Work Text:
The gentle babble of water from the fish tank.
The rustic creak of the desk chair.
The shaky exhale of a broken man.
Her mind kept repeating the horrible words she delivered just as Mulder was trying to rationalize what happened to his mother. It was more blunt than Scully would have liked. In an instant she watched the tidal wave sweep away any sense of calm or clarity. The torrent of anger and grief beat against the fragile wall he desperately tried to maintain. He fell apart; shielded himself from her. She kneeled down and reached for him, felt her own tears prick at the corners of her eyes. His arms draped over her shoulders and she pulled him close, a hand resting on his neck to ground him. Soft lips tenderly kissed his cheek as he sobbed.
Scully traced her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, working small circles in an attempt to soothe the tension. She pressed her cheek against Mulder’s temple feeling the heat radiate off his skin. His convulsions slowed to smaller tremors. His hold on her started to loosen; strong arms that enveloped her twitched as they softened. He pushed back with eyes closed and took a much needed breath of air, a weak hand settled on her upper arm. Her palm gently moved to his damp cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb. Mulder slowly opened his eyes and reached up to take her hand, bringing it to his lips. He endeavored to stand and Scully rose to her feet with him.
“Mulder?”
“I’m going to need a minute,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. She nodded and watched him walk to the bedroom. After he closed the door slightly a ragged exhale escaped her lips. Her shoulders shrugged off her jacket and she searched in the pocket for her phone. The device felt heavy in her hand and she quickly dialed the number with her thumb. She paced towards the entryway, hearing a single ring in her ear and the outgoing message queued up.
“ This is Walter Skinner. I am unable to take your call, please leave me a message.”
*beep*
“Sir, it’s Scully,” she swallowed hard, “I’m sorry to call, I’m not really sure what time it is. But um — I’m here with Agent Mulder. He is very distraught and I really think it’s best that he step down from this case. He needs some time,” she closed her eyes and firmly pressed her lips together, “I’ll stay tonight to keep an eye on him. I’m not sure when we’ll — I’ll be at the office tomorrow.” She disconnected the call and rested the edge of the phone against her chin.
A quick survey of the living room noted an empty pizza box on the coffee table along with food wrappers and laundry on the couch that hadn’t been put away. Mulder basically came back from his mother’s house and entrenched himself in the room. Trying hard to find an explanation, waiting for her autopsy results to have proof that someone else was responsible. Scully moved to his desk and straightened up some of the items that had fallen over. Pens and pencils were placed back in a cup, sunflower seeds were brushed into a pile. As she rested a picture frame back on its easel she frowned at the sight of a brown haired girl with an innocent smile sitting on a jungle gym. Samantha. The picture used to live on Mulder’s desk and fortunately found its way home before their office fire a few years ago. Scully was suddenly overcome with sadness, her lip trembled and she fought back a sob. Her empathy for Mulder was overwhelming and she silently cried into her hands.
----
He sluggishly paced the floor in the bedroom with arms folded. He was exhausted and embarrassed. Mulder stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet feeling the water turn tepid before cupping his hands and splashing his face. He looked up at the mirror and saw the familiar puffiness under his eyes. He tugged at the lower lid and could see the network of bloodshot capillaries setting in. Mulder gripped the porcelain sink and hung his head, drops of water fell from his nose and chin into the basin. He snatched a hand towel from the ring on the wall and dried his face. A childhood memory started to play, images flickered into place like a zoetrope gaining speed. This was a memory he revisited more often than he liked. It was the summer of 1973, Rhode Island. The summer before Samantha was taken.
The house always had a familiar salty scent; it was practically baked into the wood panelling that covered the walls. Each summer seemed stronger than the last. Fox shooed his sister out of the bedroom they shared on the second floor. He wanted to finish the chapter he was reading before dinner. She stomped down the hall and down the stairs, scolding him. He heard a slam and figured she was being a brat as she went outside but then he heard his parents arguing. Fox leaned back against the pillow and tried to focus on his book. The voices got louder. He closed the novel, set it on the nightstand then went to investigate.
His hand slid along the wall as he slowly went down the steps. He stopped before reaching the landing when he heard his father shout about a choice being made. Fox crept closer, he had a partial view of the backyard through the large living room window. His mother argued back and gestured to the yard where Samantha was attempting a cartwheel. Bill stood still as Teena repeatedly beat a fist against his chest. Fox was alarmed at what he witnessed. His father simply turned and walked out of the room, his mother paused then followed to slam the door behind him and flip the lock. The house felt strangely quiet. Fox reached the last step as his mother brushed past and went out to the backyard. She stood on the deck, watching Samantha. He slowly went outside to join her. His mother stood with arms tightly folded and a distant stare. When he called out she jumped at his presence, sharply asking what he was doing there. Fox expressed concern but she brushed him off, throwing a comparison to his father then walking further into the yard. He was left to wonder why she was angry with him, looking on as she smiled and hugged Samantha tightly. Fox felt a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Mulder held the towel firmly against his face breathing in the clean linen scent, dissolving the memory. He then balled up the towel with a white-knucle grip and growled as he delivered a blind punch to the bathroom door.
——
Scully sat in the leather chair near Mulder’s desk, her index finger and thumb pinched the bridge of her nose. Pinpoint pressure tried to counteract the headache forming behind her eyes. She suddenly heard a thud come from the bedroom and went to find the source. As she crossed the threshold another loud thump reverberated from behind the bathroom door.
“Mulder?” she asked, leaning an ear down to listen. There was a quick rush from the faucet before he emerged with a towel wrapped around his hand.
“Are you alright?”
“A little physical therapy,” he replied, flexing his fingers then squeezing them into his palm with a wince. “Never would have made it as a boxer.”
“Let me take a look,” she said, moving closer to take his hand. He released his grip as she slid the damp towel away. “Oh Mulder,” her brow furrowed at the angry skin across his knuckles. In the dim light she knew the abrasion would look worse tomorrow. She grazed her thumb over the tops of his fingers and she felt the slightest squeeze. Mulder then pulled away and went to sit on the bed. Scully turned to the bathroom and searched his medicine cabinet for an antiseptic. Luckily he wised up to her insistence of keeping a rudimentary first aid kit. She told him once that she couldn’t be a night nurse all the time, which resulted in a playful pout.
The sharp smell of alcohol pierced his nostrils as he watched Scully dab a cotton ball against his knuckles.
“It was stupid. I know.”
“I wasn’t going to say a damn thing,” she said, adjusting her position next to him. He sighed deeply and shook his head.
“I can’t stop looking, Scully.”
“You can’t, or won’t?” It was a soft-spoken honest question but Mulder didn’t want to answer it. He bristled and took back his hand then rose from the bed. “Don’t do this,” she cautioned, looking up at him.
“Why not,” he replied, then walked out of the bedroom. She quickly stood and followed him. He moved through the living room and went to the kitchen, searching for a bottle of vodka he had stashed on a shelf. Scully joined him right as he was pouring a glass.
“I was thinking,” he began after a beat, “my mother never got closure. She just had to live with the decision that she and my father made all those years ago.” He took a long drink and continued. “I wonder if she just assumed Samantha was dead. Made herself believe it so she could move on. I can’t do that, Scully, I can’t just move on. I need that closure. I need to know I’ve done all I can to find out what happened to her.” Mulder finished off the glass and poured another. Scully saw the turmoil on his face, he stared at the tumbler and gripped it tightly. His tongue slowly dragged against his lower lip, pulling it into his teeth. He tipped back the short glass feeling the burn from the vodka coat his throat.
“I can’t stop thinking about that kid, what her parents are going through. Amber Lynn deserves better. Her parents deserve better.” He reached for the bottle and doubled the amount from the previous pour. “Mom thought I could help, she wanted me to help these people. She had given up.” Mulder rambled in a soft voice then took a sip. The sense of defeat was choking the air in the already congested kitchen. “I never called her back. She called when I was out in California and I said I would talk to her later; but I never did.”
Scully brushed at her cheeks, an ache stung her chest as she remembered the last voicemail she left for Melissa. She came to Mulder’s side and placed her hand over his, easing it down to the counter and taking the glass. He watched her kiss the rim and finish off the vodka without even a tic. She moved closer, arms finding a familiar hold around his waist. Scully searched for something to say but knew it would fall on deaf ears. There was warmth from his hand on her back, fingers splayed as he encouraged her to move even closer. She felt a little selfish seeking his comfort when he was on an emotional razor’s edge.
“I’m so sorry, Mulder,” she finally said into his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat echoed in her ear. She felt his hand move up to the back of her neck, gently lacing his fingers in her hair. His head dipped down to rest next to hers. Scully pushed back and met his tired gaze, mist clouded her vision until a flutter of eyelashes released a tear down her cheek. There was a shine to his hazel eyes as he searched her face; seeking that touchstone, that totem, that knowledge that he would be okay. He bent closer and kissed her, the taste of alcohol lingered on her lips. She kissed back without hesitation, not wanting to break the gossamer thread that drew them together. Grief and loss were motivators, driving two souls faster into each other’s arms.
Hands traced familiar paths but triggered new sensations. Primal arousal swirled like a maelstrom and the worn leather couch was a safe harbor. Mulder needed to feel skin on skin and his hand slid underneath her shirt, grazing across her taut abdomen. Scully arched her back as she tugged his soft t-shirt, releasing it from the waist of his jeans. Their lips met again leading the way for tongues to mingle and dance. She wanted to help him forget. Her hands began to undo her pants, inching them down over the curve of her hips. Mulder pressed back and fumbled with his jeans. He balanced on one knee sinking lower into the couch cushion and watched her slide back, a fiery aura glowed in the dim light of the room. Before he could think, she was on top of him; hot breath against the side of his neck, arms framed the side of his face as her body pressed against his. He met the rhythm of her hips.
“Use me to forget,” she whispered. He moaned at the request, pressing fingertips harder into her soft curves. Skin to skin. Romance would come another time, tonight played host to half-dressed biological urges desperately seeking a release. Her knees clamped tightly to his sides as a shudder rolled down her body; pain and pleasure written on her face. Leather stretched underneath them, friction caused a deeper patina to the vintage cushions.
“Fuck me, Mulder,” her voice broke as the threshold reached its maximum. His nails dug into her lower back, her teeth gnashed at his earlobe as his momentum increased. Short, ragged breath was shared between them. Syllables bounced around but couldn’t form words. Scully gasped and bit her lower lip as the dam broke. She was overcome, tears streamed down her face while he reached the peak. He cried out as he came, one final deep thrust. Her hand covered her eyes trying to control herself.
“I’m sorry. God I’m sorry, Scully,” he weakly pleaded as he kissed her damp cheeks and stroked her hair. His own emotions bubbled to the surface.
“It’s alright. It’s okay, it’s okay,” she managed to say through tears. Shame washed over him pulling him into an undertow and he sat up to hold her close, shifting her into his lap. She sobbed against his shoulder, empathy taking over once again. His strong embrace could have shattered her like a porcelain doll. She held him just as tightly.
----
The bedroom was their quiet sanctuary. After cleaning up, Scully adjusted the bedclothes and guided him to the side of the bed. He laid down first, leaving room for her to curl up beside him. His arm draped over her waist catching the rise and fall of her form. She held his hand, placing a gentle kiss on his fingers.
Darkness allowed nightmares to invade his mind. Drenched in sweat he trembled next to her. Moans and cries caused her to stir. She reached for his shoulder, took him out of the midnight visions. Her voice comforted him and told him he was safe with her in his bed. This continued well into the night. She felt him get out of bed and heard the click of the bathroom door. The faucet ran as he coughed deeply, followed by the flush of the toilet. She lay on her back, waiting for him to return. When he crawled back into bed smelling of mint mouthwash, she gently rested her head on his chest.
Dawn arrived all too soon and just as she felt sleep was finally at hand, sunrise brought an unwelcome knock on the door. She ignored it at first, nuzzling back into the pillow that held his scent. He breathed peacefully beside her. The knock repeated. Scully shifted under Mulder’s arm and slipped out of bed, padding out to see who the culprit was. A flip of the lock and a turn of the knob open the door to Skinner standing on the doorstep. Scully then recalled the voicemail she left several hours ago. There were a thousand words he could have strung together when he saw her but he settled on the easiest one.
“Hi,” he said sheepishly when he noticed her disheveled hair and work shirt. She blinked and stood firm with her hand bracing the door.
“Hi,” she echoed.
“How is he?”
“It’s been a rough night for him,” her voice was raspy with the tones of early morning. Skinner had his own theories but immediately boxed them up when he saw the exhausted look on her face. Scully was fiercely protective of her partner and she knew he was there to talk about the LaPierre case. Her expression matched the concern in her voicemail that she really didn’t want Mulder involved. Right on cue Mulder entered the room, hovering close to Scully’s side. Skinner said that the LaPierre’s were asking to meet with him and that he booked plane tickets for later that morning. Mulder wordlessly nodded and retreated to the bedroom leaving Scully to request an additional ticket out to the west coast.