He tried not to think of the way she was lying on the bed as suggestive. It wasn't any more suggestive than her disrobing in front of him, and that had been entirely innocent, hadn't it?
Maybe not.
Mulder pushed the thought back in his mind and focused on telling his new partner about his sister's abduction. It wasn't a story he was used to telling or was comfortable with sharing—not because he was ashamed of what he believed to have happened to her—it was more of an issue of trust. He could handle people mocking his beliefs and his theories, but he didn't often trust people to not use them against him. Look, the bureau had already given him a babysitter.
But he was quickly finding out that Special Agent Dana Scully was nothing like the babysitter he had expected them to stick him with. He could kind of see why they had chosen her. She was a headstrong scientist, but still green enough to be impressionable. Or so it seemed. Nothing he had impressed upon her persuaded her away from her strict logical thinking and facts-only attitude.
There had been little smirks here and there and the occasional scoffing at his outside-the-box investigative approaches, but, for the most part, Scully was very respectful and professional. He had readily forgiven her for those harmless, little transgressions nor had he taken offense—mostly because he gave it right back to her (or instigated things in the first place). She had taken his playful pestering in stride at their first meeting. He had taunted her in order to gauge her patience and tolerance, and she admirably held her ground. Mulder thought he could further test her as they worked in the field, and she remained sure-footed on that ground, much to his surprise.
There was no smirking or scoffing now. The expression on her face was one of compassion and concern. He didn't often have people look at him like that, so it was unfamiliar and he wasn't sure how to react, but it had made it easier for him to open up. Mulder also realized that he had made the decision to open up to her and tell her about Samantha before she showed up on his motel room doorstep.
Scully regarded Mulder as he spoke. The dark room, the candlelight, the sound of rain outside lent itself to his oration as a kind of ghost story, and it was, in a way. The ghost of his sister, no matter where she may be now, haunted him. It saddened her. She had watched as his eyes lit up at evidence that backed up his theories. His passion was contagious and she had been resisting it with analytics and factualities, trying to brush it aside as nothing more than the peculiarities of his character, but as she worked more alongside him she sensed that there was something deeper to it than that.
That it was as tragic as losing his sister made her heavy-hearted, and a twinge of remorse struck her. She had treated him as if he was a crackpot spouting off insane speculations, ("I'm not crazy, Scully," he had said to her.) not the Oxford-educated senior agent in this kind of exiled division of the FBI to which she was now assigned. Each little, disbelieving sigh or remark came back to her, and she admonished herself for not being more open-minded.
But her comportment was set for her long before their first meeting by years of dealing with sexism and misogyny, first in the field of medicine, then at the FBI. She had to behave the way she did in order to be heard, for the facts she discovered to be considered, for her science to be respected. Of course she went into that basement office with her guard up.
She had been lowering it little by little as they worked the case—she had even gone as far as to lower her robe in unexpected need of his reassurance. Her initial presumptions about him becoming almost foreign thoughts in her mind now. Any credence she had lent to the rumors about him that had floated around at the Academy sounded as silly to her now as a belief in Bigfoot. Mulder probably believed in Bigfoot, though, so it didn't make the best analogy, Scully thought.
"Spooky Mulder" they called him, and she had thought it humorous. But did she think the reputation she had acquired as a ball-busting ice queen was funny as well? Certainly not. While she rebuked herself for teasing Mulder about his ideas, she added her blind inclination to take rumor as gospel truth to her list of faults.
His peer-given nickname now seemed anything but harmless and was just plain mean. Mulder had gone through something traumatic as a boy, and that trauma was still there—a part of him—as he used it as fuel for his cause. A cause that, as she learned more about it and about him, made her want to join him, to solve these mysteries that both plagued and excited him.
"No one would talk about it," Mulder was saying. "There were no facts to confirm, nothing to offer any hope."
At their first meeting, Mulder had challenged her by saying, "When convention and science offer us no answers, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?"
How much sense that statement made to Scully now with the context of his sister's abduction behind it. He needed something to put his back up against, but what do you use when there is nothing? She may not believe in Agent Mulder's fantastic plausibilities, but she believed in hope. Wasn't that, essentially, what her religious faith was?
Her next breath in felt heavy with emotion. She was feeling sympathy for Mulder, but also an intense fondness. His past was riddled with tragedy leaving him alone, detached from his family that couldn't speak of it, his beliefs isolating him from his colleagues, yet he still had an optimism. She almost couldn't fathom it. This intelligent man who had seen the darkest sides of humanity as a profiler, who chose to work in the shadows, did not seem to have a bitter bone in his body. He just plugged away at his quest, paying no mind to judgements or ridicule. She admired him for this.
He sat up and turned to look at her as he told her of how he found the X-Files just like a child would tell you what they had gotten from Santa on Christmas morning. Then something stopped him from continuing and he turned back away from her. His arm was on the bed, so she placed her hand over his.
"What?" she asked. Was that warmth flooding her chest her anxiety of what he might say next, or that he might choose to not say anymore and shut her out; or was it something else entirely, a bodily reaction to their contact? She had felt the same thing when he checked the marks on her back and when she hugged him in relief afterward. The collection of feelings she was having was confounding her just as the case was.
He explained that he thought someone inside the government was thwarting his efforts, which sounded like a conspiracist's conceit, but Scully found she was unable to write it off as such. Although, he seemed to write her off similarly with his next comment, saying she was a part of their agenda.
She hadn't really done anything to gain his trust besides do her job honestly with nothing but loyalty to the evidence, to the facts, but she hoped he could see that. "I'm not part of any agenda. You've got to trust me. I'm here just like you to solve this."
Her heart began to race when he turned and leaned in close to her in earnest, telling her that she needed to know, because of what she had seen, and what he believed to be his repressed memories of his sister's abduction. She chided herself for entertaining any thoughts of lust or desire. This stuff he was telling her was serious.
"Listen to me, Scully," he said, his tone rising, "this thing exists."
"But how do you know…" she responded weakly. He was too intense for her to have clear thoughts right now.
"The government knows about it, and I've got to know what they're protecting. Nothing else matters to me, and this is as close as I've ever gotten to it."
They shared a long look, their breathing elevated. Finally, he moved, but in her direction. Mulder reached his hand toward her and touched his thumb to her lips. She was startled by this, but made no indication that she was, then she pressed a kiss into his thumb. It was a weird thing to do, she realized, but so was his gesture. She might've been embarrassed by this strange incident for the rest of her life if he hadn't kissed her next, but he did. Mulder replaced his finger with his lips.
Scully was tentative even while desire smoldered and built inside her, and she felt a slight hesitation on his part as well. Even a chaste kiss could be deleterious to their working relationship, to her professionalism. She wanted to deepen the kiss, but her conflicting wants were causing a small panic within her. There was no tongue yet, her virtue was still intact- oh, there it was. Mulder's tongue pushed past her lips, hot and wet, and she met it with hers.
He moaned...or did she? She couldn't tell. Thank god she was already lying down because she was quite lightheaded. As if he knew she was struggling to keep upright, he pushed her back, his lips still moving against her, and crawled up onto the bed. She kicked the blanket off her lower half—she was too hot, the kiss was too hot, he was too hot.
Mulder broke the kiss, straddled her hips, and sat back on his heels, well, mostly her thighs. She was melting with anticipation. What would he do next? What did she want him to do? He reached down to the belt of her robe and undid the knot. Yes, Scully thought. I took my robe off for you, now it's your turn. Take it off me, please god. She wanted his hands on her naked body, kneading her soft flesh, tracing her curves.
He looked down at her. She was all wanton lust...No, wait, not all, Mulder thought. He saw some nervous apprehension in her eyes. He understood. This could be a huge mistake, but he wanted it so badly. When was the last time he had such a connection with someone, such instant chemistry? Never. His past lovers couldn't hold a candle to what Dana Scully made him feel within the span of the few days he had known her.
Her fiery hair was splayed out on the pillow like a halo around her head. He grinned, amused at the metaphors he was using for her. First, it was a queen when she had thrown her robe back on and hugged him—her hair had gotten trapped in the collar and created the effect of a royal cape. She looked regal...and strong, even as she was shaking from relief and residual fear. Her coming to him for this made her strong in his eyes, not weak like she had probably thought.
He leaned back down to hover closely over her, placing one palm on her cheek. "I trust you."
Her lips parted as if she was going to say something, but she just nodded. Mulder covered Scully's lips again with his, and this time her tongue made its way into his mouth, stroking just inside his bottom lip. As they kissed, Mulder moved his hands down to her waist and pushed the front of the robe aside, running his fingertips along her ribs, then up to cup her breasts. He felt her put more force into the kiss and realized she was pushing against him, trying to sit up so she could shrug off the restrictive garment. Mulder helped her, blindly, then took it upon himself to rid her of the bra as well.
She laid back down and he kissed his way down her neck, nipping at her collarbone, making her sigh. He closed his lips over one taut nipple and sucked, and she arched into him, gasping. These sibilate sounds from her sizzled in the room in a harmonious melody with the pattering of the rain outside. Mulder wanted to hear more. "Nothing else matters to me," he had told her, but she was beginning to matter to him. Giving this woman pleasure mattered greatly to him right now, and it wasn't just because all the blood in his head had rushed down to his cock. He had had the stirrings of this at different moments since they first met.
Mulder reached down between them and rubbed her sex over her underwear. She whimpered and he smiled against her with a mouthful of her tit. After a thorough lavishing of her breasts and teasing her by fingering the now damp fabric between her legs, he got up off the bed and began to undress himself. She shivered at the loss of contact, but her whole body tingled with warmth at each glance of his bare skin as the clothes came off.
He started to get back on the bed, but then stopped. "Fuck," he said, "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay," she said, tugging at his hand. "I'm on the pill." He grinned widely at her, and she bit back her own smile.
They laid side by side, kissing for a while longer, hands roaming over one another before he entered her—some tactile get-to-know-you time after their personal and heartfelt verbal exchange. She took his cock in her hand and guided it to her entrance. Pushing their hips into each other in sync, he became fully buried inside her, their pelvises flush together. They both stilled, pausing mid-kiss to relish the sensation—the feeling of utter fullness for her and, for him, the balmy comfort of being totally enveloped by her tight heat.
Then he pressed his forehead to hers and began to slowly move in and out of her. He could feel her shallow puffs of breath between them, sweet and dewy, as her climax built. Mulder worked his arm underneath her side and pulled her closer as if it were possible. He couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began.
"Say it again," she whispered.
He didn't need to ask what, and said, "I trust you."
Her cunt clamped down around his shaft and then rippled with delicious spasms that sent him over the edge with her. She cried out and he grunted in unison, and their bodies stayed tightly together as they eased down from their respective orgasms.
They would've remained that way for a long while, feeling sated and content in each other's arms, if the phone hadn't rung, interrupting their moment of intimacy and bliss with the reality of their ongoing investigation. But what had just happened, what they shared, was also a reality—their intense feelings for each other, developed over a short time, were all too real, and there was no going back.