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isn't it messed up (how i'm just dying to be him?)

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Mulder spent a lot of time in the academy trying hard not to be like other guys there. Every female agent, or detective, or beat cop he’s ever known has her horror stories — outnumbered in her field and twice as hard-headed for it, surrounded by a number of overgrown manchildren whose idea of women’s rights stopped right after the nineteenth amendment. 

So when he goes home after bagging Van Blundht, and the only thing he can think of is getting Scully back on a couch and putting his hands all over her he feels pretty damn awful.

 

It’s not like he’s never felt attraction to Scully, in some abstract sense of the word. He’s got eyes, and she’s got the kinda gravitas you get when you go through life knowing you’ll be the smartest person in the room more than half the time but you were raised right, so you don’t make a big deal about it. She’s clever in that cut-throat kinda way, and Mulder could listen to her talk for hours, and whenever she rolls her eyes and dresses him down he does hear tiny little wedding bells off in the distance — in the abstract sense. The point is, that in some overlying, abstract way, of course Scully’s a total catch, and in a different life Mulder would’ve loved to spend way too long chasing her and making a fool of himself to make her give him the time of day. 

But seeing his own face that close to hers, when she was flushed like that, wine-dyed spots on her cheekbones and candles next to the sofa made something in him go off . And now it’s all he can think about.

Of course, for every nauseatingly sweet thought of kissing her comes Van Blundht’s beady little eyes seeking out Scully like he’s been waiting for her, and he’s back to his jealous bitterness, hating himself a little more each time.

He spends days dizzy with the thought of being allowed, of letting — of Scully even considering letting him press her into the couch like that, getting her cornered and boxed in. (Jesus, Blundht was draped over her. Scully starts tweaking if anyone smiles at her for too long. It’s a wonder she lets Mulder do what he does, but that’s. Well. That’s what that is.) 

He keeps seeing it on the inside of his eyelids, his own body leaned into Scully's space which is — that in itself is not abnormal, really, because he's a tactile guy and Scully is competent and warm and a perfect height, and she always lets him be obnoxious and territorial, putting his hands all over her when they're working, but this. Is different. He sees the slope of their bodies every time he closes his eyes, almost parallel, his own stretched across the couch and Scully’s shoulders hunched, waiting, her face angled up — up towards Mulder’s.

Which is another thing. The concept of Scully even considering kissing him back. Yowza.

 

He can’t keep it on the inside of his stupid head for very long, though, because even if Scully couldn’t see through him like cellophane, it’s impossible to be as close as they are and not notice when something is different. It’s a slow week, not long after the Van Blundht case, but they’re in Scully’s hotel room, researching something that’s probably going to end up not being an X-file, and he keeps — shying away from her, reaching out to touch her and then jerking his hand back. The way he’s been these past few days, correcting himself. 

He sits cross-legged on the floor and across from him, on the couch, Scully breathes in a way that makes Mulder know she’s about to say something he can’t escape, and every nerve ending in his body sizzles in anticipation. He wonders if jumping out the window would be too dramatic. He’d probably make the fall but the awkwardness afterwards—

Scully clears her throat, looking up from the phone book she’s paging through. "You’re being — avoidant." She says, jaw working. She stares at Mulder, like she does, calculating and considering, and Mulder can take eye contact like the best of them, but Scully's always been special, and it takes a little more to just look back. "You’re still thinking about Blundht.” He scoffs then, and averts his eyes, flipping through the folder on the low table in front of him. “I know it must've been a weird scene to walk in on, Mulder. I'm sorry." She sounds professional, but not curt — genuine and embarrassed almost, as if she’s the one who’s been eaten up by guilt for days. It takes a lot not to laugh, and Scully presses on. "I’m trying to be professional about it, I’d hoped it wouldn’t ruin anything."

Mulder shakes his head, fast, like he’s trying to clear it. "Avoidant isn't the word I would use, but much appreciated." It doesn’t sound strained, because he’s really good at faking it like that.

She takes the bait, though, probably just satisfied with the joking tone of his voice, and looks at him with the quirked, I'm-smarter-than-you eyebrow she has when she's indulging him."What, then?" Hesitant, like she's taking it as the olive branch it should be, and not the out-stretched hand near the cliff's edge that Mulder's giving her right now. 

"Jealous, probably." Breathe. "That's the main one. I'm seeing myself finally kissing you and it's not even me-me, you know? What a bummer." Silence, like he expected. Scully’s eyes meet his, and she’s confused, searching, quiet for longer than Mulder likes so he winces, backpedaling.

"Nevermind, Scully, I'm a creep."

"No, not at all—"

"Don’t think about it.”

Mulder , it’s fine. If anyone I’m the one who’s — who’s a creep .”

Mulder looks up, shocked into silence. Scully’s staring at him, imploringly, like she desperately wants to get this over with. “You?” Mulder says. “What the hell have you done wrong?” 

“I was the one who almost kissed you. Him.”

Mulder flips his folder shut and rubs a hand over his face. “He was a shape-changing serial sex offender, Scully, I don’t think you can be blamed for being — roped in.”

She scoffs and leans forward on the couch, putting her elbows on her knees. A strand of hair falls over one eye. “By what, his sexual wiles?”

“I’m sorry.” He says, loudly and resolutely enough that Scully lets him talk. "I just can't — get it out of my head. That you'd let me kiss you. That's all." A second of silence, where he reads the patience in Scully’s eyes. “And it makes me feel real sleazy, Scully, you gotta know that.” She’s still waiting, but her eyebrows move a little, questioning, so Mulder shrugs. “All I got to go on is a shapeshifter. Significant lack of consent tends to wig me out a little.”

Scully leans back. “I’m not sure comparing yourself to Van Blundht is a good idea.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” He gets up then, goes to the little kitchen counter to get a glass of water, running the water over his hand a few seconds after it’s gone cold. Scully starts talking, hesitant.

“It isn’t—“ she says and then stops. “Is it the dubiousness that makes you want. To think about that.” A beat. “Kissing me.“ It takes a second to understand but when he does something sharp and nauseating zips through his stomach and he turns around.

“No, Scully, Jesus christ .” She looks relieved, and fortunately a little ashamed, like she was hoping for and expecting him to react like that. “I prefer my partners willing and at full consciousness.”

She nods, jaw set. “Pretty unlike Van Blundht then.” Mulder just looks at her, hands slipping around the wet edge of the glass. She sighs. “Listen, I see why you’re upset. And it makes sense. I’d probably be worried if you didn’t feel weird. But as far as I’m concerned, Mulder, you’ve done nothing wrong.” Silence, then, again. He nods, drinks his water as Scully starts going through the phone book again. Fluttering of pages, quiet breathing. Mulder’s just about to say something to get them back on track when Scully speaks up.

"Let you kiss me." She mutters, and Mulder hums in question. "Let you kiss me," she says again, showing her teeth in a mindless little smile, "like I'd just lay back and think of England." 

Heat shoots up Mulder’s spine, centered and sudden, and something inside him repeats lay back, full-on prepubescent red lights flashing at the thought of Scully in any kind of horizontal position, and he fights to keep his face neutral. “Also,” Scully says, probably after too many seconds of Mulder’s constipated silence. “He didn’t actually kiss me.” Okay, Mulder thinks. Okay, cool . He doesn’t know what’s happening. He might be dead. “I probably knew it wasn’t you.”

Definitely dead. “You. Knew? Probably.” Not the most intelligent thing Mulder’s ever said but he’s trying.

“Call it what you will. Wishful thinking, lowered inhibitions.” She pauses, smiles. “Momentary insanity. It’s not like I would’ve let just anyone get close to me like that.” She looks up, and he knows his jaw is somewhere close to the floor. Scully fidgets where she’s sitting. “You have to know that, Mulder.”

“It’s becoming more and more clear to me that I don’t know anything.”

She looks at the ceiling and she’s so — she’s always beautiful, but there’s something about the direction the conversation is going that makes Mulder feel like he’s high on some Scully-centered drug, and he’s obsessed with the arch her throat makes as she tips her head back, her shoulder moving to get comfortable. “I knew something was off, but I — I don’t know. Humored myself. Wanted to see what would happen.”

He fidgets for a second himself and settles for taking a few steps closer to her, standing awkwardly in the middle distance between the kitchenette and the couch. “What did you think was going to happen?” Death , something in Mulder’s head says, fires of hell, bad stuff. He tells it to shut up.

“If I kissed you? Instant implosion of the universe, probably.” Mulder smiles at that, and Scully looks relieved. “Did you ever think about it, before?” Her voice is so quiet now, serious and dark, and Mulder breathes out.

Fucking of course . “Sure I did. I have excellent taste.” He says, and Scully rolls her eyes which is fair, because sometimes he really doesn’t have any taste at all, but Scully is one of his better infatuations. Mulder walks back to the couches, which is weird because he’s pretty sure he’s lost feeling in both of his legs, but maybe that’s why he ends up next to Scully, instead of in a nice, neutral space like across from her, with a coffee table in between them. Scully turns her head to look at him, still leaning back against the couch, with a smile that looks like she’s making fun of him. “What?” Mulder says. “You don’t know. I could exclusively bag brilliant, spunky, skeptical FBI agents with medical degrees, you don’t know my life.” A quirk of an eyebrow again, and then she mirrors him, putting an elbow on the back of the couch so she can lean against her hand. It brings her closer to Mulder, as she pulls her legs up under her, and she looks amused, and bright-eyed, and god, Mulder’s such a sorry fucking idiot. 

“Spunky?” Scully asks. There’s something of a dare in her voice, and there might be men in Washington who are able to back down from a Dana Scully Dare but Mulder isn’t one of them. 

“Why is that the word you caught on to?” 

“It seemed like you felt it the most.”

“How dare you.” Scully’s smiling now, and he thinks, quietly, that there’s nothing better than her face when she’s comfortable, and happy, and amused by his antics. 

They’re quiet then, and Mulder watches her smile relax, her gaze slipping over his face. Every thought he’s ever had about kissing her is shaking in the back of his head, but at this point van Blundht is barely a footnote. It’s just the constant, silent ache that he carries with him when he sees her first thing in the morning, put together and cut-throat, or when they’re working and she sits cross-legged in the middle of a hotel bed, or when he’s dragged her out in the middle of a forest and she’s soaked, and shaking, and angry with him.

And yet.

"There are,“ he says, pessimism, or protection, on his tongue, “fraternisation rules." 

Scully blinks. "We're of equal rank, Mulder, those rules don't really have to apply to us." She hesitates, tongue darting out to wet her lips which really isn’t doing anything good to Mulder’s resolve, "But if that's your way of telling me to leave it, that's okay—" 

"No." Slowly, he reaches up to curl a hand around her jaw, thumb stroking the white line of her cheekbone. She lets him, like she’s done before, but the movement feels titanic, the revelation something important and reverent. "Don’t leave it. I just. Don't know if we should be doing this." 

She smiles. He feels her lips move under his hand. "Yeah, me neither." 

"What if.” He clears his throat. “How about I kiss you. And you let me know where we go from there, huh?" 

She blinks, and Mulder thinks if he tried he could count her eyelashes. "Hell of a pitch, Mulder." 

"Haven't I mentioned I’m a phone salesman? The bureau is just a side gig." 

"I hope you wouldn't drive these kinda bargains with all your customers." 

"Just the ones I like." He nudges his nose against hers, and slides his arm around her instead, tight against her lower back. He doesn’t remember getting this close, but now it's impossible to be nonchalant about it, and she notices, pressing against him (letting him get close to her, get her warm and vulnerable, Mulder's fucking reeling).

"Kiss me." Scully says, and he does. 

Soft, at first, with his breath held in his chest. Her eyelashes flutter against his. Then her mouth opens and he moves closer, sliding his other hand under her hair. Half a second more and he feels her hands on him, his neck, his shoulders, fingers moving an inch to touch the skin under his shirt collar. She tastes warm, like coffee and clean skin and Mulder feels chills pour over his back when he feels her tongue against his. Scully makes a sound then, just as he thinks about getting her even closer, about pulling her thigh over his lap maybe. Their lips part, and she presses her forehead to his, hands tightening in his shirt.

He remembers to breathe, suddenly, chest feeling tight, and presses a kiss to the side of Scully’s mouth, one to her chin. "One more," he says, and Scully's laugh is a shuddering breath against his face. "Give me one more, then you can throw me out." 

He doesn’t know how much time passes with them like that. Scully eventually ends up in his lap, and he rests his hands on the dip of her waist, moving with her when she breathes. He swallows every sound she makes into kisses, licks it from her mouth like honey. Shudders when her nails catch on his skin, the back of his head. She fits so well like this, the point of her hips so close, and one of his hands drift down to her thigh, squeezing around the muscle. 

She must feel him get hard under her, but she doesn’t shy away, doesn’t say anything, just presses herself to him and bites his lower lip, smiles at the groans it gets. If this was anyone else, Mulder would consider it foreplay, teasing, would be eager to move on. But this is — different. It’s Scully. Everything is the main event — if this was all she wanted, he’d be thankful.

Eventually, though, Scully leans away from him, hands on his shoulders. Mulder blinks, clearing a haze away from his eyes and takes in the well-kissed, heavy-lidded pinkness of Scully, the shine of her mouth, her chest moving. 

He loves her.

He touches her, hands stroking from knee to waist, because he loves her, and she’s beautiful and he can’t help it. "So?" 

A beat. "Bed." Scully says, and Mulder’s skin comes alive in a thousand little fires, letting himself be pulled up by the hand. He bangs his shin on the coffee table and swears into the kiss Scully pulls him into and she laughs — she’s short enough for it to be impractical and for a second it’s loud and breathy and full of teeth, as they make their way to Scully’s bed.

They’re both old enough to know that it’s really a lot faster to get undressed if you do it yourself, so once Scully crawls back on the bed, Mulder remains standing, yanking at his shirt hard enough that he hears a button fly off. Through the flurry he sees Scully do the same, throwing clothes over the edge of the bed. He’s about to get closer, one knee on the edge of the bed, but Scully holds up a finger and he has to gather all of his brain cells to focus on the admonishing look she has and not on the whole half-nakedness of the situation. 

“I don’t know if it’s — condom?” She says, and Mulder thanks God for the working conscious mind of at least one person in the room. He checks his jacket, and Scully’s wallet, and the cupboard in the bathroom, all while dressed in underpants and with Scully’s helpful commentary in the background. Once he finds one he comes charging back, and knows he looks ridiculous because the specific smile he kisses off Scully’s face is one she sports mostly when he looks like a bit of an idiot.

He throws the condom on the nightstand and gets Scully to lean back, and finally, finally gets to appreciate the sight.

She’s in a sports bra, and these thin light grey hipsters, and when Mulder puts a hand on her inner thigh, spreading her legs, he sees a damp spot — small enough that it would disappear under the pad of his thumb but it still makes his mouth water, a little lightheaded. “Jesus, Scully.” He says, getting his knees under himself. When he looks up Scully’s eyes are hooded, and the way she’s lying, hair a fan of copper against the pillow she looks like a lazy god, like everything he’d dared to imagine and nothing like it at the same time. She smiles at him, flushed, and he rocks up to kiss her again. He gets his fingers under the tight elastic of her bra, pulling on it.

“Get this off.” He says. “God, I hate these things.”

“They’re comfortable.” Scully says, a little prissy. “You can’t expect women to wear something lacy all the time just because you have preferences—”

“You’d be a knock-out in a potato sack, honey, but if I had to choose between something that can be removed with a clasp and something that has to be wrenched off with a tire iron, I’d have to go with the former.” 

“That’s pretty chauvinistic of you, Fox .”

“It’s efficient, Dana .”

She grins, quirking an eyebrow at him.“Don’t have any time to waste, do you.”

He puts his mouth on her instead of answering. In his experience it’s a hit or miss, these things. Women will squirm away, ticklish or shy or just uninterested, or they’ll act as if he’s the first guy to ever think of getting his mouth on someone’s tits. He’s real fucking pleased that Scully’s one of the latter. She lets out a shaky kind of sigh, torso rolling beneath him, and puts a hand on the back of his head. He kisses his way over her chest, her torso, sucking little round lovebites into her that will disappear before the night is over. Kisses over her stomach, the layer of fat over that still-hard academy muscle, because of course she’s kept that up better than he has. He has two hands under Scully’s thighs, his fingers picking at the elastic of her underwear, and he looks up at her to find her smiling a little, mouth open. She looks pleased. 

“Can I?” He asks, and she huffs, lets him pull her underwear off, and Mulder has to try hard to keep focusing on her voice, instead of panting like a dog, but — but it’s difficult because Mulder can see how wet she is, the shine of her lips. The patch of hair above her pussy’s damp, too, just a little. Copper bright, fashionable.

He kisses it, just to sate himself, and Scully shivers.

“What a gentleman.” She says when he gets comfortable on his front, knees under himself, wanting to just fall tongue first into her. She sounds — not surprised, because Scully doesn’t get surprised, but still a little like she wasn’t expecting this, and Mulder rolls his eyes at the thought of Scully sleeping with men who didn’t act like it was a fucking privelige to get their mouth on her.

“You know me, honey.”

“Yeah. I know you.”

Anyway. Tongue first. A little selfish, once he gets into it, like he does most things — desperate and one-track minded.

Licks over her in broad, flat strokes of his tongue until they’re both wet all over, her slick smearing over his face, cooling in the air. She’s not loud, really, but he’s so endeared by that — how she just sighs a little instead, and shakes under him, because it’s so like her. She runs her hands through his hair, grabs when he flicks his tongue over her labia, blows air over her clit, and he wonders what he’ll have to do to get her to really pull. He doesn’t touch her clit for a while, not before she gasps when his nose nudges against it, before she says “Mulder, come on” and he changes tactics, points his tongue to press against where she’s all hard and swollen, poking out of folds of wet skin. She’s so pretty — pink and red and flushed, hips rocking up into his mouth when he sucks, tongue rolling over her clit. Her breath shakes on that, and she sighs out his name in a way that makes his dick twitch, all dark and long, all vowels. Changing the phonetics of him in her mouth, like magic. 

“Give me your fingers.” She says eventually, when he dips his tongue into her, and he moans, so loud and sudden that she laughs at him, high and giggling like she never does. His hips twitch, and he rocks forward, rubs his dick against the shifting fabric of his boxers just for some fucking relief . Does as he’s told — gives her his middle finger at first and nearly fucking cries at the feeling of her: the way she draws him in, the sucking wetness, the plush against the pad of his finger when he pushes in to the second knuckle. He watches her ride it for a minute, and then, sharp: “Mulder, focus” and he blinks, gives her his ring finger. Slowly, feeling her tighten around him and then relax, open. Giving in to him. She lies still as he starts moving them in slow curls and she’s — so wet it’s indecent, little sounds bubbling out around his fingers. He puts his mouth back on her. Licks her wetness into his mouth and swallows it.

She gives him orders as she gets closer, as her feet curl up and twitch on his back. “Suck — yes, use your tongue.” And he fastens his mouth around her clit and sucks harder, in little bursts of tightness, times it with the press of his fingers — she gets just a little louder, still dark, these deep groans lacing every breath. Her thighs come up to press around his head, caging him in, and he only has one free hand, so he just digs his fingers into her skin, and curves his fingers like she tells him to, feels over the ribbed plush of her insides. She says his name again and he moans, hums it into her skin — he’s never going to be able to hear her call for his attention again without losing his mind. “Mulder, I—” dark, rushed, breaking in the middle — she comes saying his name, gushing around him, and he keeps moving his fingers, keeps his mouth on her until it’s too much, until she has to push him away. He still has to touch her - but takes his fingers out at least, the pads of them all pruny - so he kisses at her instead, gets them both messy again.

He’s so — lucky. As Scully’s hands relax in his hair, he thinks of every other sucker who must have wanted Scully like this — all her high-profile friends with their high-rise offices, or every loser who only had unrealistic fantasies to rely on, while Mulder actually got the real thing. 

The thought makes him smile, and he sucks on the skin of Scully’s inner thigh while she twitches, drawing her pulse in between his teeth. 

“Gonna add this to the long list of things I’m gonna have on Frohike for the rest of our lives.”

She groans, annoyed and disbelieving. He looks up at her and her face is pinched in irritation, sweaty, blushing red. “I’m kicking you out.” He can’t help but laugh, mouth open against her skin. The flat side of his teeth rub over her clit, and Scully shivers, even as she bats at his shoulder. Her heel thumps against his back. “It was fun while it lasted, Mulder, but you gotta go. Bye. Goodnight.”

He crawls over her, grimaces when his neck cracks drily at the movement, wrist aching. Scully smiles into his mouth when they kiss. Her hands roll over his back, scratching, and she lets him roll his hips into her stomach, opens her mouth around his gasps. 

“On your back.” She says, and Mulder looks at her flushed face and kind of wants to cry a little bit. He doesn’t, but he kind of wants to.

He’s so hard the cold air feels like a punch to the gut, choking when Scully puts a hand on him. Her clever fingers curl around him, thumb smearing out precome. He lets her get him wet for a moment, and looking at her face he’s happy to know that he’s not the only one who gets one-track minded like this — she’s all dark-eyed, zeroed in. Mulder loves her. Putting on the condom, she is awfully, terribly erotic, naked and messy, and Mulder can’t stop touching her, leaning over to kiss at her face, her neck, running his hands over her breasts. Scully laughs breathlessly and pushes him to lie down, swinging her legs over his lap. 

She’s so warm inside.

Realistically, Mulder knows, not warmer than any other woman, not softer or wetter than she’s supposed to be, but still — maybe she is. She looks down at him between these blinks of fluttering, focused eyes, and Mulder thinks that maybe she is warmer, and softer, and wetter than anyone else he’s had before, maybe she’s just better . It feels like they’re burning, where they touch.

She settles, wriggles her hips a little. Flexes around him, and Mulder grips her hips harder, pleasure bright-hot in stomach. 

“Can you — again? Can you come like this?” He wants to see it, wants to feel her get impossibly tight around him, wants to come after he’s gotten it out of her twice.

She smiles, overbearing, clever. “I can multitask.”

“You should know that it’s physically impossible to multitask—“ Mulder says, and then shuts the fuck up, because Scully has started rolling her hips and touching herself, and her face goes tight and then slack with feeling good, and for a whole second Mulder forgets that his own pleasure is also a part of this, fully content to watch her get lost like this. “Fuck me , Scully.” He mutters, hands twitching. She laughs.

“I think — I think you’ve got your orders muddled, agent Mulder.”

Slowly, quietly, Mulder’s brain fizzes out. Time becomes drippy and meaningless in the way that good sex will always do, but better, because he’s watching Scully , and he can’t think, can’t decide what to fucking look at. Has to helplessly feel instead, her, sleeve-tight around his dick, soaking. He moans, because he’s always been bad at being quiet like this, and Scully smiles when she does. She rides him in these slow, jittery rolls of her hips, and it’s not Mulder’s favorite position, but — but he thinks he could come just watching her anyway. Her weight in his lap feels incredible on it’s own, and she keeps tensing around him, and he can feel her wet his skin, everything between them so slick and good and hot—

“Can you—” She says, leaning up on her knees a little, “harder.”

He plants his feet, gets his hands under her and starts rolling his hips up, jostling her enough to put a hand on his chest, and she swears, properly swears. The sounds they’re making makes Mulder’s stomach twist, makes him cry out, wet, hurried slaps, Scully sighing above him. Satisfaction sits in his throat, curls itself around his whole body, shivering — he wants to come, he wants Scully to come and wants to keep the pleasure of the moment inside of him forever, for as long as he’s allowed the memory. He looks at where they’re joined, the short thrusts of him inside of her, the ripple it makes across her skin, her fingers moving fast over her clit — she’s gritting her teeth now. 

“Come on.” Mulder says, angling his up, towards her belly button, insistent. “Come on, Scully, give it to me.” Her face scrunches up, all tight, and later, he’ll feel endlessly tender about that, the way she looks when she feels so good it’s too much — now he just gasps as she comes around him, going vice-tight and hot, rocking her hips down. He feels himself twitch inside of her, burning, pushed closer at the way her mouth hangs open as he rides it out, and he’s — so fucking hard, and so close he can taste it on his tongue, pulse pounding in his ears, but he waits until Scully opens her eyes, teary, glazed over—

“Yeah?” She says, and Mulder wonders if he said something, stops wondering when she raises herself up a little, fucking — drops back on his dick, and she must be sensitive with the way her face twitches, with the sounds she makes: sounds he didn’t fucking know she could make, high-pitched now, huh, huh , like the breath is fucked out of her, and she groans through gritted teeth when he fucks into her harder, burrows into her as deep as he’ll go and comes, cries out, vision blurring, feeling Scully’s hair grazing his face as he pitches forward a little. Their hips twitch together. Slick, soft. Good.

In the silence of their nothing-sounds, Mulder realizes his hands hurt with how hard he’s been grabbing her. He relaxes, feels himself softening with every breath. Scully makes a little drawn-out sound, like a sigh, and she sounds — content. Pleased. Mulder can’t keep the smile off his face.

Before he can do the gentlemanly thing and roll them over, Scully lifts herself off, a little weakly, and settles on his stomach. Heavy, wet. Bone-tired and shaking.

“Jesus.” He says, and Scully laughs, out of breath, and then tips forward to push her face into the crook of his neck. Then he says “ Honey .” Because — because what else, really, because she’s on top of him and in his arms, and naked and warm and— “Jesus, honey.” He says, and Scully laughs again, harder, ribs pushing out against the hold he has on her. 

“Good job, Mulder, got two whole words there.” He can feel her voice in his own chest, dark, dry. Amused at his expense like usual. He dips his face into the rumpled nest of her hair and breathes, smelling sweet sweat and shampoo, getting it in his mouth. He looks to the side, to the kitchenette and the couches — the half-finished glass of water, the open folders. Undisturbed, unchanged.

Scully breathes out, and Mulder breathes with her, and wildly enough the world goes on, unbothered.