Work Text:
And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
Everlong- Foo Fighters
***
Dana Scully was a woman of integrity, a steadfast buoy of logic and rationality amongst the sea of men in three-piece suits with agendas all their own. Her father was an imposing man; steady yet stern, her mother gentle and warm. Scully herself was an amalgamation; strong and assured, unrelenting and determined as one had to be in her field of choice, but she hadn’t yet lost the spark of warmth behind her curious eyes- no matter how hard the darkness had tried to snuff it out.
And tried it had over the past few years since she’d joined the X-Files. Everything from kidnappings and ancient life forms to shadow men and alien abductions. She’d been tested over and over, yet her faith hadn’t wavered- both in her God and in her science. If anything, these trials had solidified her beliefs; urged her to find meaning in the meaningless and truth within the lies.
All this to say that she was not afraid.
Except.
Their latest case had taken a toll on her. She still shudders whenever she thinks about it, about the desecrated women and the fetishistic man. Her heartbeat races whenever someone drives too closely behind her; when their headlights temporarily blind her, and she’s half bracing herself against the wheel for the inevitable crash. She can’t bear to turn off all of the lights because the darkness chokes her, reminds her of the stuffy closet and the makeshift gag in her mouth and the ropes cutting off the circulation to her hands.
Her body still bears the marks of the scramble; scabs along her wrists and faded bruises littering her arms and ribs from the biting edges of wooden steps. It wasn’t the first time she’d been nabbed, but it was certainly the worst, even more so than her missing time because that she couldn’t remember.
But she remembers Pfaster’s evil face in excruciating detail, remembers his twisted sneer and grating voice calling here girly-girl, there’s no escape-
Scully jerks awake at the sound of a car misfiring on the street below, sunlight streaming into her bedroom through parted curtains. It takes a moment to reorient herself, heart hammering against her ribs as the last remnants of her nightmare loosens its clutches over her panicked brain. Donnie Pfaster’s face fades into the recesses of her mind as she glances at the clock; 08:32 flashing back at her in bright red numbers. Red like the blood on your chin from the face-full of floor, she thinks unbidden, fingering the spot gingerly. The abrasion was all but healed, fresh pink skin easily covered with a little concealer.
Pushing off the covers, Scully swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Get over yourself, she thinks as she pads across the floor to the bathroom in search of a glass of water. It’s been a week already. She must have been grinding her teeth in her sleep, because her jaw feels tight, and a throbbing headache had already taken residence between her temples. She swallows a couple of Tylenols down with a mouthful of frigid water, before brushing the taste of sleep out of her mouth.
It helps to make her feel a little more human, and thoughts of normal-person life start to fill her mind; like grocery shopping and dusting, and maybe she can finally tackle her closet. Oh, and there was a new article in the latest medical journal that she’d been meaning to read, and maybe she could get a jump-start on collating those notes for the paper she was putting together. She’d been meaning to get to it for a long while, but there hadn’t been much time between cases and paperwork and abductions. But today was Saturday, and with no new cases or urgent Bureau matters to attend to, she’d bid Mulder farewell for the weekend, intent on filling up the whole two days with nothing but rest and monster-free thoughts.
That is until she finally catches a glance of her reflection. Mascara tracks on splotchy skin, framed by a mess of auburn locks slicked unflatteringly to the sides of her head. Going on unwashed a week now, and Scully cringes at the sight. The first two days after that whole ordeal she’d been able to get away with leaving it down- perhaps it looked a tad more frizzy, but not noticeable enough for anyone to comment on. The last few days however, she’d been twisting the long locks up into various up-dos, using barrettes and clips to hold the strands together, hoping the adornments would distract from the flatness of the hair at her crown and the slight sheen brought on by sweat and sleep at her temples.
Perhaps her logic was a bit skewed- one would think one ought to want to wash away every trace of an experience such as the one she’d gone through. But Scully found herself freezing at the thought of running shampoo covered fingers through her hair. She’d tried once- the night after they’d returned home. She’d opened the bottle and watched as perfumed bubbles floated up and out the bottle’s spout, the once-comforting scent of rose and chamomile bombarding her senses. The bottle had been promptly shoved back onto the ledge as visions of that psychopath‘s face flashed behind her eyes, would you say your hair is normal or dry? echoing louder and louder in her head. The red- is it natural? She’d come to with her hands over her ears, hot water glancing off her knees from where she sat in a half squat in the steamy shower.
If she turned up to work like this on Monday- she’d be sent for a psychological evaluation for sure. Scully shudders at the thought of having to explain her reluctance to washing her hair of all things to Dr. Kosseff. Besides, she doesn’t need the good doctor to tell her what her problem is. She's already self-aware.
Her problem is that she has a nasty track record of being nabbed by masked men and gun-toting lunatics. Her problem is that where fear and trepidation should caution her against continuing with Mulder’s crazy schemes, her curiosity wins out every time.
Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.
What she wants is some stability. But what she searches for can’t be found within any of the FBI’s structured walls. And in the meantime, what she actually needs is a long, hot bath to wash away the sins of others, committed in her name. The thought sends shivers down her spine. They linger uncomfortably and goosebumps erupt across her skin as she eyes the tub out of the corner of her eye.
I will not be bested by a bathtub, Scully thinks sourly as she stomps over to the object of her distaste. She turns the faucet on without much care for temperature, more focused on the act of filling the tub and actually getting in than of any personal comfort. Like some sick, twisted version of exposure therapy.
Scully continues to ponder as she strips off her nightclothes, tossing them into a pile by the door. With the lightswitch on and bathroom door ajar, her immediate, irrational fears of being caught off-guard by any unexpected intruders are somewhat allayed. Do this, she tells herself, pouring a dollop of bubble bath into the stream of water, and maybe you’ll be free from his haunting. Do this, and you’ll be one step closer to being the rational, logical Dana Katherine Scully.
The plan seems simple enough, until it comes time to execute. Her toes are but a hairbreadth away from the surface of the lukewarm water when suddenly she’s seeing flashes of her own bound wrists, and the hulking form of her nightmare’s influencer falling backwards into the tub. Scully stumbles, her back colliding with the outer glass wall of the shower. The chill numbs her instantly from head to toe, and she snatches her robe from behind the door, sliding it on and cinching the belt around her waist as she backtracks into her bedroom.
Maybe tomorrow, she barters, berating herself for her weakness. It’s a Goddamn bath. You’ve been through worse.
Except tomorrow comes with more of the same. She wakes, she glares at her reflection and ponders her predicament. She manages to reach her hand nearly all the way to the drain- the cool water lapping at her elbow and fingers just barely grazing the knob before her panic flares once again and she’s falling backwards onto the tiled floor below.
Cold water, but not as cold as you were going to be. Scully smoothes her hair into a bun at the base of her head, throws on a sweater and jeans and digs a long-forgotten baseball cap from her closet. She grabs her keys off the table by the front door, pulls the cap onto her head and leaves her apartment, putting as much space between herself and the bathtub as possible. Before she knows it, she’s sitting in the driver's seat, glancing at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Haunted eyes peer back, taking in her own pale face and prominent under-eye bags making the blues of her irises seem even icier. Icy like you would have been by the time Mulder would have found your desecrated corpse.
She closes her eyes against the gruesome thought, a deep feeling of unease blanketing virtually every part of her. She can’t seem to shake it as she puts the car into gear, pulling out of her parking spot into the lazy flow of mid-Sunday DC traffic. She drives around aimlessly for a while, before remembering that she honestly did still need to get groceries.
The unease lingers all throughout the grocery store and the drive home, redoubling as her keys slide into the lock and the latch clicks. It follows her like a shadow while she puts the food away and makes herself some lunch, but the pit in her belly doesn’t allow her to have more than a few bites before her stomach churns unpleasantly.
Scully tries to squash it via her preferred method of denial and rationalism. She assesses the feeling, labels it and wrangles it into a neat little box to be stored in the back of her mind. But despite her best efforts, it still nags at the edges of her consciousness. Shame and grief reside in the wake of her mental organization, and they don’t seem to be so easily deterred.
She passes the rest of the afternoon in a state of restlessness. In an attempt to postpone the setting sun that will eventually signify the end of another wasted day, highlighting the sniveling failure she’s somehow becoming, she tries to occupy herself with menial tasks and mind-numbing activities. Scully channel surfs until the pictures on the TV start blurring together, the dialogue from old movies and news channels blending into an incomprehensible mess. She picks up the book she’d been reading prior to the Pfaster case, but that too is soon placed to the side when she finds herself rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time.
She paces around the apartment looking for something to do to expel the nervous energy, but the place is spotless and nothing else she tries seems to hold her attention. The sun sets sometime during her restless prowl, and she repeats the previous night’s musings as she changes into her night clothes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will do. There was no way in Hell she’d show up to work so dishevelled and unprofessional. She’d get up early, take a nice, relaxing shower, and force her brain to shut the fuck up and get over herself. The shampoo wouldn’t kill her or drown her or tear up her corpse.
The bath would have to wait until later.
She tosses and turns for what feels like hours, before falling into a fitful sleep. Sooner than she’d like, her alarm sounds, the steady beeping ushering her into an even greater state of fitful waking. Scully fumbles for the button to silence the incessant noise piercing through her skull like a jackhammer, her limbs heavy with dread and stomach full with doubt. She’s barely sat up when her stomach lurches, the nausea washing over her like a wave. Unsteady feet carry her towards the bathroom where she sips a glass of water to try and quell the roiling upset, but it only serves to worsen the feeling as the cool water races down her throat into her empty stomach.
This was bound to happen sooner or later, she thinks as she stumbles back to bed, squeezing her eyes against the pounding headache. For perhaps the first time in her career, she gives into the urge to call in sick. It’s all she can do to reach the phone and dial Mulder’s number. She gets his machine- either he’s still sleeping or he’s in the shower, but it’s for the best. Her message is short, words clipped as she informs him of her impending absence from work today, praying that he’ll check the answering machine before he leaves for work.
After hanging up, she settles back beneath the covers, unable to even muster the strength to feel angry at herself. The headache keeps her from thinking too hard, but the words acute stress bounce around her head every once in a while regardless. If she were more lucid, she’d have to laugh at herself. With all the denial and repressing she’d been doing as of late, she practically checks every box of diagnostic criteria. Maybe it was true after all, that doctors make the worst patients.
She’s vaguely aware of the sun rising, the shadows on the opposite wall marking its changing positions in the sky. Every once in a while, Scully rouses enough to check the clock, but the hours keep growing and she can’t do much more than shut her heavy eyelids in defeat. Nightmarish images of blood and hair and blinding lights and inhuman faces plague her as she drifts somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, and her heartbeat pounds steadily against her chest, echoing around her skull in painful throbs. At some point, she turns her back to the door, blocking her view of the clock. The sun continues its descent, wayward rays catching her face in a gentle caress, before it drops past her windowsill, and she’s left with nothing but the elusive memory of warmth.
In her dreams, Donnie Pfaster’s smug face looks down on her. The light above him is dim but she can still make out the way his eyes sparkle with excitement as he brings a hand up to stroke against her forehead. His half-smile falters, face shifting into that of one of Mulder’s aliens, its small mouth opening to tell her something. Dana, it mouths, and Scully finds it strange that it knows her name, and she squints her eyes to get a better look at it. The hand moves to brush a loose strand of hair from her temples, before it rests on her cheek and she tilts her head away from its unnerving familiarity, but when she looks back, it’s none other than the Cigarette Smoking Man’s weathered old face looking down on her. Dana Scully, open your eyes, he commands but the voice doesn’t belong to him, it’s too kind, too gentle. His thumb brushes soothingly over her brow and she’s even more confused because aren’t her eyes already open?
The Smoking Man’s free hand raises to draw a cigarette to his lips, and as it descends, her vision is clouded by a puff of grey smoke. Her heartbeat picks up, but the smoke doesn’t reek of the typical cigarette smell like expected, rather the gentle scent of Mulder’s aftershave. The smoke clears and she’s once again left looking at a new face, though this one is pleasantly familiar. Mulder leans over her now, big brown eyes full of concern as his hand slides soothingly through her tangled locks, and it takes her a moment longer to realize that this is real, and no longer a part of her subconscious.
Scully’s voice is hoarse from disuse as she mumbles confusedly; “Mulder?”
His face smoothes some, a soft smile pulling up his lips. “Hey Scully,” he says back, voice hardly above a whisper.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, attempting to sit up.
Mulder’s hand moves to her shoulder, keeping her in place. “I got worried when you wouldn’t answer the phone,” he admits softly.
Scully looks at him confusedly. Although her brain was still groggy, she vaguely remembers leaving him a message. She tells him just that, and she watches as a frown creases his brows.
“That was yesterday, Scully. It’s Tuesday.”
That pulls her up short. A hand raises to rub the sleep from her eyes and she glances at the radio clock. Its glowing digits read 06:52 PM, and though she can’t confirm the date, she thinks Mulder must be telling the truth based solely on the stiffness in her joints. Her stomach grumbles, as if in agreement with her sluggish realization.
“Do you want to get up?” Mulder asks, pulling his hand away from her shoulder, only to bring the back of it to her forehead instead. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” she replies automatically, though a headache still pulses persistently behind her eyes.
Mulder gives her a look of disapproval, assisting her into a sitting position. Her eyes shut against the swell of dizziness that overtakes her as her body adjusts to being vertical for the first time in over twenty-four hours.
“Like shit,” she amends miserably, and Mulder huffs a light laugh.
“Tylenol?”
“In the cabinet,” Scully says, tilting her head in the direction of the bathroom.
The sound of his footsteps dulls as he steps onto the tiled bathroom floor, the mirror creaking as he searches for his target in the cabinet behind. He returns a few moments later with a glass of water and the bottle in hand.
“Your tub’s filled with water,” he notes, handing her the glass and shaking a few tablets loose into her other hand.
Scully flinches, popping the pills into her mouth and downing the glass of water to avoid his inquisitive gaze. Placing the cup on the bedside table, she picks at the loose threads on the duvet. Mulder sits at the edge of the bed, his hip resting against her calf, waiting patiently for her to respond. When no offer comes forth, he prompts; “Any particular reason?”
“I was gonna have a bath,” she says quietly, studiously avoiding his gaze. “And then I… didn’t.”
She can tell by the weight of his look that he’s searching her answer for any hidden meanings. She can practically hear the cogs turning in his head, and she knows the moment he pinpoints the event.
“Scully…” he breathes, and she hates the pity that’s leached into his tone.
Still, she refuses to dignify him with the truth. Petulantly, she says; “It’s not what you’re thinking Mulder,” but it’s too late. His hand comes to cover her calves atop the blanket, and she’s transported back to that motel room a week ago and her freakout and his unconventional methods of staving off panic.
“Please Mulder,” she sighs as embarrassment crawls up her neck and cheeks. “Just drop it.”
“Drop what?” He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. She wouldn’t be so endeared to him if he was so easily deterred. But then he says; “I brought soup.”
A scowl pulls at her brows, suspicion swirling in her gut. Her foot kicks weakly at his hip from beneath the covers, and he stands. Scully swings her legs off the edge of the bed, sliding onto unstable feet. “You know where the dishes are,” she says evenly, trying to convey sanity and stability despite what her appearance is saying otherwise.
Mulder quirks a small smile, leaving her to make her way to the bathroom- rather ungracefully at that. Bedraggled is the best word she can think of to describe her current state. She feels somewhat detached from the woman that stares back at her in the mirror- pale skin and frizzy hair, and cheeks lined with creases from her pillowcase. There’s a hand towel on the ground that leads her to believe that she must have stumbled blindly into the room at some point during her stupor.
She flushes anew with both guilt and humiliation vying for leading emotion. She was making too great a habit of relying on Mulder, and moreso, allowing him to see her at times like these. It wasn’t professional in the least, and if she wanted to be a responsible, reliable partner, then she’d need to get herself in check.
“C’mon Scully, the soup’s not getting any warmer,” Mulder calls from the kitchen.
She tears her gaze away from her reflection, splashing cool water on her shame-warmed face and pulling her unruly hair into a scrunchie. She spares another minute (or two) to give her teeth a good brush before straightening her pyjama shirt and marching into the kitchen to meet Mulder, spine straight and head held high against her simmering anxiety.
Mulder doesn’t try to make small talk while they eat, and other than a quiet thank you, she doesn’t attempt to converse either. The only sounds in the modest apartment are the occasional slurp of soup from spoons- which is thankfully easy on her tumultuous stomach- and the steady hum of the building’s central air. He finishes before she’s even halfway through her bowl, excusing himself to the restroom. She doesn’t think much of it until the unmistakable sound of running water hits her ears, her pulse jumping in response, and suddenly the last few bites of chicken noodle aren’t very appetizing anymore.
Silent feet creep across the hallway, until she stands in the doorway, watching as he plays around with the taps with his back to the door. Mulder holds his fingers beneath the freezing water, searching for the perfect temperature. He hums absently, and Scully thinks he must have found it because he pulls his hand back to allow the tub to fill unobstructed.
An array of bottles line the edge of the porcelain, and she watches silently as Mulder picks each bottle up, reads the label, gives a cursory whiff of each scent, before replacing it back on the ledge. Eventually he settles on the second to last bottle, and Scully knows from the purplish colour that it’s the lavender bubble bath. It’s one of her favourites, coincidentally. Mulder gives it a good squeeze, adding perhaps a little more into the stream than she would herself, but the calming aroma that fills the small room is immediately inviting. The comforting familiarity conflicts with the ongoing anxiety, and she must make a sound because Mulder finally turns to acknowledge her presence, though he doesn’t appear to be too surprised.
“I’m not afraid,” she says, eyes sparking challengingly as she steps across the threshold when he eventually shuts off the tap.
Mulder gives a nonchalant half-shrug. “I know.”
Scully takes another step closer. “He’s not here.”
Mulder nods, giving her space. “Just me.”
She hums, sliding past him to stand in front of the tub. The blanket of bubbles simmer innocently before her, and she knows she can’t put this off any longer. Her pride and dignity are already so far out the window, but despite that fact, she can’t bear to back down from this; not under Mulder’s sickeningly perceptive gaze. He came to check on her, and he’s still here despite everything he’s witnessed. He still treats her like an equal, like someone who’s capable and resilient and not a total anxiety-ridden lost cause.
Fumbling fingers work the buttons of her flannel free, one by one. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees the backside of Mulder, his head bent respectfully, observing the grout work between the tiles. The soft fabric slides from her shoulders, falling onto the floor with nary a sound. Her pants join soon after, the small pile pushed to the edge of the room and she pulls a cleansing breath through her nose, heart pounding heavily against her ribs.
The water is hot enough that steam swirls into the air, but not so hot that it burns her skin as she forces a foot into the tub. The other joins before she can regret her decision, and her eyes squeeze shut as she slowly lowers herself into the bath.
“Do you want me to go?” Mulder asks, back still turned.
Yes, she thinks immediately. Let me drown here in shame. “No,” she says, tongue betraying her, and her eyes slip back open.
He turns slowly, taking her in. The water nearly covers up to her shoulders, the tips of her knees peeking out from below the dense bubbles; preserving whatever level of modesty they can.
Mulder crouches before her, one hand on the lip of the tub, the other creeping towards the scrunchie tying back her auburn locks. He doesn’t touch just yet, awaiting a signal of approval. She gives it with the slightest nod of her head as she captures his gaze, piercing eyes relaying her fear and trust.
He breaks the stalemate first, closing the distance. Her hair’s longer when it's unstyled, the tangled ends dipping into the water, darkening in colour. She watches as he pushes up his shirt sleeves, revealing tanned forearms beneath. He produces a small basin from somewhere- perhaps he’d been rooting through her cupboards before she’d come in- and gradually wets the rest of her hair a few inches at a time.
Scully almost cracks a smile at the look of concentration on his face, caught in her periphery. The repetitive motion is calming, and she almost feels normal again. The headache has vanished with the painkillers and her heart has mostly settled. She’s awake and alert, safe in the company she’s currently keeping, and though her mind tries to taunt her with visions of her recent past, she lets the feeling of the heat against her clammy skin distract her.
She thinks she’s holding it together pretty well until the snap of a bottle cap breaks her from her peaceful limbo. Mulder must sense her dread because he hesitates. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her profile again, studying and cataloguing every subtle twitch of expression as she purposely stares ahead.
“Do it,” she breathes, swallowing hard against the swell of unwanted emotion.
The smell of her hair wash invades her senses as he squeezes a dollop into his open palm. Her hands fly from below the water's surface to grasp the sides of the tub in support as he starts to work the gel into the greasy strands.
She ought to feel embarrassed, allowing Mulder to wash her hair like a child, but her fingers seem to be cemented in place and it’s all she can do not to run far and fast from here. She thinks she might slip away into the abyss of the shallow bath if she were to relax her grip, the cool porcelain against her palms grounding her as the hot water soothes her tense muscles.
Scully counts her breaths as Mulder works the shampoo into a clumsy lather, his fingers dragging through the long strands and working through the knots at the base of her neck.
It’s no professional salon experience- or professional experience in general- but she can feel the care radiating from his solid form and she fights to silence the part of her that screams danger! Do not show weakness! Do not allow vulnerability!
Too late, the rational side counters. You showed your vulnerability the first night you’d met. And he’s still here. He still thinks you're brave.
The sound of water hitting water pulls her from her thoughts, wayward droplets running down her forehead and dripping from her nose as Mulder lifts the basin up again to rinse. Pieces of her bangs cling to her forehead in an errant manner, and Scully musters enough strength to loosen her vice-like grip on the tub in order to push the offending strands off her sticky skin. Mulder shoos her away, his own fingers raking the strands flat from root to ends, tangling in the waterlogged-locks.
She flicks some water his way, the droplets arcing over the ledge and wetting his shirt. He huffs a little in faux-annoyance and she cracks a smile, and in return she’s doused with another basin-full of water; effectively undoing their previous smoothing attempts.
She releases a strangled gasp, out of indignation and exasperation instead of fear, and Mulder chuckles at her very un-Scully-like response- which only succeeds in fueling the fires of her retaliation.
“Scully,” he warns playfully, raising the basin back up defensively in response to her sparkling gaze. She relents, though only because his meddlesome expression still blurs before her eyes from his last attack. The click of the bottle cap reinforces the temporary truce as Mulder picks up the other bottle, preparing for the next step.
“Just the ends, mister,” Scully grumbles as she swipes the last of the water from her eyes. Gentle fingers return to her hair, working the conditioner. They ghost against her neck and back as he combs the new product through thoroughly, sending shivers down her spine and across her exposed shoulders. If Mulder notices the involuntary twitches, he doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t stop the minute brushes of skin on skin. She finds she doesn’t want him to.
Scully becomes acutely aware of her nakedness in the wake of her miniscule epiphany. It’s not the first time she’s been distracted by the feeling of his fingers in her hair, nor is it the first time that she’s felt his touch on bare skin. That honour would belong to the first night she’d known him, when some bug bites had looked awfully close to burns of unknown origins, and she’d been young and scared and foolish.
But that hadn’t even been that long ago, and who was she to speak on foolishness? She was still young and scared- but maybe not quite as much in this very moment- and look where she was. Allowing her assigned partner turned best friend to wash her hair in a startling moment of vulnerability, entertaining thoughts of his strong hands dropping lower; dragging across her ribs, splaying up and across her sternum-
The thought washes away alongside the conditioner as Mulder rinses away the days of compounded sweat and grease and tears. Each poor erases a little bit more of Donnie Pfasters symbolic hold over her, until her hair is as dark as the blood that had spilled from her lip in the wake of his arrest.
The basin sets against the floor with a definitive clunk, ending this last sentence in the latest entry of her life before she has a chance to let it run on any longer. His knuckles graze over her cheek ever so lightly, his thumb brushing the faded patch of pinkish skin adorning her delicate chin.
“Take your time, Scully,” he instructs as he rises, walking from the bathroom and pulling the door nearly shut behind him. His touch still lingers against her skin, her scalp, phantom fingers ghosting through her auburn locks. She listens, waiting until the goosebumps across her shoulders are attributed to the cooling water rather than his electric touch.
The remnant memories of her abductions swirl around her feet as the sudsy water disappears down the drain along with them. Maybe not gone, but allayed for now, and as she wraps a towel around her chest and looks into the mirror, she sees someone that looks much more like herself. The woman in the mirror stands a little bit taller, her head held a little bit higher, the spark behind her eyes a little bit brighter.
Walking through the conjoined door to her bedroom, Scully pulls on a new pair of silky pyjamas and fluffy socks over slightly damp skin. She scrunches the ends of her hair with her towel, enough so that the water isn’t actively dripping on and around her any longer, when she catches sight of her bare nails. She frowns at the jagged edges and uneven shapes- picked something fierce a week ago, now grown out enough that they snag on nearly everything she touches.
With a sigh, she crosses back into the bathroom to deposit her towel, and cautiously paws around the cupboard, grunting when her fingers close around the cap of her preferred pink polish. A moment later, she’s exiting the bathroom with the polish and an emery board in hand, picking her way across the dusty apartment to her living room. For some reason, she’d been expecting to find herself alone once more, having assumed that Mulder would have found himself with much more important things to worry about.
Instead, she finds him folded comfortably into her couch, long legs creating the number ‘4’- one foot dangling off the armrest while his other knee is bent, hanging off the couch by a couple of inches. He glances up when he senses her, a small smile flickering to life at her reappearance as he channel surfs.
She sits on the ground before him, placing her products on the coffee table and pushing the back of her neck into his knee. Wet curls frame her face enticingly, and Scully watches from the corner of her eye as Mulder reaches forward and grabs a curl loosely, twining it around his finger before letting it drop back against her shoulder.
“You're making my pants all wet,” he says, and Scully snorts. Mulder catches the innuendo a minute too late, fighting a smirk as he clarifies; “My knee. Your wet hair is making my knee wet.”
But he doesn’t move away and neither does Scully, and she files her nails quietly into smooth and even shapes in the light of late evening talk shows and infomercials. Mulder spends more time watching her face than the TV, her cheeks growing pinker beneath his palpable gaze. She’s two fingers away from perfect symmetry when he shifts, leaning around her to grab the polish off the table. His long legs bump against her back as he pulls himself upright, propping his feet up on the table beside her as he unscrews the cap.
The strong chemical scent fills the living room air and Scully manages to keep her curiosity in check until she’s done filing the last two fingernails. When she turns to observe her partner, she’s surprised to find him admiring the fingers of his left hand with a pleased expression on his face.
“You like?” he asks, and she can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and out of her.
“I do,” she says and his face lights up even more. “Come here,” she adds, patting the floor next to her.
He hands her the pale polish before heeding her request, and Scully pulls his right hand in her direction, his fingers splayed obediently against the wooden tabletop. She paints each fingernail with the efficiency of a well practiced skill, applying just the right pressure to the brush to keep the polish from getting streaky. A memory tugs at her subconsciousness; one from her childhood in which she and Melissa had bribed Charlie to let them do his nails after Bill Jr had told them to get lost. She wonders briefly if Samantha Mulder had ever had to beg her big brother to let her do his nails before her disappearance. She thinks that it wouldn’t have taken much bribery, not with the patient way Mulder was sitting beside her now.
She caps the bottle as Mulder pulls his hands back, his eyes flicking between both sets of nails.
“I think I did a better job,” Mulder says after a minute, earning him an indignant huff.
“Whatever,” Scully grouses, rolling her eyes. It’s all for show though; his teasing lightens her mood a little bit more. She’s about to replicate her fine work on herself when Mulder‘s pointed tsk tsk distracts her, and she turns her narrowed gaze back on his innocent face. “What?”
He gestures to his paint job, eyes wide with an obvious duh. “Mine are clearly better. You want to turn up to work with subpar nails?” He grabs her right wrist loosely, turning her bare fingernails in her direction to emphasize his point.
Scully relents with a patented eye roll, allowing Mulder to maneuver her hand into the place. His grip on each finger is firm, each brushstroke as assured as an amateur can be. The bristles bump against her cuticles every now and again, but Mulder wears the same adorable look of concentration that he’d worn while washing her hair, and it hardly matters in the end. She’ll have to take an acetone-soaked q-tip along the skin around her fingers later, but she suspects Mulder would be none the wiser either way.
He takes his time scrutinizing his work, holding her hands up in the dim lighting to assess every possible angle. She thinks it’s mostly to garner a reaction from her and she crinkles her nose in amusement for his benefit. Once satisfied, he blows soft breaths against the tips of her fingers, the sensation setting off a funny little flutter in her belly. Briefly, she wonders what his breath might feel like ghosting over her lips instead. She licks the thought away with a dart of her tongue, swallowing hard to keep the butterflies from taking flight.
Mulder catches her gaze, his brown eyes flashing with something indecipherable in the low light. “Well, what do you think?”
I think I want you to kiss me, is her first inclination. Her eyes drop to her nails to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks. He has to know what he’s doing, what effect he has on her. “You did a very nice job,” she manages.
She’d nearly kissed him properly last week, caught in the throes of fear; seeking comfort in his embrace. If he hadn’t stopped her, then she would have taken them much further than their current boundaries allowed. Boundaries that were there for a reason.
Boundaries that are slowly shifting with the way he pulls her into a half-hug and rests his chin atop her head, asking; “Would I ever do you wrong, Scully?”
No, she thinks, as she melts into his embrace. She can’t help it. It’s warm and inviting and safe, and just what she needs.
“No,” she whispers, placing her cheek over his heart.
Tomorrow she’ll be the ever professional Agent Scully and he’ll be the enigmatic Agent Mulder, but tonight she’ll just be Scully (she’ll even just be Dana), if he’ll just be Mulder (only ever Mulder). Tomorrow she can be strong and put together, and stand confidently on her own two feet in the light of day. But for now, she’ll bathe in the moon’s soft glow, sheltered from the night in the arms of her partner, her friend, her constant.
Tonight; she’ll relent.