She wakes to the sound of surf breaking, the fluttering of the hotel room's curtains in the night breeze carrying the mixed scent of hibiscus and sea foam.
Mulder's slumbering form rests next to her, oblivious, snoring lightly. Her lips quirk at the sight; the rich tan on his shoulders in contrast to the stark white hotel sheets, the faint pink burn on his nose. They haven't seen this much sun in years; even SPF 50 isn't enough to protect her fair Irish freckles. She's spent the last week living in a bathing suit and cover-up, a wide-brimmed hat topping it off. Her skin is perpetually dotted with fine sand, her hair curls at the ends, and they both taste of salt.
She sits up, wrapping herself in the hotel-provided robe. The breeze stirs the hair at the nape of her neck in a gentle caress, beckoning the sea captain's daughter forth. Careful not to disturb her partner, she slips through the open French doors to the balcony, staring down at the rushing water below.
Something tugs at her consciousness, something that hasn't let her be since they wrapped the Monica Bannan case. Mulder had been pardoned, his criminal record wiped clean. She should feel relieved, unburdened, free.
Clouds gather on the horizon as she looks out across the empty beachfront; heavy rains were expected to make landfall overnight. Watching it roll in, she can't help but feel poised on the edge of something; respite in the eye of the hurricane.
He had thrown himself headlong into the fray, and she couldn't find it in herself to follow. What stopped her? she wonders. There was a time when she willingly followed him into exile, and now…she ducks her head, unused to questioning her loyalty.
She has the sudden, irrational desire to rip up their return tickets, to shuck off their overburdened identities and put the past firmly behind them. The irony isn't lost on her; they finally had their long-sought freedom, and yet—
Warmth at her back interrupts her thoughts.
"Mmm. Missed you."
She chuckles as Mulder's strong, sun-browned arms wrap themselves around her waist. "I've only been up for five minutes."
"Five minutes too long."
His hands slip beneath her robe, calloused heat on soft, bare skin, and she shivers. Desire blooms low and tight in her abdomen, even as her overtaxed inner thighs protest. She watches the horizon as lightning dances in the distance, before turning to accept his embrace. Her robe falls open, caught by the breeze, billowing around them like a sail.
"We haven't seen this much of each other since we worked together. You'll be sick of me."
"Never," he sighs, capturing her mouth with his lips until neither of them can breathe.
When they finally break apart, she arches an eyebrow, panting lightly. "Again? You're not young, Mulder. Don't hurt yourself."
He shrugs, almost sheepish. "You bring out the thirty-something in me, doc."
Her hand goes to his cheek, the familiar pattern of skin and scars under her fingertips is soothing, but also comes with a pang of sadness, too close to regret for her liking.
"Scully?"
He's watching her closely, faltering, sensing that thing that she hasn't been able to shake. She brightens, throwing him a smile she hopes is believable, and distracts him with another kiss, pulling him toward the door.
"It's nothing," she lies, putting the storm at her back, if only for a time. "Come back to bed."