fbi's most unwanted

“Mulder, it’s me ” 

Friendly gestures should not be this difficult. Already this morning she had spent ten minuets in the shop agonising over which card to buy and another ten minuets deciding weather or not to buy him a cupcake to go with it. She’d spent so long loitering in the shop that if not for the respectable suit the shopkeeper might have thought she was stealing something. When she did finally make her way to the till (cupcake in hand) he had smiled patiently and asked if it was for someone special in a way that made Scully regret almost every decision she’d made to date. Still, she’d stuck to her guns; the card had nothing on it but balloons and “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” in multicoloured letters and “Happy Birthday Mulder, Scully x” inside. For God’s sake they’d been working together for three years now, she should have been able to get him a birthday present without worrying she was crossing a line. 

The problem is, of course, that they haven’t really done birthdays with each other. In their first year working together it didn’t feel right, after all she’d only known him a couple a month and was still settling into the office. Then the year after that she’d been….gone so there’d been no chance of so much as a quick well wish. As for her birthday, well, he never seemed to remember which was just fine by her. 

          It had gotten to the point where Mulder himself scarcely remembered that it was his birthday. For the past few years it had been the same; the day came and went inconsequentially, defined only by short, well-meaning calls from each of his parents. There were a handful of occasions in which The Lone Gunmen had surprised him, several times with limited edition copies of occult-inspired pornography that was bad enough that Mulder used it more for comedic purposes than anything else. All in all, he had no complaints. When you lead a life like his-- one focused so wholly and devotedly to the quest of the X-Files, what else was there to expect?

          The morning came and went in a blur. Mulder spent the whole of it reviewing files regarding a recent case and sharpening pencils, which would swiftly meet their fate as makeshift darts protruding from the ceiling tiles of the bureau basement. Not the most productive of mornings, but it was a start. The morning drew to a close in time with him taking a walk upstairs to request autopsy results from a prior case, returning to his office only after having argued with the finance department about his spending for the month. Evidently buying plane tickets to New Jersey to investigate the Jersey Devil was nonessential travel in the eyes of finance-- ludicrous, if you asked him.

          When he returned to his office there was something uncharacteristically colorful on his desk. Among the clutter he might have overlooked it if not for the illustration of multicolored balloons demanding his attention. Cautiously he approached, a smile twitching on his lips, a picture of amusement and curiosity as he picked up the card. 

          The smile widened upon his reading its contents, which were brief, certainly not sugarcoated, the undeniable seal of Dana Scully. There was a swell in his chest, something born perhaps of embarrassment-- or maybe surprise? He was unsure, but could not deny that he was pleased, nonetheless. For a while Mulder humored himself with a picture of Scully-- who he seldom spent time with outside of work-- taking time out of her day to treat him to birthday gifts. In fact, up until he ran into her again, it became a task not imagining her signing that card, or debating which flavor of cupcake might be best. 

@f-xmulder ( @maudlindays )

1. on the head. 

When he leans over the hospital bed she thinks about kissing him, just this once, before she dies and the opportunity is gone forever. It’s strange; she’d never really thought about a life with Mulder before the opportunity was taken away. Oh she’d thought about kissing him, and now and then what it would be like to have sex with him, but she’d never imagined making breakfast, or holding hands or anything that normal people seemed to do. Normal people being classified as those who didn’t have inoperable cancer due to abductions, obviously. Now though, now that she knows she will never have any of those things, she can’t stop thinking about it. She will never make pancakes with Mulder in their pyjamas in the morning, not with anyone else either, at that. They stole it from her, along with her memories. 

So when he’s leaning over her she considers, just for a second, leaning up and kissing his lips, just so she has, so that when the Father asks about regrets she can be truly honest. For a moment she honestly thinks she might do it but she bails last moment. She can’t do this to him, it’s not fair. She cannot give him her love and then die, it would destroy him more than it is already, and something about kissing him just because she is dying feels cheap and wrong. Illogical as it is, she finds herself wondering if her lips would taste like chemicals, or worse, death. Mulder kisses her on the forehead, softly as if he’s scared she might break and she closes her eyes. He deserved more from her, they both did. 

2. on the cheek 

This time it’s not because she is dying, but because she’s alive. They have spent the last few hours in the Gunmen’s basement at something which is certainly the closest thing to a party Scully has been to in a few years. There’s even red plastic cups, a cake and a banner celebrating the fact that she isn’t dead yet; much to her mixed amusement and horror. The wine, of course, is awful and Scully loves it. She loves that she is here to drink terrible wine from plastic cups, she loves that she can taste the bitterness of it and smell the mustiness of the basement. More than that she feels an inexplicably strong rush of affection for this strange band of people which must be the alcohol talking. Though in remission she is still uncomfortably underweight, which is probably the reason she has found herself getting so drunk so quickly.

When Mulder finds her she is stood just outside of the basement, leaning on the wall relishing the feel of the wind on her flushed face. She looks beautiful. She always does. “You alright?” Try as he might to sound casual she catches the concern in his voice and offers him a clumsy, drunken smile. 

“ Fine, just getting some air.” 

His shoulders relax a little, though not enough  “you shouldn’t be outside, it’s cold, you might get sick.” 

They stare at each other, both registering the absurdity of the statement at the same time. You might get sick. Scully starts laughing first. It might be the alcohol, or the atmosphere, or simply the fact that she’s alive but it seems to be just about the funniest thing she has ever heard. Laughter bubbles up inside her and tumbles over her lips, high pitched, almost giggly. Mulder, to his credit, is slightly less hysterical about it and even takes a moment to seem startled before his own deep chuckle volunteers itself. They laugh long beyond when it is funny, Scully with tears rolling down her cheek and Mulder shaking his head before simply looking at her. “God,” gasps Scully eventually, “God.” Rather than agree with her Mulder offers her an arm, moving forward to loop it round Scully’s waist when she stumbles. The stance crosses just about every boundary Scully has carefully constructed over the years, but she doesn’t mind. Eventually they will go back up, be it tomorrow or next week, but not now. She reaches unsteadily onto her tiptoes and kisses Mulder quickly, tenderly, on the cheek. It surprises him enough to freeze and he stares down at her, wide eyed, questioning. There are a hundred answers she could give him but none of them feel right for the moment. Instead she offers him a smile and this: “thank you.” 

3. back of the neck 

In her dream Scully is burning and she wakes with the smell of smoke still lingering at the back of her mind. It is only Mulder’s voice, firm and alarmed, that helps her ground herself. “Scully, Scully you’re all right look at me, Scully.” She wakes up, gasping and thrashing in her sheets as if drowning. Before her mind has even fully cleared she reaches out for Mulder and grips onto him and feels his own hands holding onto her arms. They stay like that; Mulder awkwardly hunched over, Scully half sitting up and clinging to him until her breath slows. As her mind clears she realises she aught be embarrassed at the intimacy of the situation and the weakness her nightmare displays but she does not have the energy. Or perhaps she has moved past that, with Mulder at the very least. 

She lays on her side, Mulder next to her holding her hand; a position they arrived at with barely any discussion. The door adjoining their hotel rooms is still open and Mulder’s sheets thrown off where he jumped off to get to Scully. She scared him. She does that. Outside an ambulance screams past. “I want to take it out.” He doesn’t need to ask what she’s talking about it. Both of them imagine they can see the chip glowing beneath her skin. 

“You can’t.”  “I know.” 

A beat  of silence between them before she feels Mulder’s lips on the back of her neck.. It should be romantic, but it isn’t. “try and get some sleep.” 

4. the knuckles

They are going to die, Scully knows this. She also knows there are far worse ways to die; fading to nothing in a hospital bed, say, or being burned alive. Even being shot would be worse than this. Any pain faded out long ago, soon after the feelings of cold. They sit huddled together, semi conscious, her head on his chest and his arms around her in a futile attempt to keep her warm. It’s hopeless, of course, but she loves him for trying. Probably they should  be confessing things to each other, making final declarations of love and adoration, but they are too cold and weary. Besides, what can possibly be said that they don’t already know? Instead she reaches clumsily for his arm and lifts his hand up to her lips. Both of them are too numb to really feel it, but it’s comforting all the same. 

5. the lips 

There is a baby in her arms. Her baby. Theirs. William. She can feel the weight of him next to her heart. Part of her is convinced that this cannot be true and that the sense of peace and safety she is slowly becoming accustomed to is only an illusion. Surely it will not be long before They make their way to the house and drag him away from her. Sometimes she cannot go to the shop with him without looking for men in suits and starting every time she smells cigarette smoke. But there is nothing. Nothing but her, William and the life they are slowly building together with Mulder. The thought of it could make her cry, would, if she hadn’t promised herself she would not cry in front of her son. That isn’t the kind of mother she wants to be; always sniffling and creating problems that are not there. 

Eventually she knows things will become easier, after all she is already settling into motherhood, it cannot be long before she settles into civilian life, so to speak. There will be his first birthday party, and his first day at school. There will be high school girlfriends, or boyfriends, and broken hearts. God help her, but she’s even looking forward to the temper tantrums. She wants to believe this will all be true for them. Has to. 

The sound of Mulder’s footsteps bring her out of her thoughts and she smiles at him; small but genuine; her trademark. “You okay Scully?” the way he says it sounds like I love you, it always has. 

      Mulder had neglected to say that he had also been worried sick about William, but granted his own past, he had realized that he ought to be pleased that his son likely was not hunting down aliens and trying to unravel government conspiracies. A missed text message would not spell the end of the world, then, even if it felt like it had.

      “No, no. Just worried is all.” He gestured to the seat beside him. “But I told her I’d wait until you got here. Wanted her to get some sleep.” He looked out on the porch of their home, up at the stars that dotted themselves along the black canvass of sky each night. Then he turned and smiled to his son.