Chapter Text
PROLOGUE: HEGEL PLACE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
DECEMBER 1996
They stumble through the apartment door side-by-side, arms slung around one another's shoulders, their feet tangling together and almost sending them sprawling onto the foyer floor. Scully giggles- a real, live giggle- and Mulder is so surprised that he stops in his tracks and gazes down at her, somewhat aware that his smile is probably verging on goofy.
"What?" asks Scully, trying to frown up at him, but dissolving into giggles again instead. Mulder reaches out and slides a finger down her cheek.
"I don't remember the last time I heard you giggle, Scully," he says. "Have I ever heard you giggle?" Scully tries again to look stern.
"I do not giggle, Mulder," she says, slurring her words as she staggers away from him, further into the apartment, sliding out of her trench coat as she goes. She tries to hang it from the coat tree, misses, and stands there, looking down at it lying in a heap on the floor as though unsure what to do. Mulder follows, bending down and picking it up, hanging it up along with his own.
Scully blows her hair out of her face and staggers to the couch, collapsing onto it. She holds out a hand in Mulder's general direction, and he flops ungracefully next to her, entwining his fingers with hers. She leans her head against him and sighs.
"I needed this, Mulder," she mumbles. "Thanks for taking me out."
"No problem, Scully," he says, letting go of her hand and putting his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him. Her head falls on his chest, and she actually snuggles into him, making him feel warm all over.
Three hours ago, sitting in his desk chair in their office, he had leaned his head against her chest, his arm around her waist and her hand stroking his hair, comforting him after what had to have been the longest couple of days he'd had in months- which was really saying something. John Lee Roche, and all of the memories he'd invoked, had drained Mulder completely, and he'd realized, when Scully had turned and left the office, that he didn't really want to be alone. He'd followed her to the elevator and asked her to go for a drink... which had turned into two... then three... and finally, both of them had lost count. They'd only stopped when the bar had closed for the night, climbing into a cab together and heading back to Mulder's apartment without discussion.
So here they sit, completely blitzed, drained, sitting with their thighs pressed far too tightly together, and under the smell of God knows how many gin and tonics, Mulder can smell Scully's perfume, her shampoo, the subtle scent of her skin that he's enjoyed on occasion, whenever he's found himself close enough to her to detect it. He turns his head to the side and pushes his nose gently into the skin behind her ear. She inhales sharply.
"Mulder?"
"Mmmmm?"
"What're you doing?"
"I'm smelling you, Scully," he says. He buries his face in her hair. "You smell good." She laughs.
"I smell like the inside of a bar, Mulder," she says. He shakes his head.
"Underneath all that," he says. "You smell like you." He sighs against her neck and nuzzles into her. "It's comforting, Scully. It always makes me feel better." He can feel her smiling against his cheek. He's pretty sure she wouldn't allow any of this if she were sober, but right now, she's soft and liquid against him. He turns his head, just a fraction, and freezes with his lips barely an inch from hers. She looks up at him, her eyes drowsy, relaxed. "Scully?"
"Yeah?"
"Why...." He licks his lips. "Why don't we?" Her eyes widen slightly.
"Mulder...." She looks like she's trying to come up with an argument, but he can see her pupils dilating. Her gaze drops from his eyes to his lips, her own mouth opening slightly.
"You want to," he says, and it's not a question... but still, she nods, just barely, and tilts her chin up a fraction of an inch, waiting. "So do I," he whispers, and then his lips are tight against hers.
Mulder has always assumed, given the amount of energy that crackles between them at any given moment, that should they ever come together, it would be wild, out of control, fireworks and hurricanes and a full-scale natural disaster contained in one coupling... but it's not. Whether because of the alcohol, or because what both of them need so badly right now is comfort and not passion, their lovemaking is slow, tender, and gentle. It doesn't last long, but Scully doesn't seem disappointed, and so Mulder doesn't feel too badly about it. When it's over, he clutches her to him and carefully reverses their positions so that he's lying on his back on the couch with her pillowed on his chest. He pulls his Navajo blanket down from the back of the couch and covers both of them with it and drifts off to sleep with the feel of her face in his neck and the smell of her hair in his nose.
When he wakes in the morning, she's gone. They never speak of it again.
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CHAPTER ONE
UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA HOSPITAL
PHILADELPHIA, PA
FEBRUARY 1997
With each sound of footfalls in the hallway outside of Scully's hospital room, her stomach clenches. The doctor has been in three separate times to try and change her mind about the CAT scan she's staunchly refused so far. All Scully wants to do is to get out of here, to get a cab to the airport, charge a ticket home to her bureau credit card, get back to her apartment, crawl into bed, and forget that this entire week ever happened.
And on Monday, when she'll have to return to work and face Mulder? She's doing her best not to think about it.
She closes her eyes, just for a moment... and she must have dozed off, because when she opens her eyes again, he's there, sitting in a chair next to her bed, looking at her, his expression unreadable. She sits up straighter.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Came to pick you up," he answers. His voice is flat, and she knows immediately: he's read the police report. And he's not happy. She looks away from him, out the window.
"You didn't have to do that," she says. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shrug.
"Your doctor says you're refusing a CAT scan," he says. "Why?"
"It's unnecessary, and it will mean more time before I can go home," she replies. "My pupils are of equal size and are responding appropriately to light. I have no nausea, no disorientation, no other symptoms of a concussion."
"Except dizziness," says Mulder. "Isn't vertigo a possible symptom?"
"Not when it's because of an inner ear infection," says Scully. "I'm on antibiotics for it. Have been for a week." Mulder frowns.
"Didn't you just have an ear infection last month?" he asks. "And a couple of months before that, as well?" Scully sighs.
"Yes, I did," she says.
"Shouldn't you be concerned about that? Three ear infections in as many months?" She glares at him.
"Stop nagging me, Mulder. It's nothing. I can take care of myself."
"Clearly." His voice is icy. She opens her mouth to retort, to tell him exactly what he can do with his condescending, judgmental attitude, but he's already standing. "I'll be in the waiting room when you're done," he says, and leaves.
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Mulder does not talk to Scully at all over the weekend. They'd exchanged maybe ten words, total, between his leaving her hospital room and their flight landing in D.C. He half-expects her to not show on Monday, but she's there, perched in the chair across from his desk, looking exhausted, but more or less in one piece.
He hadn't intended to be cold and sarcastic- he'd wanted to move past this, to not let it come between them- but the hurt is just too close to the surface. He's spent all weekend thinking about it, picturing Jerse's hands on her, imagining them twined together on a couch, a bed, the floor, up against the wall- he's been tormenting himself. It all comes out in his tone the moment he says "Welcome back," and it only goes downhill from there. Scully says nothing, but he can see in her face that he's cutting her, hurting her, giving her bruises inside to match the ones Jerse put on her face. He tries to move on, to start talking about their next case, but it's no good.
"So... all this...." He manages to make his tone just a little bit softer. "Because I've... because I didn't get you a desk?"
"Not everything is about you, Mulder," she retorts. "This is my life."
"Yes, but it's my-" It's my heart you're fucking with here, Scully. That's what he'd like to say, but her look stops him in his tracks. It says, all too clearly, that she's got a pretty good idea of what he was going to say, and she doesn't like it. Her eyes narrow threateningly.
"Nothing I did had anything to do with you," she says. "I met a man I found attractive, and I went home with him. I'm an adult. I can do these things if I want to and I do not need your permission."
"You think that's what I'm upset about?" Of course that's what he's upset about, but he's not about to admit it. Unfortunately for him, she knows him far too well to be fooled.
"Yes, Mulder, I do. And none of it is any of your business. One drunken night on your couch does not give you any say whatsoever in how I spend my time, or whom I spend it with."
"I'm starting to think drunken nights on couches are kind of a pattern with you, Scully."
And that's all it takes. Scully is on her feet, shouting at him, and within seconds, he's on his feet, yelling right back. They're both aiming to hurt, slinging insults and accusations without any thought to the damage they could do, and he wants to stop, but he can't, he's totally out of control... until quite suddenly, Scully's eyes fly open in panic, and she abruptly stops shouting. She claps both hands to her nose, and seconds later, a bright red gout of blood sprays out from between her fingers, spattering the desk between them. Mulder freezes in horror.
"Jesus, Scully!" He makes a grab for the box of tissues sitting on the corner of his desk, but she gets there first, snatching up a handful and pressing them to her face. Mulder rushes out from behind the desk, but Scully holds up her hand, backing away. With one hand, she keeps the rapidly-soaking tissue to her nose; with the other, she picks up her coat and briefcase.
"I need to go," she says thickly, and whirling on her heel, she tears out of the office, banging the door shut behind her. For a moment, Mulder contemplates following her... but the look on her face told him quite clearly that she won't be receptive to that. He has no idea what's going on, but it hasn't escaped him that Scully looked horrified, but not surprised, by the nosebleed. Clearly, she's not telling him something... and he's willing to bet she won't tell him until she's good and ready. He sinks back into his chair, unable to tear his eyes away from the bright red droplets decorating the file on his desk.
Ed Jerse is suddenly the furthest thing from Mulder's mind.