RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Millennium
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to FOX, CC, etc.
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Punching the button on the radio, Scully finally extinguished the bothersome noise. They were on a long stretch of road between cities, and she couldn't find a tolerable station. She wasn't sure, however, that the silence was a preferable alternative. It left her alone with her thoughts--well, her thoughts and her sleeping companion.
Briefly taking her eyes from the road, she glanced over at the passenger seat. Mulder was sprawled out with the seatback reclined, his head leaning awkwardly toward the window. She was grateful that he hadn't protested when she insisted on taking the keys; she knew that between his injured arm and the pain meds he had taken, he was in no condition to drive.
The pain meds. If she really wanted a way to avoid the consequences of his actions tonight, she could always blame it on the medication. But she knew that was the cowardly way out. If she were honest with herself, she knew that his innocent New Year's kiss was anything but, and that she was exhilarated one of them had finally taken the first step.
"The world didn't end."
"No, it didn't."
Well, at least it was better than "Oh, brother," although not by much. She hoped he had not taken that as dismissive of his kiss, or its significance, but frankly, it would've been so much simpler if the world had been coming down around them. Then there would be no consequences and no thoughts of tomorrow.
Unlike the previous attempt. Not for the first time, she wondered what would have happened between them that day if it hadn't been for that damn bee, and how different things might have been in the meantime. They had almost lost each other too many times in the interim, and they had let other people come between them. In the end, their friendship had survived, but just barely. A question came to her mind, one that she always forced away unanswered when it reared its ugly head: What would things be like now if Diana hadn't died?
Scully shifted uncomfortably in her seat. A motion beside her drew her attention: Mulder was shifting positions as well, as though he sensed her discomfort even in his sleep. Maybe he did.
After his anomalous brain activity, they had never discussed what thoughts and feelings of hers may have been revealed to him, but she knew that he had been able to read her mind. Although he swore he had since lost the ability, there were moments when their eyes would meet simultaneously, and she wondered sometimes if a connection had been forged that lingered even now. Mulder might explain it as a sixth sense. She could just dismiss it as habit bred by familiarity.
She remembered another moment in his hallway, when she had almost kissed him. There was no bee to stop them that time, only her own cowardice and sense of propriety. He was still on medical leave, and she had stopped by to tell him that another of his friends had died for the cause. They had confessed their commitment to each other ("my constant, my touchstone"), and when he took hold of her face, for a fleeting moment she thought he would lean down to kiss her. The moment passed, but the urge remained. So she left her kiss on his forehead--a safe kiss, a healing kiss. And then she walked away.
There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him, and she knew that he loved her too. But theirs was a platonic love, a love between friends. A love that made no demands and expected no sense of advancement to keep it alive. They loved each other like family because of all they had been through together. But did that mean their love could evolve into something romantic, and survive?
It was obvious enough that there was sexual tension between them. There had been for years. It was perhaps only natural for a heterosexual man and woman that there would be some amount of electricity in the air, like the static before a storm. But what would happen after the storm broke and the air cleared?
The reality was, her greatest fear was to lose her best friend.
The friendship she had developed with Mulder was unlike any she had experienced in her life, with man or woman. They trusted each other implicitly (well, usually). They would go to the ends of the earth for each other (in fact, they both already had). They knew each other's habits so well that they functioned together like clockwork. They understood each other's thoughts so intuitively that they could have an entire conversation with just a glance. He had become the most important person in her life, not just now, but ever. And she couldn't risk losing him.
It was inevitable that romance would include that risk. Love is like gambling: you bet your heart, and you either win big or lose big. Such a change between them held the potential for filling the lingering gaps in both of their lives and giving them an oasis of pleasure and happiness in the midst of this war they waged against the skies. But if they took the gamble and found that this step was too much for their companionship to bear, then they would lose everything. It was double or nothing.
The approaching road sign brought Scully out of her thoughts. This was Mulder's exit. A few maneuvers through side streets, and soon they were parked in front of his building. The cutting of the engine roused him from his sleep, and Scully wordlessly walked around to assist him out of the car and up to his apartment.
She had only intended to see him inside and give him a final reminder about his bandages and the pain medication, but once there, he turned to her and groggily said, "It's late. You should stay here tonight instead of driving home."
Scully opened her mouth to protest, but a yawn preempted her rebuttal. Laughing at the irony, she shut the door behind her and proceeded into the apartment.
In all their years together as partners, it certainly wasn't the first time she had spent the night here. They were already familiar enough with this situation to have a rhythm established. Like clockwork.
Mulder used the bathroom first then relinquished it to Scully as he went in search of fresh bedding. When she emerged, she saw that he intended to take the couch as usual. She knew that this wouldn't be the best for his wounded shoulder. But she also knew he was too much of a gentleman to make her sleep on the couch while he took the bed, and she was too tired to argue with him about it.
As she wandered out to the living room to tell him goodnight, he was headed in her direction and met her in the bedroom doorway. They stood there facing each other. For the first time since the kiss, they had an awkward moment, as though they both finally realized how their decision to acknowledge this could change them. Blue eyes searched hazel for how to proceed and were met with equal uncertainty.
Mulder made the first move; Scully noted that he usually did. She was never good at displaying his kind of impulsiveness, which he often muted to accommodate her need for well-reasoned decisions. His hand came up to graze the side of her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. His fingers gently skated over to her lips and rested there for a moment. Her breath caught in anticipation. She was not disappointed: the next sensation she felt was the warmth of his lips on hers. But the kiss was as simple and chaste as the one they had shared earlier in the hospital.
"Goodnight, Scully." The words were whispered against her lips, and she felt them more than heard them. When he moved away, a swathe of cool air replaced his warmth. She opened her eyes as she sensed his absence. He had already moved over toward the couch, ending the moment. But before he lay down, he looked back over his shoulder and winked at her. With a smile, she returned his wink. The kiss had been a promise, a rain check. Not tonight, but soon.
Scully turned toward the bedroom, and Mulder's waiting bed. A bed built for two.
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