SCULLY
"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?"
I arrive home to discover him kneeling at the kitchen counter and pointing a gun at me. A look of relief sweeps over him and he gets to his feet, quickly slipping the gun back into the drawer.
"You're early," he says, wiping his hands on his jeans and walking over to meet me. I have a large box of all my personal affects from my office, plus a bottle of wine nestling on top. He takes the box and rests it on the counter.
"Are you having a garage sale?" he quips, as he begins rifling through the box.
"Mulder, are you going to point a gun at me any time I come home unexpectedly?" I give him a look of disapproval.
"What can I say? Paranoia is a hard habit to break," he is, as always, self-deprecating in the face of criticism.
He looks up and takes a few seconds to notice me: my demeanour, my outfit (I always take the time to change out of scrubs, but not today), the box – I can almost hear his thought processes. He knows something's not right in this picture. He picks up the bottle of wine and heads towards the doorway, where I'm taking off my scarf, hat and gloves.
"Are we celebrating or commiserating?" he says, carefully. He's still not quite grasped my mood. His instinct is to be light-hearted, but he doesn't want to make things worse if something bad has happened with an inappropriate joke.
"Its...hard to say. I guess it depends how you look at it," I reply mysteriously, although with a half smile that gives him permission to delve deeper. He steps closer and looks me up and down for a few seconds.
"Hmm...well, you're still wearing your scrubs...you want to play doctors and nurses?" he steps closer, into my personal space, but without actually touching me.
"Mulder!" I place a hand lightly on his chest and look up, directly into his eyes.
"Clue number two: a mid-priced bottle of wine. You're trying to get me drunk so you can have your wicked way with me?" He reaches around with his free hand and places it on the small of my back.
"You should be so lucky!" I'm now giggling involuntarily and our lips are separated by mere inches as he pulls me closer.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to tell me, Dr Scully, or I'll have to force it out of you," he leans in for the kiss. As he does, I grab the bottle of wine and twist out of his embrace, heading to the kitchen for a bottle opener and some glasses.
"Well..." I begin, unsure of how to phrase the news. "I've been fired." The words sound strange coming from my lips: harsher, more serious. It suddenly strikes me that I don't have a job any more, and I stop what I'm doing for a second to gage his reaction.
"I...don't understand," he says, the smile vanishing from his face, replaced with a look of confusion.
"He finally got the Board's backing. Something about not fitting in with the Catholic ethos. To hell with it, Mulder. I'm sick of their games, the ridiculous childish battles every day. This is a blessing in disguise. Now what's for dinner?" I don't know why I think I'll get away with changing the subject.
"Really? You really don't...but Scully, you loved that job. And they can't just...you don't have to accept this, there are all sorts of legal channels..."
I interrupt him, annoyed that he won't just drop it. But then, who am I trying to kid? When has Fox Mulder ever just dropped anything?
"Mulder...look. It's over. And to be honest, I'm relieved. That place was turning me into...I don't know, it was having a bad effect on me. And with Christian being discharged today, I just feel like...like it's the right time. Like my work there is complete."
"You don't mean that. After all the progress you've made? How many more Christians are there going to be? Kids who can be saved by pioneering treatments that these idiots won't let happen? You've fought too long, too hard..."
"Just stop, Mulder. It's over. I'm not...I'm not like you. I know when to walk away. I know which battles to pick. It's time for me to move on."
"I see," he replies. I sense the disappointment in his voice. "Whatever makes you happy."
This comment infuriates me. He knows damn well that none of this – this extraordinary existence we've decided to eke out together in the middle of nowhere – makes me happy. I know it's childish, but I decide to punish him with a petty annoyance.
"What would make me happy, Mulder, is if I came home after a twelve hour shift and the breakfast dishes weren't still piled up in the sink! Don't you think you could take five minutes out of your busy schedule of internet porn and daytime TV to rinse a few coffee cups?" I snap, staring at him with wild-eyed fury. I can feel my cheeks burning. As I turn away, stinging tears fill my eyes as I begin to route through the kitchen draws for the bottle opener, making as much noise as possible.
"Yeah right, sure. You're not even remotely bothered about losing your job, but a couple of unwashed dishes are the end of the world all of a sudden?" How dare he? Out of the corner of my eye I can see him moving towards me, but I don't slow down; in fact, my search becomes more frantic – I'm rampaging through each drawer now, revisiting ones I've already been through.
"Where's the damn bottle opener?!" I yell, slamming the final draw shut. As I turn around he's there in front of me and I fall into his arms, sobbing into his chest. We stand like this for a few moments, neither of us speaking. The din of the TV commercials, the gentle thud of his heartbeat under his shirt, the hum of the refrigerator: I'm home.
Eventually, he gently kisses my head and softly says, "So what now?"
