Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mulder doesn’t knock.
He never does, not anymore—not since the Pfaster case. She’d told him once, years ago, that she preferred privacy. But that had been before he’d carried her trembling body out of a stranger’s house. Before she woke up screaming and found his voice on the other end of the phone.

Now he just lets himself in.

Scully’s standing in the kitchen, barefoot, arms folded, staring into the middle distance like the floor might give her answers. The lights are off. There’s an untouched glass of wine on the table and a file folder spread open beside it.

“Working late?” he asks gently.

She flinches. Barely. But he sees it.

“Don’t do that,” she says, not looking at him.

“Do what?”

“Hover.”

That surprises him. “I’m not—”

“You are. You’ve been hovering for days, Mulder. Calling. Waiting. Staring. Watching me like I’m going to break.”

He takes a step closer, quiet. “You nearly did.”

Wrong move. Her eyes snap to his, sharp.

“I didn’t,” she says tightly. “I’m not some fragile thing. I got through it.”

“I know that.” He swallows. “But I—look, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay. I keep telling you that.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“Oh, and you are?” she snaps. “You think I haven’t noticed the circles under your eyes? You think I don’t hear it in your voice when you call me at 3 a.m. to ask if I’ve seen that week’s autopsy results?”

He goes quiet.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“You keep looking at me like I’m broken.”

“I don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I don’t. But I—I keep seeing you. In that room. On the floor. And I can’t—" He rubs his face. "I can’t stop thinking that I wasn’t fast enough.”

Her mouth opens. Shuts.

And then:

“You were.”

She says it like a weapon.

He looks up at her, startled.

“You think I don’t relive it? That I don’t hate that it happened?” Her voice shakes now. “But I also remember the moment I saw you. The second you touched me.”

“Scully—”

“I felt your arms around me. I still feel it, sometimes. At night. When I’m not sure if it was real.”

He doesn’t speak.

“You saved me,” she says, and her voice breaks. “You saved me. And I’ve been furious at you for it. Because it means I couldn’t save myself.”

That silences the room like a vacuum.

Mulder takes a step forward.

“You don’t have to hate yourself for that,” he says softly.

“I don’t.” She lifts her eyes to his. “I hate that it still hurts. That I still feel his breath. That I wake up and expect to see your face and panic when it’s not there.”

Her breath hitches. “I needed you. And you came.”

Mulder says nothing. Just closes the gap between them and wraps her into his arms, carefully, like she might vanish.

She goes willingly.

No words. No defences.

Just the quiet thud of his heart beneath her cheek and the way she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since that night.

They sit in silence for a long time.

Not awkward, not cold—just quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. The kind they’ve built their whole partnership inside.

Scully leans into the far end of the couch, knees drawn up beneath the blanket he fetched for her without asking. Her wine glass sits untouched on the table. She watches it sweat in the low light.

Mulder’s at the other end. Legs stretched out, socked feet crossed at the ankles. One arm along the back of the couch, not quite behind her. He’s angled just enough to see her if she turns—but she doesn’t.

He never touches unless she asks.

“Do you ever think about leaving it?” she asks suddenly, her voice soft, unguarded.

He turns his head. “The Bureau?”

A nod.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But I think I’d still end up chasing shadows. I just wouldn’t have the badge to hide behind.”

That earns the smallest breath of amusement. Barely.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” she says.

“You don’t have to.”

She doesn’t argue.

He watches her for a moment in the dim quiet. “But if you do,” he adds, “you won’t be doing it alone.”

Her eyes flick toward him, then away again.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she says. “About you. About…” She exhales slowly, her fingers knotting into the blanket. “About what you did.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“You came for me.”

There’s a long pause. Then his voice, quiet: “Always.”

She doesn’t speak again.

She shifts slightly under the blanket, her shoulder brushing the space just beside his hand. He stays perfectly still.

Her voice, when it returns, is barely audible: “I still see it. That room. His face. The way everything felt wrong. And then—”

She trails off.

He lets the silence stretch. He knows it matters more than anything he could say.

Finally, she looks up at him.

“When I saw you…” she says, and her voice catches. “You looked—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

His mouth twitches like he might speak. He doesn’t.

She sits still for another long moment, then slowly—hesitantly—leans toward him. Just enough for her shoulder to brush his arm. Then more. Her head rests lightly against his shoulder, like it might change her mind at any second. Like it doesn’t know if it belongs there.

Mulder doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

When she stays, he lets his arm shift ever so slightly, a silent offering of warmth at her back. He doesn’t hold her. He doesn’t dare.

They stay like that.

No promises.
No declarations.
Just breath and stillness and the heavy weight of everything unspoken between them.

And for now—
for tonight—
that’s enough.

She dreams of his arms again.

Not the fear. Not the house. Not the breath on her skin or the wrongness in the walls.

Just him.

His arms around her. The rush of his coat as he wrapped her in it. The pressure of his hand at her back, not pushing, not pulling—just anchoring. The steadiness of him. The warmth.

When she wakes, the first thing she notices is the light.

It’s soft, pale, filtering through the curtains like it doesn’t want to wake her. Her neck is warm. Her body aches in that deep, quiet way that follows grief or long sleep.

The blanket’s still over her. The couch cushions are shifted slightly, and there’s an extra pillow tucked behind her head she doesn’t remember reaching for.

She hears the clink of a mug. The gentle scrape of a chair.

She turns her head.

Mulder is at her kitchen table, reading a file, glasses perched low on his nose, his shirt slightly rumpled. There’s a ring of coffee on the table beneath his mug. His phone sits beside it, screen dark.

He looks up.

“You’re awake.”

She nods, voice still sleep-hoarse. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. Didn’t sleep much.” He says it like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s not new.

She sits up slowly, brushing her hair back. “You stayed.”

He smiles, tired. “Wasn’t going to leave you on the couch like a chalk outline.”

Her mouth twitches.

He nods toward the coffee pot. “Still warm. Might be a miracle.”

She stands, blanket still draped over her shoulders like a shield she hasn’t quite set down yet, and pours herself a mug. Her back is to him when he speaks again.

“Skinner called.”

That gets her attention. She turns.

“No cases,” Mulder adds quickly. “Just… checking in. Said we could take more time.”

Scully takes a sip. It’s hot. Bitter. Familiar.

She looks at him over the rim of the mug. He watches her the way he always does—like she’s more data than he can ever interpret. Like he’s never going to stop trying.

She sets the mug down.

“I’m ready.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just studies her.

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “I am.”

She means it.

She means: I’ve grieved. I’ve screamed. I’ve fallen apart.
She means: You were there. I wasn’t alone.
She means: I remember your arms more than I remember his face.

“I’m ready,” she repeats.

And then she smiles—small, real, without weight behind it. The kind of smile she used to give him in dark hallways, after bad cases, before everything cracked open.

Mulder doesn’t smile back.

But he breathes out, just a little.

And that’s enough.