Timeline: 7x9 Signs and Wonders. Reference to 7x7 Orison.

Category: Post-episode

Mulder peered over his glasses at Scully sitting at her table in the corner. She was seemingly deeply engaged in writing up their file on the snake cult. He thought perhaps she liked the bizarre religious cases the best—she could really go tit for tat with him on religious beliefs, engage him in the banter he so unrepentantly enjoyed. Never one to leave a case unscathed, Mulder had returned to D.C. with several snake bites to show for their latest investigation. The bites, while painful, had served as an excuse to call Scully late last evening—he was running out of those reasons recently, so a new case certainly helped.

He'd been calling her for years in the middle of the night to bounce case file questions off of her, half because he had trouble restraining his enthusiasm for the unsolved and half because he liked hearing her sleepy voice speaking to him over the receiver. That voice kept him company in his otherwise lonely existence. Scully could have started turning off her ringer years ago—he knew she had every right to a good night's sleep, when she could get one. But she never did completely disconnect, and Mulder was intensely thankful that she hadn't. Only trouble was, when there wasn't a case to discuss, Mulder had to lay on his couch alone, watching old science fiction movies.

Some time ago, she had spent the night at his apartment, while investigators tore through her private effects, making quick work of the crime scene. Too quick, Mulder considered. If they had taken their sweet time, he might have coaxed his partner into staying with him for a couple of days. But they'd been efficient, and Scully had returned home, acting as if her apartment had not recently been the scene of a near-murder and deadly shooting. Some people would have blanched at the thought of returning to their home after such an incident, but not Agent Scully. Scully's apartment had seen worse, Mulder conceded, and so had Scully.

In a way he was proud of her stoicism. He welcomed comforting her, if that's what she needed and she would allow him to do it. He could replay in his mind at his leisure—Scully leaning against his chest, her breath against his skin, and the soft feel of her lips. But the fact that she could wake up the next morning after having been through such a traumatic event and insist on returning to work…well that was the Agent Scully he couldn't help but admire. That Scully was separate from the one who had cried in his arms, but he loved them both.

Scully looked up from her work, catching Mulder's lingering gaze. "Yes?" she asked.

Mulder reached up to his chest. "My bites are bothering me again."

Scully put down her pen. "I told you last night that the antivenom might cause itching and swelling for the next few days."

"You think I have serum poisoning?"

"No, you showed no signs of it last night."

"Wanna check me out again, Doctor?" Mulder asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Scully titled her head, looking down her nose at him and fixing him with a stony glare.

"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging and stretching his arms above his head.

Scully turned back to her work. 'Please tell me he didn't call me up at midnight last night complaining about those bites just to drag me over to his apartment so we could play doctor,' she thought to herself. 'Or give me the strength not to kill him, if he did.'

Of course, she had to admit that he had only called to query her about the bites, which certainly were swollen. She had been the one to insist on coming over to examine him. She could have advised that he make a trip to the ER, but that thought had never crossed her mind. She had been taking care of Mulder for so long that it had become second nature to her.

"You almost finished with that report?" he asked, pushing papers around on his desk.

"No. You want to finish it up for me? Get it on Skinner's desk pronto?"

Mulder turned his back to her, pulling out a drawer from the filing cabinet. "No way. I lived the snakes. You can write about them."

Since when had Mulder ever finished a report for her? "I'll be sure to mention how you didn't scream like a girl," Scully promised as she began to type, holding the pen in her mouth.

Mulder stood up carrying a file in his hand. "You do that and there's a free pizza in it for you tonight," he remarked, tapping on her table with the file before exiting the office.

Later that afternoon, Scully had printed out the report and begun to pack up her things.

"Finished?" Mulder asked from across the room.

"I'm going to head upstairs, give this to Skinner, and then leave early for the day." She paused. "Unless you have something you need me for."

She watched his face. She could see that he was trying to think of some way to keep her there. Mulder never left early and he probably couldn't understand why she might want to.

Finally he shook his head 'no.' "No, you go ahead, Scully."

Scully turned the knob on the door, but stopped herself. "You owe me a pizza."

"Oh yeah? I come out pretty heroic in there, huh?" Mulder asked, pointing at the file she carried.

Scully tilted her head, holding up the file. "Well, you don't scream like a girl."

...

Scully was sitting cross-legged in her overstuffed chair reading, when she heard a knock at the door. She glanced at the clock: 10:13. She set her book on the table and shuffled to the door in her slippers. Her hair was still wet from the shower she had taken some fifteen minutes ago and she had changed into running pants and a white t-shirt. She peered through the peep-hole. Mulder's distorted grin met her gaze as he raised a box of pizza. She unlocked and opened the door.

"You didn't already eat, did you?"

"No," she lied. She had given up on Mulder ever arriving some time ago. Who ate dinner at this hour if you didn't have to? "Mushrooms?" she asked hopefully.

"Not a chance." Mulder set the pizza down on her coffee table and slipped off his leather jacket.

"Let me guess…pepperoni?"

"Fungus doesn't belong on a pizza," Mulder replied in a sing-song voice.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't surprise me. I couldn't take that kind of shock." They'd had this debate maybe one hundred times in seedy motels while on assignment.

Mulder flopped down on her sofa as she went into the kitchen to get plates and napkins.

She called to him from the kitchen. "Were you at the Bureau all of this time?"

"Yeah."

Scully shook her head. "You want something to drink?"

"You got iced tea?"

Scully opened her refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher she had made earlier in the evening. Generally, it was either iced tea or orange juice for Mulder: she was certain that Mulder drank straight from the carton at home, but she wouldn't allow bachelor-like flaws like that in her home. Scully joined him on the sofa, handing him his glass of tea and a plate with a napkin tucked underneath. Mulder had already opened the pizza box and was eating a slice without the benefit of a plate or napkin.

"Hand me a slice," she said as she kicked off her slippers and pulled her legs up under her. Mulder reached forward and pulled loose a piece with less pepperoni than his own. "Thanks," she said taking it from him. Mulder picked up the plate and placed his piece on it, before turning to wink at her.

"How are your wounds?" she asked, taking a bite.

"Haven't even thought about them." They'd gone from burning to itching; Mulder didn't know which was worse. But he was tired and he didn't want to go through another examination by his partner. The kind of jokes that sort of moment required might fall flat due to the current time and place. A pretty doctor might get tired of that shtick when you've invaded her apartment for the third time in a week.

"You sure you don't want me to take a look at them?"

Scully had a drip of pizza sauce on her lower lip that her tongue snaked out to retrieve. Mulder watched her mouth for a moment, before realizing that Scully had fixed him with 'the look'—the what are you staring at, Mulder?—look. He wasn't supposed to notice her, or he wasn't supposed to let her know that he noticed her: it made her nervous. He dragged his eyes up from her pretty little pink lips to meet her stern gaze.

"No, I don't want to play doctor," he said with a pout.

Mulder picked up the remote and turned on the TV. "Wanna see what's on?"

Scully shrugged in response. She glanced sideways at him. She couldn't decide whether Mulder was increasingly knocking on her door late at night and calling at odd hours because he was checking up on her after her latest brush with death or if he was in need of reassurance—about himself, about her, or about their partnership. She couldn't tell. If she had managed to pull it together better immediately after the Pfaster incident, he might not be hovering quite as much, she speculated.

She knew Mulder well enough at this point to realize that she didn't need to feel patronized by these transparent machinations: he knew that she didn't need minding. No, his increased attentions were less paternalistic and more…Scully struggled to find the right tag. She had done him the good turn of not mentioning waking up curled up alongside him in his bed and in return he had done her the favor of not mentioning the kiss they'd shared. Maybe spending this time together proved to him that they were all right and that one night of collapsing boundaries wasn't going to tear them apart or that she wasn't going to bolt.

She believed…no, she had convinced herself that despite a momentary weakness, she would be okay…they would be okay. She could prove this by getting up and going to work the next day. Allowing Mulder to drop by her apartment with offerings of food. Refusing to blush when she visited his apartment to check on his injuries as he lay in the bed that they had shared. Business as usual she told herself. Evidence that despite being human, she could and would overcome momentary blunders. That was her method of coping. Maybe this was Mulder's.

Mulder had found "The Fly" on TV and stretched back into the cotton fabric of the sofa. Scully smiled at him.

Mulder turned, knitting his eyebrows with just the hint of a smile playing on his lips: "What?"

Scully leaned back as well. "We haven't watched this one in a while," she replied.

"Next time I'll bring 'Plan Nine' just for you," he promised with a broad grin.

And if Mulder needed to sit and watch "The Fly" with her for the umpteenth time, then she wasn't going to complain.

Mulder woke up with sunlight coming in through Scully's blinds painting small bands of light across his face. He scrubbed his face with his hands before sleepily looking around. There she was curled up on the couch next to him, looking perhaps five years younger with sleep casting a tranquil mask over her usually tensely composed face. The TV was still on: the carefully quaffed morning news anchors silently formed words, as Mulder had muted the set hours earlier, when he first noticed Scully's nodding head.

Pathetic really—he considered in the growing light of day—keeping her up at night to suit his own needs. He fought the urge to scratch at his numerous wounds. Yes, completely pathetic. Scully's brother Bill was right: he was a sorry son of a bitch. And yet, seeing her like this, he wondered how he could help being anything but.