Friday nights are now unofficially date nights.  Date nights have merely been popcorn and beer and about thirty minutes of a movie they pretend to watch.  Until tonight, when she suddenly announced that she’d be making dinner, so come over early.  He’s been giddy and nervous since leaving the office.  Normally, he’d shower first, pack a bag, and grab something light to eat on the way to her place, but all he did was pack a bag and jump in his car.  He didn’t even change out of his suit, though he did loosen his tie and collar.

He still has a bit of hesitation and butterflies in the pit of his stomach when he used his key to open her door, even though she tells him to let himself in when he gets there.  He gives a casual knock with the side of his knuckle as he opens the door as a way of announcing himself.

“In here,” she calls from the kitchen.

She’s bent at the hips at the oven door, dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater.  Her hair is pulled back into a clip and she’s barefoot.  He’s already salivating and not because of whatever she’s cooking, which does smell heavenly.  He drops his bag in the doorway, pockets his keys and crosses the kitchen in three steps to slide his hands over her hips.

“Hey,” he says.

She stands quickly and loses her grip on the oven door, which slams shut.  He apologizes for startling her by pressing his lips to her neck.

“You’re early,” she says, sliding her arms over his when they wind around her waist.

“You told me to,” he answers.

She lays her head back against his shoulder and tilts it to the side to look up at him.  She smiles.  “I know, but the chicken isn’t quite done.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not here for the chicken.”

“No?”

“No.”  He kisses her shoulder and then nuzzles into the side of her neck.  “You smell good.”

“It’s the chicken.”

He chuckles.  “Honey, I know the difference between you and chicken.”

“Excuse me?”

“That perfume you use, the one-”

“Mulder.”  She wiggles in his arms and he loosens them to let her turn to face him.  She has her eyebrow up, the one that usually tells him she thinks he’s crazy, but she’s also smiling.

“What?”

“Honey?”

He knew it, he knew he’d slip up and he didn’t even realize it.  He purses his lips to apologize, but his throat goes dry and his ears grow warm.  “Um,” he says, but it’s more like a noise.

Both brows go up.  She’s waiting for an explanation.  His heart beats wildly in his chest.  His tongue feels too thick for his mouth.

“Uh...I…”

“Mulder?”  She laughs, squeezes his arms, and then stretches up onto her toes and kisses his chin.

“You’re not…”

“I’m not what?”

“Mad?”

“Mad?  Mulder…”  She shakes her head and lowers herself back down to her heels.  “Mad?”

“It just slipped out, I’m sorry.”

Her brow goes up again and the smile fades.  She pushes lightly against his biceps and then side-steps out of his arms and turns back to the oven.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, and then grimaces.

“Oh.”

“I mean, I meant it, I just didn’t mean...I didn’t mean to let it slip like that.  It was an accident.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“It’s fine.”  She bends again and opens the oven a few inches.  He backs away until he’s leaning against the kitchen table.  He feels awful.  He knows he has a tendency to put his foot in his mouth, but he’s welly and truly, royally screwed up this time.

“Scully?” he says, quietly.  She doesn’t answer, just pokes at the chicken with a fork.  He watches her close the oven again, drop the fork in the sink, wash her hands, dry them, and pull down two wine glasses from her cupboard.

“Red okay?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“I’ll give the chicken five more minutes.  I was going to make bruschetta.”

“Can we at least-”

“Grab the tomatoes for me?”

“Honey, please,” he murmurs.  “Just…”

She stops and hunches her shoulders, spreads her arms wide against the countertop.  He pushes away from the table and comes to stand behind her.  He brushes his hand down her back to her hip.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “Not because I said it, but for taking you by surprise.”

“You took yourself by surprise, Mulder, not me.”

“You’re right.”  

There’s a brief silence before Scully straightens up and pulls a cutting board towards her across the counter.  “Would you get the tomatoes, please?  They’re behind you.”

“Okay, but…”

“And the olive oil.”

“Are we okay?”

“We’re fine.”

Unsure, Mulder turns away and finds a bag of tomatoes on the table as well as a bottle of olive oil.  Scully has a loaf of bread on her cutting board and a bread knife in her hand.  She slices swiftly with neat, diagonal cuts, and the knife clicks across the board with every cut.

“Your tomatoes, Madame,” he says, letting the bag fall out of his hand, but staying hooked on his finger.  She briefly tips her head to the side and he sets the bag down beside the cutting board.

“I’m not so different from most women,” she says.

He’s taken off guard, drops the bottle of olive oil a little too roughly on the counter and nearly tips it over.  It only takes a few seconds for him to recover, to stand too close to her so that her elbow bumps his ribs every time she makes a cut in the bread.

“I know that,” he answers.

“Are you sure?”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“Why would you think I’d be mad?”

“Because...because maybe you’d think I was being condescending or...or ridiculous, or...or...or something.”

“I didn’t think anything like that.”  She puts the knife down and they both stare at the cut bread for a few moments.  “I didn’t think anything like that at all.”

“Oh.”

She slides towards the sink with the bag of tomatoes and turns the water on to wash them.

“Can I help you with anything else?” he asks.

“You can open the wine.  And go get out of those clothes.”

“You coming on to me, Scully?”

She flashes him a glance over her shoulder, first at his face and then at his chest, and turns back to the tomatoes.  He’s about to grab his bag, but he stops when she says his name just a shade above a whisper.

“Just so you know, I liked it,” she says.

“You…”

“I have to admit, I expected something a bit more...colorful, coming from you, but yes, I liked it.”

“So, if I...if it’s something I just kind of...make a habit of…”

“I wouldn’t object.”  She pauses and picks her head up, takes another glance at him over her shoulder.  “Well, call me that in a meeting and there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Of course.”  He can adhere to that.  He can absolutely adhere to that.  He shuffles closer to her and walks his fingers over the curve of her hips.  “You sure I can’t help with anything else in here...Honey?”

She turns, flicks water from her fingers at his face from over her shoulder, and then turns the faucet off.  “I can get this done faster without you distracting me.”

“Okay, okay.  I can take a hint.”

“A first time for everything.”

“Ah.”  He steps back and presses his fist to his chest as though she’s just shot him.  She rolls her eyes a little as she wipes her hands dry on a teatowel and he can’t resist coming back and wrapping his arms around her one more time.

“Mulder,” she chastises, eyes closing as he rests his cheek against hers.

He has the sudden urge to hear his name from her lips; wants to know what it would sound like from someone he loves.  “Would you…?”

“Would I what?”

“Say my name.  Just once.”

She turns around within the circle of his arms and laces her fingers together at the back of his neck.  He bows his head, suddenly bashful when her eyes lock onto his.  She pinches his nape lightly a few times until he looks at her.  She looks a lot calmer than he feels, almost serene.  Her fingers loosen and she slides one hand down to his chest, just above his heart.

“Fox,” she says.

His lips twitch.  It’s been a very long time that the sound of his name hasn’t made him cringe.  It sounds almost melodic coming from her.  He may even be able to get used to it.  A dopey smile lifts the corners of his mouth and he doesn’t care if she thinks him foolish for it.

“Go,” she whispers.  “I need to take the chicken out of the oven and finish the bruschetta.”

“Okay.”  He cups her face and plants a lingering kiss on her cheek and then the smile on her lips.  When he steps back, he doesn’t let go of her face, but brushes his thumbs along her cheekbones for a few moments and just looks at her.

“Go,” she says again.

He doesn’t want to, but he drops his hands and takes a few steps backs.  She watches him for a few moments and then turns to grab the tomatoes from the sink.  Before he makes it to the doorway, she calls to him over her shoulder.

“Hurry back,” she says.

“I’ll be back before you can miss me,” he answer.  “Honey.”

He sees her smile before she bends her head and her hair slips across her cheek to hide it.