II.
"We found her, she's here."
Mulder moved through the maze of SWAT team members, his chest constricted by more than the weight of the bulletproof vest. He was filled with anxiety and adrenaline, had been for the past 30 hours.
She had survived abduction and cancer and monsters, he could not lose her to a mundane serial killer, could not lose her now, could not lose her ever.
There was a flurry of activity in the far corner of the room, and in between the black helmets, he could spot one red head.
He had never moved faster, and then he was by her side, taking in her dirty clothes, the rise and fall of her chest, the dull tangle of hair, the scratches on her brow; taking it all in within seconds before meeting her eyes.
It was intact, the blue of her eyes was intact. The weight was lifted, and for the first time in 30 hours, he was able to breathe. She was hurt, but she was not broken.
X
"I'm fine, Mulder."
"Yeah, but maybe I'm not."
Her gaze softened, as she slipped into the passenger seat of his car, but she needed him to stop hovering nonetheless. Needed him to stop treating her as a victim.
"Do you think you'd feel better coming home with me tonight?" she offered. "I need food, a bath and a bed."
Looking down at his own crumpled and sweat-stained clothes, Mulder grimaced.
"Yeah. I might need all that as well." He swallowed hard. "Did he touch you?"
"Mulder … you were there for the examination, weren't you?"
"I know what the doctor said, but I need to hear it in your voice."
Suddenly, he could feel her hand on his thigh and, without hesitation, he covered it with his own.
"He did not touch me. But he put his mouth on mine." She paused for a moment, then: "In our line of work it's hard to tell if it's sexual assault or if they want to suck out your soul or pour digestive slime into you. All options are equally unpleasant, though."
Mulder inhaled sharply and turned his head to look at her. They had taken her clothes as evidence, had given her scrubs instead, and even though he was used to seeing her in them, tonight the sight tugged at his heart.
"How are you truly feeling?"
She shrugged.
"Hurt. Scared. Shaken. Tired. Dirty. Angry."
His hand clenched around hers.
"But I will be fine, Mulder."
Finally, he nodded, ready to start the engine.
X
The drive to her apartment was quiet, his heart, still sore, finally beating its regular rhythm with hers beside him. Early October air greeted them outside her building, reddish leaves crunching beneath their soles. Time for renewal.
She took her keys from him, needing to come home instead of being taken home.
Her place smelled like normal, surrounding them with the promise of healing, and he took off his shoes, placing them side by side with more care than necessary.
"I want to take a bath, Mulder, but that will take a while. You can have a shower first." She tried a smile. "You smell almost as bad as I do."
He nodded.
"If that's OK."
"There's a fresh toothbrush under the sink."
"Do you still have my jogging clothes? Sweatpants, shirt, boxers?"
"Yes."
He was in and out of her bathroom in less than ten minutes – smelling and looking significantly better than before. She sighed, feeling her own filth and sore muscles even more.
"Take your time, Scully. I'm gonna make something to eat."
Her eyebrow arched up, but she had no energy to question him.
X
Time changes in moments. This was a moment as mundane as they come. The woman shedding her clothes and stepping into a hot bubble bath, the man rummaging around in the kitchen, finding tomatoes, onions and cream, deciding to make soup from the scratch.
Expect that it was not. Mundane. Not for them.
And, yes, maybe she had brushed her teeth for ten minutes straight to get the bad taste out of her mouth, maybe he had checked the whole apartment for intruders before slicing the vegetables, but it could have been worse, could have been so much worse.
She was lured out of her bath by the delicious smell of tomato soup, and when she padded into the kitchen sometime later, wearing silken pajamas and damp hair, he was already toasting the bread and adding some cream to his creation.
"I didn't know you could cook."
He wiggled his head.
"I know two or three basic recipes. Mom taught us when we were kids."
"It smells delicious."
"If you like my soup, wait till you meat my roast beef."
Mulder filled two bowls and set them on the table along with the bread, along with an explanation.
"There's sad food and happy food. The processed and frozen meals in the supermarket? That's sad food. Nobody put love and patience into it while cooking. Nobody stirred a spoon while thinking about the right bowl or the woman about to eat it. Scully, most times I don't care. You know that. But tonight I do."
She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup.
"What about take-out?"
"That's a fine line. Can be both."
The soup-soaked piece of bread disappeared in her mouth and her eyes widened in surprise.
"Mulder, that's delicious."
"Geez, don't sound so surprised."
She chuckled, but then her focus shifted solely to the soup. Its flavor caressed her mouth, its warmth spread out in her belly. Happy food, it was happy food indeed. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, filling more than their empty stomachs. There would probably be some nightmares, a time of lingering trauma, but she was not ready to open that box right now. Meeting solace in homemade food and Mulder's company was more than Scully had hoped for tonight.
"Thank you," she stated silently. "For finding me, cooking for me ..."
"You'd do the same for me."
"That soup was the best thing I have tasted in a long time."
His face turned somber, bearing traces of his very own trauma as his mind wandered back to the conversation in the car.
"Good," he stated firmly. "Do you want to, I don't know, talk some more?"
Scully shook her head, barely suppressing a yawn.
"I want to lie down and sleep twelve hours straight. Are you OK out here?"
"Yeah."
Lifting one hand, he brushed a damp lock of hair out of her face, needing the contact more than her hair needed the rearrangement. Catching his hand with her own, she played with it briefly before getting up, placing a lingering kiss on top of his head.
"Goodnight, Mulder."
"Goodnight, Scully."
He took care of the dishes and used the bathroom once she was done. Knowing where she kept her extra blankets, he prepared a makeshift bed on the couch, but before he could get comfortable, her bedroom door opened once more. She reemerged, looking cute and fragile and everything he tried not to think.
"Mulder?"
"I'm here. Do you need something?"
"As a matter of fact … yes. I need a favor."
Gnawing her lip, she looked at him.
"Just tell me, Scully."
"I can't forget his mouth on mine."
"What do you need? More soup? Or something sweet maybe? Or mouthwash?"
Shaking her head, she padded in his direction.
"I need a new memory. Mulder … may I kiss you?"
He forgot how to breathe.
"Scully ..."
"I know, this is a lot to ask for."
He laughed out almost sadly.
"No, it's not. Not really. Kiss me, of course. Whatever you need."
With a deep breath, she closed the distance to him, but when he tried to stand up, she put her hands on his shoulders, encouraging him to stay seated. Looking up, his gaze traveled over satin and curves, but then she bent down, lowering her face to his. Her fingers slid from his shoulders into his hair, and his eyes fell shut almost on their own volition.
"Mulder," she whispered, and then her words turned into a caress, as the softest feeling ever grazed his lips.
"Oh ..."
It was wonder put into two letters, and his heart was galloping hard in his chest, as she came back for a second touch, as he tried very hard not to move.
The second caress was firmer, and this time she allowed her lips to meet his, really, truly meet his. Mulder was relatively fine, though, until he could feel the tip of her warm tongue touching his bottom lip. With a deep groan, he lost it, wrapping his arms around her, effectively pulling her onto his lap, and then her lips parted and he was kissing her; kissing her like he had only ever kissed her in his dreams. He wanted to erase the memory of the past two days, but he wanted to do so much more. She made sounds, little sounds in the back of her throat, but they were good sounds, affirmative sounds, and her fingers were still in his hair, so he threw caution in the wind.
His hand curled around her nape, and he kissed her with lips and tongue and everything he head; pouring all the years, all the scares and all the times she had moved his world into one gesture. She was warm and soft and pliant, and she was in his arms. He kissed her until his whole body was vibrating, kissed her until he was breathless and so was she.
Finally inching back, he could feel her panting breath on his moist lips, could feel her heat wherever his body touched hers.
"Good?" he rasped, opening his eyes.
She licked her lips; lips that were still humming with sensations.
"Oh yes ..." she uttered, her voice huskier than ever before.
Chancing his luck, he took her face into both hands, kissing her, once more, briefly, with infinite tenderness; cataloging her softness, her weight, her strength.
"Thanks for surviving," he finally said, and she laughed out breathlessly, just beginning to realize that while she had asked for this kiss, she had gotten a lot more.
She disentangled herself from his embrace, registering that her legs were just a tad unsteady.
"Thank you for the memory."
"Scully?"
"Yeah?"
"Leave the door ajar."
X
It is a myth that monsters only ever appear in the dark, nobody knew it better than the two of them, but tonight's darkness bore more than a few horrors. Despite the lingering memory of Scully's lips on his, despite the wonderful turmoil her kiss had caused deep within, his dreams were haunted.
She might not know it, but his biggest terror, the little girl in her nightgown hovering in the blazing light, had long been replaced by various images of Scully. Scully dying and falling and being taken or eaten alive.
He awoke with a gasp before the evil could harm her, but only barely. His heart was galloping in the darkness, the nightmare still so very present, and before he could overthink it, his feet were already moving. He found her in the moonlight, her hair a curly mess on her pillow, her breaths deep and even. The sight of her went a long way to soothe his pain, and Mulder exhaled relief.
She stirred under his gaze.
"Mulder ..."
"Shh, I'm here. Sleep, Scully."
"Come to bed, Mulder."
Shifting on the mattress, she made space for him, and with his heart so damn uncovered in the wee hours, he accepted the invitation, slipping under the blanket beside her.
Her body was sleep-warm, as she crawled into his arms, her hair smelling like lavender.
"You are safe," he stated, cradling her close to him, and she burrowed her face into his neck.
"And so are you," she whispered.
For caring was not a one-way-street and none of them could ever be truly safe if the other was not. And when they went back to sleep, no nightmare could enter the circle of their arms.
X
Mornings came and went. The scratches on her face faded away and so did the scratches on his soul. They boarded another flight, hiked into another forest, solved another mystery. Autumn deepened. His birthday came and went with a little candle on a chocolate bar somewhere in a motel room in Iowa; with her voice sounding somehow different as she told him to make a wish.
They did not talk about the night they had held each other, did not talk about that kiss. But ever so often, she found his gaze lingering on her lips; ever so often, she lay awake in the dark, wondering how he had fit into her arms so perfectly.
To be continued ...