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CHAPTER 10: All I Ask

And I ain't asking for forgiveness
All I ask is
If this is my last night with you
Hold me like I'm more than just a friend
Give me a memory I can use
Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, OCTOBER 2012

"Stay," he whispers when she's already halfway out the door. She freezes and her shoulders slump. "Just tonight. Just... this one night, Scully. That's all I ask." Her flight won't leave until tomorrow morning but this is not about saving the price of a hotel room, this is about saving a piece of his soul and he's not above begging, though he doesn't want to make this harder on her than it already is.

"Mulder..." Please don't do this, she's pleading with just the way she sighs his name.

"Don't leave like this. I understand. I do. I just don't want this to be my last memory of you."

He doesn't say anything else. Heaven knows he could. There are so many ways he could try to guilt her into staying, but that is not what he wants.

Seconds tick by and they are frozen in time, his eyes drilling a hole in the back of her head. Wind is creeping in through the open door, turning the pages of the abandoned medical journal on the coffee table. Just last night she was reading it right there, curled up in the corner of the couch, sipping her tea. She seemed fine. Not much more than that but fine.

He knows now that she got tired of feeling fine and nothing more, tired of fighting her demons while he was being consumed by his, tired of being alone with him. Just tired. He is tired, too, but he has nowhere to run.

She takes a step back, so slowly that he almost misses it despite staring at her without blinking. Another step, and then she closes the door, still moving in slow motion like someone was rewinding a movie frame by frame. Her back is still turned to him, and when she freezes again with her hand on the door handle, he knows she's expecting a final clue from him, something that will either make her stay or leave.

"Please," he whispers.

She turns around, slowly, and her eyes connect with his. There are no tears, but plenty of pain, and he thinks she would like to cry but can't. He wonders what his face tells her, if his pain is visible to her like hers is to him.

He knows she has gone as far as she can, so he takes the next step and closes the distance, one step at a time, until he is standing close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo. She doesn't tilt her head back to look at him, but keeps staring at that one spot on his chest that she probably knows by heart. If he ever gets drunk enough to tattoo her name on his skin, it would go right there, where her eyes have bored holes for years.

He doesn't dare to touch her because he feels like the choice should be hers. After a few seconds of just listening to each other breathe, she lets her forehead drop against that very spot she just stared, and he wonders if he really should get that tattoo because that spot belongs to her and no one else, not even him. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

Somehow they manage to make their way to the bedroom without letting go of each other. Not in a passionate stumble that leaves a trail of discarded clothing in their trail, but like a slow dance to a song only they can hear. Her hot breaths hit that same spot where he has already mentally carved her name, and her small hands are hot against the cool skin of his lower back where they have sneaked underneath his T-shirt.

His arms are around her shoulders now, tightly hugging her against him. She's still wearing her jacket, and it feels like a metaphor somehow, how he is in his thin T-shirt and she has these layers and layers on her, between them, trying to put on a buffer against his touch. His lips hover just over her forehead, hesitating whether he has the right to kiss her anymore.

He turns on the lights when they reach the bedroom, but she hits the switch right after him and drowns the room in shadows and moonlight. He never understood the significance of the lights and it's too late to ask now, but he follows her lead and they find their way in the dark. That, as well, feels oddly metaphorical all of a sudden.

Slowly her hands start to lift his T-shirt out of his jeans and off his body, and his fingers unbutton her jacket and slowly slide it off her shoulders. No words are exchanged as they undress each other, folding each piece of clothing on the arm rests of the chair in the corner. He wonders if it is out of respect for this moment, the need to make it beautiful and organized somehow instead of the mess they have become, or if it is the practical knowledge that she will leave early, while he's still asleep, and she will need to find her things and dress in the dark.

There are no words, and they never hold the eye contact for long, but their hands wander on each other's familiar skin like they always have, and lips press against cool skin in the tiniest of kisses, never on the lips but everywhere else.

When he's inside her, he links his fingers with hers, trapping both of her hands next to her head. As much as they have avoided eye contact ever since she declared she was leaving and not coming back, they are unable to look away now. He has never felt more vulnerable than in this moment, with his soul bared for her to see, as they move together.

When she throws her head back and comes with a silent sigh, he follows her over the edge and tries not to think about the fact that this is probably the last time he will see her like this. He smiles, just a little, and swipes a strand of hair from her forehead behind her ear as they try to catch their breaths. The corners of her lips curl up a little and she tries to fight the tears that start to rise into her eyes.

He rolls them over so that she's resting on top of him, and tries to ignore the way her silent tears hit that very spot on his chest. He wonders if there would be a dent there, like dropping water erodes stone over time, if she were to stay longer than one night. Then again, why would he want her to stay if it meant she kept crying?