New Year's Eve
5 p.m.
I am in my car, parked outside Scully's apartment. It is New Year's Eve, and although I never go out, she has invited me over to her place to welcome in the new year.
I am not sure why she has invited me, but my stomach is in knots. It has been 6 years since she was assigned to work as my partner on the X Files. I fell in love with her the moment she walked into my office. I have been in love with her ever since. I have sat up nights worrying about her. I have paced the halls while she had chemotherapy performed upon her. I have comforted her when her father died suddenly. I have rescued her from people that want to harm her. I have spent many nights wishing she were there with me. I have imagined a perfect little life for us, down to such detail that sometimes I have to remind myself it is not true.
The one thing I have not done is told her I love her. But I believe in the new year bringing a fresh beginning. I have decided that it is time to tell her the truth. Time to take her into my arms, gaze into her beautiful green eyes, and confess, steeling myself for what I fear is the inevitable rejection.
Dana Scully is more beautiful, more fascinating, and more intelligent than any woman I have ever met. I fail to understand why she does not go on more dates, as she could have any man she wanted. On the rare occasion she does go out on a date, I sit at home and worry about her until she gets home, wishing I were the one taking her out, and also beating myself up for never asking.
Tonight she has asked me to join her to celebrate the new year. I haven't been able to eat all day, I am so nervous. I have brought along a couple of bottles of champagne. I realized at the store that I didn't know if she preferred dry or sweet. I should know that. I bought both and they are sitting on the passenger seat of the car, icy cold.
There's something else too. Whenever I fantasize about telling her I love her, the fantasy invariably ends with us falling into bed. When I bought the champagne, I also bought a box of condoms. I felt like I was 16 again buying them—I was incredibly embarrassed. I know I took far too long in front of the display trying to decide which kind to purchase. I haven't bought them in forever. I have not been with a woman in 7 years. I have been waiting for Dana.
I feel ridiculous, like I'm on a first date. This is my partner of 6 years, my best friend. The only person I trust. And yet I am utterly terrified. As much as I have been looking forward to this, I almost wish I had declined the invitation.
I open the box of condoms and stick three of them in my wallet. I put the rest of the box in the glove compartment. I stuff the receipt (damning evidence) into the ashtray and snap it shut. I take the two bottles of champagne and take a deep breath. Pretty soon she'll look outside for some reason and see my car collecting snow in the street, and she'll wonder what the hell I'm doing out here.
I gather my courage and ring her doorbell, trying my best to look both festive and nonchalant. She opens the door looking radiant. She always looks radiant but her joyous smile and the tinge of pink in her cheeks makes her look more beautiful than I have ever seen. She's wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a pink tee shirt. Her feet are bare. She's holding a wineglass and grinning at me. I do not deserve to be here.
"Hey Scully" I manage to say, and I even manage to say it without nervous laughter or my voice cracking or some other betrayal of my inner anxiety. "I wasn't sure what kind of champagne you liked, so I brought both." I hold up the bottles.
She giggles. "I like all kinds of champagne." She holds up her wineglass. "Hope you don't mind I got a head start."
I shake my head and will myself not to blush. I'm late because I was buying condoms and then sitting in the car afraid to walk to the door. Some hero. "I don't mind at all". I tell her, and walk into her apartment.
Her apartment always amazes me. My apartment is pretty much a student apartment. My kitchen is a cramped box, which doesn't matter because I never cook. I sleep on my couch. My walls are "rental white", that ubiquitous apartment hue that's neither cream nor white, and manages to simply look dirty most of the time. I have exactly two lamps, and most of the time I don't even bother to turn them on because I work by the light of the TV.
Scully's apartment, on the other hand, is like heaven. It feels warm and cozy like home. Her walls are a soft cream color, with white woodwork outlining the windows and doors. She has curtains over the windows and plushy furniture. Fresh flowers sit in a vase on the counter. Little bowls of snacks dot the tables and counters. Her bedroom door is closed but I have seen inside. Warm golden tones and crisp white linens, a puffy blanket that looks like a cloud. Warm wooden furniture and dim romantic lights. I need to stop thinking about her bedroom.
I hang up my coat and she puts the champagne into the fridge. The light actually works in her fridge and it is filled with plates and bottles and jars and cans and packages of food. I selfishly hope she has cooked me dinner.
"So Mulder, what would you like for dinner?" she asks, reading my mind. "I went to the store and I have everything from steaks to pasta to chicken. I felt like cooking, and I figured you would appreciate my efforts."
What kind of jerk would not appreciate her efforts? She could serve me macaroni and cheese and I would be thrilled just to be eating with her. "Surprise me." I say. She takes a spotless wineglass from a cabinet and pours me a glass of wine. She gives me a saucy look.
"And how would you like me to surprise you?" she asks, grinning. I have to bite my tongue to keep from beginning a list. Finding out what she has on under those yoga pants would be the first item on that list.
"Steak." I say, needing to divert the conversation, as other parts of my body are registering their interest in that list item as well. I take a sip of wine. "Steak sounds great." She turns and starts pulling things out of the fridge. I try not to look at her perfect little ass. Seven years is a very long time. I perch on one of the barstools by the counter so that I can chat with her, and also so I can hide my erection. Again I feel like I am 16.
"I have garlic...and good black pepper...steak au poivre?" she asks, looking up at me.
"Sounds wonderful." I reply, and it does. She also has asparagus and the tiniest potatoes I've ever seen.
"These are called creamer potatoes." she says, holding up the bag. They are like walnuts. "They taste so good you hardly even need butter." she opens the bag and dumps them out into a pot. "Of course, I put butter on them anyway." She winks and holds up a ceramic butter dish.
"Don't worry I won't tell the AMA." I joke. The American Medical Association. She laughs back at me. Her laugh is beautiful—almost musical.
"If you studied the chemistry of those fake butter products, you'd stick with butter too."
I watch her as she chops garlic and grinds pepper and heats a skillet until it's smoking hot. Every movement of her hands is perfectly orchestrated. I never realized she liked to cook so much, or that she was so good at it. I would happily eat at her table any night of the week.
Spicy, savory flavors begin to fill the kitchen and my stomach growls. My erection has, for the time at least, settled down as I realize how hungry I am. I finish the glass of wine and help myself to another.
"Mulder, I'm so glad you could come over tonight." She says, smiling at me. I'm melting inside. "I never do anything on New Year's. Back when I worked as the county medical examiner I had to post all the bodies from the drunk driving accidents and overdoses...frankly it put me off going out at all." She put the steaks into the skillet and they sizzled loudly. My mouth watered. "I think it's not safe to drive at all on big party nights." She paused, looking down intently at the sizzling meat. "I didn't mention it before but I cleared off the guest bed for you. I'd really rather you didn't drive tonight either."
She wants me to spend the night. In the guest room. But she wants me to spend the night. A whole night in her plush, sweet smelling apartment, just on the other side of the wall from her. I actually feel incredibly touched by her trust in me. I also feel a small twinge of hope that I won't end up in the guest room after all. "Thank you so much." I manage to say. "That would be really nice."
She looks at me a little bit funny. Was she expecting me to say something different? Maybe she was expecting me to make a raunchy joke. But as unusual as it is for me, I am not in a joking mood.
What I have to tell her in the next 6 hours is too important. It's the most important thing I've ever said, ever felt. Apparently it isn't bothering her too much though, as she has moved on to the asparagus, neatly snipping the ends off and placing it in a pile, like little logs.
"I like asparagus sauteed, how about you?" she asks.
"I just like asparagus." I reply. I watch her delicate little hands as she deftly chops garlic, pours a golden pool of olive oil into a saute pan, and then sweeps in the garlic bits. She stirs with one hand while the other hand is poking at the steaks. It is fascinating to watch.
"Me too." She takes another drink of wine, and pulls two plates from the cabinet, setting them down on the counter with silverware. On her way past, she scoops the asparagus into the hot oil and tosses it around. It sizzles and hisses as the outside becomes seared. The smell of garlic makes my mouth water. She disappears around the corner to the dining room table to put the plates out. "It will be ready in 5 minutes if you want to wash up!" she calls over her shoulder.
I take the opportunity to duck into the bathroom. My nerves have begun to work on me again. I know that she thinks I'm being unusually quiet. I worry that she knows why. I worry that she does not feel the same. I also worry that she does feel the same, and that I will somehow screw it up.
Her bathroom smells like her. Little sparkling bottles line the counter. A pile of fluffy pink towels sits waiting. The hint of her perfume is in the air. I think I also smell strawberries—her shampoo? I feel like a moose barging into a salon. I am positive my bathroom does not smell anything like strawberries and my towels are a sad shade of gray. They are far from fluffy. I can picture her relaxing in the bath, bubbles surrounding her, her eyes closed as she gives over to the heat and steam and fragrance.
I'm hard again. I want her so much. I'm no stranger to having to control my thoughts to avoid embarrassment. After all, I have worked with Dana for 6 years. I am used to thinking about baseball stats, conspiracies, hell even thinking about AD Skinner in order to keep myself in line. But the wine has eroded my self control. My body is reminding me that my hand is just not the same as a woman. And 7 years is a very long time.
As I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face, I am able to calm myself down. I think about the delicious dinner that is about to be set in front of me. I think about the 1979 World Series. I think about garlic. I am finally able to think about hunger more than sex. I dry my hands and face on an impossibly fluffy pink towel and double check. I'm presentable. I leave the bathroom and head for the dining room.