded, crushing him. She'd been taken by a monster, except this time the mystery was not ephemeral. There was no greater conspiracy, just a man, simple in his ugliness.
The killer they'd been closing in on harvested trophies from corpses. His unfathomable hatred of women had focused on Scully. Mulder found them just in time, as Donnie Pfaster knelt over Scully. Finally, Mulder had saved her.
Mulder took her hands in his. He held them for a moment before untying the rope that bound them. Her pale wrists were bruised by the restraints.
"Why don't you sit down until someone can take a look at you," Mulder said, softly.
"Mulder, I'm fine."
But she wasn't. She broke down, sobbing into his chest and he hated himself that they'd been brought together that way by another violation. He held her for a moment, her small body quaking. The only times she ever seemed small were the moments when he had her in his arms. Mulder wanted to get her away from all these people, to some safe place. But there weren't any safe places in that house. The best he could do was stand beside her as she gave the account over and over again while agents scoured the rooms for evidence. More fingers in the freezer. When a forensic detective brought those out in a little cooler, Mulder couldn't help it—he clutched Scully's hand.
Two hours and thirty-seven minutes later, she'd had a cursory exam by a paramedic, recited her litany of horrors to four separate detectives, been taped, photographed and been compelled to give her clothes over for evidence. When they were finally allowed to leave, Scully wore a pair of scrubs given to her by the paramedics and his overcoat. She leaned heavily on him as they walked to his car. They got in; he busied himself with the seatbelt and the keys while she watched the blue and red police lights spinning outside the window. He looked at her. Purple bruises splotched along her lower jaw. He fought back tears.
"What do you need?"
She looked down at her pale fingers, barely peeking out of the cuffs of his coat.
"Stay with me," she said, plaintively.
"Of course. Do you want something to eat?"
"No, let's just go back to the hotel."
She didn't have a hotel room. Instead of going through the added hassle of checking her in, he took her to his. There was no feeble protest on her part, no recitation of the FBI rules. She shed his coat on her way to the bathroom, not noticing where it landed. Mulder loosened his tie, kicked out of his shoes. He stooped down and picked up the coat. A shiny, red hair rested on the collar. The shower creaked on in the bathroom. Gently, he plucked the hair from his coat. This was what Pfaster would have reduced Scully to. Repulsed, Mulder threw the hair away.
By the time she came out of the bathroom, swaddled in a white bathrobe he hadn't known was there, he'd tidied up the space.
Their eyes met. Hers were terrified.
She walked to the bed and got under the covers without a word of explanation. It wasn't as though she needed to give him one. There was no place else for him to sleep, not even a folding chair. He eased out of his suit coat, hung it up in the closet. Tension seemed to radiate off of her.
"Do you want me to leave the light on?" he asked.
"Shut it off."
He flicked off the switch and got in bed beside her. Mulder laid over top the covers just to make sure she didn't get the wrong idea. For a moment he wondered if she wanted him to put his arm around her, until she inched back into his side. The movement felt like an invitation, so he held her, and she calmed down.
"You're safe now."
"We both know that's impossible, Mulder."
"How many times have we seen the impossible together?"
"Those were all improbable."
He could hear a smile hinting at the edges of her words.
"Tonight, just shut off that big, beautiful brain of yours and believe me. I'll keep you safe."
"Okay." She clasped his hand, pulling him tight against her.
They were forced to stay a week at the hotel in order to complete the investigation. She didn't get her own room even though it was against protocol. After what she'd been through, Mulder dared anyone to say a word. Each night they got closer, slowly shedding layers, until the final evening, when he held her under the blankets, each wearing nothing but their underwear. She turned to look at him, just the outline of her cheek barely visible in the dark. Her voice sounded fragile, as soft as she felt beside him.
"I want you to know I'm grateful Mulder. What you've done for me, it's difficult to express…"
"There's nothing to be grateful for."
"But when we get home, it can't be this way. I don't know if I will be able to…I don't know when I'll be able to be with someone."
"Someone?"
"You." She paused, traced his face with light fingers. When she spoke, her voice cracked. "So much has happened to me recently. I feel safe with you, but I don't know if I'm able to give you more than this."
"I understand." He folded her in his arms. She kissed his cheek, nuzzled his neck.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He listened to her breathing even out and felt her body go lax. He'd been lying when he said he understood. He didn't, not at all.
Clearly, she loved him as much as he loved her.
She felt safe with him. That idea rankled for some reason.
In the lofty academic circles Mulder had once traveled in, he'd always been something of a bad boy. In retrospect, that's the only crowd where he could've been considered edgy, but that made no difference. If the posh, trust-fund girls he ran with at university wanted to piss their parents off, he was the first mistake they made. He wasn't sure why he resented Scully's trust when he'd courted it relentlessly, but safe was something he'd never wanted to be to her.
His love for her retreated to more comfortable places.
They were friends, partners. If he were being honest he knew she filled all the space of a girlfriend in his life except for the one that he wanted most. With Scully there was no reason to mess around with the fold-out couch. Every once and a while, when they were on a case in a shabby hotel, she would ask to share his bed. It was always chaste, but intimate. She'd wear her silly satin pajamas, the ones that looked like a silky business suit, but for night. He'd swaddle her in a blanket and wrap himself around her. She would politely ignore his erection. Her small soft hands would slide over his chest, down his back, but he wouldn't do the same. The first time he'd tried it, her body went rigid. She didn't swat him away or make any move at all. She didn't say no, he could have kept going, but he could tell she was afraid. That's not how he wanted it to be between them, so he stopped.
When she'd thrash with nightmares, he'd soothe her back to sleep. Sharing a bed was their seldom but regular habit. He knew when she'd come to him—the first night of the investigation unless she had to do an autopsy. Then each night after that. He never fell asleep before she did. Sometimes Scully would hold him so tight he'd have bruises the next morning. The marks felt like badges of honor.
But she would never let him initiate these moments in either of their homes. In a weird way it made him feel cheap, like some kind of shameful cuddle slut. Which is why he made CuddleSlut his AOL handle.
The bed-sharing stopped abruptly when Scully walked in on him being awkwardly seduced by Detective White after they'd failed to solve the mystery of the horny beast.
Scully had almost killed them when they were driving home.
"Slow down!" Involuntarily his hand flew out and he grabbed her wrist. She slammed on the breaks, pitching him forward. She'd thrown the car in park, gotten out and started walking. She hadn't even bothered to shut the door behind her. Mulder swore to himself before following her. With his long legs, he caught up to her in seconds. Scully marched with her arms across her chest and her eyes on the ground.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" he asked.
"This is all so easy for you, Mulder."
"What's easy? Driving? Because I think we agree that I should be the one doing that from now on."
She threw the keys in his general direction. The sharp, shiny metal hit him in the chest and he nearly stumbled trying to catch them.
"Scully, this isn't you, this is a fluke of planetary alignment."
"You're getting dangerously close to blaming my reactions on my menstrual cycle, Mulder."
He chuckled but she didn't even crack a smile. Treading softly seemed the best course of action.
"Then tell me what's wrong."
She sighed, her back even straighter than before.
"Do you know why I was assigned to the X-Files?"
"To debunk my work."
"No, Mulder. Why it had to be me. Have you ever thought about me before you came into my life?"
He had thought a lot about it, actually. So much so that before he'd even met her, he'd gathered enough information to do a psychological profile on her. There was no way he was letting that slip, though.
"Tell me."
"Remember Jack?"
"Of course, I do."
"He'd been my instructor at the academy."
"I told you, I remember. I have eidetic memory."
"You don't need to brag." She smirked.
"I remember everything about you, Scully." He didn't know why that made him so angry. She knew all that—she knew everything and there she was, talking to him like they barely knew one another.
"It didn't matter to anyone that I'd transferred out of the class when I realized we had feelings for one another. The rumor still stuck that I'd gotten my grades through less than academic means."
"Bad girl Scully."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"You like it, too."
"It's a good story."
"No, just a familiar one. I found out a few weeks after being assigned to you that the plan had always been to discredit you one way or the other. If not through my honest research, then by saying we were lovers, that my observations were yours to shape."
He reached out to touch her, but she flinched away.
"How is any of that easy for me?"
"Because no matter who you fuck, Mulder, even if it's during an active investigation, it would never negate your life's work. But for me, I'm judged on what others imagine I might do. I'm suspect by being present. It's exhausting." She took out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, then crushed them in disgust, before throwing the box over her shoulder. The most responsible, thorough person he knew had just littered. No X-File could have shaken him more.
"You never said anything like this, how was I supposed to know?"
"Because you can figure out that an invisible elephant is being controlled by an ancient cat god after five seconds at a crime scene. I thought you'd notice something that's defined my life and my choices since the first day we met."
"That's why you only want to cuddle when we're on the road? You didn't want to risk being seen together." His heart began to sink.
"Yes." She laughed mirthlessly. "I thought you felt something that you don't. I thought you were being patient with me, we were moving toward something. But that wasn't the case. Dr. Birnbaum and now Detective White. It's obvious that I was deceiving myself."
"You wanted to be together, like a couple?"
"This is so humiliating." She turned on her heel, back toward the car.
It was then he realized she'd already thought of them as a couple. Scully had been tentatively reaching out to him for months. So many times, she'd slid her hand beneath his shirt and rested it over his heart. Whispered that she loved to hear him breathing, the feel of his skin stopped her nightmares. Of course, they were in a relationship.
He chased after her, catching her arm just before she went into the car. She shoved his hand away. They stood a few feet from one another, both looking ashamed.
"I'm sorry—" they both said at once. She smiled and his heart started to beat again.
"I didn't realize."
"I got that, Mulder. Let's forget it ever happened. Please. For my pride." Scully got in the car and slammed the door shut. He stood there a moment, the wind playing with his tie. Detective White wasn't really his fault—he'd flirted with her, but he'd tried to stop her advances. Sort of. Dr. Birnbaum was entirely and specifically his fault, so bringing her up would just fray the rope further. Mulder tried to concoct some sort of defense, but he couldn't think of anything at all. He got in the car. She'd already buckled her seatbelt and begun to examine the map. The only indication of their conversation was the red blush burning up her cheek.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you, too," she said, automatically as though he hadn't shoved all his courage behind the words, as though they'd said them a million times before. "Where does that leave us?"
She had a point. They loved each other and she froze when he touched her. He couldn't live like that. Even though she was working on her intimacy issues, he could slip and set her back to the start with a betrayal of trust.
And if it worked out, what then? Even if they were going at it like Playboy Bunnies on coke night, Scully wanted a family and children, a life in the daylight. They couldn't share that together without risking the X-Files. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to have children. And she was integral to his work. Without her he had no center of gravity. She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
"I…just wanted you to know," he said.
"Okay." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I think we should take a left at the next stop sign."