MSR || S6 - Pre Arcadia || Speed Drabble - No Beta
I was supposed to be doing laundry
Scully holds her neutral expression just long enough for the condescending snick of Diana Fowley’s heels to fade to nothing, the pressure of her indignation driving her eyebrows up until they run a very real risk of vanishing into her hairline. And as the elevator grinds upwards, she lets go.
Her fists unfurl and flick out, shoving the heavily redacted X-File Fowley deigned to share with them to the floor in a petulant slump. And it’s not enough, the knowing quirk of the other woman’s brow as she left with a “tell Fox I’ll see him later”, hooking itself spitefully into Scully’s long buried jealous streak and dragging it to the surface.
The word drops onto the marked wood of the desk and it tastes of rebellion. Scully smiles, shoving Mulder’s chair back into the filing cabinet with a satisfying thwack. She stalks to the back of the office, and starts crashing drawers open, delighting at the messy justice she is exacting on their shared space, each long resisted curse word blooming on her tongue in a wicked shade of green.
‘A few months back in D.C and she thinks she knows him again? Thinks she knows me?! As if six years can just be caught up, like that… maybe Mulder thinks it can, a man’s dick does seem to be wired directly to his idiot switch… but for fucks sake! She actually asked if it’s cold up here on my pedestal? BITCH. I’d love a fucking pedestal! Imagine that! Being in the light, being worshipped instead of the “privilege” of getting pushed face first into endless shit just to stand by him. What does she know about that? The calculating, arrogant, belittling, floozy-jezebel, daughter of a mother-fucking-BITCH’.
She slams the last drawer closed and spins into Mulder’s shadow. His mouth is slightly slack and Scully wonders how long he’s been stood there. A folder hangs open in one of his hands, pages slipping sideways in shock. He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before. And maybe he hasn’t, he’s seen a lot of Dana Scully, M.D., he’s seen her broken, he’s seen her dying, occasionally he has seen her laughing, drunk and drowsy… but she’s not sure he’s seen her how she was when she was eighteen and reckless, her Irish high in her cheeks and her lips ripe with the very worst of Bill Scully’s vocabulary.
‘Shut your mouth Mulder’, she tells him, rescuing the folder and stepping close enough that she can hear his breath hiss past his teeth. ‘I’m a sailor’s daughter, not a nun, and goddamnit it if that woman doesn’t bring out the worst in me.’
From where Mulder’s stood, he’d say maybe it brings out her best, because where the last few weeks have handed him a reluctant, resistant Scully, Fowley’s latest affront has restored her to glorious technicolour, There’s magnesium blue in the spark of her eyes, a swagger to the way she pushes past him and an unspoken dare in her voice that he is powerless to resist.
‘What did she do now?’ Mulder manages, though he doesn’t really care, he just wants to watch this foxfire Scully burn her way through their office and back to their old dynamic. Until she spins sharply, back into his space and as her gaze scorches the air between them, Mulder realises they are past the point of no return.
‘She asked’, and her red hair swings back to reveal the ferocious beauty of her face, ‘if I ever got tired of playing by the book.’ Scully’s chin juts dangerously in the direction of Mulder’s exposed throat and he swallows heavily, desperately as she runs one fingernail up his sleeve. Her touch is too light to feel but it burns, his ears burn, each syllable striking like flint and igniting his blood.
‘She said I was a “goody-goody”’ and her grip turns vicious, sharp nails punctuating the patronising insult on the hard planes of Mulder’s chest. He groans and Scully grins, teeth catching a giggle right on her lip as she feels him harden against her.
‘She said,’ and her hands wander south, lips climbing ever closer to the spot beneath his ear that will make it all fall apart. ‘that I couldn’t give you what you wanted Mulder.’
And her hands stop, an inch below his belt buckle and a breath away from salvation. His breath is ragged, every hair on his body on end and reaching for her, his cock straining for what he has only imagined and is now pressed against him, so close but still separate. Mulder wants to press himself forward, tear away these last few layers and finally be everything he has wanted to be for Scully, but she’s waiting for something, poised on the balance beam of sanity and devastation with a gymnast’s strength. Her stillness is unnatural, almond nails on his belly, raspberry lips at his throat and all waiting for him to respond. Eventually, not knowing what else to do he speaks…
‘And what did you say Scully? What did you tell her?’
And this time she laughs.
She laughs and steps back and there’s sadness in her eyes, tainting the arousal, a bitter slant to her eyebrows as she draws professional back over the sailor-smile, smoothing out her hair and her emotions.
‘I told her that nobody can give you what you want, because even you don’t know what that is.’
By the time the blood has returned to Mulder’s brain with enough force to reason that he knows exactly what, or who, he wants Scully is gone. It takes him five minutes to gather the scattered briefing on the The Falls at Arcadia, their new identities muddled in with floor-plans and case notes, and even as he struggles to organise the file, Mulder knows that the real task is going to be working out what just happened, and how he can make it happen again but with a much better ending.