She hadn't meant to snoop.
She really and truly had been in search of another box of paper clips, and opening the drawers in Mulder's desk to look for some was so much more convenient than walking to the supply closet in her brand new pair of pumps that had been rubbing uncomfortably against the back of her heels all day. She sat down wearily on the edge of his chair and it squeaked as she rolled it back. Mulder had been gone all week, loaned out, yet again, for his profiling expertise, and while she had enjoyed the quiet at first, she was missing the mental stimulation of picking apart details and finding flaws in his arguments. Their current case report was essentially complete, she'd handed in their joint expense report for the month the day before, and she'd organized and filed all their notes on the last three cases.
She sighed as she examined the facts before her: It was nearly 8 o'clock on a Friday night. She had nothing to look forward to over the weekend, unless laundry and paying the bills and cleaning the bathroom counted (they didn't).
When had her life become so boring and lifeless? She picked up the plastic figure of a green, bug-eyed alien dressed in a glittery 70's-style disco pantsuit and twirled it idly on the surface of the desk. Mulder had won it from a gumball machine in some town or other, and it had naturally joined the other odd knickknacks and paraphernalia littering his corner of the office. When was the last time she had gone out with friends—did she even have those anymore?—or done something, anything, just for fun?
She placed alien pseudo-Elvis back between a balsa wood model of the lunar lander and a furry ball that was supposed to be a tribble but looked more like the matted hair she used to brush out of Queequeg's tail. At least she could get out of here as soon as she found a few paperclips for the case report. Maybe she'd stop in at the corner store on the way home and splurge on some Ben and Jerry's. The possibilities for excitement were endless.
The top drawer was an eclectic collection of pencils and rubber bands, scribbled post-it notes and pens with gnawed caps. A half full bag of sunflower seeds. His reading glasses that he, sadly, didn't seem to wear as often as he used to. An array of multi-coloured thumbtacks.
The middle drawer was mostly papers and notepads filled with Mulder's unmistakable scrawl, and she lifted them up half-heartedly on the off chance that a rogue paperclip or two had been buried beneath the layers of yellow loose-leaf.
Strike two, and no paperclips to be found.
Logically, she knew that the bottom drawer held the expansive collection of video tapes that weren't his, although she hadn't opened it since her first ill-fated discovery many years ago. Had he replaced them after the fire? Did he still feel the need to have them here, in the office? Her hand lingered on the cool metal of the drawer handle. She could feel the heat rising to collect in her cheeks like tendrils of steam rising from water poised on the cusp of boiling.
Did he still use them on long nights, on weekends when he was here alone? Sitting here, just as she was now, all by himself after hours in the basement office where even the janitors rarely bothered to collect the trash on more than a monthly basis? She let out a slow breath and tugged on the handle, half-wondering if he might have locked it, but it slid open easily.
With a deep inhalation, she looked down.
Blinked.
Blinked again.
This drawer was significantly neater than the others and, to her surprise, didn't appear to contain any VHS tapes at all. She pulled out the items one by one, placing them on the top of the desk.
A bulk box of her favourite chocolate bars — bitter dark chocolate spiced with chili. There were several missing, no doubt the ones that had appeared mysteriously in her purse when they were out of town, and the one that she'd stared at when she'd opened the top drawer of her desk a few weeks ago, wondering if she'd truly been so absent-minded as to have purchased one, placed it there, and promptly forgotten about it.
A nearly empty box of ginger tea and a sleeve of soda crackers, the only things she'd been able to mostly keep down during her chemo.
An unopened box of tampons and a bottle of ibuprofen.
A pile of magazines took up most of the right side of the drawer, and she pulled them out as a stack. Her brow crinkled as she flipped through the first few. Medical journals? Normally, Mulder left those aspects of their cases to her, but these were littered with brightly coloured post-it strips marking specific pages. Leaving the pile in her lap, she picked up the top issue and flipped it open to the page marked with a neon green tag. The title of the article made her freeze, her breath catching in her throat.
Mitochondrial replacement therapy (MRT) – ethics and clinical repercussions for the future of infertility treatments
It took a moment for her to breathe again, her eyes skimming down the columns of the page, catching on the tattered scraps of Mulder's handwriting like fabric caught on a nail.
Currently under evaluation by FDA, successful pregnancies in other countries
Donor egg source?
Adverse long-term health risks? Scully? Baby?
Primary research centers? Clinical trials scheduled in next few years? Locations? Inclusion criteria?
She turned the page. More notes, scribbled in the margins along with contact information, addresses, phone numbers. Her hands were trembling.
She knew the basics of MRT — donor eggs from a surrogate were used, but then the nuclear DNA from the mother was transplanted into the donor egg, replacing the donor DNA. The modified egg would then be fertilized using the father's sperm, with the sperm being directly injected into the egg rather than entering the cell on its own in a petri dish. The resulting embryo would effectively have three parents, although the donor's DNA would be minimal.
Had Mulder really been thinking about this, about the possibility of trying again for a child? For a child that would still be biologically a combination of the two of them?
It was hard to swallow past the lump forming in her throat as she closed the journal and put it down on the desk next to the crackers. The one beneath it was an issue of Reproductive Biology, and an orange tab jutted from the crumpled edges.
CRISPR/Cas9 and mitochondrial gene replacement therapy: promising techniques and ethical considerations
More notes filled the margins, but she didn't read them this time. She closed it and went to the next.
Mitochondrial replacement approaches: challenges for clinical implementation
And the next.
First birth following spindle transfer for mitochondrial replacement therapy: hope and trepidation
She read the title of each article he had marked with a strange sense of detachment, and she felt shaky and unsettled by the time she reached the bottom of the pile. And then she couldn't contain the strangled laugh that escaped.
The bottom-most magazine wasn't a medical journal, although it did have a thoughtful pink tab to mark one of its interior pages as well.
Busty Hot Babes – MEGA XXX - Summer Edition
The blonde on the cover was wearing a string bikini that left very little to the imagination, the round globes of her breasts barely contained by the skimpy black material.
She shook her head slightly, still smiling to herself. At least some things didn't change. She flipped to the marked page, curious to see why Mulder would have bothered. Surely one set of boobs was more or less the same as the others when he was seeking visual stimulation.
Oh.
Oh.
Her thoughts sputtered to a stand still.
It was a photo of a petite redhead, her hair of a similar shade and style as her own. She was sitting balanced on the edge of an office chair, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Except for a navy blue blazer around her shoulders and a pair of wicked looking three inch heels, she was completely naked; her legs spread wide as she touched herself with delicate fingers. The profile of the model's face was uncannily like hers.
She didn't know what to think. Her insides felt like the rock tumbler she'd begged for as a kid, driving her siblings crazy with the noise until Ahab had finally banished it to the garage. Everything was all mixed up, crashing and grinding against each other.
Scooping the magazines off the desk, she shoved them all back in the drawer along with the other items, not even bothering to make sure she'd left it exactly as she found it. She needed to get out of here.
She was most of the way home before she realized that she'd left the unclipped pages of the case report she'd been working on in haphazard piles on her desk.
She stewed all of Saturday, half worried that Mulder would call and that she'd have no idea what to say or how to act nonchalant. Her laundry was done, she'd cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed, washed the floors, and re-organized both the hall closet and her clothes closet before she'd finally collapsed on her couch.
This was ridiculous.
What had she discovered, really, if she was being completely and utterly honest with herself?
Evidence that he cared about her — that wasn't anything new. She knew he did. Although, the chocolate bars and the tampons were slightly more unexpected. The Mulder she'd known for the past seven years was so driven, too wrapped up in his own pursuits to give much thought to small gestures. But things had shifted, were shifting; the ground beneath their feet gradually giving way. He bought her coffee on his way in to work now. Little things. A growing mountain of little things.
Were the medical journals just an extension of that desire to give her what he thought she wanted, just a natural extension of his inability to let things go once he'd sunk his teeth into them, his inability to give up, to let things lie? Or, was it something he wanted, too?
After the final failed IVF attempt, he'd held her as she'd cried herself out, his larger body wrapped around hers until she'd finally fallen asleep, emotionally and physically spent. He'd been gone when she'd woken up and she'd been relieved, glad for the space so she could put herself back together, piece by piece.
But then they'd never talked about it again.
He'd wanted to, she'd seen it in the sad softness in his eyes when he'd looked at her those first few days back at work, but she'd been all business, throwing herself into their next case like the fate of the world hung in the balance and he had let it go. She didn't think she could have coped if he hadn't.
But now she had evidence, hard proof, that it had mattered to him, that he hadn't given up, even if she had.
And she didn't know what to think about that.
Another chance at a child… could she go through that heartbreak again? She shook her head abruptly.
Then, there was the final magazine, the image she couldn't seem to get out of her head. Did Mulder actually want that, with her, or was she just a convenient outlet for his desires, a safe fantasy that would never be more than that? He'd filled that role for her, held the starring role in her own nocturnal dalliances for years now, but that didn't mean she would ever act on those thoughts. Real life was complicated, so different from idealized wish fulfilment. She'd convinced herself long ago that it was far better to leave that option on the shelf, high out of reach, no matter how hard that might be sometimes.
She still thought about the hallway where she'd almost given in, almost allowed herself the luxury of surrender.
It was just as well that things had worked out as they had. She could continue to ignore the odd pang of longing for what could have been. It was better this way.
She'd nearly convinced herself, after a chilled glass of white wine and a long bath, but the lilting whisper in the back of her mind was louder than it had ever been once she crawled into bed, teasing her with seductive caresses of what ifs and if onlys.
It was a long time before she finally fell into a restless sleep.
By the time Monday morning rolled around, things felt normal again. She'd grabbed a box of paperclips from the supply closet on her way to their office, said good morning to Mulder in a calm and professional manner, and clipped together the appropriate sections of the case report while he filled her in on the latest gossip from the Gunmen.
"But enough about that." Mulder grinned, pushing back his chair and standing up. "I've got something here that I think you're going to really find interesting." He moved over to the slide projector with an enthusiastic bounce in his steps. "Get the lights, Scully. This one has it all — mystery, intrigue, missing hikers reappearing unharmed months after their supposed disappearances…"
"One second." She picked up her pen and signed the last page before brandishing the stack of papers towards him along with a pen she knew she would never see again. "Sign off on this first so I can send it off to Skinner."
He took the report from her and turned toward his desk as he flipped through the pages. "Thanks for putting this together all on your own, Scully."
She shook her head. "I didn't have much else to do last week with you gone. It's fine." She tucked the cardboard tab on the box of paperclips back into place and opened the top drawer of her desk to put them away.
Inside was a chocolate bar that hadn't been there when she'd left on Friday. Dark chocolate and chili, just like its brethren in the box in Mulder's drawer.
She drew in a deep breath, and before she knew quite what she was doing, she pulled it out and placed it on the top of her desk. "Mulder, what is all this?"
He finished scrawling his signature, recapped the pen, and handed the report back to her. "What's all what, Scully?"
"This." She slid the seemingly innocuous chocolate bar across the desk in his direction.
"Well, based on the direct evidence," he folded his arms casually across his chest and perched himself on the edge of his desk to regard her with a grin, "I would say that appears, at first glance, to be a Lindt Excellence bar, apparently of the chili dark chocolate persuasion."
"I know what it is, Mulder. Why did you put it in my drawer?"
He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Do I need a reason? They're your favourite."
She blew out a harsh breath, not sure why it felt like she was picking a fight but unable to back down all the same. It made her uneasy, like Eddie van Blundht all over again, like there might be a stranger behind Mulder's familiar façade. Or, maybe there wasn't. Maybe it was Mulder himself who had been changing, atom by atom over time, slowly enough as to be imperceptible in the busyness of their everyday lives.
"Why are you doing this?" Her voice was level and controlled but it was feigned, and she could see in his eyes that he knew it.
"What? Being nice?" She could hear the tightness that had crept into his tone as he stood up straighter. "I wasn't aware that being thoughtful was going to cause offense."
In for a penny, in for a pound. "It's not just the chocolate."
His eyebrow raised but he stayed silent, staring at her.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, to keep her eyes on his as she spoke so she couldn't miss the way they widened in surprise at her words. "It's everything in that drawer."
He seemed to deflate as the air left his lungs and he walked slowly back around his desk to sink into his chair. "What did you see?" he asked quietly.
"All of it."
He nodded but didn't say anything further for a long while. "What do you want to know?"
She leaned back in her chair as they stared at each other across the expanse between them. "I want to know why. What it means."
"Does it have to mean something?"
"You know it does. There's intent in every action, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant."
He picked up the callously discarded pen from the top of his desk and tapped it lightly against the surface a few times. "Why don't you tell me what your perception of my intent was first, since that's clearly what's bothering you."
"Okay. Fine." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Let's start with the box of tampons. You got the correct brand and absorbency so kudos for that, I suppose."
The look in his eyes made it clear he wasn't about to back down. Good. Neither was she. "Contrary to what you might think, Scully, I do pay attention. You've picked them up a few times when we've been out of town on cases. You have a box of them under your bathroom sink. I didn't see why we shouldn't have a box here in the office in case you needed them and there's a box in my bathroom at home, too. It's been there for two years. They also come in handy for…" He hesitated for a second. "For nose bleeds."
She blinked slowly. Two years? "And the ibuprofen?" Her voice was a little less steady this time around.
"I know you get cramps, Scully. I might be a selfish asshole sometimes, but I'm not oblivious."
"I don't need you to take care of me." She enunciated each word carefully, testing their sharpness against her tongue and wishing she could taste blood. "Do you honestly think I'm incapable of taking care of this myself?"
"You know I don't."
"Well, that's not what this says to me, Mulder."
He glowered, staring her down. "What does it say to you? That I think you need saving? That I think you're not strong or independent or capable? Do you really believe that's what I think about you?"
She pressed her lips together. "It certainly appears that way."
"You want to know what I think?" His words were pebbles, dropping one by one into the indigo depths of tense stillness that surrounded them, causing ripples that made her shiver. "I think it scares you to know that I care about you, to think that someone might possibly want to help or want to take care of you in any way. Because you don't need help. You can handle things yourself, and you always have. That accepting help makes you weak or needy or implies that you can't take care of things all by yourself."
Her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. Mulder leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the top of the desk, continuing to speak when she didn't jump in to interrupt him. She felt like she was being lectured by her mother, calm disappointment always so much worse than shouting.
"How do you think that makes the people around you feel? That you sacrifice yourself for them but that you won't let them do the same for you, not even in the smallest possible ways? You don't want to let anyone in, to let anyone see you lose control, to let anyone see you as anything but the perfect ideal of strength that you present to the outside world. Did it ever occur to you that I might want to help? That I might want to do something nice for you, to have something there for you if you needed it to make your day a little bit better? That maybe I needed to feel sometimes that I could help if you needed it?"
She was prickling with anger and something akin to shame, igniting the heat inside her like wildfire gorging on parched forests. "How many more times do I need to tell you that not everything is about you, Mulder! This is my life, not yours. You want to know what I think? Fine! I think you like being a martyr, that you feel better when you're punishing yourself for all the things you perceive to be your fault. It's not helping, it's doing penance, and I don't want it! My abduction, my cancer, my infertility… you want to heap that all on yourself. Make it all about you so you can beat yourself up over it. All those, all those medical journals…" She felt like she was physically choking on the words as they emerged from her mouth. "That was none of your business. If I wanted to pursue—"
"None of my business?" His tone was incredulous as he repeated himself again more slowly. "None of my business? 'Hey, Mulder, can I use your sperm to make a baby,' but it's none of my fucking business?" His eyes were bright, his complexion flushed. She'd goaded him into full blown anger, and that made her feel simultaneously glad and guilty and horrible.
"I asked you as a donor, not a life partner." Her voice was a low hiss.
"It was my baby, too!" His words exploded like a roar and the room fell silent except for the heavy pants of his breathing. He slumped back in his chair, no longer looking at her.
The anger drained out of her, leaving her wrung out and hollow as she looked him, hunched up almost protectively.
"It was our baby," he said softly, so quietly that she almost didn't hear him despite the thunderous silence. "And I didn't know how much I wanted that… how much I wanted that with you until it was over and we didn't—couldn't—talk about it." He glanced up then, and she could see the anguish on his face. "I wanted to make sure that I had all the options if you ever brought it up again, to give us the best possible chance of success, if you'd wanted to try. Because I did."
"Mulder—"
"No. Just forget it. Forget I said anything." He stood up abruptly, grabbing his jacket from around the back of the chair and flinging it brusquely over his arm.
"Mulder, wait—"
He walked past her to the door and opened it before turning back to face her. "You know what, Scully? I give up. There. Does that make you happy? You want to shut me out, shut everyone out, go ahead." He rubbed his hand across his eyes, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so ashamed as he looked at her with such hurt. His voice was low and cold and it made her heart ache to hear it. "I'd thought that maybe… maybe we were moving towards something more, but evidently it was just me fooling myself into seeing what I wanted to see." He huffed weakly. "I'm good at that apparently. You can just…" He made a gesture toward his desk. "Do whatever you want with that. With everything. Throw it out. I never meant to… just forget it…"
His words trailed off, but her mouth was a desert, her tongue turned to sand while her eyes burned with the grit of unshed tears. She should say something, do something, anything, but she simply couldn't. He watched her for a long moment and then turned away.
It wasn't until the door closed behind him that she could move again, burying her head in her hands, seeking solace that didn't exist.
She spent the rest of the morning trying to force herself to get some work done, though that had mainly consisted of reading and re-reading the same files over and over again, her thoughts too far-flung and turbulent to retain anything. By lunch time she had given up on the pretense.
Against her better judgment, she moved over and sat down in Mulder's chair. His cold, half-finished cup of coffee sat next to a small box filled with slides, and she sighed. Why did she always seem to fall into this same pattern of behaviour? When people got too close, she pushed them away — drove them away, if necessary. It had happened with Jack, with Ethan… she didn't want that to happen with Mulder, too. Especially not with Mulder…
What was she doing? She leaned back in the chair, catching the faint scent of his cologne, and swallowed tightly. She needed to face this, to figure this out. With a determined tug, she yanked the bottom drawer open and stared into it. What was she so afraid of? Needing someone? Being vulnerable? Picking up the medical journal on the top of the pile, she flipped to the pages marked with the coloured tab and read the comments that Mulder had jotted in the margins.
He cared about her. Why was that so terrifying? This was Mulder. As her partner, she trusted him with her life—implicitly, without thought or doubt. Was this any different?
She spent the afternoon lost in thought, but there was no epiphany, no sudden moment of clarity. She'd been looking forward to having Mulder back in the office, and now she was alone again, and she missed him. The office—more than just the office—felt empty without his presence and, right now, there was nothing she wanted more than for him to walk back through that door.
But, this one was on her.
It was time for her to take a step forward or walk away.
She wasn't sure he would answer or would even want to talk to her when she knocked on his door a little after five. Maybe he hadn't even gone home. She'd ducked out early, unable to wait any longer. She needed to see him, to talk to him, to try and make things right between them again.
She knocked again, louder this time.
The door opened. Mulder was slick with perspiration, cheeks flushed, his tight grey t-shirt clinging to the contours of his chest. She should say something, but she was transfixed, her mind gone completely blank as she watched a bead of sweat crawl down the side of his cheek.
"Scully? Was there something you needed?" His voice was cool, and it snapped her out of her daze.
"Uh, yeah. Can I come in?"
He shrugged and opened the door wider so she could step through. "Sure, but I was about to hop in the shower."
She followed him into the kitchen where he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He gulped half of it in several long swallows before leaning back against the counter and studying her.
"Mulder, I want to apologize. For today." She licked the corner of her lips as she gathered her thoughts. "I know I can get defensive. It seems cliché to say, 'it's not you, it's me', but this time it is me." She took a deep breath and let it out all at once. "Being self-sufficient is important to me and sometimes it makes me react in a less than rational manner if I feel that's being threatened."
"That's not what I was trying to do."
She held up her hands. "I know. I know it wasn't. Which is why I'm here. This isn't… this isn't easy for me."
"It doesn't have to be as difficult as you're making it out to be either." Mulder finished the rest of his glass and refilled it while she struggled with what she wanted to say. She'd tried to put together something concrete while she'd been driving, but her thoughts just spiralled around and around the same points, endlessly chasing their tails.
"I want to try," she managed at last. "To not take it as a personal slight to my own capabilities when you want to help. Or do something nice. I'm sorry." She struggled not to fidget, twisting her fingers together and squeezing a little too tightly to ground herself. "I'm not ready to talk about the other stuff, not yet, but you're right that we should. I didn't know how much it had affected you. I don't think I wanted to know if it had or hadn't. I don't know which would have been worse." She gave a wry smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Anyway…" She shrugged and pulled her bag up higher over her shoulder, gesturing at the neckline of shirt stained dark grey with sweat. "I should go and leave you to it. Walk me through that new case tomorrow morning?"
Mulder set his glass down on the counter. "Hey, listen… You don't have to go, if you don't want to… Are you hungry? We could order in Chinese from the place up the street, maybe?"
"Are you sure?" Her voice faltered. "After this morning, I don't know if—"
"I'm sure," he said decisively. "Look, I'm sorry, too. This past week was terrible—a real piece of work doing things to people that made even my skin crawl—and, well, I could really use your company, if you're up for it."
Some of the tension in her shoulders released as she looked up at him. "I'd like that."
He smiled and, just like that, the crimped knot in her chest loosened. "Okay. Do you mind calling it in while I shower? There's iced tea in the fridge if you want some, but it's probably not very cold yet. There might be ice in the freezer."
"It's fine, Mulder. I think I can handle it."
He stilled, watching her and there was a warm low flutter in her belly at the way his eyes clung to her. "I know you can."
She heard the water switch on a few moments later and she went to the fridge to grab the pitcher of iced tea and pour herself a glass. The take out menus were in their usual spot beside the phone, and she scanned through the pile until she found the one for Golden Lotus and called in their usual order—spicy shrimp with black bean sauce, sweet and sour chicken balls, mixed vegetables with extra broccoli, and Mulder's favourite, beef lo mein. It didn't occur to her until after she'd placed the order and took a sip of her iced tea—it was still a bit warm—that they had a 'usual'. In fact, they had had one for a long time, at several restaurants near both of their respective apartments, no less.
Making her way back into the kitchen, she hoped there might actually be ice in the ice cube trays. Mulder was singing. She could just pick out the low rumble that she suspected was All Shook Up, and it made her smile. He sang Elvis in the shower. How many years had she known that? The too thin walls at the cheap motels that were their typical accommodations while on the road had given up that secret, among others.
She opened the freezer door. An untouched bag of frozen peas. A box of hamburger patties. A pint of her favourite ice-cream—brownie fudge ripple. Little things. She moved it aside to pull out the ice cube tray that, miracle of miracles, was mostly full, and dropped two of the cubes into her glass. Little things and more little things that had already grown into bigger things without her realizing it. She shut the freezer door and went into the living room, pausing to slip off her shoes and retrieve something from her briefcase before sitting down on the couch.
The running water in the bathroom had stopped, and soon Mulder emerged from his bedroom in a white t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. His feet were bare, his hair still damp and spiky from being hastily towel-dried. He looked pleased to see that she was still there, that she hadn't vanished the moment his back was turned.
"Food's on the way." She took a sip of iced tea and set her glass down on the coffee table.
"Great. Thanks." He crossed the room and sat down on the couch, leaving a small amount of space between them. "You want to throw on a movie or did you want me to run through the case now? Although, I don't have the slides here, and you really need the visuals to get the full impact, so we should probably wait."
"Actually," she straightened up slightly, "there is one more thing that we didn't cover this morning."
He tensed. "What?"
"This." She slid the copy of 'Busty Hot Babes – MEGA XXX - Summer Edition' out from beside her and set it on the coffee table, flipping it open to the marked page. They both stared at it for a moment in silence. The resemblance really was remarkable.
"I would think that one was the most self-explanatory of everything in that drawer," Mulder said at long last. "And the least surprising."
She arched an eyebrow at him.
He leaned toward her, flexing his hands against his thighs. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful. Or unprofessional. If it made you feel objectified or uncomfortable, I'm sorry. I, uh, never meant for you to know it was there."
"Why?"
"Why did I have it, or why did I not want you to know that I did?"
"Aren't those both effectively the same question?"
He leaned back into the couch. "I suppose so. Are you sure you want an honest answer? After today?"
"Honestly? I don't know. But I think I need to hear it, even if I'm not ready for it."
"All right." He gave her a gentle grin, one that scrunched up his nose. "Well, as I've said before, I think it's remotely plausible that someone might think that you're hot."
She couldn't help it. She laughed. "Mulder…"
He reached over to take her hand and squeezed it. "I mean it. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known."
"Have you…" She hesitated, feeling the blood creeping into her cheeks and knowing he could see it, but unable to stop herself from asking. How many times had she wondered, and would she ever have an opportunity like this again to ask freely? "Have you ever, um," she gestured towards the magazine, "in the office?"
His eyes were dark, hungry. "God, yes."
They had inched closer together as they'd been talking, and her thigh would brush his if she slid just a little closer, but she was afraid of what might happen if she did. It was like there was a gravitational pull, a physical force acting beyond their control that was drawing her in. Her voice had dropped at least an octave. "And you think about—"
She nearly leapt up in shock when there was a sudden loud series of knocks at the door.
"The food," she muttered in realization, surprised at the sudden jolt of disappointment that raced through her.
Mulder stood up, instinctively patting the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet before leaning down to murmur next to her ear, "Yes, I think about you. Always you."
She pressed her palms against her cheeks, willing them to cool as Mulder paid for the food. She joined him in the kitchen, and they opened the various containers and made up their plates to carry into the living room.
"Movie preference?" he asked, setting his plate down.
She shook her head. "Anything. Just not Plan 9 from Outer Space again."
"Spoil sport." He inconspicuously closed the magazine and tucked it away on the bookshelf near the TV before selecting a tape from the same shelf. "Aliens?"
"Sure."
They ate without speaking, keeping up the pointless illusion that they were watching the movie, even though their thoughts were clearly elsewhere. At one point, he shuffled the mushrooms from his plate to hers, and she traded him a few extra pieces of beef she'd saved for him. Little things.
They split the pint of ice-cream for dessert and she pretended not to notice that he gave her the bigger bowl. She might be afraid of facing it head on, but things were changing—had already been changing—between them. Maybe the thing that had scared her the most this past weekend had been the realization that she wanted them to.
When the movie was over, the takeout containers in the garbage and the dishes in the sink, she picked up her briefcase and made her way to the door.
"Thanks for dinner and the movie."
"Any time, Scully. You know where to find me." He looked relaxed and comfortable and she couldn't help the sudden mental picture of getting ready for bed alongside him instead of going home. It was a good thing he wore suits to work, as she'd never felt more tempted by what it might feel like to bury her head against his chest and breathe him in.
"We should do this more often," she said, oddly feeling like she was missing him already and she hadn't even left.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Her hand was on the doorknob when he said, "Hey, Scully? Are you going to get mad at me again if I leave chocolate in your desk?"
She turned back with a smile. "No." Then, on an impulse that took her by surprise, she stepped forward and kissed him softly on the mouth. Not the forehead. Not the cheek. Just the sweet press of her lips against his for the span of several heartbeats. His eyes were wide when she pulled back. "Good night, Mulder."
He nodded, a smile playing around the edges of his lips, making her want to kiss him again, but she didn't. Not this time. "Good night, Scully."
She hummed All Shook Up all the way to her car.
Little things. Little things were good.
Written for flicked_switch for the X-Files 2019 Summer Fic Exchange. You didn't have a prompt listed, so I really hope you like this. I was really excited (and nervous) about getting your name in the exchange because of how much I love and admire your work. :)
Huge hugs and a giant thank you to my beta, Josie Lange, for her always helpful advice and hand holding through my crisis of doubt about whether this story worked or not. Thank you!