drabble; pg-13; MSR; post-ep Milagro; Mulder maybe believes Padgett got one thing right about Scully. Sequel to climate change and global warming.
I’ve convinced myself, by the time we’ve washed the blood from our skin and I’m swaddled in a baseball jersey and he’s asked me for the tenth or fiftieth time to let him take me to the hospital, that Philip Padgett simply met me at a damn good time.
I can spend the rest of my life in fear of my own lack of foresight, of appropriate caution, or I can admit to myself I’d been vulnerable for a singular moment. Not caught or entrapped or made into somebody’s plaything, but vulnerable like anyone might be, something I have been working on, slowly, like one might approach their fear of heights by climbing the stairs. I fell for his ruse. I wrapped myself around Mulder like a vine, made him pick me from the ground like a sprouted grain to be repotted.
And it’s okay.
Mulder simply looks at me like he knows something he didn’t before, and it’s alarmingly similar to Padgett’s unceasing gaze. Maybe that’s where the magic had been, the allure. Even now I can’t decide how much he’d really known and how much he just hoped. But what mattered was that he wanted to know me – had written pages and pages about this need of his, and in the fashion of all writers he had only let me see the best parts.
Mulder wants me to read the rest. I won’t. I won’t do it. I’m just not like him, I can’t roll around in shame and darkness and expect the anger to keep me alive.
Still Mulder stares from the other side of the couch. I do not let myself consider what he thinks he knows about me. I feel it will be unkind.
“We need to take my statement down,” I say finally, reaching over to boot up the laptop sitting on the coffee table. The pressure in my chest builds and suddenly I’m out of breath. I feel trapped, a body looms over me, his fingers are freezing they are so cold and calloused and they curl around my racing heart in come-hither sweetness…
Fingers. Warm, gentle, uncertain. They curl around my wrist reaching for the table and it drops between us like a bowling ball.
“The report can wait, Scully,” he says.
It’s hard to realize how much faith I’d lost in him. The trust is there, innately, trust for him to save my life and tell me the truth. But I’m waiting for his jokey cruelty, the clench of his jaw, the flash of a camera so that he may commemorate this moment forever and slip it into the files like a blue ribbon.
None of this happens. His fingers tickle my wrist. His face is so tender it’s difficult to look at and I have to fight back nervous laughter. I kissed him once and that was the face he made in return and I still don’t know what it means now and what it meant then.
He reaches over the great couch divide and grabs my hand and laces our fingers together. I try to unlock them, shake him off and tell him no, but he tightens his grip and warns me simply with a firm, low utterance of my name.
We get my statement down, and he doesn’t drive me to the hospital. He asks me to come into work on a Saturday morning and it’s the first time I’m happy to see him in months.