#xfwritingchallenge

Once upon a time, I was really good at keeping up with the XF Writing Challenge prompts from @leiascully​. And then grad school happened, and I lost all interest in reading and writing for fun. But now that I’m getting back into it, I want to return to these awesome prompts. So, having said that, here’s my work for XFWC prompt #68, forgiveness.

This story takes place pre-revival, shortly before Season 10, in the same personal headcanon as “rivers and roads” and “i can’t do this alone.” You don’t need to read either of those for this one to make sense, but they give a little more backstory that you might enjoy. Y’all remember wifegate and ringgate? That was a good time. ;)

I am a little nervous about this one because I don’t usually write in first person, but I felt that it worked well for Scully to tell this story.

Last but not least, tagging @fictober and a few lovely folks: @i-gaze-at-scully (who gave me some terrific advice re: this fic yesterday--thank you!), @baronessblixen, @scully-eats-sushi, @because-they-dont-exist, & @megk18​.

I didn’t mean to take this from you.

You might have forgotten it. Accidentally left in the cupholder in my car. Maybe I brought it to the hospital one morning and kept it in my locker without thinking about it.

It’s most likely that I grabbed it from the cupboard when I was packing other things and neglected to consider that it was technically yours. Before I reached for it, touched it, held it, put it in a box, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what was yours or what was mine. Everything in that kitchen cabinet was ours.

But now there is a delineation. A boundary. My things versus your things.

I took what is mine and left behind what is yours. I left behind many of the things I’ve come to think of as ours.

A separation of our belongings along with the separation of ourselves.

Temporary as I hope it is.

Wednesday morning. 5:51 am. Nine minutes before my shift begins and I’m staring at this object in my hands, trying so very desperately not to let something as trivial as a coffee cup be my undoing.

But as soon as I realize what I’m holding, I can’t stop staring at it. This isn’t an inexpensive, indistinguishable cup. It’s a titanium tumbler, double-walled, with your initials engraved on the bottom. Practically indestructible. You could drop it off a cliff and it would survive the fall. I gave this to you. I spent fifty-something dollars on this piece of metal for you.

It wasn’t about how much it cost. It was about what I wanted it to represent. I wanted it to represent the fact that I knew you needed to be out there. Driving down dimly lit Midwestern highways at eighty miles per hour. Searching for answers. Clinging to every shred of evidence, every small piece of information that might bring you closer to the truth. And as foolish as it seemed, I wanted you to have this because I knew it could endure all of that alongside you.

What I didn’t know at the time is that I wouldn’t be able to.

I didn’t know that despite everything we had survived together, this diagnosis would break me.

Except it wasn’t the diagnosis. It was your reaction to it. Your unwillingness to accept it. To treat it. To do something about it.

I don’t discount the fact that I shouldn’t have been the one to do it. To diagnose you, that is. It was acceptable for me to serve as your physician for the simple things like cold remedies and flu shots. It was even fine for the more serious ailments that required stitches or bedrest.

Being the physician who diagnosed you with clinical depression was not acceptable. I should have known better. I’m just not certain you would have taken it any more seriously had it come from another doctor. It was more of a nuisance to you than anything else. A distraction. It took you away from your work.

It also took you away from me.

I urged you to seek treatment. I begged you to, and I so rarely beg anyone for anything. I don't think you heard me. I don’t think you could.

Some nights, you came to bed at three, four in the morning. Other nights, you didn’t come to bed at all. I would be waking for an early shift at the hospital and you would just be climbing into bed. Sleeping during the day and working long into the night.

We lived together, but we weren’t living together. You were immersed in your search. Paralyzed by your obsession. So isolated from the world that I could barely get you to sit at the kitchen table and have dinner with me.

I made the decision to leave not because I wanted to, but because I felt I needed to. Because I believe the physical distance is necessary for us to heal. You need to work this out by yourself, at least for now. You need to find yourself again before I have any real chance of helping you.

But I am also frightened by the thought that I may not have made this clear: it isn’t just you who needs to get better. I am broken, too.

We have to heal for each other.

I turn the mug over in my hands, feeling the cool surface against my fingertips. Titanium is known for its strength despite the fact that it’s a lightweight metal. You once pulled this mug from the shelf and told me I was the personification of titanium. “Lightweight but strong, Scully,” you said, smiling. "That’s you.”

Then you kissed me on the cheek and reached for the pot of coffee.

It’s also why your wedding band is made of titanium. The wedding band that now hangs on a chain around my neck, tucked neatly underneath my scrubs. The night I left, you removed it from your finger and placed it in the palm of my hand, folded my fingers around it, and let go.

The way you removed it with such ease and precision told me you’d practiced that maneuver already. It was, in some way, a confirmation that I, too, had failed. Because you anticipated it. You knew that I was going to leave.

“Take it,” you told me. “When I deserve to wear it again, you can bring it back to me.”

I grasp the chain and pull it out from underneath my top so I can hold the ring between my fingers. The metal has been warmed by my skin, as the chain is long and the band rests somewhere near my heart.

These objects make me miss you because they are yours.

This mug is yours, and the hands that hold it are yours.

This ring is yours, and the heart that beats near it is yours.

Because I am yours.

I take my phone out of my pocket and stare at it for just a few seconds because I think perhaps I should call you, just to hear your voice and know that you’re alright.

But I decide against it. It’s 5:57. I have to start rounds in three minutes, scrub in for surgery after that. I haven’t talked to you in over three weeks. Three minutes isn’t going to be enough, because I know you’re not alright. And neither am I.

I tuck the ring back underneath my scrubs and set the mug in my locker before closing it gently.

I didn’t mean to take something of yours.

I hope you know that, Mulder.

What’s the most interesting or weirdest museum our agents visit?  Biggest ball of string?  Most haunted corn maze?  Favorite art gallery?

Rules:

Anyone is welcome to participate!  I reblog all stories tagged #xfwritingchallenge (put it in the first five tags or I won't see it) or @ me.

If you’re feeling blocked, block out an hour or a half hour.  If you’re feeling extra blocked, Write Or Die is very motivational (the “try” button gets you the free web version).

Send me an ask if you need an extra-specific prompt, and feel free to write previous prompts.  

artwork by @spengs / @spengsart who makes m/k stuff that makes me want to cry into my pillow. high school au will be my death. 

i wanted this to be a silly piece but then it turned into... well, this. idk what happened.  don’t blame me.  not beta’d, cause i’m a lazy bastard.

Mulder was on the phone, walking the floors of his apartment.  He’d been holding the clunky, plastic cordless piece to his ear so long, there was heat and sweat between his skin and the receiver.  He’d had just about enough of talking into it, as did Scully, who listened intently on the other end but Mulder had... just a few more points to make before he hung up the phone.

“Furthermore,” he continued on, making a leisurely pace from out his kitchen into the small room connecting it with the living room, “it’s unlikely that /anyone/ from the Merkle house has ever been witness to, or experienced themselves, any form of telepathic or para-telepathic abilities.  Scully, did you know, in 1951, a doctor by the name of Joseph Culpepper began work on examining the hereditary connections between telepathies?  Not only did Dr. Culpepper discover that a family member of a telepathic is four times as likely to be a telepathic themselves but that they were also able to--what Dr. Culpepper called ‘melding’--into the minds of their family members, creating a brain pattern so perfectly in sync, it defied all known medical logic?”

“Uh... huh,” Scully sounded incredulous.  He could tell.  She went on, “So, if the Merkle family aren’t telepathic than there’s no X-File here, Mulder.”

“Dr. Culpepper later went on to amend his statements regarding the telepathic family he’d been studying.  He called them ‘Family X’, how fitting, right, Scully? Anyhow, Culpepper went on to say that he did not believe Family X to /be/ really telepathic, at least not in the true sense of the word, and instead, upon closer inspection, determined that their high-end functions were not the result of a global cerebral synapse flair with external stimuli but /instead/ found that it was purely a response to continual, familiar hormonal responses.  Namely...” Mulder trailed off for only a moment, to see if Scully was following.

“... when their family members were around,” Scully completed and there was, Mulder heard, a tiny spark of interest in her voice.  Just a tiny one but it was there.

“Exactly, when their family members were around.”

“Mulder, are you suggesting that the Merkle family is--” there was hitch of laughter, like she couldn’t believe she was giving credence to the idea, “is /not/ telepathic with... the outside world?  Just each other?”

“That’s how Georgia Merkle knew where to find her sister Rebecca.  And that’s how Anthony and Wynn knew exactly how to play the law enforcement.  They didn’t have to be together to match their stories--they figured it out silently.  They had a whole conversation and we didn’t even know about it.”

“Why didn’t we get any of that on the charts?  Wouldn’t we have seen some sort of reaction?”

“We recorded the brain scans of each one individually.  Who knows how far the connection goes?  Maybe... maybe they have to be near each other?  Maybe they were just too far away?  Family X refused any more tests after Dr. Culpepper’s second study was published and then he passed shortly after.  Unfortunately, no one has thought to take back up his research.”

“Probably too busy trying to cure cancer,” Scully replied dryly.  Mulder had been walking in a circle the whole time and he finally padded his way into the living room, eyeing the body on his couch.

“Yeah,” Mulder agreed than added, “Or making a pill that gives old men boners.” 

Mulder knew she was smiling even as she said, “Well, Mulder, Merkle family abilities aside, I think they’ve taken up just about enough of my night as it is.  Get some sleep, Mulder.  Maybe tomorrow we’ll see if we can mind meld our lunch orders.”

“Yogurt and bee pollen.  There, now we don’t even have to meld,” Mulder grinned, “Goodnight, Scully.”

“Goodnight, Mulder.”

Beep.  And Mulder dropped his head back, standing in the remains of his clothing, on the outskirts of his living room.  His tie had been discarded somewhere, probably slung over the lone chair in his kitchen and his shoes had been taken off at the door.  He’d managed to get the first few buttons of his shirt undone before his ideas about the Merkles had struck him and he’d called Scully.  That had been almost three hours ago.

“Is this what you two do all night?”

Mulder brought his head back down to look at Krycek, who lounged on the leather seats of the couch, in a comfortable shirt and jeans.  At his feet, which propped on the coffee table, there was an empty Shiner Brock bottle.  In his hand, there was another.

Written for @leiascully‘s XF Writing Challenge Prompt: Hair. And for @baronessblixen who wanted it to be fluffy. I’m not sure it qualifies as that fluffy but it was fun to write.

Sunday 8.47am

She heard his voice, muffled and thick.

“Scully, you’d look good with bangs, I really think you’d look good with bangs.”

“What?”

The air in her mouth tasted like the worst autopsy she’d ever done. Her face was stuck to the pillow. Was it a pillow? She wasn’t sure.

“Bangs, Mulder?”

Saturday 8.39pm

The Bureau credit card was certainly a generous host. The drinks were fuller, tasted smoother, offered a better burn. The hotel bar afforded them a cosy nook with luxurious padded seats and a mahogany table so shiny she could see her own reflection.

“Did I tell you how handsome you look tonight, Mulder?”

“Several times, but I’m always happy to be indulged.”

“Well, let me tell you again. You look so sharp that all the vixens will be after you, Fox-y.”

“Are you a vixen, Scully?”

Saturday 11.56pm

The casino was a wild ride. She couldn’t lose. Mulder just stood with his arms folded wearing a lazy smirk.

           “When I said naughty, I didn’t mean fleecing punters, Scully,” he said, whispering into the point of her neck where it met her shoulders. Who does that?

           “What did you have in mind, then?” She linked her arm through his. “Lead on, MacFox.”

           “What’s the most daring thing you’ve ever done, Scully?”

           The night air was humid, a warm wind drifting over them. He pulled her close and she pondered the question.

           “I could say that it was taking the assignment to spy on you, Mulder.”

           “But?”

           “That turned out to be the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I think the most daring thing we could ever do is doing something entirely for somebody else.”

           He stopped and pulled her into an embrace. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and she could feel his pulse against her cheek as she lay against his chest. “Let’s do something daring.”

Saturday 10.03pm

She knew she was being outrageously flirty but she couldn’t seem to muster up enough fucks to give. He was lapping it up. He’d managed to shift himself closer to her so that their legs were pressed hard together. His hand rested on her thigh, sliding the fabric of her dress up and down in a maddeningly suggestive rhythm. She let the Champagne bubbles pop and fizz on her tongue. When was the last time she’d drunk the real stuff?

           “Scully, your hair is this amazing burnished copper colour tonight, I mean, it’s like the fire inside of you is emanating from within and bursting out of your head to light up your aura.”

           “What the fuck, Mulder? Is that supposed to be a come on?”

           He pouted. And for an awkward moment she was mortified. Like was he actually serious? Was that Mulder hitting on her? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Saturday 11.21pm

She really shouldn’t have had that last glass of brandy. Not after she’d already had the other two that were going to be the last glass of brandy. But crazy people can be very persuasive. She knew that. And he smiled at her when he loosened his tie. He was draped across the crimson velvet upholstery of the booth, swirling the fiery liquid in his glass. She watched his lips as he sipped the drink. The way his upper eyelashes brushed his lower eyelashes. His fingers, so elegant, clasped around the crystal-cut. What was that Eagles lyric? He was brutally handsome. Was she terminally pretty? Maybe.

“Want to do something naughty, Scully?”

Life in the fast lane.

Sunday 2.07am

They fused, they sparked, they flamed. She watched his chest as it shone and rippled below her. He held his breath but he kept his eyes on her and she loved him so hard in that moment that her lungs compressed and her heart stopped.

           After, she fell beside him. His eyes were wide, glistening. His lips cherry-red stained. His smile lazy and sated.

Saturday 10.05pm

He blushed and she held her breath. “I’ve never been any good at this stuff, Scully. I just…I’ve always…what I mean is…”

           She picked up his hand and pressed her lips to the soft skin on the back. “Just say it, Mulder.”

           “I love your hair, Scully. I always have. It’s the most beautiful shade of red and the way it frames your face is perfection.” His voice was breathy.

           She licked her lips. “I like your hair, too, Mulder.” What the hell?

           He had the decency to chuckle. “Remember when I had bangs?”

           “That cute little floppy fringe that wouldn’t behave? Of course, I do. I always wanted to brush out of your face.”

           “And now I don’t have a fringe for you to brush away. Does that make you sad, Scully?”

           “There’s no reason to live now, Mulder.” She waited a beat before she collapsed into giggles, falling into him.

Sunday 12.11am

The place he chose was weirdly cold, dank in places, fluoro-bright in others. She should have turned right back round and walked out onto the warm and welcoming street. But he wore that expression of his, the one that burned with desire and an intensity so powerful that she shuddered with the  urge to shed her G-woman soul and step into that sultry, daring spirit-being she kept pushing away.

“I like this one,” he said.

“So do I.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Something for you,” she said, winking.

Sunday 2.58am

She kissed the Malin arrow that darted across his pectoral. “Why did you pick this one?”

           “The story goes that you have to face setbacks before you can move on.”

           She kissed him again, deeper and deeper. His fingers clutched at her neck and gently, slowly he rolled her on to her back. He brushed the fringe away from her forehead and she pulled him forward.

           “Fuck!”

           “Oh, Mulder. I’m sorry!” She pushed him back and watched as he looked down at his tattoo.

Title: So Many Things

Rating: G 

A/N: A while ago @leiascully​ had a prompt for “lists” and I came up with the idea for this piece, but due to various things (mainly school and travel) I didn’t actually have time to write it until a couple of days ago.

i. Scully starts the list the first time she feels the baby kick. It takes her by surprise, the slight flutter, and her heart aches to share it with Mulder. Instead she grabs the nearest notepad and writes The baby’s first kick in cursive writing at the top, followed by the date.

Disclaimer: Usual drill, I own nothing, merely borrowing.

A/N: Written for @leiascully  ‘Cultivatation’ fic challenge. Pre IWTB.  

The idea was to cultivate a life for them. To make something more permanent. She was tired of running after four years. She was tired of the different names, endless motel and hotel rooms, changing her hair (she missed her red hair), she detested the handful of times her hair dying attempts backfired, she missed what she used to do and who she used to be. He would not openly admit it, but he was tired of it too. He noticed her unhappiness and that only made his depression and his own unhappiness even worse. And then the fighting. Oh, God, the fighting. The fighting was only getting worse too.

They never used to fight like that. They would banter when they had the X-Files together. But ultimately, it would lead to an ending they arrived at, together. But now, they could not even work together much less stay in the same room without an argument erupting. They still had sex, but it had become primal and devoid of feeling and emotion. They say angry sex was the best, but both of them found it impersonal and more like a burden than anything else.

He wanted her back. He wanted them back. He wanted to cultivate and nurture the little they had left with each and try to bring whatever they were back.

It was supposed to be a surprise. He suggested an unremarkable farm house in the country of Virginia as a rental for a few months, where in reality, using cash to buy it and putting it in their name, covertly of course. The last thing he needed was the FBI to come howling in and throwing him in jail.

He remembered her look of surprise when he mentioned staying in a place for a few months and instead of a few weeks. He shrugged and suggested it would be a nice change of pace for them. She just gave a Mona Lisa smiled and said nothing.

She was smiling even more when she saw the house for the first time. He remembered standing in the doorway nervously as she inspected each room in her meticulous Scully-esque way. She came back, smiling. Tears in her eyes. Why was she crying, he wondered helplessly. What did he do wrong?

She smiled at him as if reading his thoughts. "Nothing," she had said, "this is perfect, Mulder. This is perfect. Everything is perfect."

He smiled. "Well," he replied, shifting uneasily from foot to foot (he remembered how nervous he felt). He wanted to tell her outright but he wanted to keep surprising her, making her smile. "It's ours."

She had looked at him funny, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow in contemplation. "Ours?"

"Ours."

"As in we are staying here for more than a few months?"

"As in we own this home. This is our home, Scully."

He dangled the keys in front of him and gently sought her hand. He remembered the coolness of the palm of her hand as he pressed the house keys and enfolded her hand and the keys in both of his hands. "Ours," he repeated.

"Ours," she repeated smiling, tears in her eyes.

It was their home. Their life. Their future to cultivate. She found a job in the local hospital and underwent a new medical residency. Even though he could not go out in public as easily as himself, he felt freer than he had in a long time. They could walk their extensive property without fear of being caught. He did not have to hide in the open. He worked during the days she was gone, making small home improvements here and there. He painted the living room, added a fancy faucet to their bathroom tub, fixed the leak in the kitchen ceiling, unjammed the second-floor window that never closed all the way, and they found time to make the beginnings of a small garden.

She came home early from the hospital one day to find him shirtless in the humid spring sun out back, digging away on his hands and knees. To his left sat various seeds and various small garden flowers. She shook her head as he continued to work. He had become so engrossed his project, he failed to hear her drive up. She was able to change in old jeans and a gray t-shirt and step out back to find his latest home improvement project.

"Gardening," she called out questioningly.

He looked up and sat back on his heels. He was smiling. "Your shirtless garden boy at your service, Ms. Scully."

She laughed. A real laugh that he had not heard in ages. She caressed his bare shoulders fondly, lingering on the scar of the bullet wound on his left shoulder before kneeling down next to him. She nodded wordlessly to the seeds and flowers next to him.

"We aren't going anywhere," he shrugged, "why not put down some roots and cultivate a little something-something."

She thought back to when they took the physical step in their relationship and briefly of William. But it was now. She was happy, as happy as she could be given the situation. She still had Mulder. She would always have Mulder. She smiled and wrapped her arm around his sticky shoulders and kissed his neck softly.

"What are we planting? Sunflowers?"

"Of course," he laughed. "I'm going to be a sunflower seed farmer." He focused at the fresh dirt and Earth. He pointed as Scully followed his finger. "There, we're planting cucumbers, over there tomatoes. Maybe potatoes in the fall. Are potatoes in the fall?"

"I have no idea, Mulder."

"Well, I can find out. And we can plant pumpkins and carve them on Halloween. Also, we can plant different vegetables seasonally. I love how you love strawberries and we can plant some for next spring. But I also have other flowers," he replied pointing to the small flowers and bulbs. "Tulips, pansies, iris, and I know you love yellow roses."

She could not find the words. He looked at her nervously, taken back by her silence. She hugged him more and felt a tear in her eye. Quietly, she kissed his cheek and nuzzled his temple. "It's perfect. All of it is perfect."

He smiled and sought her lips again. "Just remember that when I start making dinner for us when you get home at night."

She chuckled softly and nudged him gently. "Got an extra pair of gardening gloves? Just don't get angry if I don't have a green thumb." She slid on an old pair of gloves and looked fondly at Mulder. "I'm happy, Mulder. I really am."

I combined the prompt 60. “Oh, do thatagain.” with @leiascully exercise challenge. 

Set after “MyStruggle” most likely; around that time anyway. 

His fist raised toknock, Mulder pauses a moment, realizing he’s never been here before.

Scully’s apartment.

The first time theywere partnered, before they were ever anything else, how long did it take himto come to her place? A week, maybe? Two? He can’t remember. The forgetting, herealized early in his treatment, is a side effect of his medication. Some dayshe curses it, like he curses so many things. Other days, he accepts silently,almost joyously. When it comes to Scully and their past, though, he doesn’twant to forget even the most insignificant moment.

He knocks, finally.His knuckles tingle as he waits for her to open the door. Gone are the timeswhen they lived in the same place, coming in and going out with a kiss hello orgoodbye; gone are the days he has a key to her place. Scully has invited himover, though, for the first time in almost a year so maybe this means they’remaking progress. Or she is just tired of constantly driving out to their – nowhis, as she likes to remind him – house. Either way, he won’t complain. Hewon’t ask either, though. Mulder is not sure he’s still allowed to ask; theirrelationship, in whatever form it is, twists anew at every turn and right nowhe can’t tell where he is, where she is. Where they are. So he stays quiet,masks it with a smile, and he is certain she does the same. He’s learning totake baby steps, do one thing to get to another. The days where he jumped in,no questions asked, no action thought through, those are gone, too.

“Oh hi.”Scully greets him when the door finally opens. She stares him up and down as ifshe’s been expecting someone else.

“Why are you dressedlike that, Mulder?”

“I’m wearingcasual clothes.” He explains slowly, looking at her. Of course she’sdressed for the occasion already: tight black running shorts and a very formfitting, short sleeved running top in a deep, dark blue. Mulder tries not tostare, tries not to react, but he’s like a Pavlovian dog when it comes to her.She clears her throat and he swears he hears her amusement. Some things simplynever change. His eyes meet hers and the twinkle he sees there lets him thinktoday might be a good day for them.

“Why are youwearing casual clothes, Mulder? You can’t run in jeans.”

“I can run wearingan Armani suit, Scully, so the question is I can’t or you won’t let me?” Justlike that her mood shifts; there’s the slightest quiver around her lips thatwould go undetected by anyone who hasn’t spent the last twenty years observingher, loving her.

“Mulder…”

“I know, Iknow,” he apologizes, “I just didn’t want to scare away my Uber withmy tights.”

“Mulder, you needa car.” She finally opens the door wider and Mulder, albeit hesitantly,steps in. The apartment, he realizes, is not at all what he expected or feared.There is nothing here that screams Scully at him. A few picture frames are upand the book shelf carries a few medical journals, a couple of books. There areno personal trinkets. He sees none of the novels she still claims not to own,the ones that are full of fairytale romances, tropical settings and atrociouswriting. Mulder stumbled upon one of her dog-eared paperbacks a couple of daysago when he tried to tidy the place up. Just in case, he tells himself. In caseshe ever wants to come home.

“That’s why Itook this job, Scully. Skinner promised me a car.” She rolls her eyeswhile massaging oil into her legs. The smell reminds him of lazy Sundays yearsago when she, not him, wanted to go running. Just in case, she’d told him. Incase of what, he’d wondered even then. Unbeknownst to them it had been the beginningof the end. Yet, the sweet scent fills him with a longing. At least back thenthey’d been living together, sharing their lives, such as they were.

“If you want tokeep said job, Mulder, you need to get back into exercising.” She pats hisstomach, which he believes is still firm enough.

“Are you saying Ilook fat?”

“No,” shecontinues her pre-run routine with stretches that make Mulder hot for entirelydifferent reasons than exercise, “I’m saying you need to get back intoshape. Which is why I’m asking you again: why are you wearing this? Where areyour running clothes?”

“Like I toldyou,” Mulder says, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans patiently andslowing down even more when he sees Scully watching him intently, “Ididn’t want to scare away the driver. I came prepared.” Taking his jeansoff all the way reveal his running tights. Scully bought them for him a coupleof years ago and he protested, preferring his much looser shorts, but she toldhim to try it anyway. He’s been wearing the tights ever since.

“They stillfit?” Her voice, as well as her eyes, soften, the memory though unspokenseems almost palpable in the small room. Afraid to break the spell and unableto form words anyway, Mulder just nods.

“Well then,”Scully raises her arms into the air, her top riding up and revealing theslightest peek at her stomach. The need to touch her there is almost unbearableand he straightens his own shirt to distract himself and his hands. Scullylowers her arms and the moment is gone, leaving only the lingering sense oflonging. “Let’s go?” Her hands are on her hips and she’s staring athim, challenging him. Some things really do never change, he thinks, and nods.

*

They return an hourlater with Scully hobbling on her feet and clinging to him. Mulder offered tocarry her and upon receiving the eyebrow withdrew his offer and instead put hisarms around her. He’s essentially carrying her this way, too, but he knows shelets it count because her feet are still on the ground. Her body is warm, hoteven, after their intense run. She tried to outrun him knowing that despite hersmaller physique, she is in much better shape. They didn’t speak at all, justran, and somehow always fell into step with the other. Until they suddenlydidn’t.

“I’m fine,Mulder,” she’d told him through gritted teeth, trying to stretch her leftleg and keep running. “We can keep going.” She’d said then, her wet,teary eyes betraying the strong resolve in her voice.

“The only placewe’re going is your place – and slowly.” She had not protested then,except for when he tried to carry her, and now here they are. Scully lets go ofhim and he almost reaches out to stop her, not ready to lose the close contact,and wobbles into her bedroom. She doesn’t tell him to follow and Mulder standsthere, half in, half out. His eyes wander about, searching for his jeans, so hecan leave. Maybe. He doesn’t know what the protocol is in this situation.

“Mulder?” Amuffled voice comes from the bedroom. He takes a few steps and stops in the doorway.The room is as sparsely decorated as the living room, maybe even more so. Itreminds him of a hotel, not the ones they used to stay in, in a very sterile,very impersonal way.

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uhm…I hate to ask this of you, but…” Scully is sitting on her bed; she’s takenher shoes off, but she is still wearing the rest of her running gear. She looksyoung and cute and as much as Mulder wants to voice this, his feelings for her,he keeps quiet and waits for her to go on.

“My leg reallyhurts and… it’s just a kink. I had it before and uhm, the best way to get ridof it is a massage.” She’s unable to meet her eyes so his grin goesunnoticed. He clears his throat and nods. Which of course she doesn’t seeeither.

“Sure, Scully.Just tell me what to do.” She sends him into the tiny bathroom to get oil.There are several small bottles and Mulder doesn’t want to think about why sheeven has them. He picks the one that smells like peppermint, knowing sheprefers that for her after run routine. At least he hopes this still rings true.By the time he comes back, Scully has taken off her running tights. The sightshould not paralyze him like this; it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, touchedbefore. He used to kiss down her legs, tickling her behind the knee and makingher laugh out loud in delight.

“Mulder? What areyou doing?” Her question jolts him back to the present time.

“Nothing. I justgot the oil.” He joins her on the bed and wonders if he should take offhis own clothes. He is positive that he reeks. But his hand lands on her thighand she moans – loudly. Mulder forgets everything else after that. He uncapsthe small, green bottle and pours some of the oil into his hands. He’s donethis before, of course. As he puts his hands on her soft skin and startskneading gently, he can’t help but think of other times they did this. When shemoans again, in a way that reminds him of a different situation altogether, hecloses his eyes as if in pain only to realize it’s even worse, his mind feedinghim unwanted memories. No one, least of all Scully, taught him to navigatethis; the remains of their relationship. I need time, she had told him oncewhen she came by the house to pick up a few things, and you need to get betterwithout me here, she’d finished, leaving him again, alone and waiting. No manualto sift through; even if, as Scully would most certainly remind him, he neverreads the manual anyway.

“Oh, do thatagain!” Scully moans and that’s when Mulder stops.

“I can’t do this,Scully.” His hands remain on her leg, warm and firm, oily and soft.

“You’re doinggreat, Mulder,” she assures him, her face sideways on the pillow, her eyesclosed, “Just keep going, please.”

“No, I mean Ican’t do this, whatever this is.” One eye opens, then the other as sheshifts to look at him. “Why did you even ask me to come here? I can gorunning at home, you know. You used to do it there, too. It’s a much nicerneighborhood.”

“You’reright,” she sits up with difficulty, “Maybe I wasn’t completelyhonest when I asked you come here to exercise together.”

“Are you going tomake me guess?” Mulder asks when he can’t stand the silence any longer;his therapist implored him to work on his patience, and he has, but right now,he can’t wait when his heart beats faster with a sense of hopeful longing hehasn’t felt in a while.

“Maybe I finallywanted you to see this place,” Scully admits, biting her lower lip; heknows her, reads her easily, and he knows she’s still holding back something,and so he waits, one eyebrow raised, “Do you like this apartment,Mulder?” For a moment he considers lying.

“No. I hateit.” He tells her honestly and she nods.

“I hate it,too,” she admits, her eyes never leaving his, “I miss ourhouse,” she hasn’t called it that in a long, long time, “But I wantedyou to see it and well, give you a key. I didn’t mean for my leg to be thisbad. This – the massage was not part of my plan.”

“You had aplan?”

“Kind of,”she chuckles, “I thought I’d give you a key so you could consider thisyour home away from home, too.”

“That’s what thisis for you? A home away from home?”

“No,” shetakes his hand into hers and stares at his fingers, gently running her own overthe back of his hand, “It’s a refuge. I needed one, Mulder. At least for awhile. I’m keeping it because… it’s so much closer to work than the house, Mulder.”

“I’m not sure I understandwhat you’re saying.” Scully rolls her eyes at him, but then smiles.

“I want us tostay here during the week and then… go home for the weekends.”

“Together? Youwant us to live here together?”

“Unless you don’twant us-”

“Scully, as longas there’s an us, I want it all.” She grins at him coyly then and lets goof his hand.

“You’ll keepgoing to therapy, though.” It’s not a question and he nods. “You’llkeep taking your meds.” Another nod follows as a huge grin appears on hisface. “We’re not… we still have a long way to go, Mulder.” He wantsto take her into his arms, hold her tight and never let go, kiss her and nevertaste anything else ever again, but he stays put, waits for her.

“You came up withthis whole you need to exercise ploy to make me come to your apartment? Scully,you know you could have called.”

“I know,”she tells him, leaning into his space and he can’t wait until they’re ready totake the next step, when this is not just banter but foreplay, “but let’sface it Mulder: you really are out of shape.”

“Says the womanwith the leg injury.”

“It’s not aninjury, it’s just – why are you grinning like that, Mulder?”