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Down in the cool of the morgue, methodically working her way through back-to-back autopsies, it had been easy to forget the heat outside. It’s only as she steps through the hospital doors and out into the baking hot air that she remembers.
Texas in August. In a heatwave. Ugh.
She’s already sweating in her suit jacket by the time Mulder pulls up only a few minutes later, reaching over and swinging the passenger door open for her. She slips inside gratefully, tugging the door shut quickly. He has the rental car’s air conditioner blasting and she breathes in the cool air with relief. “It’s like an oven out there.”
“Tell me about it.” Mulder’s sleeves are rolled up, tie long ago shed. He and the local deputy were out interviewing locals all day. “I nearly volunteered to come help you slice and dice, just to get out of the heat.”
She smiles at the thought of Mulder in scrubs beside her, dutifully taking organs to weigh. “Careful. I might take you up on that offer next time.” He couldn’t be worse than some of the assistants she’s had in the past. A glance at her watch. “It’s five-thirty. What do you say we find somewhere to eat, catch each other up?”
That’s their usual routine on days like this. The food is usually nothing to get excited about – too many burgers, not enough decent salads in these small towns – but there’s something about reconnecting with him after a day working apart that more than makes up for it. As Ahab often quipped when he was welcomed home enthusiastically by his wife and children, absence making the heart grow fonder might be a cliché but it was also true.
“Actually…” He does a drum roll on the steering wheel, glancing over at her with a sheepish grin. “I have a different idea.”
She studies him contemplatively for a long few seconds, arching an eyebrow just a little as she runs through possible scenarios in her head before deciding how to respond. Not case related, she doesn’t think. He wouldn’t be asking if it were case related, they’d already be on their way there with no consideration of time of day or the emptiness of her stomach. What, then? She tries to think what sort of local event or location he might be keen to check out and comes up empty. “Dare I ask?” she says finally, letting that eyebrow climb a little higher.
“I need you to hear me out, okay, Scully? It’s a bit out there, but don’t dismiss the idea out of hand. Okay?”
She’ll admit it, she’s awfully curious now. What can he possibly be thinking?
“I’m listening,” she says cautiously, eyes fixed on him.
Another sheepish glance in her direction. “You brought your swimsuit with you, didn’t you?”
A huff of laughter escapes her. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t that. Her mind flashes to the motel pool, leaf-clogged and opaque. “If you’re going to suggest the pool at the motel…”
“God, no.” A look of faux horror. “That pool is an x-file in itself.”
She laughs aloud at that, and he grins, always pleased when he’s managed to crack her serious exterior.
“All right then, Mulder. Don’t keep me guessing.”
“There’s a water park…”
“Mulder!”
“You said you’d hear me out!”
She holds her hands up in surrender, sinking back into her seat, shaking her head at the very idea. Water parks are for energetic children and teenage girls in bikinis. They are not for adult FBI agents, off-duty for the day or not.
“They open late every Wednesday and Friday night during summer. The water slides are still running and they show a movie at the wave pool.” He gives her his most charming smile, waggles his eyebrows at her. “What d’ya say?”
“I think it sounds ridiculous.”
“Come on, Scully.” His eyes twinkle at her, teasing. “Live a little.”
He knows exactly which button to press. Knows that there is a constant battle within her between the straight-laced Agent Scully, industrious and impeccably conscientious, and the Dana who is sometimes so damn sick of worrying what everybody thinks. Who wishes she could just say to hell with it and take the leap.
“We’d still need to eat, Mulder.”
A dismissive gesture. “There’s food there.”
Is she actually considering it? She realises she is. Just for a moment, then common sense kicks back in. They’re here for work, not a vacation. “You and I are too old to go to a water park, Mulder.”
“Pfft.” Faux indignation on his face now, and she smiles despite herself. “Who you callin’ old?” And then, before she can stop him, he’s pressing the buttons to lower both their windows. Impossibly hot air surges in and she recoils, reaching quickly for the button to raise her own window back up. God, it’s still baking out there. In the air conditioning of the car, as with the morgue, she’d started to forget.
A scowl at him, though she can’t actually be angry. Part of her can’t help but admire his strategy. “That was a dirty move.”
He grins at her, unrepentant. “What do you say, Scully? Doesn’t a nice cool swim sound like a good way to end the day?”
She falls back in her seat in surrender. A sigh. “Fine.”
Half an hour later she’s standing in front of the motel bathroom mirror, wondering what on earth possessed her to give in to his whims yet again. He can be so playfully persuasive sometimes, like a little kid bursting to share something exciting with her, impossible to resist. They’ve had odd outings together on cases in moments like this – there was a mini golf course at one motel, and he saw a competitive side of her he’d never quite believe existed, as well as the occasional local jazz festival and, of course, numerous supposedly haunted historic sites he’s managed to talk her into stopping by while they’re in the area. They’ve been increasingly spending time together back in DC, too. A movie night here and there, beers after a case. She can’t deny that she’s enjoyed those times, those opportunities to break free from the monotony of work, let herself cut loose. If she’s honest with herself, she’s jumped at the opportunities to spend that time with him, the anticipation between them – as their thighs jostle on his couch, as their fingers brush as he passes her another beer – just as thrilling as it is terrifying. As a little voice in her head – the one that replays that moment in his hallway over and over some nights when she’s trying to sleep – urges kiss him, Dana, and she can never find the courage to obey.
“Live a little,” she reminds her reflection softly, even as her critical eyes flit over her swimsuit. It’s a navy one piece, sensibly cut and intentionally conservative, the swimsuit equivalent of the black suits that now populate her wardrobe. It’s a swimsuit for swimming laps at the Y, not for lounging by a pool with cocktail in hand, or romantic getaways to exotic island destinations, or even water parks in Nowhere, Texas. Wearing it, her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, she feels fourteen again, awkward in her one-piece as she tags along with Missy – three years and several cup sizes older – to the local pool, where Missy’s crocheted string bikini will draw every male gaze.
With a sudden sigh she thinks of the handful of bikinis in the back of a drawer at home, untouched for far too long. Not appropriate to pack for a work trip. No, that’s why she bought the one-piece, after one-too-many nights spent sweltering in a motel room with a dysfunctional air conditioner, enviously glimpsing Mulder steadily lapping in the pool just outside. Even so, conservative swimsuit and all, she’s never dared to go in at the same time as him, always waiting until he’s done and headed back into his room to shower before slipping out of her own room and sinking under the cool surface of the water with a sigh of relief. It just seems more appropriate that way, waiting her turn. It avoids any awkwardness that might arise from the two of them finding themselves barely dressed, the odd intimacy of being together with dark water lapping at their bare skin in the moonlight. In such an instance, she wonders, would he still ramble on about monsters and case files, or would he be able to switch that part of his brain off and talk about whatever it is that normal people would talk about? Would he look at her differently – there are moments, just here and there, when she swears he looks at her like he’s undressing her with his eyes - or would he be oblivious in that way he often is, too fixated on his current obsession to notice anything about her? In that case, she could be wearing a crocheted string bikini for all the good it would do. He’d still only have one thing on his mind.
A tap on her door. “Scully?”
“Yeah, just a sec.”
She grabs for the clothes she’s laid out, pulling the pair of running shorts and tank top over the top of the swimsuit. She has no flip-flops or sandals, only running shoes, which she pulls on quickly without socks.
Unlike her, Mulder is dressed for the occasion. Fitted black board shorts she’s often seen him swim in, his usual grey t-shirt, flip-flops on his feet, towel thrown over his shoulder. He grins at her. “Ready?”
She rolls her eyes, more at herself than at him. “I can’t believe you talked me into it.”
A chuckle. “Come on. You’ll love it.”
In the car, she ignores the glimpses caught of her younger self in the mirror and tries to debrief Mulder on his findings from the day. His answers are brief, and she can tell his heart isn’t in it. Their case – a cluster of statistically improbable deaths – is looking less and less like an x-file, and she can sense the shift in him; he’s already mentally moved on. She can picture him already sorting through the piles of unsolved cases on his desk, trying to decide what to tackle next.
She’s filling him in on the findings from her autopsy, almost managing to forget where they’re going, when he spots something out the window. Brightly coloured pipe-shaped water slides twisting and turning around each other from impossibly high platforms. They’re here.
He looks at her, the excited grin lighting up his face. She smiles despite herself, his enthusiasm contagious. Yeah, Dana. Time to live a little.
It’s nearly seven but the sun is still bright in the sky, the heat unabating, concrete burning underfoot. His hand at the small of her back, they pass through the turnstiles and navigate through the crowds. It’s a carnival atmosphere, squeals of laughter and delight all around despite the heat. They pull to the side to study a map of the park, his hand falling to the small of her back.
“Slides or lazy river, Scully?” He can’t believe he managed to get her here; he was sure she’d shoot the idea down without hesitation. Now that she’s here, he doesn’t want to blow it.
“I thought you said there was a movie.”
“There is, once the sun goes down. Starts in about an hour.” He points to a laminated page attached to the side of the map listing the schedule of movies for the month. She follows his finger and –
A good-natured snort of laughter. “Ghostbusters, Mulder? Really?”
Hands up in mock self-defence. “I swear, I had no idea, Scully. Deputy Wilson just said they played a different movie each night. His daughter works as a lifeguard here in the summer.”
“Hmm.” Her hip bumps against him in playful admonishment. “Likely story.”
She returns her attention to the map, ponytail bobbing, and he finds himself remembering their very first case together. Six years ago, and she’s changed so much during that time – so much – and yet now, she looks as young as she did back then. She must have taken off her makeup because her freckles are showing. Freckles, ponytail and sneakers… He hasn’t seen her looking like this in years: young and free and tolerantly amused by him.
She lifts her gaze from the map, does a slow turn, surveying the park around them. “The queues for the slides are pretty long. How about we check out the lazy river?”
The lazy river winds its way around most of the water park, shaded by lush gardens and passing through a variety of different themed areas. Most of patrons are floating in inflatables tubes, while others bob along with the gentle current, limbs loose. They find a shallow beach area with an entry and take a minute to pile their things on an unclaimed deck chair to one side. Mulder kicks off his flip flops and tugs off his shirt without hesitation. “I’ll grab us some tubes.” He takes off, leaving her to undress more slowly, self-conscious. When was the last time she was out in public in a swimsuit? She knows nobody is looking, nobody around her cares the slightest bit, but it’s such a far cry from her usual attire – her armour – that it takes a surprising amount of courage to shuck the shorts and tank and follow Mulder down to the water’s edge.
He comes splashing out towards her, holding a blue inner tube out towards her victoriously. “Stole it off a kid. Just for you, Scully.”
“I’m honoured,” she says dryly, feeling herself relaxing a little. Mulder being his typical self helps. She follows after him, lugging the giant inflatable. The water is surprisingly warm, no doubt thanks to the persistent heat of the day, but still a pleasant reprieve from the scorching heat of the air. The water is up to her knees, then her thighs, then her waist. She puts the tube down and then ponders her options, finally deciding to slip under the water – impossibly refreshing even in those brief seconds, rinsing away the heat of the day – and pop up inside the tube so that it rests like a hula hoop around her hips.
Mulder reappears, holding a second tube aloft. Gestures to the direction the current of the river is carrying everyone. “Ready?”
Making a conscious effort to avoid staring at his bare, toned chest and arms, she nods and leans forwards, wrapping her arms around the front of her tube so that her feet lift off the bottom of the pool, and starts to gently kick towards him. He makes a show of tackling his tube, presumably in an attempt to climb aboard, but managing to flip it over in the process and landing in the water with a splash. She smothers a laugh, watching as he emerges from the water, shaking his upper half off like a dog, goofy grin on his face. More carefully this time, he steadies the tube and manages to slide his lanky frame over the top so he’s reclining in it, long arms and legs splayed in every direction. He pushes off the side of the river with one foot and is picked up by the current. She kicks to catch up with him and the two of them start to float along, side by side, inflatables bumping as they go.
They drift past faux Aztec ruins nestled in jungle greenery. She waits patiently, ear cocked in his direction, fully expecting him to start talking. To expound upon some theory or retell some story he’s read. But he just lets out a contented sigh and closes his eyes, as if their circumstances have finally allowed him to enjoy the warmth of the day on his face. “This is the life,” he murmurs, and she wonders how it can be that this is the same man who leaps onto speeding trains and infiltrates Russian gulags without a second thought. That such an extraordinary man can find contentment doing such an ordinary thing as this.
For her part, she lets her head rest just for a moment on her arms as the current carries them along, the weightlessness and aimlessness of it strangely relaxing. She can feel the evening sun on her shoulders and bare back, and she idly wonders whether the UV has dropped enough that she doesn’t need to worry about being burned before dismissing the concern. Floating alongside Mulder, oddly peaceful despite the crowds around them, it’s hard to worry about such things.
By the second lap of the lazy river, she’s reclining languidly in her tube just like he is, worries about what he’ll think about her swimsuit forgotten. The sun has finally started to disappear over the horizon, leaving a streaky pink sunset in its wake. She feels impossibly relaxed and mellow, like she’s a glass or two into a bottle of wine, or revelling in a post-coital afterglow, and some part of her thinks that she could just keep going in this same elongated loop forever.
“Hey, Scully.” Mulder apparently has a different idea. He bumps the side of her tube with his outstretched foot, inadvertently sending her spinning. Reaches out to grab her hand as a brake, his fingers interlace with hers for a brief moment as he tugs her closer before he lets go. It’s not the first time they’ve held hands, but it’s uncommon enough that it sends a spark through her, jolting her out of her pleasant torpor. “The queues aren’t looking as bad. Wanna hit the slides?”
She lifts her head to look at him, a sceptical smile curling her lip. “Really?”
“Unless you’re chicken…”
A snort of laughter, her chin raised defiantly as she meets his gaze. “You really wanna try that one on me?”
“Ah, Scully. I jest.” In a sudden move, he reaches over and pushes down on the left side of her tube, unbalancing it. As it rocks dangerously, he leans in, getting in her personal space in the way only he dares. “I know you’re not afraid of anything.”
She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Damn right.”
“Let’s go then.”
A groan; she walked right into that one. He chuckles, intentionally rocking her tube again teasingly as if trying to playfully unbalance her. Feeling herself start to slide towards him, she reaches out instinctively, pressing her hand against his chest to steady herself. She’s so thankful when the rocking stops, thankful that she has avoided the possibility of sliding right into him, wet bodies colliding, that it takes her a second to register the smooth warmth of his bare chest under her palm.
He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, sometimes. He thinks he does. It seems straight forward enough. Make Scully laugh. Get in her personal space in that way he knows she secretly likes, tease her enough to put her at ease. She’s happy and relaxed, that makes him happy, it’s win-win. But then there are moments like this one – with her hand suddenly pressed against his chest, the way he’s imagined a thousand times she might touch him as he reclines against her pillows, his own hands reaching for her hips or her thighs or somewhere even better – when the panic alarms start to sound and he realises he’s very suddenly found himself in over his head. When it hits him that something happening for real is entirely different from those same things happening in his dreams or his imagination, and it could all go horribly, horribly wrong, and probably will, because that’s just how things go for him.
He looks down at her hand on his chest. He can’t help himself. Times like this he’s reminded again how tiny she is compared to him, how small those capable hands look with fingers splayed over his heart.
Her hand drops down, returns to the side of the inner tube as if to steady it. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the way her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, and his mouth goes dry.
Her gaze has dropped away, too; he knows he should do likewise, but in that long second it takes for his body to comply, the image of her is burned into his mind. Her pink cheeks, the way the damp hair around her face has started to curl as it dries, escaping the ponytail. The bathing suit is typical Scully - sensible and discreet – but, like her tailored suits these days, it hugs her in just the right places, lets him admire the soft curves of her breasts and the cinch of her waist.
He's seen glimpses of the bathing suit before - he watches her sometimes, limbs pale in the moonlight as she cuts through the water doing neat laps in a motel pool – but he’s never managed a proper look until now. Not to ogle her, or objectify her – he has too much respect for her, and besides, she’d kill him – but because she’s so damn beautiful, he can’t help himself staring. He wants to tell her that, earnestly – do you know how beautiful you are, Scully? but he knows she’d scoff at him. She’d say oh brother to that too, wouldn’t she?
“Mulder?”
Damn. She’s caught him staring, and not listening to boot. She gets mad when he doesn’t listen.
She’s lifted the tube up and over her head, releasing it to float away. A gesture towards the beach area where they entered the lazy river earlier, then her arms fold self-consciously across her chest, as if she’s remembered what she’s wearing. “You coming?”
He nods. Follows her mutely out of the water. They spend a few moments towelling off, although the heat of the day still lingers. He chances a glance across at her, only to find her watching him; they both look away in sudden embarrassment. He’s wondering what she’d say if he – cowardly, acutely aware of the thin fabric of his board shorts - suggests they call it a night when she speaks up. “So, which slide?”
He manages to meet her gaze, trying to fend off that familiar out-of-his-depth feeling. “Your pick.”
She nods. Holds his gaze intentionally, as if she’s refusing to let herself get awkward again. He watches as she draws a deep breath before reaching out a hand to him. “Let’s go.”
Live a little, Scully. That’s what he told her. He meant the water park. An evening so totally different from anything they’ve done together before, where they could be light-hearted, let their hair down, forget about the more serious things they often get bogged down in. But maybe she’s got her own ideas of what it means for her. Scully, who oh-so rarely initiates any sort of touch, reaching out to him like it’s a perfectly normal thing for the pair of them to do. Like they are that sort of partners.
He takes her hand, sliding his fingers between hers and grasping firmly. Summons up false courage and gives her a grin. Echoes her words. “Let’s go.”
They leave their things on the deck chair to retrieve later and she leads him towards the closest cluster of slides. The ground is still hot under their bare feet, although not as bad as earlier. Already, their wet swimwear has started to dry and the cool water of the lazy river is a distant memory.
“This one,” she decides, releasing his hand to gesture to a two-person slide. There’s a pile of bright green inflatables and they both reach for the top one. He could easily carry it himself, with his height, but when she lifts one end, he takes the other without objection, wondering if this is some sort of metaphor for their partnership, or if he is just overthinking things, as he so often does. Together, they wend their way up the metal staircase of the tower. The crowds have thinned out but there’s still dozens of people queued ahead of them, all of them similarly wrangling inflatables.
Again, they don’t talk. She glances at him with the occasional sheepish smile, as if to say I can’t believe we’re doing this, and he gives her a lopsided grin in return. Every minute or so they shuffle further up in the queue, still clutching the inflatable between them. The last streaks of twilight leave the sky and the park takes on a slightly surreal air under the bright flood lights.
A commotion up ahead. A crying child. A moment later, a man with a tearful young girl, maybe seven or eight, are trying to descend the stairs, an awkward shuffle as they squeeze past, the sound of their inflatable scraping others as they pass. Mulder presses back against the metal railing to make room, Scully doing likewise, momentarily pressed against his side, her hip pressing against his outer thigh. Without thinking, he slides his free arm around behind her, his hand falling to the small of her back. It’s his instinctive response in a crowd or a crush - keep a hold on her – but he doesn’t factor in the low back of her swimsuit. As soon as his hand skims the bare skin he realises and lifts it again quickly, hesitating with his hand hovering an inch from her skin, heart suddenly racing with uncertainty. He doesn’t want to pull away completely. Doesn’t want to offend her, somehow, to give the impression that her bare skin repels him, when the complete opposite is true. Too true.
The moment stretches out between them, as if the world is holding its breath. Then, without a word, she leans backwards, just a little. Her lower back meets his still-outstretched palm. His fingertips graze lightly across the bare skin before settling there, and he’d swear he sees her eyelids flutter shut for just a moment, hears the smallest sigh escapes her. And she doesn’t pull away.
The world returns. The sound of the crying child fades away, the queue resettles after the commotion of their exit. Conversations around them bubble back up into their consciousness. Neither of them speaks, but as his hand remains, he dares to glance down at her face. She’s looking resolutely ahead, seemingly watching the activity in a splash zone down below, but there is a smile curling her lip, and that’s enough for him.
She knows it’s a silly thing to fixate on, his hand on the small of her back. By any objective measure, it’s an insignificant gesture, respectful, plausibly platonic. Compared to the roaming hands and tongues she’s seem from some over-affectionate teenage couples here tonight, it wouldn’t even ping on the radar of romantic or sexual touching. And yet it feels ridiculously momentous, purely because of how intentional it was. How intentionally she moved into his touch, knowing the reason that he hesitated. Knowing that the bareness of her skin changed everything, made it dangerously more, beyond what could be dismissed as a comfortable touch between friends. When she leaned back into him, it wasn’t just a touch. It was a signal, bolder than any she’d previously dared to give him: Yes. Touch me. I want it.
They shuffle forward up the stairs, lugging the giant inflatable, and each time they settle into their new position in the queue, his hand drops back down to the same spot. It doesn’t roam, his fingertips don’t graze in exploration, much as she might want them to. They just hold her there, comfortably possessive. And what are they to each other, if not comfortably possessive? What they have between them has always defied conventional definition, but since those early days together there has been an unspoken agreement which has only calcified as time has gone by. At times she’s been resentful of it, of feeling so rigidly bound to him, infuriated by his possessiveness of her. Yet she knows she is just as guilty of wanting him all for herself. Of wanting his attention for herself, in some painfully adolescent way. Of wanting to know that she alone has been allowed into the inner sanctum of his psyche, that their shared history has left them with a bond no other woman dare challenge.
A sudden squeal from a gaggle of girls ahead of them, causing them both to look over. From their vantage point at the top, one of the girls has seen the steep slope of the initial drop of the slide and is starting to loudly – and to Scully’s eye, performatively - freak out. The girl is maybe a high school senior, with long, dark hair, and she’s bouncing up and down in a skimpy bikini as she squeals. “Ohmigod, the drop! Look at the drop!”
A hmmph and an eye roll from Scully, and a chuckle from Mulder as he turns to her, clearly sharing the sentiment and amused by her reaction.
“Ohmigod!” He leans in closer and whispers in a falsetto squeal, mimicking the girl. “The drop! Look at the drop!”
Scully can’t help it. A giggle erupts from her at his impression. Still, she swats at him with her free hand, worried they’ll be overheard. “Mulder!” she hisses.
He’s not done. “Ohmigoddddddd-”
He cuts off when she slaps her hand over his mouth, still struggling to contain her own giggles. A surprisingly effective way to shut him up, some part of her brain notes, while the rest of her belatedly processes what she’s done. First her hand on his chest, now that damn mouth of his. She can feel the pillowy softness of that plump lower lip under the pad of her thumb, the heat of his breath on her palm.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, pulling her hand away, wondering what’s gotten into her tonight. The first touch, her hand on his chest, was an accident. But leaning into his touch at the small of her back? She thought about it, and for once instead of playing it safe, she did it anyway. Live a little, he said, and she’s trying her damnedest. Even so, the hand on his mouth was pure impulse. Has she inadvertently let her guard down too much? Hell, she was just giggling, and she never giggles around him. What did Mulder think about that?
But he just waggles an eyebrow at her, teasing. “Is that your new strategy for shutting me up, Scully?”
The queue moves again, saving her from answering. “Move it, Mulder.”
They step up onto the top platform, only a few riders ahead of them. Watch as the teenage girl and her friend are sucked down the dark enclosed slide, squeals echoing in the tunnel.
A flutter of nerves in Scully’s abdomen as she studies the slide. It is a steep drop at the start, the stomach-dropping sort. She knows that part will be over in a split second, that logically there’s no danger here, that the slide is designed to evoke a certain physiological and psychological reaction, but the nerves flutter regardless. A glance at Mulder, who looks wholly unconcerned; excited, if anything, like a kid on Christmas morning. He who is unbothered by turbulence on aircraft, while she grips the arm rests with white knuckles.
He senses her eyes on him and looks at her. “You ready?” A softer tone, his gaze scrutinising, teasing forgotten. His are you okay? look that either infuriates her or endears him to her all the more, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes both at once.
She summons a smile. Reaches her free hand to take his and squeeze it. “I’m good.”
And she is, she decides. It’s a good type of fear. A reminder that she’s alive and here in this moment, that for once she’s getting the rush of adrenalin without endangering her life in the process.
He takes a moment to read her face, then nods, satisfied by her answer. Gestures. “We’re up.”
The attendant takes their inflatable, holds it in place at the top of the slide. She climbs in first, sitting in the front with her legs forwards, and then he’s climbing in behind her, awkwardly stretching a long leg out on either side of her, his ankles bumping the outsides of her thighs, bare skin against bare skin. “Sorry,” she hears, and she lifts her grip from the rubber handle to quickly squeeze his calf – it’s okay – before returning it. Then the light goes green, a sound buzzes, and they’re propelled forward in a sudden whoosh.
Mulder lets out a whoop as they plummet downwards in absolute darkness. She’s biting her lip hard as her stomach drops, her grip on the handles almost painfully tight. She can feel Mulder’s legs bracketing her body, secure, and is glad at least that she chose a ride they could do together. Like everything else, it seems, the notion of doing it alone doesn’t hold the appeal it once did.
The momentum propels them forwards, spray hitting her in the face as it ricochets off the curved walls of the slide. They are yanked this way and that, bodies swaying in unison.
An almighty splash, completely drenching them both. And then it’s over. The inflatable slows anticlimactically, drifting out into a pool at the bottom. They barely have the chance to catch their breath before the attendant there is gesturing them over to the exit at the side.
They climb out of the shallow pool, dripping wet, and drag the inflatable to the returns pile. They pull over to the side of the path, out of the way, and he takes a moment to swipe the water from his face and rake his fingers through his hair. “That was fast.” He’s still grinning. “Have water slides gotten faster since we were kids?”
Reaching up to squeeze the water from her ponytail, she chuckles. “Maybe.”
Still high on the endorphins, they grin at each other. She puts her hands on her hips, looks up with him with sparkling eyes, invigorated. “So, what do you want to do now?”
They’re barely a foot apart. With her wet ponytail and freckles, she’s almost the Scully who laughed at him in the rain all those years ago. But she’s not. She’s everything she was and so much more, now.
What do you want to do now?
He wants to lean forwards and capture her mouth in a searing kiss, that’s exactly what he wants to do now. But he lacks the courage for such a bold move. The fear of rejection is too real.
Still. He can’t let this opportunity go by. He won’t.
He reaches out with his left hand, bringing it to meet her right where it rests comfortably on her hip. Lets the tips of his fingers graze against hers lightly, intentionally. After half a breath she responds, curling her fingers around his, interlacing them, letting him drop his thumb to caress her hip bone.
He sees her smile. Shy. Pleased. Something more. Encouragement.
It gives him the courage to make his next move. He lifts his right hand, brushing a strand of wet hair back behind her ear before cupping her cheek.
Her hand comes up to mirror his. They’ve been here before. Not that long ago, and yet it feels an eternity. The circumstances couldn’t be more different, and for that she’s immeasurably thankful. That moment in Mulder’s hallway was as gut-wrenching as it was powerful, even before the bee intervened, and some part of her has feared that it’s only in the darkness that they’ll find each other in this way, and she doesn’t want that for them. She knows the darkness will always be there – that they’ll step out into it willingly when required – but she needs to know that their relationship can survive just as well in the light. That he’ll still look at her in that same way even in the ordinary moments between the chaos and the heartbreak.
The way he’s looking at her now.
She draws a slow, deep breath. No tears this time, no fear thumping in her chest and twisting her gut. Just the lingering lightness of the endorphin rush, the enjoyment of each other’s company. The memory of his muscular calf in her fleeting grip, tanned golden and dotted with dark hairs against the milky white of her thigh, and the thought of how that same combination would look against her bedsheets.
It's that thought that spurs her to move first. She gently extricates her right hand, letting his hand drop back down onto her hip, and reaches to wrap her hand around the nape of his neck, fingers slipping through the wet hair there. Presses up on tiptoes, tugging him down so her lips can reach his. He comes willingly, his hand abandoning her hip so that he can grasp her face with two hands, as if he doesn’t dare leave anything to chance.
Their lips touch gently, but not tentatively. There are no doubts. It’s a gift unwrapped with excruciating care, every part of the process careful and savoured. It has the intimacy of every whispered moment between them, the gentle heat of every longing gaze.
She pulls back first. Releases a long sigh as she drops back onto the soles of her feet. For a split second he’s worried that she sounds regretful, but then she smiles up at him, contented. Without a word, she rests her head against his chest, burrowing for a moment before turning slightly so her cheek is pressed against his bare skin, as if she’s listening to his heartbeat.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
He chuckles gently. Slides his arms around her and drops a kiss on the top of her head. Not the reaction he expected, but he can go with it. “You’re welcome.”
They stand there for a long moment, resting in the peace and familiarity of the embrace. He senses her shoulders start to shake a little, and she suddenly presses her face against his chest again, and she’s – oh god, is she sobbing? Did he make her cry?
Panic clutches at his chest. “Oh… Scully…”
She lifts her face to meet his, and he’s ready to kiss away her tears, promise her the world if that’s what it takes –
She’s laughing silently. Her whole body is shaking with the effort to contain it.
God, now he has no idea what’s going on. Relieved that she’s not crying, but puzzled what’s prompted the laughter, he gives her a blank look. Waits for the explanation, chewing his lip anxiously.
She presses up on her tiptoes again, bringing her lips to his, little huffs of laughter slipping out to warm his skin, punctuated by her kisses.
“Never in a million years,” she says huskily, “did I think our first kiss would be in a water park.”
That’s all it takes. A chuckle erupts from him, and then they are both laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all, bodies jostling together in the closeness of his embrace.
He pulls back a little so he can admire her broad grin. Teases: “What, you’re not counting the UFO in Antarctica? I kissed you then.”
An eye roll, but it doesn’t stop her smile. “You performed CPR on me, Mulder,” she retorts. “It’s not the same thing. And besides, we never proved -”
“-it was a UFO,” he finishes for her. Not the first time they’ve parried back and forth about this. “Yeah, yeah.” No amount of denial from her can wipe the smile from his face. Not after what just happened.
There’s a crackle from the park’s PA system announcing the evening’s movie is about to begin.
They both hesitate at thought of breaking the embrace. It’s taken six years to get here, her heart pleads. Don’t let go yet. Nevertheless, her practical mind reminds her, they can’t stay here forever. And the night is still young.
She pulls back, offers him her hand. “Come on, you promised me dinner.”
Hand-in-hand, they retrieve their belongings from the beach area near the lazy river and wander towards the large wave pool. An enormous white screen stretches up above the deep end. The pool is already crowded. Small children splash in the shallows.
It takes several minutes of searching before they spot a lone vacant deck chair to one side. They drop their belongings there to claim it.
“I’m going hunter-gathering,” he announces. “Don’t let anybody steal out spot.”
“You’ll miss the start of the movie.”
“I’ll be back before the good parts.” He winks at her, and she feels the heat rise in her cheeks. If she remembers correctly, there are some surprisingly racy moments later on in this movie, given its PG rating.
As the opening credits start to roll, she tries stretching out on the deck chair, but without a book to read it feels awkward to just lying there. Not to mention that reclining right now feels far too sensual, as if she’s Venus on a gilt sofa rather than Dana on a plastic deck chair. Not that sensual with Mulder would be bad, but this is certainly not the time or the place.
Finally, she settles on perching with back straight, feet to one side, leaving room for him beside her. He arrives bearing several boxes of food – nachos, loaded fries, sodas – which they arrange between them. Suddenly ravenous, she doesn’t lodge even a token complaint about his dinner choices.
As they eat, they half listen to the movie, half chat quietly about inconsequential things. She relishes the way he looks at her, as though their kiss earlier was the secret password to a new world where he can gaze freely, unabashedly at her. Like he’s been waiting all this time for the simple go-ahead.
Her skin prickles delightfully under his roaming gaze. She no longer feels fourteen and awkward in the swimsuit. It’s impossible, the way he’s looking at her. She feels wonderfully, confidently adult. She knows that his eyes have mapped her curves and planes and the idea warms her along with the lingering heat of the night. She meets his gaze readily, lets him see her smile. Yes, her smile reassures him. We’re really doing this, and it’s more than okay.
Food demolished, he goes to dispose of the trash. Returning, instead of retaking his seat beside her, he holds out a hand in invitation. “Come for a swim.”
She goes gladly. They meander towards the water hand-in-hand, wade though the shallows. When the water reaches her hips, he releases her hand and dives smoothly under the water, resurfacing a few seconds later with a grin. She dives under next, quick and agile in the water, feet kicking as she weaves her way underwater before resurfacing fifteen feet away in deeper water, gentle waves lapping at her shoulders.
He smiles at the teasing way she cocks an eyebrow at him in challenge. Fixing his gaze on hers, he wades purposefully towards her. She doesn’t flee. She holds her ground, grinning as he reaches her, his hands slipping under the water to find her waist.
Another kiss. Like before, tender and gently probing. She’s quite certain she could get lost in his kisses. Float around in them indefinitely like she did the lazy river. These kisses – for she’s quite sure her mercurial partner is as adept and varied at kissing as he is at everything else, that there will be many different types of kisses from him - are warm and soft, the kisses of lazy Sunday mornings. They are the comfortably possessive kisses of a couple whose love for each other in this moment is so certain it feels absurd to bother saying the words aloud.
An interruption - a sudden splash and they’re bumped from behind by a pair of wrestling teen boys, a reminder that they’re far from alone. Some part of Scully’s brain reminds her that she’s not an exhibitionist, that she’s a private person not prone to public displays of affection, but she finds it hard to care. They aren’t the only couple locking lips. The pool is crowded and anonymous, the people around them little more than whispery, splashing silhouettes.
Perhaps he’s more bothered by it, or perhaps he just seizes it as an excuse. Either way, his hands still on her hips, he starts to shuffle-walk them further into the deep end where it’s less crowded. The water is quickly at her chin, and she has to push her feet against the bottom of the pool to propel herself upwards, treading water, his hands now circling her in a loose embrace. He grins wickedly. Feet steadily pedalling, she keeps her gaze locked on his, defiantly amused. He chuckles, knows she sees right through his shameless manipulation. Wonders how long she will tread water out of determination not to give in to it.
“You can hold onto me, Scully.” Gently teasing.
“I know.”
And yet she treads water.
He chuckles. “You’re so damn stubborn.” Said with all the affection in the world.
An eyebrow creeps up, a challenge. “You’d expect nothing less from me.”
“It’s true,” he concedes. Wishes he could kiss her, except she’s moving too quickly. His voice softens a little. Less teasing now, more a confession. “But sometimes I like it when you need me.”
A flicker in her eyes, but he thinks he sees the resolve in her eyes soften as she gauges his authenticity. Her peddling slows, becomes irregular; she stretches her arms out a little so she’s more floating now than treading water. Her gaze doesn’t waver.
He takes that as a sign. Finds her hips again in the water, tugs her against him, holding her weight so her pedalling feet can slow and still. Gently, giving her every chance to reassert her independence – independence of him – and pull away. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, as he closes the distance between them completely, she reaches up to the nape of his neck with a teasing smile. He reads the cue correctly and lifts her by her hips, like a dancer. In one smooth move she slides her arms around his neck, tugging herself close enough to him to rasp her lips across his stubbled cheek, and wraps her legs around his waist so that he’s fully supporting her in the water.
“Well… hi.” He leans back slightly so that he can see her face, offering her a self-conscious chuckle as the reality of their closeness sinks in. Wasn’t this what he was angling for? Maybe he thought she wouldn’t actually do it. Well, she’s called his bluff, now.
“Hello.” She offers him a demure smile but doesn’t make any effort to loosen her grip on him. Studies his face, a teasing glint in her eye. “We probably shouldn’t kiss right now.”
“Probably not.”
“But you want to, right?”
“I always want to.”
Then her low murmur in his ear, a slight hitch in her voice. “You know, Mulder, sometimes you know exactly the right thing to say.”
He chuckles gently. He knows that this is the exception, not the rule. “Sometimes,” he agrees.
A shared long, slow breath in, then out. They’ve been physically close before in many different ways, but not like this, pressed together chest to chest with only the thin, wet fabric of swimsuits between them, limbs entangled.
She rests her head in the crook of his neck, wondering how it’s possible that this is the same man who often makes her want to curse in frustration with his obtuseness, his self-absorption, his bull-headedness. A man she has followed headfirst into danger countless times and yet his arms feel like the safest place in the world.
And that’s the overwhelming sensation: safe. If she stopped to think about it, she might think how absurd it is that she’s finally pressed against him in this way, after years of longing and some fairly graphic fantasies, and isn’t out of her mind with arousal. Perhaps it’s her subconscious compartmentalising - not wanting whatever this is (something wonderful and slow and sweet) to turn into a different this (hot and urgent and no doubt spectacular, but one new experience at a time, please) just yet. Perhaps it’s her rational, rule-following brain that knows if she starts to think about him in that way right now, she’ll be done for. Whatever it is, she’s content to just be in this moment, enjoy this sensation.
They stay together in the water for who knows how long, oblivious to the movie playing above their heads, the low murmurs and splashes of the other patrons. A breeze has started to pick up, but the water is still warm from the day, rippling slightly around them. The slight sway of their interlocked bodies in the water feels like dancing, their close bodies thrumming pleasantly.
It was only a matter of hours ago, she has to remind herself, that she was in an autopsy bay, expecting nothing more from her evening than some verbal sparring with Mulder over dinner. They might have ended up watching a movie together in his motel room or hers, a respectful distance between them as she sat nestled against the pillows and he lounged beside her. He would have cracked jokes, she would have huffed in amusement, never too easy to impress. Maybe a foot would have brushed a calf, or a fingertip an elbow, and she would have gone to sleep tonight recalling that touch in minute, obsessive detail.
That’s what she’s come to expect – to hope for – on these cases. But this – this, she never expected. Never dared hope for.
She lets out another sigh, heavy with contentment. Feels the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers. Between an early start and two autopsies, it’s been a long day.
“Not falling asleep on me, are you, Scully?” Gentle teasing, murmured into her hair.
God, she really could. It takes so much effort to lift her head from his neck, leaning back a little so she can see his face. Offers him a sleepy smile. “I’m comfortable,” she mumbles sheepishly.
He grins. “Not usually the reaction I get a from woman wrapped around me like this.”
“We’re in a public pool, Mulder. You really want to be having a… reaction?”
He chuckles at her sly grin. “Bit too late for that, Scully.”
A small snort of laughter against his chest. “Sorry.” She’s not, really. She’s being careful to hold still against him, to avoid creating friction; that seems a reasonable thing to do. But is she sorry? No. It was his idea in the first place. He knew what he was in for.
Still, she takes pity on him. Places a careful kiss on his cheek, then unhooks her legs from around him, her arms from around his neck, doesn’t comment on the state of a certain part of his anatomy. Wriggles in the water for a minute, stretching limbs stiff from their embrace. “I’ll meet you back at the deck chair.”
The air temperature has dropped further, the brisk wind cold on her wet skin. She towels herself off quickly. Thinks about pulling her clothes back on, but decides to wait until her swimsuit has dried some more. Her eyes flit across the movie screen, then drop lower, picking out Mulder’s silhouette as he slowly makes his way towards her.
She has his towel ready for him. He takes it with a nod, scrubs himself dry. “Temperature’s finally dropping.”
She nods. There’s at least an hour left of the movie, from what she can figure. There are a few vacant deck chairs scattered around now – some people have left early – but she makes no effort to retrieve one of them. Instead, she pats the spot next to her. “Come here.”
He sits, rests a hand on her back, rubbing in slow circles. She leans in against him, wanting more contact. A quiet yawn escapes her and he chuckles. He recognises the symptoms: her quieter voice, slower movements, tendency to snuggle into whatever cushion or blanket – or if he’s lucky, body – that is available.
“You want to fall asleep right now, don’t you?”
“Mmmm.”
It doesn’t even cross his mind to pack them up and head back to the motel. “Come on, then. Scoot over.”
It takes a minute of awkward shuffling but they manage to get themselves sorted, stretched out along the deck chair with her back tucked against his chest, her head under his chin. He even manages to drape a towel over them like a blanket. It’s still damp, but it fends off the breeze. Under it, in the shadows, she feels snug, their closeness invisible to all but the keenest observers. As sleep starts to encroach, a sudden thought crosses her mind, and she forces her eyes back open.
“I don’t want to give you the wrong impression,” she murmurs, finding his hand under the blanket where it’s resting again on her hip. Squeezes his fingers in that listen, this is important way he knows well.
He could be worried by her words, but he’s not. He’s been watching her all night: every flicker in her eyes, reading every micro-expression and shift in body language like a book he can’t put down. He’s curious to see what’s so important for her to say, but he’s not worried. He weaves his fingers through hers so they rest, joined, on her hip once more. “What wrong impression would that be?”
She loses the battle to keep her eyes open. Puts all her energy into moving her lips. “That I didn’t like it... Kissing you. But I did.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Teasing, oh so gently. He’d lift a hand to gently stroke her cheek, reassure her that he doesn’t need an explanation, but he doesn’t want to remove his hand from their joined grip on her hip. Instead, he kisses the top of her head, murmurs into her hair: “Me too.”
A rumble of a chuckle in her throat. “Mmm… Just tired… good tired… safe tired… happy tired.”
The warmth of her sleepy words expands in his chest. For a brief moment he closes his eyes – a silent prayer of gratitude – and exhales slowly. He drops another kiss on her top of her head. “Sleep, Scully.”
No response. He can tell from the way her body sinks against his that she’s already dropped off. It doesn’t matter. For too many years he’s wondered how this might go, and never once did he imagine it playing this way. Not just the circumstances, but the reaction. He’s gamed out seemingly every possible scenario – from frenzied lovemaking to panicked regret – and yet never once did he imagine this. Yet, it makes sense. There have been too many years of wondering and holding back and hoping for and dreading. He knows that at least some part of the euphoria he felt after that first kiss – and the second, and the third – was powered by sheer relief to have finally cleared this particular hurdle. To know that it was both nowhere near as terrifying as anticipated and twice as wonderful. The relief and the gratitude he feels are immense. He wants to rest in it, savour the contentment that comes with it, like they have finally crossed the finish line of some emotionally exhausting marathon.
There’s plenty of time ahead of them for more. But right now, resting with her in his arms – safe, happy, content - is all he wants. What better foundation for whatever comes next?