Here we are with the following chapter for my little story. This chapter takes place after the end of Chimera, where Scully had stayed behind for the stakeout and Mulder had gone to the suburbs for a separate investigation. This begins just as he returns to DC.
The X-files, Mulder & Scully do not belong to me but no harm is intended by this work of fiction. Please don't sue.
Feedback is greatly appreciated. Scarlet.
Alexandria, Mulder's apartment, two weeks later:
"Scully," he calls while closing the door behind him. "I stopped and picked up the dry cleaning."
He wants her to spend the night after being away from her for his case. He doesn't want to leave it up to her to decide. To use the excuse that she forgot to pack a bag, even though they both seem to have one perpetually in their office or left behind in the trunk of one of the fleet sedans.
He wants to take her for a nice dinner. He feels guilty for leaving her to the stakeout on her own even if it wasn't his idea in the first place. In the end it was for the best. She might have been stuck with crappy takeout while he enjoyed elaborate meals at a dining room table and suffered a few sleepless nights, but there hadn't been any danger or drowning.
Maybe he had earned his home-cooked meals.
He separates the hangers, switching his suits into one hand and hers into another. She comes to take her clothes from him when he stumbles across the dress.
"They must have given me someone else's clothes," he says, wondering how the sleek dress got mixed up in the middle of their work attire.
"No, it's mine," she says, quickly shuffling it to the middle of her collection of hangers.
When did she get a dress like that?
He has only a glimpse of it, but notes it is small and black and lightweight, and he imagines it doesn't cover much of her body at all. She looks studiously away from him, and he wonders further about its presence among her suits and blouses.
She leaves and hangs her clothes on one of the hooks near the front door. He wishes she would hang them in his closet. She takes his clothes then, removes the plastic and brings them to his bedroom. He takes the opportunity to look at the dress more closely. She returns, finding him fingering the soft material and she smooths it down, taking his hand in hers.
"He gave it to me. It's a nice dress and I didn't want to throw it away."
He wants to ask who 'he' is but one glance at her eyes and he knows.
"That chain-smoking asshole bought you a dress? Why would you keep it?"
He drops her hand and walks away. She follows him into the living room. His apartment is too small.
"I wore it to dinner." She sounds contrite. "It was a nice restaurant."
"Nicer than the one we're going to tonight?"
He realizes he sounds jealous, but he can't stop the words. Some part of him is jealous. The same part that is hurt.
"Mulder, please, it's not like that. You know it wasn't."
"No, I don't. I wasn't there, remember? I was here, frantically trying to find you while you were out traipsing around in a little black dress." He turns away in his rant but turns back to her before adding: "tell me something, Scully. Was this dinner before or after he drugged and molested you?"
She doesn't answer, but the flash of guilt in her features gives him all the answer he needs. He drops to the couch, loosening his tie and tossing it on the table. She stands in front of him, seeming to debate whether she should continue standing or drop beside him.
Maybe she's wondering if she should bother to stay at all.
"I'll call the restaurant and cancel," she says instead. For once, they seem to be in agreement. It's not the norm – or at least, it hasn't been for many weeks. She sits at his desk and he half listens as she calls to cancel their plans.
She ends the call and goes to the kitchen. He hears her moving about but wonders what she could be doing. He hasn't been here in over a week; the fridge is empty, and his cupboards are perpetually bare. She returns and hands him a beer.
"I stopped for a few things before coming here," she says by way of explanation. He is touched by her thoughtfulness, but then remembers that he can't do the same for her. She still hasn't given him a key.
She returns to the kitchen, and he drinks from the cold bottle, letting his weariness chase away a little of the hurt. The sound of her chopping – something – reaches him and a part of him feels that he should go and help her. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the sofa.
I get the feeling you're not used to anyone taking care of you.
Ellen Adderley's comment had made him uncomfortable. He didn't like to dissect his relationship with Scully. To look too closely at its shortcomings and disfunction. But they needed to do something. To deal with their issues or establish some sort of normalcy – even if it never came close to normal by anyone else's standards. They were bringing a life into this world, and he would be damned if he was going to wait at a locked door to see what part he could play in it. He opens his eyes and unfolds himself from the deep cushions, coming to his feet.
"Scully, what are you doing?"
She pauses in her chopping and looks up with a slight smirk. The answer to his question, seemingly obvious. "I'm making us dinner. We still need to eat."
"That's not what I mean." She looks perplexed. It's another reminder that something is broken between them. He's not used to having to explain himself. She usually recognizes the train of his thought almost as quickly as he does. "I'm a little at a loss here. I come home and you've stocked my fridge and you're handing me beer and making me dinner."
"You don't like it?" She stops chopping once again. Pieces of onion and garlic give no hint of the meal she is preparing.
"I love it," he says, hating to admit it but needing to all the same. He takes a deep breath. "I hate that you don't let me do the same for you."
"I can't have beer, Mulder," she tries to lighten the situation and he wishes she wouldn't.
"You know that's not what I mean." He bites off the words and they come across harshly. Her teasing smile disappears, and he instantly wishes he hadn't let his feelings come through so clearly.
She drops the knife on the counter and strides away. He follows her with his eyes but remains where he stands. She turns and faces him, hands on her hips.
"What do you want from me, Mulder? Do you want me to throw away the dress?"
"It's not about the dress."
"It's not?"
He wants to shake her, to scream at her to open her eyes and really look at him, look at them. Why is it so hard when it used to be so easy?
"Scully, why don't I have a key to your apartment?"
His question catches her off guard. She opens her mouth and closes it, shifting her weight and crossing her arms over her chest.
"Well, Mulder, I … I just haven't had a chance to make you a copy yet. We haven't been sleeping together for that long."
He wants to roll his eyes at her lame defense, but that's her move. "You've had a key to my place for years," he says instead.
She drops her chin and her shoulders slump and if it wasn't his feelings that she was toying with, he would hate to see the physical evidence of her realization of the truth. He takes a step closer, but she takes a step back as though she senses his approach because he knows she can't see him, and he hadn't made a sound.
"Sometimes, it's too much, Mulder," she says softly. "I don't know where you end and where I begin. You lead and I follow, no matter where or why or how I feel. Sometimes, I feel like I've lost myself and I don't know if I'll ever be found again."
His has often contemplated the key inequality – more so as of late. But, of all the reasons he thinks she might offer, none of them come close to the words she has spoken. They sound so defeated. They don't sound anything like a woman hesitantly preparing to move forward in a relationship. They sound like someone looking to end it.
He can't stand here. He wishes he had just stayed on the couch, nursing his beer, letting her make them dinner. Instead, he can't settle for the little pieces she has offered. Instead, he pushes her to the precipice and he's worried if he reaches out to drag her to safety that he'll scare her, and she'll be gone forever.
He can't lose her.
The walls are closing in on him. She walks over to the couch and drops on it. He wants to sit next to her. How many times has he sat right there?
I don't know where you end and where I begin.
He can't go to her. She's on the ledge. He goes to his bedroom, drops to the bed. He can't stay. It's not far enough and his mind is too full of chaos. He gets back on his feet, strips away his office attire and pulls on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. His running shoes are placed neatly in his closet, and he knows she must have moved them there.
He leaves the bedroom, looks over toward the couch in time to see her look up at his entrance. Her eyes are tormented, and he doesn't hesitate as he continues to the door, foregoing the elevator and jogging down the stairs.
He returns after an hour, suitably spent, hoping that his lack of physical energy will impact his emotional energy. The apartment is empty when he returns. A plate of stir-fry is waiting on the kitchen counter but Scully's dry cleaning is gone from the entry. He opens the fridge and grabs a beer, moving to toss the cap into the garbage only to find a balled-up mound of black at the top. He pulls the dress out, brushing vegetable scraps from soft fabric, eyeing the cut and shape before dropping it on the pile of his own clothes destined for the cleaners.
Well, there we have it. I still would love some feedback about the present tense format and the overall premise itself. Thanks, SS.