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They’re in Katy, Texas when she finally gets under his skin.
She’s been picking at him for months, frustrated both sexually and emotionally by his stalwart refusal to make a move. She notices the way he looks at her, sidelong and surreptitious, like it’s a shameful thing to be overt about. That he sees her, that he wants her, that he knows she wants him back.
Her own careful avoidance of allowing him to see her as a woman, with all her soft, round edges and delicately perfumed wrists, had been the first thing to go. See me , she’s begged with snug pencil skirts and sleeveless blouses. No longer does she avoid pushing her chest out when stretching in her seat, or bending down to retrieve a dropped pen with her ass on full display. She removes her suit jacket when it gets warm in the office, pops a few buttons on her top. It isn’t anything Mulder doesn’t also do, with his cuffed sleeves and loosened tie, but it feels wanton and flagrant, and she’s seen his eyes darting over to take it in. Still, he says nothing, does nothing, just keeps right on respecting her to the very ends of the Earth while keeping his eyes carefully trained above her collar bones.
Asshole.
While at first she found his unrelenting professionalism hurtful, over time she’s come to resent him for it. What does he expect her to do, throw herself at him? Is it incumbent upon her to put her own dignity and self-respect on the line while he sits back and retains his title as The Most Progressive Man Alive for not trying to fuck his attractive coworker?
Jerk.
The police chief in Katy is handsome in a sort of Spaghetti Western way. Heavily scruffed cheeks, narrowed eyes beneath a worn cowboy hat, and a mouth that mostly moves on one side when he speaks, as though trying to retain a lit cigarette. He’s not really Scully’s type, but when he removes his uniform shirt before climbing down a manhole and Mulder catches her eyeing his muscles beneath his white undershirt, she suddenly decides she’s interested. Very interested.
It’s easy enough to get a dinner invitation out of him. All she has to do is every single thing she typically makes a point of not doing. Smiling, laughing, holding eye contact while smiling and laughing. By the time they arrive back at the station and step out of his squad car, she’s writing her cell phone number on the back of a Whataburger receipt while Mulder leans against the exterior of the building launching sunflower seed hulls onto the sidewalk.
He doesn’t say a word about it. Doesn’t tease her, doesn’t insist that she knock on his door when she gets back so he knows that she’s returned safely. He simply bids her goodnight like it’s any other day, then disappears behind his motel room door with a bag of takeout.
Bastard.
Despite the fact that she’s not really all that interested in her unlikely date with the police chief of Katy, Texas, she decides to take advantage of the opportunity to get all dolled up. She shaves her legs, moisturizes her entire body, curls her hair and does a little wing on her eyeliner that she learned in a recent issue of Glamour. When she stands back and looks at herself in the mirror, still wearing the white silk robe that she’s taken to bringing on assignment, she thinks that she looks quite pretty. Of course she’ll be wearing her typical slacks and blouse to dinner, given that she wasn’t prepared to go on a date, but she looks different enough from her day-to-day appearance that she considers finding a reason to knock on Mulder’s door, just to rub it in his face.
No. No, she won’t stoop that low. He isn’t stupid—he’d see right through it—and at this point her dignity is really all she has left to lose.
She’s collecting her makeup and tidying up the bathroom counter when she hears a few soft raps on the adjoining door to Mulder’s room. Her heart leaps, but she tells it to shut the hell up. He’s probably here to get the case file or ask her if she’s seen his voice memo recorder. Convincing herself that Mulder is about to do things that will decidedly never happen is how she got herself into this situation in the first place.
“It’s open!” she calls out over her shoulder, then resumes organizing her toiletries.
Two can play at this game , she thinks to herself. You don’t give a shit? Well, neither do I .
She hears the door snick open, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. He doesn’t say anything, and she glances at her reflection in the mirror to see him leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom, his hands in his pockets. He’s taken off his dress shirt and tie, and his undershirt is untucked above his slacks. He looks a bit rumpled and unkempt, just the way she likes him best.
Son of a bitch.
“What’s up?” she asks lightly, going for complete disinterest.
“You all ready for your hot date?” he asks, not bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.
She flashes her eyes up again, taking in the set of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes. She smirks a little, she just can’t help herself. Jealous, Mulder?
“Just about,” she says, zipping up her makeup bag and turning to face him with her hip braced against the countertop. “Something I can help you with?”
He drags his bottom lip between his teeth and lets his eyes fall from her face, to her chest, to her waist, to her hips, then slowly brings them back up until their eyes are locked. A hot buzz sets off in her pelvis by the way he’s looking at her. The way she’s been wanting him to look at her for months.
“Where does one take a woman he just met for a Thursday night date in Katy, Texas?” he asks, pushing off the doorframe and taking two steps toward her.
She opens her mouth to answer, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t care—he’s mocking her.
Motherfucker.
She plants one hand on the countertop and the other on her hip, leveling him with a haughty glare.
“I think we might just stay in, actually,” she says, delighting at the flex of his jaw. “Mike said he has a great view of the sunset from his patio.”
“Mike?” Mulder repeats, spitting the name out like it has a bad taste.
“I don’t suppose I should call him Chief Roberts on our date, do you?” she asks snarkily.
Mulder takes another two steps closer. Close enough that she can smell the worn, familiar scent of his cologne at the end of a long day, and the unfamiliar bite of alcohol on his breath.
“You’re not that kind of girl, are you, Scully?” he asks, and the question almost strikes as genuine.
“What kind of girl is that?” she questions, her confident posture wavering under his proximity and the way his eyes keep falling down to the deep V of her robe.
“The kind of girl who goes home with a man on the first date,” he supplies, and then, to her horror and fascination, he reaches out and runs his index finger along the hem of her robe from her collarbone to the place where chest becomes breast.
She stifles an involuntary shiver, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his face. Whatever he’s doing, whatever game he’s playing, it’s not one she intends to let him win.
“And how would you know that?” she asks, just a bit more vitriol in her voice than she’d hoped for.
He winces a little but recovers quickly, slipping that same index finger just under the fabric of her robe and rubbing it against his thumb.
“What are you doing, Scully?” he asks pleadingly, his eyes pinned to his own hand.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she retorts, her heart fluttering like hummingbird wings and her breathing labored.
“I’m just—” he begins, then lets out a blustering sigh. “I’m just seeing something.”
“Seeing what?”
His eyes jump up to her face, assessing her. He considers her for a moment, then returns to his thorough inspection of the hem of her robe. His knuckles graze her cleavage, and she squeezes her thighs together in an attempt to quell the throbbing between them.
“I have this sneaking suspicion,” he continues, taking the fabric between his thumb and forefinger and pulling it slowly to the side to expose more of her skin, “that you’re only going out with Mike to make me jealous.”
Hearing her own childish behavior named out loud sends a flush of shame through her chest, and she hates him for being able to see right through her. But the last thing she’s going to do is let him know that.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, afraid to look down at what he’s doing. Exposing her, in more ways than one. In ways she wants to be exposed, but is devastatingly afraid of.
“Is it?” he asks, looking at her face. “I don’t think so, Scully. I think you’ve been trying to get my attention for a while.”
She feels her cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and her mouth can’t seem to find any words. His fingers are trailing over the skin of her chest and she feels like she’s on fire.
“No?” he asks with a tilt of his head, his eyes still locked on her face. “Did I misread? All those tight little skirts. Those fancy new push up bras. I was under the distinct impression that you were trying to bait me.”
There’s no way she could possibly hide the effect he’s having on her. Still, she futilely attempts to play it cool. She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. He holds her eye, and his hand just keeps wandering. She feels the brush of his fingertip over her nipple and she gasps, arching into him a little.
“Tell me to stop,” he says in a feral, gravelly voice. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
She shakes her head again, but her body betrays her. She leans into him, desperate for his touch. The cool rough of his palm cups the underside of her breast and he pinches her nipple in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. A hush of a whimper escapes the back of her throat and her eyes fall closed momentarily.
He steps even closer, pinning her to the countertop with his hips. She can feel the ridge of his erection against her belly, and she grips the edge of the counter with both hands to keep them from reaching out for him.
“I think you do, Scully,” he purrs, his fingers working her nipple and his vodka-laden breath hot on her face. “I didn’t mean to make you run out and bed some washed up Katy cowboy. I just had to be sure.”
Be sure of what? She wants to ask, but she can’t speak. She feels paralyzed and electrified, terrified and excited. But she also feels angry that he’s choosing now, this very moment when she’s being picked up by the aforementioned Katy cowboy in thirty minutes, to give her even a modicum of an indication that he might feel the same way.
“No,” she forces out, and his hand stills. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going on a date because I want to go on a date. Not everything I do is about you, Mulder.”
He smiles then, a Cheshire Cat grin dipped in honey, and she feels every neuron in her body fire.
“Now, where have I heard that before?” he says softly, and his hand leaves her breast and begins playing at the tie on her robe. “Not to pick at old wounds, Scully, but I’ve always wondered…”
“What?” she asks, too curious to let it go.
He shakes his head dismissively.
“Doesn’t matter. But I think you’re lying, which I don’t appreciate. I thought we had a mutual understanding that we’d be honest with each other.”
“When did I lie?” she asks, wondering what his plans are for that finger hooked under the tie of her robe.
“Just now, when you said you don’t want this. That this wasn’t your entire goal when you made a date with the Katy cowboy. I think you’re lying, and that’s not very nice.”
She shakes her head softly.
“I’m not lying,” she lies, wondering why she doesn’t just come out with it. Having the upper hand feels more important.
“So you’re saying that if I were to touch you right now, you wouldn’t be wet?” he asks, then tugs on the tie of the robe until it falls open. And god, she knows she is. It may be running down her legs at this point.
She shakes her head again, defiantly this time, daring him.
His hand is on her bare hip, sliding back to brush over the edge of her ass cheek. He brings it to her belly, running his knuckles from her navel down to her pubic hair, and her heart is beating so hard she feels like she may be at risk of cardiac arrest. He finds her eyes and holds them as he sends one finger between her legs, grazing her lips until he lands at her entrance and his eyes slide closed. Scully swallows and waits, and his finger begins swirling in slow, tight circles. He stoops a little, pushing her head to the side with his and then bringing his mouth to her ear.
“I’d say your pants are on fire, but you aren’t wearing any,” he purrs, then pushes his finger inside.
She nearly buckles. Her knees and arms give out and he wraps his free hand around her back to steady her as he pumps his finger in and out. The knuckles of his other fingers graze her clit and, to her surprise, she realizes she is shockingly close to climax.
“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he whispers, his breath hot on her ear and his finger perfect in her cunt.
He hoists her up a little so she’s sitting on the counter, then strokes himself over his pants. She reaches for him, popping the button on his fly and bringing the zipper down, and she hears him open his mouth to object before she silences him with her hand wrapped around his shaft.
“Please,” she whimpers, any shred of dignity she had left dripping down his fingers and onto the counter. She needs him inside her—now.
They clamber awkwardly, working his pants and boxers down to his ankles and finding an angle that compensates for their height. She leans back against the mirror and he plants his foot against the base of the toilet for leverage, then pushes into her in one sharp thrust that makes her ears ring. It hurts, and all she wants is for him to do it again and again.
Gratefully, he does.
Pain gives way to white hot pleasure, and her head knocks against the mirror with every thrust. Mulder is grunting, leaning forward to suck her nipples into his mouth, digging his fingers painfully into her hips. She feels the sweet ebb of her orgasm build and build, and she’s too shy to tell him that she’s there, right there, so close—
“Oh, fuck,” he hisses as she tightens around him.
He loops his arm behind her neck, pulling her up just enough that he can kiss her—which she only now realizes they have yet to do. Their very first real kiss and she’s coming around him, hard and never ending, long enough that he finds his own release before hers has even begun to lessen.
Breaths heaving, they stay there for minutes, kissing and riding the high of what they’ve just done. Mulder withdraws from her, and she winces at the wet rush that pools on the counter top beneath her. He tucks himself back into his pants and looks her over contritely, then steps forward and kisses her once on the mouth.
“Have fun on your date,” he says, backing out of the bathroom. He glances down to her still-spread legs and then turns and leaves, and she sits in stunned silence until she hears the click of his door closing.
She carefully slips off the counter, then grabs a washcloth and does her best to clean up the mess. Her robe has a sizeable wet spot at the back, rendering it unwearable, and there is a small puddle on the floor beside the toilet. A quick glance to the bedside clock reminds her that Mike will be here in five minutes, and she scrambles to get dressed and retouch her partially smeared makeup.
Dinner at the Katy Cafe is fine, and Mike is polite and nice enough to talk to, though her mind is anywhere but here. At the precise moment that he asks how long she’s been working with Mulder, she clears her throat and feels a wet rush in her panties. Here she is, on a date with one man while another man’s semen runs out of her.
Harlot.
Mike walks her to her motel room door, and thankfully has a good enough read on her demeanor that he doesn’t try to kiss her goodnight. He says goodbye with a bob of his head, and she watches him climb into his pickup truck before she unlocks the door and walks into her darkened room.
She heaves a sigh and kicks off her shoes, and is crossing to the bedside lamp when Mulder’s voice startles her.
“How was it?” he asks, his tone melancholic.
She flips on the light and he winces, then looks at the floor.
“It was fine,” she says flatly, standing with her arms crossed a couple feet away from him.
“Scully—,” he tries, his fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he rasps out.
“What for?” she asks, feeling as though she finally has the upper hand. “For letting me make a fool of myself for months, or for defiling me before my first date in over two years?”
He lifts his head, his eyebrows pulled together in an expression of agony and regret.
“For not being brave enough to make a move until now. I just wasn’t sure—it seemed impossible.”
“What seemed impossible?”
“That you would feel the same way—about me,” he says, then drops his head again.
Her posture deflates as the anger runs out of her and is replaced by something else—compassion. Mulder is and always has been the most egotistical and insecure person she’s ever known, depending on which window into his mind you peek through.
She steps up in front of him, wedging herself into the space between his knees. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, his head hanging with shame. She cradles his jaw in both her hands and tilts his head up, forcing him to look at her. His expression is agonized, and her heart aches thinking of him sitting here alone, knowing she is out on a date, and believing that he’s ruined any chance of something real between them.
“What’s so impossible about that?” she asks, her tone tender.
“I’m a jerk,” he says flatly, and she quirks her mouth to the side in consideration.
“I won’t dispute that,” she agrees, “but so far as jerks go, you’re probably my favorite one. Top five, at least.”
The smallest ghost of a smile plays on his mouth, and he lifts his hands, touching her hips tentatively.
“I practically assaulted you,” he points out, and she heaves a sigh.
“You would have stopped if I’d asked you to,” she says, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks.
“Why didn’t you ask me to?” he questions, something hopeful behind his eyes.
She bends one knee, planting it on the bed beside his hip, then does the same with the other. Settling into his lap, she brushes her lips over his and brings one hand down to touch the fly of his slacks.
“Because I didn’t want you to,” she murmurs against his mouth.
Mulder.
They’re in Katy, Texas when she finally gets under his skin, under his clothes, under his bedsheets. After that day, whenever someone mentions that everything is bigger in the Lone Star State, she’ll smile to herself at the double meaning, and just how true it is.