#heartbash

Donna’s (Gossamer, mulderscreek) Destroying Trust (Gossamer) He won‘t even look at me, but I can feel his anger wash over me.  No, not anger, disappointment.  He’s so horribly disappointed in me he can’t even speak it.   He won’t even come into the room with me, standing there in the entrance, his hands holding onto the doorframe, holding him away from me. 

En Ami's Scully's thoughts when the disc turns up blank.

@brenayla's (Ao3) ālea iacta est A few weeks later, in a freshly abandoned office building, Scully feels foolish for ever hoping that a cure promised by a devil could be true.

Mulder demands to hear the details of her road trip and stays dangerously silent throughout Scully’s retelling of the 118 year old lady, the dinner, the man on the boat.

When she’s finished, he runs a hand over his face. “Is this payback? Were you trying to get back at me for what I said in Winslow?”

Post-Millennium Mulder and Scully start loosening the rules of their relationship.

DaniPayson's Was it Worth It? Thirty-two minutes, and we were closer to my apartment now. Soon he would drop me off and drive off angry. How long would this continue? To eat away at him, to eat away at the bond we had formed over the last seven years.

Post-En Ami Scully and Mulder have a necessary conversation.

@mldrgrl's (Ao3) Divide and Conquer Finally, she fumbles for the door handle and steps out of the car, one foot at a time, knees weak.  She doesn’t remember getting from the car into her apartment, only that one moment she was there and the next she was running a bath, sitting in the darkness of her bathroom next to a single flickering candle.

Post-En Ami Mulder drives Scully home.

Shoshana's Pop Psychology She's exhausted. Whatever sleep she's gotten in the last forty-eight hours could never be enough to compensate for the kind of stress she's been under. I glance over at her and see her eyelids flutter closed.

She can't possibly be alert enough to drive herself home so I double park my car behind hers and say, "Scully... let me have your car keys."

Post-En Ami Mulder won't leave his partner alone.

Trixie's (Whispers Of X) Your Love Like Thunder This, like so many things between she and Mulder, was a moot point, one she didn't want to argue with him. The longer they drove, the less she thought of C.G.B. Spender and his motives. The longer they drove, the more she thought of the confrontation that was surely to come.

He was so angry.

Post-En Ami Scully and Mulder explore his anger (and she realizes he needs reassurance.)

@heartbash's (Ao3) As Friends At that, she scoffed. “Yes, I do know exactly how it feels because you’ve done it to me countless times,” she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head in disbelief.

Undeterred by her rebuttal, he said, “This is different.”

“How is this different?!” she exclaimed, indignant.

Suddenly his expression shifts from frustration to something softer. His eyes darted away. That’s when it hits her.

Post-En Ami Scully won't apologize, but comes to understand Mulder's perspective.

Diana Battis's Iconoclasm I'm a fool, she thought, pinching the bridge of her nose with trembling fingers. I trusted the devil.

Post-En Ami Mulder soothes Scully's guilt.

@greekowl87's (Ao3) Want (Ao3) “The man who gave the chip that put my cancer in remission! The chip that almost cost me my life at Ruskin Dam,” I countered. “The chip we know nothing about! I am tired, Mulder! I am tired of not knowing and I don’t want to feel like this tomorrow and the day after that.”

I watched his poker face remain emotionless but something flickered in his hazel eyes. Even when he refused to give any clue as to what he was thinking, his eyes were literally a peek into his soul. I just wish I knew what he was feeling. I sighed pointlessly. This was becoming pointless.

Post-En Ami Scully gives Mulder some space.

haphazard method's As We Forgive Those "No. The machine'll get it." But he looked at them like he was looking through them, like he could see whoever was calling standing just behind them. When the answering machine clicked on and a woman's voice began speaking, he bolted out of his chair.

"Mulder, it's me. I know you're angry at me but you have to let me explain why I went with him. I thought--" Her voice was cut off when he flipped the volume down without picking up the phone.

Post-En Ami Mulder has an unexpected conversation with door-to-door religious women.

Tess's (Ao3) Sounds of Silence "I'll tell you who I'm not," I begin slowly. "I'm not Diana."

Mulder inhales sharply and stares at me.

Post-En Ami Mulder enforces the silent treatment.

httpspotter's Alien boy She pulled him closer, caressing his back, hugging him. “Shhh… It’s okay, Mulder, I’m okay. We’re okay.” Scully kissed his shoulder, and then separated a bit, now holding his face in her tiny hands. “I’m sorry.”

“That you acted behind my back?”

“No,” and he smiled, of course she wouldn’t give up of being right. “That you were worried. Next time, I will set up a lie with my mom so you won’t ever know anything.”

Post-En Ami Scully and Mulder discuss their double standards and fears lovingly.

Lovesfox's Rifts Despite the fact she had spurned his help just seconds ago, she fully expected Mulder to bring her a towel. Or to try and help her onto the couch or into his bathroom.

When no such aid came, she mumbled his name questioningly, tasting blood in the back of her throat. It made her gag.

Post-En Ami Mulder won't talk; and when forced, accidentally injures Scully (unawares) before he takes off.

Elanor G.'s Yo Creo (Gossamer) "Seems like only yesterday that you were swallowing messianic claims of miracle cures," says Mulder. "But today, you lump it all together with witch doctors and snake charmers and New Age healers with crystals."

Where did that come from? "That's not fair, Mulder." She speaks to the window. Mulder gives her another dark look before returning his concentration to the wet pavement.

Post-En Ami Mulder and Scully finally apologize after a harrowing case.

@slippinmickeys/SlippinMickeys/Slippin' Mickeys's 87 Shades of Black (1/3, 2/3, 3/3) I can't understand why she's still acting as if at any moment I'll leave her to fend for herself, and the child that's growing inside her.

And then it hits me.

She doesn't know that *I* know about the baby. And she thinks that because of what Diana said, that I won't want it. That I won't want her, and that I'll hate her for it.

AU-- En Ami plays out very differently: Mulder is offered one chance to get his partner back. One chance at a new life (in more ways than one.)

spookycc's High Praise "Mulder, can you hear me?" Scully needed to make contact, to let him know she was there with him. She needed to see the light in his eyes. To know that he was still here with her, as well.

Post-En Ami CSM uses Gibson to trap Mulder and Scully.

Andrea's (xphilefic) Once Bitten "Hi, Mulder, it's me." I smiled at the familiar greeting. "I can't make it this afternoon. Something's come up; a family emergency. I'll call you when I can."

Was this some kind of sick joke? I replayed the message; it was definitely Scully. The message was not exactly the same as the one she had left a few short months ago, but hearing those words... 'family emergency', almost took my knees out.

Post-En Ami Mulder mistakes Scully's family emergency.

@gaycrouton/OnlyTheInevitable's Those Who Wait (Ao3) The only reason she hadn't started crying last night was because Frohike, Langly, and Byers were there. Though, by the looks of contrite pity on their faces, she might as well have been. Mulder had callously told her that the Gunmen would give her a ride home and she should take the night to put her head on straight.

Mulder and Scully face struggles and successes together through the years-- one of which includes his withdrawal post-En Ami.

ML/ML_is_me/ml_griffonnage's (Ao3, site) Though you do anything, he thinks no ill (Gossamer) He nods to the floor, raking his hands through his hair, back and forth. "I'm sorry, Scully," he mumbles. "I was selfish, letting this happen. And I guess I thought at first that it would pass..."

He hears the squeak and sigh of the leather as Scully rises and approaches him. She kneels in front of him, and places her cool hands on his head, kissing him. "I'm so sorry," she says tears thickening her voice again. "I really wanted this for you. I really hoped..."

"I know you did," he says, looking up at her so she can see the tears swimming in his own eyes. 

AU-- En Ami Mulder understands Scully wanted to cure him.

@amplifyme/wonderland/Lydia Bower's Quonochontaug (Ao3) “Mulder… Mulder what are you doing?”

“End of the road, Scully. Just tying up loose ends.”

She dipped her head and accepted the inevitable. She’d been afraid from the onset that his fragile peace wouldn’t last. Had felt the unsettled aura that’d enveloped him the last few months, the indigo shimmer of his dissatisfaction.

She knew it was in small part her unfortunate adventure with CGB Spender; the full details of which she’d chosen not to disclose to him. But Mulder had discerned her flimsy ploy and instead of pressing her, meted out punishment by withholding his affections.

Post-En Ami Mulder sorts through the past in Quonochontaug.

prufrockslove’s (Gossamer, Colonization HQ) Alienated All the ova – Mulder had been very specific about  that.  Not just many, but all; there was no way she could get pregnant the old-fashioned way, and the IVF had failed almost a year ago.  Had Cancerman done something to her?  The ultrasound indicated she was about four months pregnant, but the baby could be developing more rapidly than normal if it wasn't fully human.

AU-- Post-Requiem Mulder is returned, with extraordinary abilities, while Scully quietly balances her pregnancy secret and what the future of their partnership looks like.

nevdull's Timber (1/3), Timber (2/3), and Timber (3/3) He ducked down a bit to meet her face-to-face. "We're not sure of anything, Scully. The Gunmen, Skinner, they might be okay."

"I know." Mulder knew too -- he knew that she was lying and it wasn't for the first time lately, but this was hardly the moment to press that particular case. Instead, he turned the television volume back on.

AU-- Colonization is looming; the answer to prevent is-- so Mulder, Scully, Krycek, Marita, and the Consortium believe-- was on the disc CSM destroyed.

CONCLUSION

Hope this itches that spot, too. If not, report back and I'll try to get a more specific list out!

Thanks for reading~

He gives a pointed once-over to her dress—a complex concoction of white frills and lace—and feels his lips curl back in a smirk. “Almost as terrifying as the prospect of eternal matrimony,” he agrees. “Once again, my deepest condolences, by the way.”

Any chance she has at supplying some kind of rejoinder in retort is squashed by the approach of a waiter—exactly how much money had Darryl spent on this thing, anyway?—with a round mop of black hair that looks like it escaped from a disco in the mid 70s, brandishing a tray boasting an array of dips and elaborately carved carrot sticks.

Rebecca frowns, apparently already somehow acquainted with the server. “Marty?”

“Rebecca B! This is where you work? How about that! Sweet digs. Sweet digs indeed.” The disco flunkey’s eyes light up when they roam across to Nathaniel. “And aren’t you two a fright for sore eyes? A perfectly spooky bride and groom! Yeah, that gaudy ring really finishes the look. That’s gotta be from that pawn shop over on East Cameron—they sell the weirdest old junk there. Something borrowed, something boo, am I right?”

The blossoming red blush breaks out across Rebecca’s chest like bright, blotchy watercolour beneath her skin.

“It’s not—we’re not…” she begins, face scrunching. “This is not—he’s not even wearing a costume!”

Nathaniel, amused enough at her discomfort that his disdain for the entire scenario is secondary, catches the eye of the source of her distress over her shoulder, shaking his head minutely to confirm the absurdity of the assumption.

He can’t help himself, though—his palm finds the small of her back of its own accord. Rebecca’s eyes, if possible, bug even wider as he tugs her towards him. “It never feels like a costume when it’s as real as what we have, though, does it, Muffin?”

Marty lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Right on—I hear you, buddy. Hope you two enjoy the… patê,” he adds, indicating the tray of dips before disappearing with a playful shimmy.

Barking out a polite laugh at the eye roll-inducing pun, Nathaniel shepherds a still spluttering Rebecca into the break room—currently empty, ostensibly in favour of the makeshift dance floor forming over by the elevator—before promptly dropping his hand away from her back as if badly burned.

“Muffin?!” she seethes as as she whirls to face him, giving him an incredulous shove before batting haphazardly at his chest with her tiny, ineffectual fists.

“It only seemed apropos,” he drawls, lazily, “given how many of them you eat.”

“You…” she growls, then shakes herself, her train of thought seemingly lost to her irritation. “Why are you even here? I thought you couldn’t be within a ten mile radius of candy without your teeth literally falling out.”

“Ha ha,” he says with exaggerated sarcasm. “As distasteful as this entire embarrassing excuse of party is, it is a company event. It’d be unseemly of me not to at least make an appearance.”

“Couldn’t resist ruining everyone’s fun, more like it. God, it’s like everything is some kind of masturbatory performance with you, isn’t it?”

Her ample bosom, amplified by the cut of her gown and in considerable clear and present danger of spilling over and out entirely, rises and falls with the uneven rhythm of her steadily mounting frustration.

Not that he’s looking, or anything. Just that it’s making some kind of point of filling up his field of vision.

“Please,” he sneers, looking down the ridge of his nose and being careful to focus on her splotchy face rather than directly below it as he gestures out towards the bullpen. “Are you telling me you didn’t choose that costume as some sort of dry run for your impending nuptials to the flip flop? I bet you’ve been parading around in that dress all evening, flashing that ring at anyone that so much as glances in your direction. Congratulations, by the way—purple is his colour. Really makes that pawn shop gemstone pop when it’s curled around your fiancé’s spandex covered bicep.”

“There was a slight miscommunication on which Phantom he was dressing up as, okay,” Rebecca snaps. “And I’m not bothered by it, because it’s a charming anecdote that I’m going to tell all the Jewish-Filipino babies we’re going to have every year on Halloween.”

He forces out a sardonic laugh. “Well, have fun with that. Remind me again—why is this a Halloween party?”

“It’s Halloween in September,” she says, incomprehensibly defensive, the no duh implicit in her voice. She crosses her arms, and it does nothing to coax her heaving cleavage back into its confines. “It’s like Christmas in July, except for Halloween. Darryl’s a big fan of mixing things up, unlike you—we get it, dude! You like burgundy ties!”

Just as a riposte is forming on the tip of his tongue, Jim—an eyesore in bright red pleather if one ever existed—barrels through the break room with a drunk and disorderly, vampire-fang-bearing Tim hot on his heels, forcing Nathaniel to sidestep abruptly out of their path. The issue with that is, he fails to notice until he hears the resulting sharp intake of breath, is that it has him pressing Rebecca into the corner of the bench in front of the tinsel-adorned coffee maker.

The smart thing to do would be to step away. The dangerous thing—the stupidest decision possible, really—would be to stand his ground. To loom and crowd her further.

God, it’s like the idiocy of this place is seeping into him via osmosis.

Rebecca gulps, untamed breasts brushing distractingly against his sternum, and casts a frenzied glance out into the party proper, making sure no one is watching them through the slats.

A little light headed but ultimately spurred on by her fluster, Nathaniel straightens his spine and dips his head, voice tipping low to tease. “It still makes sense, you know. The costume choice. After all, your life is basically a soap opera. And nobody can blame you for wanting to hide that—” He nods towards the photocopier, where Josh is otherwise occupied with his attempts to get a Jenga game going with several desks’ worth of highlighters. “—away behind a mask.”

“Yeah, well,” she sputters, “it’s lucky that he got the costume wrong. Because his left is actually his best angle. Yeah. So you’d be missing out, otherwise. And you’re, like, so incredibly wrong. I don’t want to hide his face. I love that face. It’s my favourite face.” He doesn’t miss the way her gaze flits down to his lips, and his tongue darts out to wet it on autopilot. “I wanna rub my face all over his face, all the time.”

He leans in further, and he can’t be imagining it—the way her breath falters, and her eyelids start to flutter as his breath fans out across her face with deliberation. “Uh-huh.”

Interesting, he thinks, filing away the visible pluck of the cords in her neck as she swallows, as if in slow motion, to revisit later.

As if compelled by some inexplicable urge and drunk off finally, finally feeling like he has the upper hand, he tilts minutely, mouth moving towards grazing the shell of her ear. “I know it’ll be tempting, when you’re lying in bed tonight, trying to get the image of your mediocre choice of a life partner squeezed into a morph suit the colour of Barney dinosaur out of your head. But do me a favour, Rebecca, hmm? Try not to—” He pauses dramatically for effect. “—think of me.”

He can tell by the way her eyes widen with surprise for a split second only to scrunch in confusion that she’s caught the reference. Finally, he thinks as his pulse thrums through him with intense satisfaction: a use for having to spend hours inside a stuffy theatre box with an aunt that always smelled too strongly of peppermint oil.

A moment later and Rebecca’s spring-loaded, shoving him aside to make her escape. Just before she melts back into the throng of partygoers, though, she turns, left hand curling around the edge of the wooden partition, ring glinting red beneath the disco lights; the only time all night she’s managed not making it look embarrassingly staged.

The pretzel-maker herself is in attendance, of course -she’d sprung out of the crowd and caught him in an unfortunately brief butenthusiastic hug earlier in the evening, with her arms up and over hisshoulders, going up on tiptoe to extend her reach. But then he’d been drawnaway by Whijo and Vic, and she had bounced over to another cluster in the room.Apart from a small pang, he tries not to be too disappointed – everyone hasbeen busy with their lives and are trying to catch up with each other as muchas with him. And it’s…nice, to be considered a part of this group, no matterhow weird, and realize that he fits here as well as anyone.

Naturally, there is also alcohol, and by ten in the evening mostof the guests are at least tipsy. Nathaniel is only a little buzzed, but enoughto duck around AJ and Maya’s spirited debate on Gone Girl’s feminism inorder to sneak out to the porch. It’s still a warm night, but it isn’t humid,and he enjoys the open, dry air after the pressing clamor of the bodies andconversations inside.

That, naturally enough, is when Rebecca pounces.

He doesn’t even see her coming – she barrels into him justout of his sightline, wrapping her arms snugly around his waist, and when hetwists to look down at her, he finds her grinning up at him like she’s gettingaway with something.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he echoes right back, settling his arms carefullyaround her shoulders, and yes, she’s definitely going to get away withsomething, if such a simple exchange makes him feel that sudden, inexplicablefondness for her again, as sturdy as if he had never left at all. Not tomention how completely her gaze catches him, field of vision both expanding tomap every detail and contracting so that there is nothing else in his focus buther.

“I never gave you a proper hello, did I?” she says lowly,eyes fluttering half-closed.

In another time, that would have definitely been aninnuendo. Truthfully, Nathaniel wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what she’strying to go for right now, but her careless tone is too open for it to beanything serious.

“Oh?” he plays along, leaning down towards her, like theyare sharing a secret; moving slowly and keeping his eyes locked with hers sothat he won’t look at her lips by mistake. “What counts as a properhello?”

She giggles and goes up on her toes, pushing her facedangerously close to his. 

“Hel-lo,” she sings, right in his ear, and dissolves intolaughter. Nathaniel winces but laughs, jerking away with a playful frown. She’sclose enough that he catches the scent of something sharp and fruity on herbreath.

Ah, that explains the demonstrativeness.

“How’s the bar tonight?”

Rebecca’s nose wrinkles in distaste.  “Eh. I’ve onlyhad, like, a drink and a half.”

“What happened to the other half?”

She scrunches up her face. “It might have been tippeddown the sink.”

“No good?”

“It was disgusting,” she assures him, all seriousness. 

“Blame the bartender.”

“Can’t,” she mumbles, eyes drifting closed. “She just tellsme to order better next time.” 

She leans into him, and he shifts his hold to keep herupright, trying not to think about the familiar weight of her in his arms.

“Uh-huh. Come on, let’s get you sitting down.”

Gently, Nathaniel guides her to the porch seat, and sitsdown beside her. She lets him but catches his hands in hers when he tries to drawaway, give her space. He looks down at their entwined fingers and tamps downhard on the tendril of hope that tries to worm its way out of his generalaffectionate feelings for her. It’s ridiculous; barely twelve hours officiallyback in the States and he’s nearly lost again.

He waits for her to let go, but she doesn’t, releasing hishands only to twine her arms around him again in a surprisingly strong grip.

“A drink and a half is less than three,” she begins, afamiliar kind of non-sequitur.

“That is how math usually works, yes,” agrees Nathaniel,teasing, trying not to smile too broadly. He’s forgotten how easy it is to justlook at her and just feel happy, a feeling that never seemed to have anycorrelation to whether they were together or not.

Rebecca rolls her eyes at him, still smiling. “What Imean is that I’m a little tipsy. A little loose. But I am, distinctly, notinebriated.”

“Okay.”

“So what I’m about to say right now can be taken quiteseriously,” she insists, eyes wide and eyebrows angling sharply down.

“All right,” he agrees, because Rebecca clearly has a goalin mind, everything about her face and body language and tone radiating pureintent, and the best thing he can do right now is listen to what she has tosay, and not presume anything. Rebecca gives a tiny nod, apparently satisfied.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I know,” he says, and means it in earnest. She hasn’t saidit in so few words, but he’s known. Every time she sent him a message, or anarticle warning him about caimans. When he came back last year for Valentine’sDay and she said in public that she was in awe of him and later, in private, repeatedthe sentiment, and then asked why he couldn’t have gone somewhere that was lessof a schlep to be in awe of.

(He didn’t read too much into it, he knows better than thatnow, but those words have definitely lingered in the back of his mind, thislast year.)

“I missed you too,” he returns, because she is clearlywaiting for a response. “I’m glad to be back. Tired, but glad.”

Rebecca screws up her face in exaggerated empathy, promptinglaughter.

“I told Darryl to wait at least a day,” she says,utterly long-suffering. “But there’s only so much you can do once he hashis mind on a party. But I don’t want to talk about Darryl to you.”

“Oh?”

“No. I wanted to tell you I missed you.”

“You just did,” he teases, trying to play it light, despitehow his pulse hammers as her arms tighten around him, as if determined not tolet him slip away.

(As if he would ever want to.)

Her mouth firms up. “Well, yeah, but no.”

“No?”

“That’s not all I wanted to say,” she says, impatiently,like he’s the one not making sense. “I wanted to say that I miss you and Ithink about you right about…here,” she gestures around the space above her headvaguely. “And here.”

She taps her breastbone, and it feels like she has reachedbetween them, instead, the sharp give and tightening of his heart that hasnothing (and everything) to do with her grip on him.

“Oh?” he says, trying to be light, reminding himself thatnot-quite-drunk still isn’t sober, even if her eyes are clear and fiercewith that Rebecca Bunch determination. “It’s like that, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” says Rebecca, popping her eyes wide, thenlaughing, bright and quick, that reassures him that she isn’t entirely too-fargone. When she blinks up at him again, her gaze is steady. “You have no idea. Itsucked, missing you. You’re so tall, it’s always obvious that you’re missing. Like,in all the group photos. And I know that you were living your best life andeverything in the jungle, but I just wanna say that I’m really, really gladthat you figured out that your best life isn’t like, only possible in thejungle.”

“It was never going to be only in the jungle,” saysNathaniel, amused that she would ever think he could stay away for such anextended time. “I told you I was going to come back. Multiple times.”

For the first time since they’ve started talking, Rebeccalooks away from him, her intensity softening into something he might almostcall uncertainty.

“I know,” she says softly. “You did. And you always do. Ijust needed to have you physically next to me, you know?”

“I know. You’re actually cutting off my circulation.”

“Oops.” Guiltily, she loosens her arms and he can breathe alittle easier, even if his pulse is still hammering in his ears. “Sorry. But,listen, but we need to address this—this thing, between us.” She flaps ahand between them, smacking him hard in the chest and making him wince. “Thatthing we keep sending pictures and text messages and emojis around.”

Nathaniel would be lying if he said he wasn’t expecting thisturn. But he’d have thought (foolishly, he can see that now) that Rebecca wouldgive him a few days to settle back down before bringing up the ‘where do westand’ conversation. She turned him down, he left the country, and while theircorrespondence was always normal between friends, they never actually did aproper post-mortem on their relationship.

“Right.” He shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t ask, for the samereasons why they are not going to talk to each other right now, but he has toat least try to be prepared. “The kind of talk you had with Greg and Josh? Aclean break, clean slate kind of thing?”

These are not questions he wants to ask. But if there’ssomething he’s learned these last three years, it’s that if it is a hardquestion to answer, it’s worth trying.

Rebecca looks up at him, eyes glimmering from the faintillumination cast by the porch light fixture.

“Not the exact same talk,” she says, but not as fastas she normally does – she goes slowly, carefully enunciating, and while thereis still a shakiness to the sounds, it is a Rebecca who is clearly within hercapabilities. “I don’t think you can get a cleaner break than continental lines.”

“True, but that didn’t stop us from talking about otherthings.”

“And I don’t think that was a bad thing. I really likedtalking to you these past two years, Nathaniel. But, I think, since we arefinally going to be inhabiting the same town again, we just need to figure outsomething…sensible. A lot of things have changed around here, not just me.”

“I know,” says Nathaniel.

“And honestly…it’s a talk, not the talk. Justto clear the air about where we wanna go with this as-of-yet-unspoken thing.It can always be revisited and…expanded, as need be.”

“Right.”

“And it’s…gonna be a lot, not gonna lie. But some things youjust have to talk through. A lot of talking. And, also unfortunately speaking fromexperience here, there might also be crying. Lots of crying.”

“I don’t cry that much,” Nathaniel’s protest is automatic,even if he can’t quite help but laugh, knowing that it’s not true (whatever, hecan at least try to deny it). His laugh is a little too loud, has been sincehe’s started spending the majority of his time not thinking of his father, butRebecca responds like she’s been waiting for that sound, like it’s somethingshe wants to hear again.

“Uh huh,” she hums, looking at him, amused. “Don’t try to thinkyou can fool me. You’re a crier.”

“I just don’t remember it that way,” says Nathaniel, affectinghis most haughtiest manner, well aware that he’s already lost if he’s fallingback on that one.

“Give it up. Paula told on you. And Darryl. And Heather—”

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” says Nathaniel withexaggerated exasperation, because he’s better at acknowledging his emotions butthat doesn’t mean he has lost all of his secondhand embarrassment. “And you’reright. Crying or not, we should talk.”

Rebecca smiles again at him and nuzzles into his shoulderand the crook of his neck. Cautiously, he tilts his head so that it restsagainst hers.

They sit like that for a while, listening to the murmur ofvoices just inside.

“This is nice,” Rebecca murmurs into the fabric of hisshirt.

“Yeah,” agrees Nathaniel. “But if we don’t get inside soon,I’m just going to fall asleep out here and wake up with a crick in my neck. Andyou won’t be that much better off.”

“Yeah. That’s a shame,” says Rebecca around a yawn. “Ithought we could try the hot tub.”

“Afraid not. I don’t have my swimsuit.”

Rebecca waggles her eyebrows at him, a spark of old mischiefin her eyes. “Who says you need one?”

Nathaniel grimaces. “Gross.”

“Or, is it sexy?”

“No way. It’s unsanitary, and Heather would actually kill me.Or, even worse, make me unclog it.”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

“You’re right: she’d just kill me.”

“Not if I asked her not to.”

 “Not sure I wannatake that risk.”

She pouts fiercely up at him, and he grins.

“Fine,” agrees Rebecca begrudgingly. “Too bad. I definitelythought about you many a time in that hot tub.”

Last year, that would have been enough to make Nathanielcompletely lose his composure, but not now. As it is, he can feel his earsburning, and he’s not blushing, he’s not, but it’s a close thing.

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” says Nathaniel, helpingher stand so they can go back inside. Rebecca snickers.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

She presses her cool fingers to her neck, her throat, the exposed inches of her chest. Her blazer has long been abandoned on the seat next to her, the sleeves of her blouse rolled primly to the elbow, the top three buttons undone not-so-primly. If he tilts his head just right, he thinks he might be able to discern what color lace she’s hiding under there.

“You think I’m BS’ing you, Scully, s’that it?”

She shrugs and presses her lips together, does her patented Scully eyebrow raise, the one that means that’s exactly what I’m thinking, but hey, you said it. It’s a gesture he’s seen a million times over, but he’s never seen it look as cute as it does right now, with her flushed and sweaty and her hair frizzing in the humidity.

If he wonders why he said what he said—and, to be clear, he doesn’t, but for argument’s sake, if he did—one look at her would make that the fastest closed case in history. Special Agent Dana Scully, in her rumpled suit, drunk in public, in Texas, with him—and just five minutes ago she’d been giggling girlishly at something he’d said, and five minutes before that she’d been telling him in no uncertain terms that the Ozark Howler is no more than an overgrown bobcat, thank you very much, and he’d felt like he’d owned the world. So no, he doesn’t wonder why he said it. He only wonders why she doesn’t believe it.

(If there’s one thing she believes—just one, in all these years—he would think it would be this.)

“I think it’s time to call it a night,” she says, and downs the last of her drink.

“Wait, no, hey.” He reaches for her hand across the table and presses her sticky fingers into his palm. “I’m serious.”

“Okay, Mulder.” She’s using her whatever-you-say-as-long-as-you-stop-saying-it voice, but her eyes are a little unfocused, her mouth a little too soft, the consonants of his name a little muddled on her tongue.

He should probably stop now if he wants to save face in the morning, if he wants to be able to look her in the eye and blame whatever embarrassing things he’s said or done on the Shiner. But he’s never been good at quitting while he’s ahead, and right now, with his head swimming but his heart steady, the last thing he wants to do is quit.

“Scully,” he says, like that’s almost enough, like she should know just by the way he caresses the S, laps at the Ls. “How can you think I’m anything but hopelessly in love with you?”

Her eyes widen and she stares at him. A beat, two. Is it possible for a person to sober in seconds?

“You’re drunk,” she says finally, and he wonders if this is her new litany: hail Mary, full of grace, you’re drunk.

“Scully—”

“No.” And then, again: “You’re drunk, Mulder. You shouldn’t— It’s time to go.”

“Scully.” Pleading now, if that’s what it takes. He’s come this far; it’s too late to quit.

She sits still, her purse in her lap, her wallet halfway out. When she speaks, he has to strain to hear her over the din.

“Not tonight.”

He sits back, lets her tuck a neat stack of bills under a coaster. Not tonight. Okay. Okay, he can respect that. Not no, not never. Just not tonight. Not drunk, not high, not impaired, not tonight. He can live with that.