The Six Degrees of Requiem
All roads, all things
If requested these chapters might contain adult material. Please do not read if you are not of the requisite age. Thank you.
The characters mentioned herein do not belong to me, they belong to 20th Century Fox, Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and their many affiliates. No infringement is intended. (Chris Carter has a penchant for law suits and I don't want to become part of one. Thanks.)
Note to the guys over at Bones – I'm coming back! This is an X-Files story and has nothing to do with the fantastic Brennan and Booth – but fear not, there'll be plenty of bedroom action for them, too!
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At just after two the rain started.
It was the thunder that woke her, rumbling through the sky. She was startled at first, not only because it had been a nice afternoon earlier, with no signs of an impending storm, but also because she was disorientated, not quite sure where she was, or why she was sleeping while sitting upright.
When the initial confusion disappeared, she became aware of the open window, teasing the storm into the apartment, scented like spring. She was not at home, yet she felt as though she were, and there's a small amount of comfort in the scent of him, permeating from the afghan. Running her fingers over the dark colours of the fabric she wondered if he sometimes slept with the blanket, or if he'd continued to retreat to his bedroom since acquiring a bed.
Pushing the prickly blanket aside, she stood, pulling his arm chair across the floor, careful not to make any sound, and left it as close to the open window as the furniture in the room would allow. Then, reaching across his cluttered desk she pushed the glass panel as far as it would go, coaxing more of the still, moist air into his living room.
The leather creaked beneath her light weight when she sat, snagging the blanket with her hand, draping it across her knees. Outside, the thunder rumbled again, making her smile. She had loved storms, especially thunderous ones, since she was a child. Her mother said it was God's way of cleansing – since then, she'd always thought the world was clean, after a storm.
A new start. A fresh beginning.
It felt fitting, in a strange sort of way. Earlier, she'd finally been able to relinquish the demons that had privately haunted her since medical school. When she'd taken the plunge and admitted the secrets of her past, her partner, who she thought would harbour some kind of quiet disgust, embraced the truth with open arms and accepted that she was young, naïve and attracted, as the Smoking Man had once said, to power men.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she thought of how, after all their years together, she had predicted his reaction so wrong. Instead of wondering how she could have so willing destroyed someone else marriage, he had merely shrugged and put it down to her vulnerable age.
His acceptance endeared her, and encouraged her to move on. A few months earlier, he'd been freed of the one thing had held him firmly in his past; Samantha. Now, she too was freed of the one piece of her past that had always refused to let go.
"Penny for them?" she lifted her head, catching just the silhouette of him in the bedroom doorway, the walls beyond splashed blue from the muted television. Narrowing her eyes, hoping to determine his state of wakefulness, she turned in the chair, swinging her legs over the arm. "Daniel?" he guessed, pushing himself off the doorframe. She shrugged.
"Just musing over the past ten years of my life. And then some." The minutes ticked by, becoming hours. It wasn't such a great big leap between hours and years, she decided. Looking back, it was as if everything went by in a blur. "You're forty next year," she said, meeting his gaze when he came close enough to be lit by slanting beam of the street lamp outside his open window.
"Jeez," he hissed as though she'd spoken something forbidden, "don't remind me." Standing at the front of her, sandwiched between the desk and the chair, her eye level with his thighs, he sighed. "Thinking about becoming forty is something I've been avoiding." Lifting her eyes from the plaid pyjamas he wore, she raked her eyes over the contours of his face, the lines of his jaw, the darkened, world-weary depths of his eyes, still illuminated by the merest glimmer of the outside light. He looked like a black and white portrait – half of his face lit, half shaded in dark.
"You're not old," she soothed, "well, compared to me, yes…" his laughter silenced her and she let the sound wash over her, sweeping away the sad troubles that had bombarded her for the past few days. She'd been alone, while he'd been in England. But then, she supposed, fate wanted it that way.
"You're catching up, Scully," he replied, folding his arms, crossing his legs at the ankles, staring down at her. "What are you? Thirty eight?" She cleared her throat.
"You know well that I'm only thirty five. Nice try, though. If it soothes your ego…" Mulder chuckled, reaching out, touching her hair. The slightest gesture made her tremble and she pulled an unsteady breath into her lungs, meeting his brooding gaze with the same trepidation that she had so many times before – for he had the ability to look through her, into her soul, and stir her senses unlike anyone else ever had before.
"Getting old isn't so bad," he said at last.
"I resent that statement. I'm not getting old." His fingertips dropped to her chin, stroking along the edge of her jaw, his skin calloused from work.
"We're all getting old, Scully," Mulder replied, his voice a whisper. "It's whether we're happy getting old, or not." Scully clutched the blanket with tight fists, wondering over his words.
"No one is happy about getting old," she decided, and a rumble overhead kept him silent until the clashing dispersed completely.
"But we can be happy with everything else, right?" It sounded so simple, when he said it. As if sadness and happiness was a switch. If only she could trip all the switches of unhappiness in her life, and make everything alright. "I'm not unhappy," Mulder added, dropping his hand, folding his arms again. "For the first time in perhaps… my living memory… I can say I'm not unhappy."
"But are you happy?" Scully pressed, leaning back just enough to see his lips purse in reflection. "I didn't think so," she added, when he didn't reply. "Men like you just aren't happy. It's part of your nature to be…"
"You're wrong," he said, pushing back on the desk, sitting atop what she supposed was a half finished file. "I am happy. As happy as I can be. We're all as happy as we can be, aren't we? Everyone wants something more. The Hindus discourage it, you know," she frowned.
"Happiness?"
"No, wanting more. They believe that you'll be forever reincarnated, never getting to Heaven unless you learn to appreciate what you have. Karma. 'He who desires desirable things and broods upon them will be born again'." Scully blinked.
"A lesson in religion? Just what I need at half two in the morning." He smiled, the pearly whites of his teeth shimmering. "I also don't want to imagine that I face persecution in death just because I wished for more money in life." She sounded huffy, and he laughed.
"Don't worry," he said as a stroke of lightening flashed through the sky, illuminating the room in a blast of brilliant white. "I'll put a good word in with God. Since I'm older and I'll be dying first and all that…" Turning her gaze to his fish tank, luminous and blue in the darkness, she thought of how unpredictable life was, really. If people died in numerical order, he'd be gone before her. But, a cancer that lived beneath the surface of her body, in remission and always ready to attack, there was no way to be sure she wouldn't be the person putting in a good word with God. "Christ," Mulder whispered, slipping off the desk, "I'm sorry, Scully… I never thought…" She waved her hand, silencing his pleading apology.
"It's fine," she whispered, "if we didn't laugh about death, we'd cry, right?" He nodded, hands clasped between his legs, his eyes watching her as the memories of her illness settled between them like a blanket of doom. The rain lashed against the glass, just barely missing the window sill. A breeze teased her skin, and she sighed. "Happiness is a fickle thing, isn't it?" she decided. "Here one moment and gone the next." Mulder straightened.
"We're a fucked up pair, really, aren't we?" he said.
"Yes," Scully agreed, "but a pair, none the less."
"The most fucked up pair in the bureau," he added and they both nodded together, silent whilst they contemplated this point. "Yet, as fucked up as you are, Scully, I wouldn't trust anyone more." She smirked, watching the UFO at the bottom of his fish-tank as it dropped, rose, dropped and rose again.
"Back at you," she said at last. "You've never betrayed me."
"I never will," he told her, "because you and your friendship mean too much. Even if you wouldn't come check out crop circles in England." In the muted light, she saw him push out his lower lip.
"If you keep wasting money," Scully said, "they'll shut us down. We're due another financial audit, soon." He shrugged, unconcerned with the threat of impending auditor-wrath. It was the same every year, anyway. Once a year, each department and their staff went under financial review, searching for ways to cut unnecessary cost. The X-Files department and its staff of two would be summoned shortly. "It'll take more than some supersonic kids or zombies to convince them to let us work." Mulder blinked, the mention of the zombies automatically reminding him of their New Year's kiss.
"Even if they do shut us down, it's only a matter of time before someone gets abducted by aliens-"
"Or claims to," she chimed in.
"And then we'll be back in business. Every year I panic that we'll be kicked out of the FBI and every year, it's a big waste of time." He stretched, his bones popping, followed by a satisfied groan. "This year, I'm taking a leaf out of the Buddhist book. Tranquillity, Scully." Her earlier experience in the Buddhist temple came screaming back, and she sighed.
"It was the Hindu book a moment ago," she reminded him, "what next?" He rolled his shoulders.
"Variety is the spice of life, Scully. Do you want some tea?" She shook her head, and outside the storm seemed to have settled – aside from the rain and blustery wind, the thunder had subsided and the living room was ominously quiet. "Coffee? Water? Juice?" Chuckling, Scully stood, stretching too.
"Good night, Mulder," she said.
"You're leaving?" he sounded surprised and maybe even a little disappointed. She shrugged, folding the blanket into a neat half and then a quarter, holding the bundle in her arms.
"It's late," she said, "and I'm tired. I should go home… go to bed." Mulder nodded, as if musing.
"Or you could stay…?"
He could have said so many things in response to that statement. 'Alright, see you tomorrow, Scully' or even one of his harmless sexual innuendos. But he didn't. He asked her to stay – and it was the closest thing to a physical relationship that they'd ever got, because he wouldn't ask her to sleep on the sofa, so the implication was perfectly clear. No innuendo this time.
"I could…" she replied, dropping the blanket to the chair. The only sound for a moment was the wind, the rain and the trickling bubbles in his fish tank.
"Only if you want to," Mulder hurried to add, pushing himself away from the desk. "I'll… I'm… just going to the bathroom." His way of permitting her a moment's privacy to gather her thoughts.
When his bedroom eased shut, she inhaled deeply, the scent of the passing storm filling her lungs, fresh and clean. A new beginning, she reminded herself. Goodbye to Daniel and her past guilt. Goodbye to the naïve woman she was. Nowadays, she was contented with who she was and who Mulder was. So, he'd asked her to stay. He was inviting her to be just a woman.
She was just a woman and he was just a man.
In their late thirties, seeking something more than the professional maelstrom that had sucked them in, kept them bound for the past decade – not all of which was together, but still, a decade in total. It was time to let go, she supposed. There was no need to panic, as Mulder had explained.
Padding, bare foot, she pushed the chair back to its original place, smoothing her hands over her skirt before trailing her slightly trembling fingers through her hair, pressing against her scalp and wondering at how each moment had brought her to the exact spot she stood, hesitating by his bedroom door, wondering if it was enough to be just a woman.
Hearing the toilet flush, she straightened her spine and pushed the door open. The television was off now, and the glow of his bedside lamp cast long dark shadows across the room, slanting towards her. Hearing him turn on the faucet, she quickly removed her pantyhose, tossing them into the waste paper bin at the bottom of his bed.
Willing her heart to be still was futile, for standing in Mulder's bed room, with the intention of sharing his bed was the most paramount event to have happened in her personal life in years. She had imagined how this inevitable moment might happen but, when she was on the brink, it was impossible to fathom how it had happened at all.
The bathroom door creaked open and he stepped out, his hair standing in unruly tufts, a sure sign that he stood had been nervously raking his finger through his hair. It was as though there were virginal adolescents, preparing to take the plunge into adulthood.
"You stayed," he whispered as if awed by it. Scully smiled tightly.
"Yeah…" she said, shifting at the bottom of his bed, turning her eyes to the ivory walls, the blank television screen, the branch that banged against the glass pane outside, anything, except looking at him. "I stayed…" her voice dropped, barely audible.
He heard it, though. "I'm glad. Do you want a t-shirt?" Without waiting on a response, he pulled an old cotton shirt from his drawer, pushing the garment into her hands. She took a step towards the bathroom door, seeking the privacy sanctuary offered to her by the four walls – yet, after the first initial step, she paused, turning to face him.
"Thank you," she said, draping the t-shirt over the edge of the bed, her fists tightening at the bottom of her sweater. She hesitated, her heart pounding inside her throat and she was certain the sound of her raucous heartbeat was audible, especially when he stood so close, she could feel the heat of his body radiate towards her in pulsating waves.
With arms that felt like spaghetti, she pulled the sweater over her head, the still air teasing her bared skin, making her hair stand on end, prickled with anticipation. Before her, his eyes struggled to remain on her face, drawn downward by the teasing glimpse of her breasts, hidden from his ravenous gaze by the wispy lace bra she wore.
"Scully…" he whispered and she supposed he was going to say something else. He didn't however, rendered speechless by the voluntary state of nakedness she was in.
Stepping forward, eradicating the small distance between their bodies, she touched him. A tentative touch that was stiff and hardly erotic. Yet it was more than she'd ever given him – speaking volumes, telling a story of greedy desire.
"I was meant to be here," she said, the words raspy and breathless. "All roads, Mulder, all things…"
His arm snaked around her waist, touching the silken skin that was exposed to him. "Yes," he agreed, sinking his fingers into her hair, his thumb grazing her jaw and he watched as her lips parted in eager response. She looked flawlessly beautiful, her cheeks flushed in the muted lamp light. He admired her bravery in removing her clothes before him, encouraging this moment between them – for accepting his subtle request for her to stay. She'd embraced his haphazard proposal with the sort of grace he'd come to love about her. No dramatics. She wasn't melodramatic in any form. And it was for this reason that their bodies, joined at the hips, felt so right.
Her hands danced across his arms, over his shoulders and down his back, as if mapping the contours of his body. He closed his eyes against her ministrations, willing himself to remember every touch she offered him. His photographic memory, he decided, would be a gift, not a curse, in this instance.
Their first kiss as would be lovers was hesitant at first, a whispering touch that teased and made her eye lashes flutter against her cheeks as she yielded her body to him, fighting the urge to ravish him.
"Are you sure about this, Scully?" he asked her, his hands pausing over the clasp of her bra. Her legs felt unsteady, his solid length the only thing holding her straight.
"More than anything," she replied with a soft nod, tilting her head and pressing her mouth to him.
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TBC – does anyone want 'the scene'? Let me know. This story will be a post-ep for every episode from 'all things' to 'requiem' detailing the change in their relationship until Mulder's disappearance (weep).
