She trembles as the floor seems to dissolve beneath her, as the elevator jolts into submission to carry her away. She wonders whether it understands its role, whether it realizes how many times it's helped her flee. She'd die a thousand deaths for him before drinking her morning coffee, yet she always seems to be here, running away—from emotions too overwhelming to handle, from hazel eyes beneath a baseball cap that are much too hard to resist.
She rests against the wall and she closes her eyes, and the sardine can walls vibrate beneath her skull.
This afternoon was different.
They've shared countless moments in countless hallways—shouldn't she be an expert by now? But instead she's hiding in an elevator, trying her damnedest not to remember how terribly handsome he was with her lips against his forehead.
She tries not to remember her jaw, cradled in his giant hands (why has she never noticed how very large his hands are—her face came close to disappearing beneath them), how her skin tingled in the spots his thumbs swept. What other things could he make tingle with those gentle, encompassing fingers? Her nipples tighten unbidden as the elevator dings its way down the shaft.
And his words. God, his words. She abandoned wish-upon-a-star wedding fantasies long ago, but his words… He wore white gauze on his head, but it was she who felt a veil tickling at her neck. 'Constant', 'touchstone'. The hushed arrow-tip of his voice pierced her heart with a precision that astounded her. She had no time to hide, no time to deflect. Only time to gaze into his eyes and answer with an honesty that, looking back, terrifies her.
She'd gone to him in such a state of confusion. The things she's seen, experienced, recently, have stripped her of her usual defenses—her skin feels raw, her soul feels bared. Fighting for him in Africa revealed a depth of emotion dwelling within her that, frankly, was astonishing. She should have known going to see him in this state was a mistake.
The papery texture of his lips beneath her thumb was the last straw. Damn her hands for betraying her, for taking that journey when her mind won't allow her to go any further. Damn him for being so vulnerably irresistible when she's at her very weakest.
The elevator doors open to thrust her out of its embrace. The imprint of his lips still prickles hot against her thumb, and the warmth spreads as she makes her way to her car. It snakes up her arm, across her throat, then slowly down her torso. She knows where it's headed next. Much as she tries to stop it, she always knows where it's headed next.
Finally safe in the confines of her suit-of-armor car, she recounts the last few moments before pulling away. 'Constant', 'touchstone'—she whispers the words with eyes closed, feels their quiet syllables join the warmth that by now has reached her belly, then surge their way further, to settle in that one place she's kept most hidden.
She can't count the number of times she's driven away from his apartment in this state—clit throbbing, fingers trembling, bottom lip tucked between her teeth in order to will away the desire to kiss him. And always, always the sensations linger, long past her drive home, well into the night, until there's no other option than to satisfy them—with smoothing hands, delving fingers, and cries in the dark that make her blush, even with no-one around to hear them.
It's getting harder. So much harder. She knows what was once a question of 'if' has become a question of 'when'. She knows she's fighting the inevitable. She knows words like 'constant' and 'touchstone' are really camouflage for words like 'please?' and 'soon?' and 'how much longer can we wait, Scully? I'm dying here'.
And the truth is, she's dying here, too. And for what? She can't blame it on The Friendship or FBI Regulations or even Lack Of Attraction anymore (because really, let's be honest here—there's so much attraction, it's actually a bit absurd). No. The only thing she can blame is herself and her incessant insecurities—the "what ifs" of their relationship pelt at her skin like rain.
What if I can't handle his intensity?
What if I irritate him with my rigidity?
What if we're not sexually compatible?
What if he snores?
She pauses and shakes her head. She already knows the answers to most of these questions—they've dealt with these things for years. If she's being honest, the sound of his snore makes her weak in the knees. And if she's being even more honest, the question of sexual compatibility isn't even a question—there's no doubt in her mind they'd be stunningly compatible—she grows wet just considering the thought.
What if I lose myself in him? What if I'm completely consumed by him? What if I give myself over to this and lose him?
There.
Those are the real "what ifs"—the ones that rain over her face until she's gasping for air, until she's drowning in them. They're not even in a relationship now, and she's barely able to breathe. She's not sure she could handle the emotions becoming even more intense. The possibilities scare her more considerably than any flukeman, any alien, any shady government official. They immobilize her.
Yet…, this afternoon was different. There haven't been words like 'constant' and 'touchstone' before. There haven't been giant hands cupping her cheeks and soft lips against her fingertips and whispers in her ear that make her toes curl. No, those things haven't been here before.
The emotions he just revealed to her—his commitment, his devotion—she hasn't had those tools in her arsenal until now. Sitting in her car, she examines them—these new tools. She weighs them against her doubts, her fears, the "what ifs". And they begin tipping the scales—words like 'constant' and 'touchstone' have weight to them. She gathers that weight and she wraps it around her shoulders. She wears it like a raincoat. And it helps. It helps so much that she sees the doubts and fears roll off her body and puddle beneath her feet.
A few minutes pass, and they've not only puddled at her feet, they've filled the floorboards of her car. She splashes her toes against them in a burst of defiance.
Her clit is still throbbing. Her nipples are still tight. Her heart flutters in her chest at the thought of him. She loves him more desperately than life itself, and it's glorious and frightening and paralyzing.
She still hasn't driven away.
There are butterflies in her stomach as she considers what she is about to do. Her tongue traces along her lips in contemplation, and she looks up to his apartment.
She gasps out loud—he's been watching her.
He's there behind the window, looking down—dark eyes, strong nose, and lips that just handed her two of the most beautiful words in the English language. She thinks she may faint.
But she doesn't faint. Instead, she watches him back in retaliation. And while she watches him, she imagines not stopping with her thumbs against his lips. She imagines replacing her thumbs with her mouth, with her tongue. She imagines showing him what 'constant' and 'touchstone' mean to her. She realizes how very rude she's been—he gave her those words as a gift, and she hasn't even given him a proper thank-you.
That's really not like her. Her mother taught her better than that.
With eyes still trained on his face and heart thumping wildly in her chest, she opens the car door. She hears the doubts and the fears and the "what ifs" as they splash down onto the pavement. She doesn't watch them while they flow their way to the storm drain—she's too afraid she may reach down and try to scoop them back up. No. She doesn't need them. She has 'constant' and 'touchstone' to keep her afloat.
She watches him as she heads back towards the building, until she can't anymore, until his front door opens and swallows her back inside. With trembling fingers, she calls for the elevator, and it opens immediately—it's been waiting for her. Perhaps it realizes its role in their lives after all.
Her head rests in the very same spot it did before, and the walls still remind her of a sardine-can. But this time, she's running toward instead of running away. This time, she's facing her fears instead of fleeing from them. She wrings her hands against her skirt and watches the numbers as they increase, from 1… to 2… to 3.
To 4.
It takes a moment for the doors to open, and she revels in the comforting reassurance of the cramped space. "Go ahead, you've got this," the elevator seems to be saying.
"Yes," she whispers back, "yes, I've got this."
A stripe of hallway appears—it grows and it grows as the doors slide open, as the elevator does its best to nudge her away from its hold. But she can't move just yet. These four walls are her security blanket; she needs to gather the courage to proceed.
The early evening sun streams through the corridor, and she squints against the glare of it. But as her eyes adjust, she sees him, first in hazy silhouette, then in clear, bold color, standing beneath his doorframe—waiting.
She shivers inside the elevator cab. But then their gazes lock, and the air in the hallway seems to vibrate with anticipation. Specks of dust waft before her face, then swirl through the air as her breath quickens. Her doubts may have been cold, sharp rain against her skin, but these specks of dust are light and weightless. Instead of "what if?", they whisper "go" and "hurry" and "he's waiting".
"I shouldn't have left," she says as she takes a step out into the hallway, feeling drawn to him like sand through an hourglass—unavoidably. The dust scatters with her words, clearing the way for them to reach his ears.
"No," he states decisively, "you shouldn't have." The sureness of his voice makes her breath hitch.
They watch one another, and it's the most intense thirty seconds of her life, watching the man she loves wait for her from the end of his hallway. She nervously licks her lips, and his eyes slip closed in response. It's divine.
Behind her, the elevator doors slide shut, and her heart leaps. "Good luck," the doors seem to whisper. It's time. No turning back.
She gives a quick nod of her head in affirmation and takes a step forward. Then another. Another. Her heels click against the tile in increasing rhythm—tentative, then steady, then urgent. Until she's striding through the sunbeam and wading through the dust, and the "what ifs" are washing their way out to sea. With each step forward, her pace quickens, because with each step forward, she's closer to him, and the closer she is to him, the more desperate she becomes— because it's HIM, and he's her constant and her touchstone, too, and my god, why in the hell did they wait so long?
Before she knows it, he's coming toward her as well, and she feels like they're in a damn romance novel, running with open arms on a hillside, her hair flying free behind her. And in a way they are, only theirs is a romance unlike any she's ever read in a novel. Thank god.
They meet in the middle (bump into each other in fact), and his hands fumble their way to her face. Hers find his hips and fumble as well, unsure how to proceed in this romance-novel-that-isn't-really-a-novel, in this relationship-that-isn't-really-yet-a-romance.
The awkwardness overcomes her, and she looks to her feet, and his are there as well, toe-to-toe—he's close enough to kiss if she wanted to. She does want to. She's wanted to for seven years, it's just that…
She chuckles to herself at the absurdity of it all, at the fact that they're finally here, yet still can't seem to figure out how to do this. Until his fingers find their places back at her jaw (there must've been an imprint left from before, they fit so precisely) and he lifts her chin to look at him.
Their eyes meet with an almost violent intensity—she's never felt a man's gaze slide its way through to her toes before him. She quivers beneath his touch. It's as if they're right back where they were ten minutes ago. This time it's different though. This time, it's his thumbs that are drawn to her lips, and the unexpected thrill of it practically undoes her. She shudders against him as he feathers his way from top to bottom, closing her eyes and parting her lips in silent invitation.
He accepts her invitation (how nice of her to offer), running his thumb tentatively along the plump, wet flesh of the inner swell of her lip, then drawing it back out to trace slowly along its rim, again and again and again… She grips his waist and moans ever-so-slightly. This is it, she thinks, Finally, this is it.
It only took seven years, an endless array of elevator trips, and a revelation in an economy-sized car to make it here. But this is it.
Her tongue flicks out before she realizes what she's doing, and when it encounters the salt of his thumb, he groans. "Fuck," he whispers. She opens her eyes to his lips forming the word, and though she'd usually reprimand him for his vulgarity, she instead flicks her tongue out again, hoping to coax the curse once more from his throat. He rewards her persistence, and this time the word is resplendent with multiple u's for her pleasure.
"Jesus, Scully," he grips her shoulders, turning her to the wall and pressing himself against her with a force that makes her gasp. She looks up at him, lips wet and expectant. She can't keep her eyes from his mouth—to have it this close yet not against her own is pure torture.
"Is this….are you sure?" he mumbles, hands smoothing over her shoulders, finding their way to her hips, pulling them against his own as if they belong there.
And oh god, do they belong there. They belong there the way salt belongs with pepper, peanut butter belongs with jelly. They belong there the way his hands belong on her breasts as she unravels beneath him in bed. "Fuck," this time she's the one whispering the word as the images play through her mind. She nudges her pelvis against him for emphasis.
"Mulder?" she asks breathlessly, trailing her fingertips up his chest to grip his shoulders, "Are you…are you still able to read minds?"
With lips nuzzled against her temple, he answers hoarsely, "It's fading, but yeah…yeah, a little…. Why?"
She tugs at his neck and finds his ear with her lips, then murmurs in a voice so low and husky, she surprises even herself, "Then read mine right now…" And with all her mental strength, she tells him just what she'd like him to do to her.
Thank god he's learned to follow directions.
His kiss is like nothing she's ever experienced—it would put a damn romance novel to shame. It's 'constant' and 'touchstone'. It's being lost and being found. It's soft lips and lingering tongues. It's Africa and Antarctica. It's all those things and a thousand more she fails to accurately put into words, all encompassed in one exquisite moment. It's sublime.
When they finally break apart, she's panting from the perfection of it. She can't believe how much time they've wasted apart.
"I'm glad you came back," he chuckles shyly against her cheek.
"Me, too," she whispers back with a smile.
Amidst wandering hands and fumbling fingers and (just a few) desperate stops for kisses, he leads her back to his apartment. They make it eventually. Before pulling the door closed behind them, she glances back down the hallway and looks to the elevator.
She thinks maybe they've finally made it proud.