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Her hand is dry but thankfully warm when he nudges it where it rests on her thigh. He doesn’t begrudge the fact that this is the third time she’s fallen asleep today — first this morning at the airport and second against his shoulder during the first leg of their flight. Since her remission, her recovery has been steady but exhausting. She’s still fairly weak, and even something as simple as carrying her luggage to their gate was a task. He’d lately taken to accepting cases close to home to prevent them from venturing too far, but Scully was smart and caught on quickly. She had insisted on him taking this current case in Southern California.
“You can’t stay local forever, Mulder,” she had stated, “Other people need help. I’ll be fine.”
She is fine for the most part, but still easily tired by things, and he’s grateful she had fallen asleep almost immediately after they picked up the rental car.
But now he doesn’t want her to miss this.
“Hey,” he whispers insistently, “We’re here.” He drums his fingertips over the back of her hand again and she inhales sharply, awakening immediately but groggily. She blinks rapidly and rubs her face with her palms.
“Hmwut? Yeah, I’m awake.”
Mulder chuckles and hands the rental keys to the valet who approaches them with a “good afternoon sir, ma’am”. He gets out and holds the door open for his partner, who is now trading suspicious glances between him and the high-rise building he knows she was not expecting to see.
“...Mulder?” she looks completely befuddled and it’s adorable, “...why are we at the Hyatt?”
“We have reservations here, Scully,” he holds back his grin, and offers her his hand. There’s a little crease between her brows and now she’s looking at him like he’s sprouting another head. He’s positively giddy with delight over her confusion.
“There is no way in hell we got authorized to stay at the Hyatt, Mulder, what did you do?” He can’t hold back his smile this time and rests his hand at her back as she gets out; it’s cruel to prolong this if it only makes her anxious.
“Relax, it’s on me,” he soothes as they make their way into reception, “I wanted to do this."
Their check in is painless (rooms on the same floor, just down the hall from each other), and by the time they’re walking towards the elevator with their bags, Scully seems to finally believe they really are staying here.
“Do you think there’ll be a bathtub?” she asks hopefully, peering curiously at her keycard as he punches in their floor number.
“Maybe,” he feigns ignorance, knowing full well her room will have one. It was the first question he asked when he’d called to make the reservations. He sees the anticipation in her face while they make their way to her room first, and he's grateful she's so preoccupied with the hotel she hasn't even attempted to take her bag from him.
The gasp of sheer delight when she sees the room pierces his heart, and it makes him ache how easily, innocently pleased she is. She looks to him, looks to the bed, looks to him, looks to the bathroom door, her palms pressed against her cheeks.
"Go on," he nudges her with the side of his elbow, "Check out the bathroom." When she does so, and he hears her little "there's a tub, Mulder!" he vows to do this again, and soon. She deserves it.
"You like?" He smiles. She comes out of the bathroom and nods silently, coming back to where he stands by the bed. She looks shy and sweet as she gently traces the coverlet.
“This can’t be real, can it? This feels like a dream.”
Mulder pauses for a moment, tries not to chuckle nervously. Scully usually isn’t given so deeply into the dramatic, but the wonder in her voice is unmistakable.
“You want me to pinch you?” he teases, “I know you like the bathroom, but wait until till you see the breakfast bar tomorrow morning.”
She shakes her head, looking thoughtful. Her fingertips still caress the duvet and he watches the meaningless little patterns.
“No, that’s not what I mean...I mean...my being back. Being healthy again.”
He swallows. Like anything good or solid in their relationship, he seldom likes to talk about it, as if acknowledging her remission will have it pulled from beneath them like a threadbare rug. But he can’t deny how much joy he has experienced watching her get better these last several months, watching her skin grow warm and supple again, her hair glossier and fuller almost by the day. He could tear up in relief every time she eats something and enjoys it, rather than nibbling a third of a portion and running to the restroom to vomit it back up minutes later.
“I just can’t help but feel,” she continues, “That I’ve been given a second chance. Like we’ve been given a second chance. Don’t you?”
He looks up sharply, surprised by her question, and he feels his heart thudding in his chest. She’s looking right at him, her face beautiful and somber. They both know she’s not talking about the work, although he would never question her devotion to that. No, this is something far more dangerous and unspeakable than any monster they have encountered in their time together.
He feels blatantly, violently seen, as if she’s reading his mind and interpreting all the terrifying, liberating thoughts and dreams he’s had the past year. Thoughts of completion, dreams of pleasure and warm bodies and kisses that cure cancer. He just never envisioned that she might want that, too. He’s painfully aware of the significance of the bed between them and it makes him shiver. There’s a pleasant heaviness suddenly in his groin and his heart, and he notices not without amusement that for the first time in his life the sensations are congruent and not at odds.
His brain files that observation for later examination and he recovers quickly. She’s being open to him right now, and her question deserves a genuine answer.
“I do feel that, Scully,” he says quietly, “I do.”
Her eyes positively shine and she nods once, casting her shy gaze back at her little patterns on the bedspread. It's enough for them, for now.