From the moment Mulder had admitted to himself his feelings for Scully, he knew there was no turning back. Either, he would be with her or he would be with no one. The only thing he wasn't willing to do was lose her. This created a conundrum because the only way to be with Scully was to confess his feelings, but doing so opened him up to the possibility of rejection. Rejection meant losing her. Though the choice opposed his instincts, a type of decision rare for Mulder, he opted to do nothing at all, to leave things as they were and to keep his mouth shut.
That was before tonight.
Tonight: when silence simply wasn't a viable option. Sure, he'd done well enough on the car ride to Scully's apartment. At least he hadn't told her he was in love with her. He had even managed not to mention the multitude of very specific, very explicit things he wanted to do to her in the backseat. But he felt the restraint would only be as short-lived as the silence between them. When they got back to her place, when she started the barrage of questions she was bound to have for him, he knew he would crack. He could only hope she would remember the last legitimate lie he'd been able to muster: that she shouldn't believe anything he said.
By the time he staggered into her apartment, Mulder felt drunk or drugged or high on some chemical to which his body was not accustomed. He knew he should argue to be taken to his own apartment, that to stay meant a breach in safety—not his or hers, but that of the status quo to which Mulder had previously resigned himself, to which he now desperately clung.
So, why did he choose to make no protest as she guided him inside with her hand steadily on his back—like he had so often led her—past her couch, past her kitchen table… directly to her own bedroom? Why did he sit down on the foot of her bed and let her kneel before him, still in her dress and heels, to remove his shoes?
He knew why. It was her. Her apartment. Her bed. Her elbows resting on his knees. Her eyes searching his face. Her hands holding his tightly. Her he wanted so madly in this moment.
Then Mulder's mind stuttered and he realized the unnatural intensity of his feelings. Was there more to this than simply giving in to his best-hidden desires? He had to speak up before his brain was entirely clouded.
"Scully, I can't stay here."
"Mulder, I need you to be completely honest with me."
Mulder threw his head back to laugh. She wanted honesty? That was not going to be a problem.
"Mulder, I'm serious."
"I swear to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," he promised while hoping he would still be capable of lying by omission if the nature of her questions wandered down the wrong path.
"What did you drink tonight?"
"Glass of champagne."
"One glass?"
"Yes, Scully. I already told you—"
"Where did you get it?"
"Dr. Foster gave it to me."
Scully considered this for a moment. There wasn't much alcohol available at the event. She had spotted just one cash bar at the far end of the hall.
"Where did she get it? From the bar?"
"From Dr. Perfect."
"Who?"
"Your stupid date."
"From Nathan?"
"But she doesn't drink when she's schmoozing fat old penguins so she gave it to me."
"Penguins?" she asked. Maybe he really was on drugs. "Mulder, besides the champagne, did you take any type of drug or medication at any time today?"
Mulder thought hard. "Not even an aspirin, Scully."
"At least not knowingly," she muttered more to herself than to Mulder. She didn't know how well he was processing this conversation. His eyes were glassy and his pupils dilated. There was sweat on his brow and his cheeks were as rosy as if he'd been baked by the sun or burned by the wind. It occurred to her that perhaps it really wasn't substance intoxication causing his symptoms, but an illness. Like the men under Nathan and Meredith's care. She kicked herself for not seeing the connection before. Instead of his high school chemistry teacher or some random woman in the grocery store, Mulder had fixated on Scully herself. But why?
"Hey?" She asked for his attention.
"Hmm?"
"Why me?"
"Why you what?"
"You've been very… complimentary of me tonight. Why?"
"I can't help it." Mulder swallowed and couldn't stop his eyes from traveling down to her body, to where her dress pulled away because of her kneeling position..
She touched his chin and lifted it to bring his eyes back to hers. "Mind over matter, Mulder. You can help it."
He smiled. "You don't understand. You're just so… beautiful. I mean, you're always beautiful, but tonight? Man, tonight, you're stunning. You're perfect."
She held his gaze, but felt the fire on her cheeks, her ears, her neck. Sure, she'd put in a little effort and was glad he took notice, but she was still far from perfect. Far, far from.
"What about Meredith?" Scully asked.
"What about her?"
"If anyone looked stunning tonight, it was her."
"Dr. Foster looked great. She's an amazing woman," he said honestly.
This made Scully feel better. Clearly Mulder was still moderately rational.
Mulder looked out the window and put his mind in a mental maze. Each time it floated toward Scully, he'd construct a blockade: an old case, his sister, the Knicks, Assistant Director Walter Skinner. This did well enough, but his brain pushed on, still searched for the chance to consider Scully. He was running out of obstructions, but he had to keep trying. Because she was asking too many questions now. Because the answers were getting dangerous.
Scully wondered if she should call Nathan. Perhaps she should invite him over to examine Mulder, to find out if he could have possibly been exposed to and infected by whatever ailed his own patients. But the whole thing was impossible. Mulder didn't really even have any of the right physical symptoms. Even his behavior was only mildly correlated. He wasn't having outbursts. This was a steady flow of erratic conduct. Something was wrong, but Scully concluded it was an entirely different something than the illness that had overtaken the men at the hospital. She would get Nathan's help, and Meredith's too, but that would wait until morning. For now, she needed to treat his symptoms and get them both through what she hoped wouldn't be too long a night.
She turned his hands over in hers and felt his palms; they were clammy. He was staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought.
"Mulder? You still with me?"
"Always, Dana." The rat that was his brain finally reached its cheese.
