Signs

Part I – Mulder

His first lucid thought is that it's all been a dream.

He wakes up cold and alone, with certain weariness he hasn't felt in years, one which he knows has nothing to do with jet lag. It takes a while for the room to swim into focus. For a moment, panic sets in. His alarm hasn't gone off and he will be late to work. Then the craziness of the previous day dawns on him. He remembers the mad rush to Heathrow to catch an earlier flight, the journey back to DC. He remembers tea, a conversation into the night, a disrupted slumber. Everything is completely foggy; he honestly can't decide if what he thinks happened next has indeed happened, or if it's all in his head. Won't be a first time.

And yet.

His bed may be empty, but the pillow next to his is creased. When he presses his nose to it, it smells like her. His sheets smell like her, like them. He holds the covers to his chest, as though to retrieve the warmth of her body against his. He closes his eyes, lets the scent wrap around him, and listens. There's no sound of soft breathing, no footsteps; there's no smell of fresh coffee brewing. He really is alone. The affirmation hits him like a punch.

He can't say he's surprised. On the contrary; he would have been astonished if, upon opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was a pallid shoulder, a mess of red hair. If realizing she has indeed spent the night is strange, waking up beside her would have been a far stranger concept. His lips curl in a sad smile. Luckily, it's not something he'll have to handle this time around. He sighs and sits up, then leans back against the bed board, looking down at the abandoned pillow. Just this once, he wishes he hasn't known her so damn well.

Picking up his phone is an instinct, but he places it back on his night stand before he even hits the first digit. He can't call her. Escaping like she has at the crack of dawn means she's wanted to avoid facing the aftermath, possibly even coming to terms with what happened. More to the point, she's wanted to avoid him. Calling her will be to go against her wishes, and he wants her to know that he respects her decisions; now more than ever.

But if only she could leave him some sort of a sign – a note, some item of clothing she's intentionally left behind, anything to assure him that the previous night has meant to her as much as it has to him. He's wanted this for so long, and now that it finally happened, he finds himself anxious, powerless against the consequences. The only evidence for her being there, he suddenly realizes, is a pair of tea mugs in his sink. One of them will still carry the mark of her lipstick. It's a good a sign as any, he supposes, holding on to what he can. Nonetheless, her absence speaks volumes. He really wishes she's stayed.

He now remembers he has initially meant to skip work today, a conscious decision he has made upon arriving at DC the previous afternoon. Even though he's so exhausted it physically hurts, he is dressed and ready to leave in less than fifteen minutes. It is not yet seven as he locks his apartment door and heads towards the elevator. He doesn't remember much of the drive to work, and so after pulling into a parking space at the Hoover building, he heads back into the street. On a Starbucks across the road he treats both of them to caramel lattes, knowing full well the frown she will aim at him. He shruggs and pays for the coffees anyway. As he waits, he's leafing through the morning paper without really reading any of the headlines. The teenager who serves him the coffee butchers his name beyond belief, but he can't even find the energy to care.

The closer he gets to the basement, the more he feels the adrenaline begin to rush back in and work its magic on him. Her scent hits him as soon as he exits the elevator. He smiles goofily. It's the same scent that has overpowered his bed this morning. He doesn't know how long she's been there, but it doesn't matter. He's relatively early himself, and the fact she's beat him to the office only points to her own restlessness. Whether it's a good sign or a bad one, he cannot say. The only thing he knows for certain is that the previous night has been a crossroad of sorts. He, for one, doesn't regret it. If her leaving means that she does, if she now attempts to rationalize it as he suspects she's going to do, he will just prove her wrong. After all, hasn't he been doing just that for a little over seven years now?

She's standing by the open filing cabinet, wearing a dark jacket and a narrow skirt. It's a different skirt than the one she's worn last night. He knows, because he's pretty sure one of its top buttons is still somewhere under his bed. At the time, his apology met a breathless, dismissive giggle. Now he idly wonders if she owns an army of skirts, all hanging neatly in her wardrobe. She is all but hunched over the cabinet with her back turned to him, looking for something. However, as the door creaks further open, she turns with a start. A gasp escapes her lips as their eyes meet briefly. She's the first to look away.

"Hi." It comes out more timidly than he's intended, and for a moment he's as shy as a schoolboy. She's wearing a soft pink top he's only seen her wear once before. She looks beautiful, radiant. For a moment he forgets what he's meant to say. His heart is racing. He takes a deep breath and hopes she doesn't notice how nervous he is. "I thought this was my office," he uses that old joke again, grasping at anything familiar and comforting.

She laughs softly, and it's a different sound than ever before. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink; he can't help but wonder if he's blushing too. "I didn't think you'd be in today," she tells him casually enough, but her voice trembles ever so slightly.

"Yeah, I know, I was... just feeling a little lost, I guess." He finishes with a meaningful look that deepens her blush. He hasn't meant to say that, knowing his sincerity might make her shut out to him, but he doesn't want to play games, not with her. It seems pointless to waste even more time over those.

All of a sudden he remembers the coffee, and pushes the two cups forward, wordlessly offering her one. She seems genuinely surprised by the gesture, but murmurs a thank you and reaches forward. Their fingers brush against one another's for the briefest of moments, but it's long enough to bring back every sensation from the other night. Locking his gaze with hers, he can tell the same thought has crossed her mind.

"I wish you stayed," he whispers, unintentionally honest again. She breaks their gaze and lowers her head, then changes her mind and looks up at him.

"I regretted it as soon as I got to my car."

The affect of the words is staggering. He's known the possibility existed and has been preparing himself for it throughout the drive here, and even though he has managed to convince himself otherwise in the meantime, it hurts like hell to hear her confirm his worst fear. At least she's come right out and said it; a small kindness of her behalf.

Before he can further wallow in despair, though, she sighs. "Shit. No. That came out wrong. I meant..." Uncertainty melts into laugher; it reaches the corners of her eyes. He's still bitter, but holds his tongue. "I meant I regretted leaving as soon as I got to my car. Not last night."

The three last words are said in haste, an afterthought, as if she thinks she hasn't been clear enough. The only reason he needs to hear those words is because they're so damn unbelievable. He's so stunned he doesn't even know where to begin. He mentally repeats them in his head. She doesn't regret it. By her own admittance, she doesn't regret it. He's expected her to come up with an excuse about what's happened or ignore it altogether, but she does neither. He's surprised that he's even surprised. Once again, she keeps him guessing.

It's as if she's more at ease now that her confession is out of the way. She keeps on speaking and he holds on to her every word. "I'm sorry if I've given you the wrong impression by leaving like this. I didn't think... I don't know what I thought," she admits, blushing yet again. He doesn't even get a chance to respond when she looks at the coffee she's still holding, then at him. "I'd ask what's the occasion, but I suppose that's..."

"It just... felt right," he replies. "Not your usual though," he adds, so as not to linger on the various meanings his previous statement folds. He suddenly wishes he's stuck with her regular order. This is so strange; being with her has always been as easy as breathing. Now he feels as if he's stepping on eggshells. Things have never gone so awkward between them, not even a few months earlier, when she has asked him to father her child.

"That's alright. Changes are a good thing."

He can hardly believe his ears. It's almost as if she's a different woman. Is this supposed to be the sign he's been yearning for? He feels like laughing aloud, but there's something in the air he doesn't dare breaking. Discomfort has shifted into something else entirely. He steps closer; she doesn't step back, and he takes it as encouragement. Locking gaze with her once more, he reaches for her cup and places it on the desk, then does the same with his own cup. With her reassurance still ringing in his ears he's feeling rather brazen, and lets his fingers flutter against her cheek. She's leaning into his touch briefly. Her eyes are so remarkably blue he's about to say something cliché, but then she shakes her head.

"Not here."

He smirks. "Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted, remember?"

"All those years of paranoia flew right out of the window after just one night?" She nods towards one of the flame detectors on the ceiling, which was probably bugged again as soon as they reclaimed ownership on the tiny office space after Jeffrey Spender was shot there.

He sighs. She does have a point. It takes everything he's got to lower his hand, to not place it against her waist instead. "You're right."

She nods, but she's obviously crestfallen as well. She turns away from him for a second, retrieving the cups from the desk. He sips his coffee absentmindedly and watches her as she takes a sip as well. Silence hangs between them, heavy and strange. There's so much that needs to be said, so much to figure out. Mostly he just wants to kiss her again, and run his fingers through her hair, and let her know just how much he –

He blinks once, twice; the office suddenly appears hazy. As his muddled gaze meets her concerned one, he realizes he must have dozed off for a second.

"Seriously, Mulder, why are you even here? You must be dead on your feet."

But how can he tell her that he couldn't stay at his apartment, not while believing she thought the previous night was a colossal mistake? That he couldn't go back to sleep fearing he has lost her for good? That for one crazy moment he even believed she had left in a hurry in order to go to that Waterston guy at the hospital and get back together with him?

The warm touch of her hand shakes him out of his reverie. "Everything's fine," she assures him as if she can read each and every one of his fears. Knowing her, she probably can. "Why don't you go home and get some rest? I've got everything under control here."

The idea is tempting, especially since he's already considered it, but he's still hesitant. And he wants to stay with her. So long as they're at work, she won't be able to just take off.

"Look, we need to talk about this," she says, and there's certain pleadliness to her tone. He knows she's right. As right as this feels, they will need to have that talk. This has been years in the making, but he has a feeling that the previous night has caught them both off guard. "But we can't talk seriously if one of us keeps falling asleep on the other."

"I kind of liked the way it turned out the other night," he quips, and luckily she cracks a smile at his lame joke. Something inside him melts. He moves closer again and cups her cheek, dismissing her warning glare. "I don't care who's watching," he murmurs. He lets his nose brush against hers before he leans closer and their lips meet.

She's hesitant at first, but her lips are so soft he doesn't care. As soon as he feels her resistance begin to waver, a loud shrill tears into the silence. They break off with a gasp. She buries her head in his dress shirt; his hands rest against the back of her neck. It takes him a moment to stir his mind back in the right track, and a moment longer to realize the unrelenting shrill comes from the landline on the desk. He's about to reach for it when she stops him, and picks it up herself.

"Yeah, Scully," she breathes into the receiver. Her cheeks are flushed. He flashes a crooked grin at her, undeterred by her glare, and leans against his desk. "Yes, Sir. No, I'm here, I was just…"

She's turning her back on him as if his very presence is a distraction to her. He can't help feeling a little smug. He's having too much fun watching her squirm as she's speaking to their boss.

"No, I'm not expecting to hear from him today at all." She throws him a look from over her shoulder and so he realizes she's referring to him. "No, Sir," she says stone faced, lying to Skinner as if she does this on a daily basis. "No problem, I'll get right on it. Yes, Sir."

She hangs up and lingers for a moment before she turns to face him again. A tiny smile betrays her supposedly cool exterior. "I just told Skinner you're due back tomorrow evening, so you better get out of here before anyone else sees you."

He just stares at her in utter astonishment. "Who are you?"

He only realizes he's asked it aloud when she smiles sheepishly and closes the small distance between them again. She wraps her arms around his neck; her nearness is intoxicating. "How about you try to figure that one out over dinner? Say... my place, 7PM?"

Her whisper is seductive, her breathing hot against his neck. He gulps. "Are you serious?" Even as the signs accumulate, from some reason he's still uncertain. He keeps expecting her to laugh in his face and take it all back. Only she doesn't. Her smile widens an inch.

"Why don't you be there and find out?"

Too stunned to form a full sentence, he just nods.

"Good," she nods with satisfaction, and removes her arms from around his neck. He holds back a protest. She's back to practical mode now, returning to the cabinet, stuffing a few files into her briefcase. "I have to go to Quantico for the day. You're going straight home."

He scoffs. "Right. Like there's any chance I'll be able to sleep now."

She places her hands on her hips and looks him over. "Are you even well enough to drive yourself home?"

"I can always crash back there," he jokes, nodding toward the back part of their office. She doesn't even smile.

"Home. Now. No arguments."

"Okay, okay, gee. I sleep with you once and you get all bossy."

He holds his breath, realizing a second too late he might have gone too far with this one. Her expression is priceless, a cross between horror and mirth. Sure enough, though, she swiftly snaps out of it and shoots him her infamous look. "Unless you want your actual boss to catch you down here, you'd better move it, Mulder."

"Alright, I'm out of here."

He's about to leave, but then changes his mind and walks over to her. She looks at him inquisitively as he reaches for her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Just to let you know," he tells her, "if you're expecting me to disappear in the middle of the night... Not going to happen."

She gives him that soft smile again. "I really hope not."

They hold each other's gaze for a long moment. There's silence again, but one that he's familiar with, the one that always speaks best for them. He gives her hand another squeeze before he slowly, reluctantly, lets go. "I'll see you later," he says and leaves the office.

To his surprise, he sleeps for six hours straight, and when he wakes up he's just lying there, staring at the ceiling. He's feeling calm and rested, and completely at ease. He has slept off his anxieties; his fears and doubts are all gone. Everything's fine, her assurance becomes a mantra as he gets ready for what he can only term as their date. He cracks a smile at the foreign concept. Who would have thought?

Dusk slowly falls on Washington DC as he drives the familiar route to Georgetown. Normally he doesn't like driving with music on, but at the moment he's too restless, so he's turning on the radio. There's an Elvis song on, and he chuckles. Another sign? He can never have enough of those. As confident as he is about this, about them, no affirmation will ever be enough. As he drives along, he finds himself murmur the lyrics along with the King, each word brings him closer to the place he wants to be, the place where he belongs.

Take my hand,

take my whole life too,

for I can't help falling in love with you.