disclaimer: not mine, don't sue
a/n: it feels good to write again. this one is for gillyfan, who is keeping me connected to this and i hope you are very pleased with this story, dear. i owe it to you.
Some Would Say We're In Love
by: allialli
I was roused off the couch when I realized too late that I left my phone on the other side of the room. That's my punishment for not thinking about that possibility. Excuse me, though, I have quite enough to think about right now.
How am I going to tell my family?
How am I going to respond to treatments?
How am I going to keep working?
How am I going to pay for all of this?
How is Mulder going to treat me now?
My sweatpants dragged on the ground under my feet as I walked across the hardwood floor. I haven't worn sweatpants in such a long time, but it feels right. The suits are starting to suffocate me. In fact, the last time I wore sweatpants other than when I was out running was two weeks after my father died and I worked myself so hard that I came down with a nasty cold. Mulder had carried me to my car after I almost passed out in the elevator and then insisted on being at my beck and call. He came off a little strong then, especially for as early as it was in our partnership. As I look back on it I know that he was just showing me that he cared about me. My theory has always been that Mulder was affection-starved as a child, and that is why he sometimes smothers me with good intentions. I've never told him this, and I never will, mostly because I don't know if it's something I want him to stop. It's nice to be suffocated by your partner sometimes, instead of by suits.
I had a tiny inkling that Mulder and I never really left each others' minds completely. After four years of watching his back, it's just become habit for me. I wonder what he's doing when we're not together… I find myself missing his little jokes or his goofy smile… some people would say we're in love.
I do love Mulder. But it's a weird love where I've seen him naked but we've never even come close (closer than other partners, though) to being on a date. I love him because he carries me places when I can't walk and he listens to me even when he knows he's right and because I know he loves me too.
He's my partner, but we both know we're so much more. Sometimes I can't even remember my life without Mulder.
Halfway between my couch and the end table where my phone is I realized that the ringing is coming from somewhere else. The kitchen, where my tiny black FBI-issued cell phone is ringing. I really hope that it's not work. I hate it when it's work. I have my sweatpants on, and I can't work.
"Scully," I answer, crossing my fingers like I used to do when I was little, when I thought things worked like that.
"Hey, it's me," Mulder says, which eases my heart some like it always does when it's him, but doesn't relax me because he's been known to call me at home to go out on a wild goose chase. That's my punishment for leaving my phone on into the night where I decided to wear sweatpants.
"Hi," I said, "I don't want to do a stakeout tonight."
One instance shot down, and I swear I could hear Mulder's jaw hit the floor through the phone.
"I wasn't going to ask you—"
"—I don't want to do a stakeout. I don't want to investigate tonight. I don't want to be an FBI agent for a few hours."
A silence goes by. I think this is because I have shot down every single reason Mulder has called me, but he always has something else up his sleeve.
"What do you want to be?"
"I want to be Dana. But I don't want to be Dana. I want to be… Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
"Could you come pick me up?"
"I'm on my way."
Without any reason at all, ten minutes later I fling open the front door. I haven't heard any knock; I haven't heard anything at all. Mulder is standing there.
"Scu—" he manages to get out before I turn around and wonder why I asked him here. That's the question I've been asking myself for ten minutes while I've been waiting for him to wait for me. Every time I try to spend a quiet evening at home he always shows up. But this time I asked him. I asked him to come. And I don't know why.
I haven't changed out of my sweatpants.
"Wait here, okay?" I ask of him and he nods. Sometimes I wonder exactly what I could ask of him that he wouldn't just nod to.
He doesn't follow me when I make my way toward my bedroom. He never does. I know it's because he respects me and he knows that if anything were ever to happen between us that I would have to be the one to make the first move because he couldn't live with himself if it were him.
Five minutes later my sweatpants have been traded in for jeans and my old loose t-shirt from college for a nicely fitting sweater. If I brush my hair I'll be fine, but I don't. I just walk out of my bedroom to find Mulder waiting on the couch like a "good boy."
We haven't said much to each other tonight, but he knows that this is me being Dana. Scully is going to stay home tonight in her sweatpants. Dana, or whomever I choose to be, takes Mulder's hand and leads him out to his car. We're going places tonight. I'm done sitting still waiting for this cancer to eat me up from the inside. I'm done pretending that I'm fine all the time. Right now, I'm not fine. I'm dying. So it is my job to live while I can.
Mulder knows this; Mulder wants to live with me. We stop at the first bar we see.
The smoke is heavy when we walk through the doors. Scully would say something about lung cancer, but Dana doesn't even bat it away from her face. As dangerous as Scully knows it is, she inhales it and lets it envelope her. Have you forgotten that you were once like this? Spontaneous and unpredictable. Sometimes you didn't even know what you were going to do next.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asks us as we sit down on the stools. Mulder looks at me because tonight, Dana's in charge and he knows that all of his years of profiling never adequately prepared him for this night.
"Something strong," I say, grabbing his hand under the bar. He doesn't let go. He will never, ever let go.
"Scully, are you okay?" he finally dares to ask me once we've been handed our drinks. I take a sip of mine before I answer him.
"No. I'm not okay, Mulder, and that's why we're here. We're going to drink ourselves stupid and forget that little fact, though, alright?"
"No Scully," he says, pushing back, "I can't do that. It wouldn't be right and… I just don't feel comfortable letting something like that happen. This isn't the way to escape your problems."
"You sound like Scully," I say, taking another big gulp, "and Scully's not here tonight. Dana is."
"Scully… Dana… I'm not getting drunk with you."
"Fine then, you can catch me when I come down."
He always does.
I drink whatever I ordered for Mulder after I get done with my own. Then I order another. And another. He nurses a beer, laughing at the stupid jokes I tell and offering positive feedback when I need it. Deep down, I always knew he wouldn't go along with this. Mulder is much too careful around me to let anything happen, as I said before. I love him for that.
I don't know what time it is, but suddenly the music is playing really loud, and this sounds like a song that I want to dance to. A Dana song. So I get up and pull Mulder with me.
"Scully, no dancing. You're going to fall," he tells me when he won't budge from the barstool.
"I'm not that drunk, Mulder."
"Would you just listen to me? I think it's time to take you home."
"No, Mulder, it's not. I'm not going home now, not with the whole night left for us. I'm trying to live, Mulder. Are you going to live too or are you just going to watch me?"
I made it clear to him that I was going to dance. I'm pretty sure he got up and danced with me to make sure I didn't do anything stupid.
There haven't been a lot of instances where we could prove to each other (and to ourselves) that we have chemistry. When we are dancing is one of those instances, though, and I never before really thought about how perfectly we move together. Without any words, we always knew exactly which way the other was going. Our eyes never left each other and I didn't fall once.
"Having fun?" he asked me after maybe three songs.
"Yes. Are you, finally?"
"There aren't a lot of places I would rather be tonight."
"Sorry I didn't warn you. I didn't even warn myself."
"I think I understand."
I looked around us, then down at us. All of the other couples in the bar were gearing up for the slow dance that started to play. I could see the sweat beading on Mulder's forehead, and I could also feel the coolness of the sweat on mine. But no matter how much either of us was perspiring, there was one thing we could never sweat out.
"Can I have this dance, Scully…? Dana?"
"Scully. And yes, Mulder, you may."
I surprised myself once again that night by hooking my arms around his neck instead of grasping his arms like partners.
We swayed back and forth through the song, Mulder seemingly comfortable with his hands on my hips. I was holding him tightly, smelling his smell and breathing in his life. This man was the one.
"Scully, whatever it is that's making you scared, and I know what it is, just remember that I'm always going to be there for you. I'm never going to leave you, even if you ask me."
"You don't know how much I needed to hear that, Mulder."
"We'll get through this," he said, pulling back a bit so that he could kiss the spot between my eyes. Right where my fear lay.
He always knows what to say; what to do. He knows my strengths; he knows my weaknesses. He knows that he is the one I would die for; I am the one he is fighting to live for.
Some would say we're in love.