Summary: This has been swirling in my head for awhile, as well as sitting on my hard drive. I was listening to Lady Antebellum's "Long Stretch of Love" while driving home from work one night I thought of the opening scene when Scully was leaving Mulder's apartment at the beginning of "All Things." My take on the infamous scene and my first attempt at writing fic for season seven. And I guess my first attempt at writing smut. Maybe. We'll see.
Disclaimer: Was meant to be a oneshot but I like writing in parts I guess. Same disclaimer applies, as always, I own nothing and I am merely borrowing from Chris Carter and Co. with no profit being made.
She heard the rain as soon as she woke and then her brain hit her full force. What had she done? She sat straight up in bed, somehow not waking Mulder who grunted slightly before flopping on his stomach. She watched him grunt again, pooling the sheets across his chest and waist, his leg sticking out at an odd angle. He grunted again, his arm seeking the warmth where her body had previously lay. His fingers grazed across her bare thigh and she held her breath, waiting for him to settle back to sleep. He grunted and relaxed when he sensed her presence. Carefully she removed his hand before gently placing her feet on the carpeted floor and getting up.
Her eyes roamed the floor, looking for something to cover herself, before spying an old bath towel which she wrapped around herself, before heading to the bathroom, picking up the loose articles of clothing that littered the floor.
She glanced over her shoulder at his sleeping form before entering the bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind her.
How did she get here? How did she let herself get here?
Scully's mind was racing at the impossibly high amount of things that could go wrong. Her hand automatically reached for the shower knob, ready to take a shower, but paused, wondering if it would wake Mulder, which is the last thing she wanted. She withdrew her hand, and pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering what she should do.
As she let her thoughts, her hands automatically fixed her hair and dressed herself. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, leaning forward, trying to discern anymore new wrinkles, her mind aimlessly wandering. She was different. She was different than before. They both were.
She straightened her green sweater and paused in the door frame of his bathroom, turning off the light quickly, not risking awaking him still. She placed both of her hands on the door frame, rocking herself back and forth, trying to will the anxiety she felt away. Scully had not done this since she was a child, since she was in medical school awaiting the results of a major test, or the anxiety that inevitably came with her affair with Daniel. But Mulder was different. Last night proved he was different. So why was this moment causing her so much anxiety?
Scully focused on Mulder's face. He frowned slightly in his sleep, his right hand stretching outwards and then curling back into a fist when he sensed her absence. Scully held her breath. He flexed his hand repeatedly, moving slightly over the spot to where she had been sleeping. He groaned in his sleep, frowning, and buried his face into his pillow.
This was nothing new either.
Since she found him with his brain sliced open in the depths of the Department of Defense, they had undoubtedly grew close. Finding herself in bed with him was not an uncommon occurrence, except, she would usually be gone before the morning sun, and she would talk nothing about it at the office, and Mulder respected that, especially when he tried the first time and Scully shut him out. So now, it just sort of happened, just like an extension of their years of unspoken communication.
Just like it happened last night, but more came of it. Much more.
Scully watched Mulder, trying to will the new uneasiness she felt to the pits of her stomach before she quickly made her way across the room to pick up her jacket and sneaked quietly out the living room to get her boots. She cast a lingering glance at the worn, leather couch and the haphazardly tossed wool blanket on the floor.
"What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong? And there were signs along the way to pay attention to."
"Mmm. And all the... choices would then lead to this very moment. One wrong turn, and... we wouldn't be sitting here together. Well, that says a lot. That says a lot, a lot, a lot. That's probably more than we should be getting into at this late hour."
She remembered falling asleep against his shoulder, and he had dozed off as well. Then she woke up, momentarily not recalling where she was to find she had woken Mulder up as well. Then one thing led to another...
The way he touched her always set her ablaze. His kisses—she closed her eyes recalling the moment—they felt different, everything felt different. His hands roamed, like they normally would, but he touched her more reverently and lovingly. She remembered her tongue exploring her, tasting her, like it was the first time. For the first real time. Everything had been so painfully slow...
She caught her breath, not allowing herself to be caught up in any more memories. Her mind was moving a thousand times an hour as she hurriedly pulled on her boots and made her way to the door. She looked at her watch as she pulled the brown apartment door behind her slightly, double checking to make sure it was locked as she made her way to the elevator at the end of the hall. She looked over her shoulder, uneasiness welling up inside of her. She had made the walk of shame home countless times. Why did now feel so different? It hurt her. With each step she took away from that apartment, from him, felt like she was growing lost in a sea of confusion, and he was the only one that could center everything.
She closed her eyes, hitting the down arrow button repeatedly, growing impatient at how unusually slow the old elevator seemed. She looked at her watch. 4:51 A.M. The 21st. Saturday. She would not have to go to the office. She would not have to deal with him. Or this or these feelings, whatever it was. She could just go home back to Georgetown, lock her apartment door, hide away for the weekend, and not have to face anything until she went back to the office on Monday morning. Finally the elevator doors opened, she rushed in, and she hit the button repeatedly to close the doors.
….
It was still raining when Mulder came to consciousness. He ran his hand down the length of the right side of the bed, surprised to find Scully gone. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced about his room, finding no evidence of her anywhere. "Shit," he groaned, falling back into bed and placing his arm over his eyes.
Mulder really thought he had something this time. That the secret nights in one of their beds without speaking a word of it the next morning had come to an end. Scully's moment of epiphany about her life was enough of a catalyst to propel them forward. He loved her. Dear God did he love her so much it hurt. He had loved her for years and would do anything for her. Granted their relationship had it's ups and downs; she shot him in the shoulder, but to be fair, he was deranged out of his mind. But she was always there for him, and in her moments of weakness, likewise. Wasn't that what love was? Or at least a part of it?
He sighed and reached for his cell phone that rested on his nightstand. He dialed his voicemail. Nothing. Grunting, he glanced at his red alarm clock. 7:34. A.M. Saturday. If she had not called now, she wouldn't be any time soon. And adding the fact it was Saturday, he would not see her until the office Monday, it weighed him down all the more.
Groaning, he threw his feet over the side of the bed, reaching for some discarded basketball shorts. He ventured out into his living room, unsurprised to see her not here, and again with no clue that she had even been here. Mulder sat down on his leather couch, picking up the wool blanket off the floor, pausing briefly to smell it (it still smelt of her), and then gazed at the small Buddha statue that sat under his fish tank. Everything happened for a reason, he sighed with determination, and he was going to make sure of it.
With renewed determination, he headed to the shower, grabbing his jeans and a light sweater. He had a goal and that goal resided in Georgetown.