OLDFIC: Enders Switch (1998) 1/?
M/S UST, PG-13, post-ep for The End (5X20). Scully POV.
___________________________
Enders Switch
The smell. Oh, God, that smell was the worst--the smell of burnt things, of dead things, of five years gone in a night. A panoply of things, all laid waste: heaps of ash that once were files, curled and blackened photos, the blistered enamel of the file cabinets, the charred oak of desk and table, the bitter tang of burned leather. And underlying it all, I imagined I could scent the faint, acrid whiff of Morley smoke.
Everything about the scene was wrong, surreal, impossible. The only illumination came from the harsh emergency lights in the hallways and the hypnotic red-blue strobing the source of which my benumbed brain couldn't begin to identify. I stumbled forward like a sleepwalker, sloshing through puddles of sodden debris, the blinking glare washing the ruins of my life in grotesque carnival colors. The bitter reek of Their trump coiled into my nostrils, slinking little adders poisoning me. My fists clenched convulsively on nothing at all. I turned.
Mulder. He had stopped halfway into the room and now stood, silent and expressionless, eyes frighteningly blank. In that moment I knew--as if I'd never known before--that all was lost unless I acted, and quickly. Mulder. All and everything lay in ashes at our feet. Mulder. In the blank black chasms of his eyes I could see only the dimming death of my last hope--our last hope.
Somehow I forced my legs to move, carrying me across the divide, knowing already that there was no solace there, either to be given or received--but knowing also, with a certainty that cut me to my very marrow, that I had to try. Moving as if through deep water I closed the distance, reached him, reached out. My hands closed around his rigid biceps; my head came to rest against his chest. I no longer had the strength to stand alone. He did not move to return the embrace; still and chill as granite he remained, as I listened to the too-slow thump of his heartbeat ticking like a deathwatch beneath my ear.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
What might have been several centuries later Skinner stepped into the room, accompanied by a trio of briskly efficient EMTs. One of them gently extricated Mulder from my grasp, prying away my fingers which had long since locked into position. I staggered bonelessly, separated from my rock; the EMT, trained to handle swooning survivors, caught me neatly under the arms as Skinner stepped forward, rasping out my name in what for him passed as a tone of grave concern. I gave him an I'm-fine flap of a hand and he stood down, face hardened into an unreadable mask, hands fisted uselessly at his sides. My concerns in this lifetime had narrowed down to my partner, who was being probed unresistingly by the other two techs. I heard his name spoken aloud; eventually it registered that I was the one who had spoken it.
"He's in shock, ma'am," one of the techs informed me, and something in me snapped. Strength coursed back into my limbs and I wrenched free of my supporter, reaching Mulder in three short steps.
"I can see that, dammit! I'm this man's personal physician; let him go."
"Agent Scully--"
The look I gave my superior could have rekindled the fire. Resigned, Skinner turned to leave, indicating to the techs with the subtlest of gestures that their safest course of action would be to follow my orders. When the sound of their footfalls had died away down the hall, I returned my attention to Mulder. Whipping off my coat I draped it across his shoulders, my arm staying around him as if that pathetic gesture might impart some heat back into him. Those dead eyes fell upon mine and blinked, finally seeing me. Finally.
"Gone," he whispered, and his lack of affect chilled me anew. "It's all gone, Scully; there's nothing left for us here." One hand came up and pulled my encircling arm free. "Take me home," he finished simply, and turned his back upon the smouldering corpse of our work.
I hastened to comply.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
Back in the motor pool Crown Victoria, heater cranked to maximum in defiance of the warm spring evening beyond the closed windows. Mulder huddled in the passenger seat, still wrapped in my coat, head lolling sideways against the glass. His left hand was in the process of grinding the bones of my right to powder as I akwardly piloted the ungainly land-yacht one-handed. We spoke not at all until the time came when I would've made the turn to take us back to Alexandria and his apartment; then his icy fingers squeezed me even harder as the single negative syllable emerged from between his bloodless lips.
"Where?" I asked, coasting to the side of the road. He lifted his head slowly, seeming to be desperately trying to jumpstart his flagging intellect.
"It isn't safe," he pronounced, voice sounding rusty and distant. "I'm sure the office wasn't the only stop on their evening's itinerary. Are you okay to drive, Scully?"
"Drive where?"
He sank back into the seat, closing his eyes.
"Does it matter? Just drive."
Aiming us roughly south, I drove.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
The clock on the dash read 3:19 as I pulled into the lot of the dilapidated little motel. Stirring slightly, Mulder enquired as to our present whereabouts.
"I don't know. We're at a motel called--" I scanned around for a sign, "--the Fiesta Pines Motor Court."
"Doesn't look all that festive," he grunted, struggling upright. "You see any pines?"
A straggling shrub near the rental office was the only object visible that even remotely fit the descriptor. Shrugging, Mulder got out and weaved his drunken, bedraggled way into the office. He reappeared to clamber back into the car and toss the key--"key", singular--into my lap.
"According to Mr. Bates in there, we're all the way at the far end. I've paid us up through Wednesday. Checkout time is at twelve." He paused. "Think Skinner's gonna mind us taking a little R and R?"
I passed over that remark in favor of other, more important matters. "Did you happen to find out where we are?"
"Oh, yeah--a little armpit of a burg with the picturesque and somehow appropriate name of Enders Switch, North Carolina. However, it isn't quite the remote outpost of civilization that it appears; Normie assures me that there is a 24-hour Wal-Mart Superstore about six miles up this road, which can supply all of our basic necessities."
Something in my face must have registered, because Mulder chuckled dryly and patted my hand. "Don't worry; I've got my American Express.
"I never leave the scene of a crime without it."
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
I couldn't have picked a place more perfectly matched to our dismal moods if I'd tried. The Fiesta Pines Motor Court was a rathole deathtrap even by Mulder's less-than-discriminating standards. Our suite was lavishly appointed in Early Garage Sale, with mismatched particleboard furnishings cheaply veneered in chipped faux walnut. Every surface bore testimony to forty-odd years' worth of condensation rings from glasses, burns made by cigarettes left to smoulder forgotten, keys tossed carelessly to gouge and scratch. The air was stuffy and stale, ghosted with the odors of sweat and hopelessness. The color scheme was an appealing melange of yuck brown, rust and avocado. There was a single, lumpy full-sized bed--complete with Magic Fingers, I noticed--two unrelated chairs, a hideous credenza, two nightstands--also from different families--and two lamps, one wall-mounted and one a wobbly torchiere. A television set that was almost an antique, albeit not a very desirable one, was bolted to the wall across from the bed. A black rotary phone squatted like a spider on the nightstand nearest the door.
"Nice digs," Mulder drawled, flopping backwards onto the bed. "From now on you get to pick out all our accomodations."
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
By some miracle of Providence, the atrocious bathroom actually featured hot running water, so I left Mulder to rest on the bed while I showered. He took my place when I came out, and I stepped outside and sank into one of the dusty patio chairs that flanked our door.
The night had turned cooler and seemed unearthly still to my city-bred ears. There were few cars, few lights; a clear black sky arced above me, flung lavishly with stars like diamonds strewn across a jeweler's black velvet drape. Only the faintest breeze stirred the trees nearby and the soft rustling sound provided a lush countermelody to the nightsongs of crickets. High overhead the waning moon cast its cold eye upon me, leaching the colors out of the landscape.
As if on cue, Mulder appeared in the doorway. He gazed up at the moon for a moment before declaiming, quietly:
"Cold-hearted orb
that rules the night;
removes the colors from our sight
Red is gray and yellow, white
but we decide which is right--
and which is an illusion."
Having delivered his speech, he dragged the other chair over close to mine and settled in. Dressed only in his jeans and still damp from the shower, he exuded the faint scent of the sliver of no-name soap thoughtfully provided by the management. That scent, and his close proximity, were all but overwhelming. My body was fairly singing from fatigue and nerves; my earlier adrenaline rush had departed, leaving me jittery and exhausted. I could find no idea more appealing than crawling into Mulder's lap, pillowing my head on his shoulder, and hoping that when I woke up this nightmare would be over.
I didn't, of course. I remained in my chair, staring out at nothing, trying to capture and articulate at least one of the myriad jumbled thoughts that bounced off the walls of my brain with all the force and snap of billiard balls after a hard break. Just as at last I caught one, Mulder apparently did the same; we turned avidly upon each other, and when we spoke the words, we did so in one voice:
"I'm leaving the Bureau."
And then we just goggled at one another, stupidly, like owls.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
"I can't be a party to this any longer," I said in a rush, recovering. "I won't be jerked around by these bastards, and I'm damned if I'll be partnered with anyone else."
He nodded. He knew.
"All the official channels are closed to us now--and I'll be damned if I'll accept reassignment to some pissant, jerk-off detail. I refuse to be handed desk-duty as a bad conduct prize."
"You will keep up the search, won't you?" The answer to that question had somehow become of overmastering importance.
"We were so close. I can't give up now. I have to find that boy." He studied his hands, then spoke again in a detached, diffident tone. "What about you? Will you go into private practice now, do you think?"
I could only stare at him, speechless. Astonishment quickly flared into rage.
"Jesus, Mulder! What the Hell are you thinking? God, do you really think I can just--just walk away like the past five years never happened?"
"I should think you'd be only too happy for an opportunity to bail."
I was so furious it was easy to ignore the utter wretchedness of his voice.
"Fuck you, Fox Mulder," I hissed, pushing up out of my chair. "If you could think that for one minute then you obviously know nothing about me."
Iron fingers closing around my wrist effectively prevented me slamming back into the room. "Don't walk away from me, Scully," he implored, and his low voice stopped me as surely as his hand.
I stopped, but I didn't speak; and I wouldn't look him in the eye.
"Scully." The grip on my wrist relaxed, became more a caress than a restraint. "You'd do that? You'd continue on with me?"
"Mulder," I sighed, looking down into his upturned earnest face. His eyes had lost their scary emptiness; they were wide and alight now with something far more terrifying. "This stopped being just your quest a long time ago. I'm in this thing to the end. I want the answers just as badly as you do. I need them, Mulder. I need to know the truth."
His hand slipped down to grasp mine--much as I'd seen him grasping Diana Fowley's hand what already felt like a lifetime ago. He held me, with his warm hand and his warm gaze, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his expressive lips, until the intensity of it all became too much and I had to look away.
"Still partners?" he asked me.
"Always, Mulder," I replied, giving his hand a squeeze. "Always."
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
We had shared a bed before. Long late nights in lost lonely places had led us into close proximity more than once. We'd never discussed it; it was never an issue. There was no false modesty between us, and our trust in each other was implicit. We shared rooms and beds as easily and unremarkably as we shared apartment keys, desserts, rental cars.
We had shared a bed before, but never under circumstances quite like these.
Having had no opportunity to pack for out impromptu vacation, I had nothing in which to sleep but the clothes I was wearing. Correctly assessing the source of my quandary, Mulder wordlessly tossed me his t-shirt and I repaired to the bathroom to don it. It smelled comfortingly of him, of detergent and sweat and Mulder. He was stretched out on the bed, clad in plain gray boxers, when I returned. Grinning at me with a ghost of his usual humor, he fed two quarters into the Magic Fingers and beckoned me to join him. The ancient bed bucked and rattled, more like a decrepit old car in its
death-throes than a massage unit. Our eyes met and we both began to giggle; within moments we were laughing somewhat hysterically, the tension and the horror of the day finally catching up to us and spilling forth in a rush of desperate hilarity. I rolled over, laughing convulsively, bumping into him inadvertently; he threw an arm around me and drew me to him, muffling his gasps in my hair as I shook helplessly in his arms.
We got hold of ourselves by degrees as the bed's motion faltered and stopped. Drawing apart we remained facing each other in the faulty blue light of the flickering silenced TV. Mulder reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, letting his hand trail lightly across my cheek as he pulled it back. Another tremor rippled through me, this one unrelated to my previous giggling fit.
"Quite a pair, aren't we, Scully?"
"We're something," I agreed, trying hard not to betray my cool exterior under the onslaught of those incredible eyes. To keep from drowning I tipped my head forward, resting my forehead against his, letting my eyes slip shut. Basking in our shared silence, I had time to let my mind roam forward.
Despite the efforts of many, this was not the end--not of our partnership, not even of the X-Files. I knew Mulder well enough to know that every file, every meaningless scrap of information once housed in our now-gutted office, had its own cadre of clones, secreted about here and there. A quick call to the Gunmen in the morning would begin the process of retrieval. And then? Our resignations from the FBI would mean certain official doors were closed to us forever...but also that certain others, still unknown to me, would swing wide. My spooky partner had his ways, and his sources; and I had all the faith in the world in them, and in him, and in myself as well. We were, indeed, quite a pair.
"Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
I could feel his breath on my lips, mingling with my own. I paused, considering all the questions I wanted to ask, all the possibilities before us; but in the end, I merely sighed and reached across him to thumb the TV's off button, leaving us in darkness.
"Never mind. It can wait till morning."
"In the morning," he echoed, drawing the worn sheet tightly up around us.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
And then he kissed me.
<>~<>~END~<>~<>
Mulder's poem is "Late Lament," written by Graeme Edge of the Moody Blues and recorded as a spoken bridge in the band's 1967 song "Nights In White Satin."
___________________________
Enders Switch
The smell. Oh, God, that smell was the worst--the smell of burnt things, of dead things, of five years gone in a night. A panoply of things, all laid waste: heaps of ash that once were files, curled and blackened photos, the blistered enamel of the file cabinets, the charred oak of desk and table, the bitter tang of burned leather. And underlying it all, I imagined I could scent the faint, acrid whiff of Morley smoke.
Everything about the scene was wrong, surreal, impossible. The only illumination came from the harsh emergency lights in the hallways and the hypnotic red-blue strobing the source of which my benumbed brain couldn't begin to identify. I stumbled forward like a sleepwalker, sloshing through puddles of sodden debris, the blinking glare washing the ruins of my life in grotesque carnival colors. The bitter reek of Their trump coiled into my nostrils, slinking little adders poisoning me. My fists clenched convulsively on nothing at all. I turned.
Mulder. He had stopped halfway into the room and now stood, silent and expressionless, eyes frighteningly blank. In that moment I knew--as if I'd never known before--that all was lost unless I acted, and quickly. Mulder. All and everything lay in ashes at our feet. Mulder. In the blank black chasms of his eyes I could see only the dimming death of my last hope--our last hope.
Somehow I forced my legs to move, carrying me across the divide, knowing already that there was no solace there, either to be given or received--but knowing also, with a certainty that cut me to my very marrow, that I had to try. Moving as if through deep water I closed the distance, reached him, reached out. My hands closed around his rigid biceps; my head came to rest against his chest. I no longer had the strength to stand alone. He did not move to return the embrace; still and chill as granite he remained, as I listened to the too-slow thump of his heartbeat ticking like a deathwatch beneath my ear.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
What might have been several centuries later Skinner stepped into the room, accompanied by a trio of briskly efficient EMTs. One of them gently extricated Mulder from my grasp, prying away my fingers which had long since locked into position. I staggered bonelessly, separated from my rock; the EMT, trained to handle swooning survivors, caught me neatly under the arms as Skinner stepped forward, rasping out my name in what for him passed as a tone of grave concern. I gave him an I'm-fine flap of a hand and he stood down, face hardened into an unreadable mask, hands fisted uselessly at his sides. My concerns in this lifetime had narrowed down to my partner, who was being probed unresistingly by the other two techs. I heard his name spoken aloud; eventually it registered that I was the one who had spoken it.
"He's in shock, ma'am," one of the techs informed me, and something in me snapped. Strength coursed back into my limbs and I wrenched free of my supporter, reaching Mulder in three short steps.
"I can see that, dammit! I'm this man's personal physician; let him go."
"Agent Scully--"
The look I gave my superior could have rekindled the fire. Resigned, Skinner turned to leave, indicating to the techs with the subtlest of gestures that their safest course of action would be to follow my orders. When the sound of their footfalls had died away down the hall, I returned my attention to Mulder. Whipping off my coat I draped it across his shoulders, my arm staying around him as if that pathetic gesture might impart some heat back into him. Those dead eyes fell upon mine and blinked, finally seeing me. Finally.
"Gone," he whispered, and his lack of affect chilled me anew. "It's all gone, Scully; there's nothing left for us here." One hand came up and pulled my encircling arm free. "Take me home," he finished simply, and turned his back upon the smouldering corpse of our work.
I hastened to comply.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
Back in the motor pool Crown Victoria, heater cranked to maximum in defiance of the warm spring evening beyond the closed windows. Mulder huddled in the passenger seat, still wrapped in my coat, head lolling sideways against the glass. His left hand was in the process of grinding the bones of my right to powder as I akwardly piloted the ungainly land-yacht one-handed. We spoke not at all until the time came when I would've made the turn to take us back to Alexandria and his apartment; then his icy fingers squeezed me even harder as the single negative syllable emerged from between his bloodless lips.
"Where?" I asked, coasting to the side of the road. He lifted his head slowly, seeming to be desperately trying to jumpstart his flagging intellect.
"It isn't safe," he pronounced, voice sounding rusty and distant. "I'm sure the office wasn't the only stop on their evening's itinerary. Are you okay to drive, Scully?"
"Drive where?"
He sank back into the seat, closing his eyes.
"Does it matter? Just drive."
Aiming us roughly south, I drove.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
The clock on the dash read 3:19 as I pulled into the lot of the dilapidated little motel. Stirring slightly, Mulder enquired as to our present whereabouts.
"I don't know. We're at a motel called--" I scanned around for a sign, "--the Fiesta Pines Motor Court."
"Doesn't look all that festive," he grunted, struggling upright. "You see any pines?"
A straggling shrub near the rental office was the only object visible that even remotely fit the descriptor. Shrugging, Mulder got out and weaved his drunken, bedraggled way into the office. He reappeared to clamber back into the car and toss the key--"key", singular--into my lap.
"According to Mr. Bates in there, we're all the way at the far end. I've paid us up through Wednesday. Checkout time is at twelve." He paused. "Think Skinner's gonna mind us taking a little R and R?"
I passed over that remark in favor of other, more important matters. "Did you happen to find out where we are?"
"Oh, yeah--a little armpit of a burg with the picturesque and somehow appropriate name of Enders Switch, North Carolina. However, it isn't quite the remote outpost of civilization that it appears; Normie assures me that there is a 24-hour Wal-Mart Superstore about six miles up this road, which can supply all of our basic necessities."
Something in my face must have registered, because Mulder chuckled dryly and patted my hand. "Don't worry; I've got my American Express.
"I never leave the scene of a crime without it."
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
I couldn't have picked a place more perfectly matched to our dismal moods if I'd tried. The Fiesta Pines Motor Court was a rathole deathtrap even by Mulder's less-than-discriminating standards. Our suite was lavishly appointed in Early Garage Sale, with mismatched particleboard furnishings cheaply veneered in chipped faux walnut. Every surface bore testimony to forty-odd years' worth of condensation rings from glasses, burns made by cigarettes left to smoulder forgotten, keys tossed carelessly to gouge and scratch. The air was stuffy and stale, ghosted with the odors of sweat and hopelessness. The color scheme was an appealing melange of yuck brown, rust and avocado. There was a single, lumpy full-sized bed--complete with Magic Fingers, I noticed--two unrelated chairs, a hideous credenza, two nightstands--also from different families--and two lamps, one wall-mounted and one a wobbly torchiere. A television set that was almost an antique, albeit not a very desirable one, was bolted to the wall across from the bed. A black rotary phone squatted like a spider on the nightstand nearest the door.
"Nice digs," Mulder drawled, flopping backwards onto the bed. "From now on you get to pick out all our accomodations."
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
By some miracle of Providence, the atrocious bathroom actually featured hot running water, so I left Mulder to rest on the bed while I showered. He took my place when I came out, and I stepped outside and sank into one of the dusty patio chairs that flanked our door.
The night had turned cooler and seemed unearthly still to my city-bred ears. There were few cars, few lights; a clear black sky arced above me, flung lavishly with stars like diamonds strewn across a jeweler's black velvet drape. Only the faintest breeze stirred the trees nearby and the soft rustling sound provided a lush countermelody to the nightsongs of crickets. High overhead the waning moon cast its cold eye upon me, leaching the colors out of the landscape.
As if on cue, Mulder appeared in the doorway. He gazed up at the moon for a moment before declaiming, quietly:
"Cold-hearted orb
that rules the night;
removes the colors from our sight
Red is gray and yellow, white
but we decide which is right--
and which is an illusion."
Having delivered his speech, he dragged the other chair over close to mine and settled in. Dressed only in his jeans and still damp from the shower, he exuded the faint scent of the sliver of no-name soap thoughtfully provided by the management. That scent, and his close proximity, were all but overwhelming. My body was fairly singing from fatigue and nerves; my earlier adrenaline rush had departed, leaving me jittery and exhausted. I could find no idea more appealing than crawling into Mulder's lap, pillowing my head on his shoulder, and hoping that when I woke up this nightmare would be over.
I didn't, of course. I remained in my chair, staring out at nothing, trying to capture and articulate at least one of the myriad jumbled thoughts that bounced off the walls of my brain with all the force and snap of billiard balls after a hard break. Just as at last I caught one, Mulder apparently did the same; we turned avidly upon each other, and when we spoke the words, we did so in one voice:
"I'm leaving the Bureau."
And then we just goggled at one another, stupidly, like owls.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
"I can't be a party to this any longer," I said in a rush, recovering. "I won't be jerked around by these bastards, and I'm damned if I'll be partnered with anyone else."
He nodded. He knew.
"All the official channels are closed to us now--and I'll be damned if I'll accept reassignment to some pissant, jerk-off detail. I refuse to be handed desk-duty as a bad conduct prize."
"You will keep up the search, won't you?" The answer to that question had somehow become of overmastering importance.
"We were so close. I can't give up now. I have to find that boy." He studied his hands, then spoke again in a detached, diffident tone. "What about you? Will you go into private practice now, do you think?"
I could only stare at him, speechless. Astonishment quickly flared into rage.
"Jesus, Mulder! What the Hell are you thinking? God, do you really think I can just--just walk away like the past five years never happened?"
"I should think you'd be only too happy for an opportunity to bail."
I was so furious it was easy to ignore the utter wretchedness of his voice.
"Fuck you, Fox Mulder," I hissed, pushing up out of my chair. "If you could think that for one minute then you obviously know nothing about me."
Iron fingers closing around my wrist effectively prevented me slamming back into the room. "Don't walk away from me, Scully," he implored, and his low voice stopped me as surely as his hand.
I stopped, but I didn't speak; and I wouldn't look him in the eye.
"Scully." The grip on my wrist relaxed, became more a caress than a restraint. "You'd do that? You'd continue on with me?"
"Mulder," I sighed, looking down into his upturned earnest face. His eyes had lost their scary emptiness; they were wide and alight now with something far more terrifying. "This stopped being just your quest a long time ago. I'm in this thing to the end. I want the answers just as badly as you do. I need them, Mulder. I need to know the truth."
His hand slipped down to grasp mine--much as I'd seen him grasping Diana Fowley's hand what already felt like a lifetime ago. He held me, with his warm hand and his warm gaze, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his expressive lips, until the intensity of it all became too much and I had to look away.
"Still partners?" he asked me.
"Always, Mulder," I replied, giving his hand a squeeze. "Always."
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
We had shared a bed before. Long late nights in lost lonely places had led us into close proximity more than once. We'd never discussed it; it was never an issue. There was no false modesty between us, and our trust in each other was implicit. We shared rooms and beds as easily and unremarkably as we shared apartment keys, desserts, rental cars.
We had shared a bed before, but never under circumstances quite like these.
Having had no opportunity to pack for out impromptu vacation, I had nothing in which to sleep but the clothes I was wearing. Correctly assessing the source of my quandary, Mulder wordlessly tossed me his t-shirt and I repaired to the bathroom to don it. It smelled comfortingly of him, of detergent and sweat and Mulder. He was stretched out on the bed, clad in plain gray boxers, when I returned. Grinning at me with a ghost of his usual humor, he fed two quarters into the Magic Fingers and beckoned me to join him. The ancient bed bucked and rattled, more like a decrepit old car in its
death-throes than a massage unit. Our eyes met and we both began to giggle; within moments we were laughing somewhat hysterically, the tension and the horror of the day finally catching up to us and spilling forth in a rush of desperate hilarity. I rolled over, laughing convulsively, bumping into him inadvertently; he threw an arm around me and drew me to him, muffling his gasps in my hair as I shook helplessly in his arms.
We got hold of ourselves by degrees as the bed's motion faltered and stopped. Drawing apart we remained facing each other in the faulty blue light of the flickering silenced TV. Mulder reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, letting his hand trail lightly across my cheek as he pulled it back. Another tremor rippled through me, this one unrelated to my previous giggling fit.
"Quite a pair, aren't we, Scully?"
"We're something," I agreed, trying hard not to betray my cool exterior under the onslaught of those incredible eyes. To keep from drowning I tipped my head forward, resting my forehead against his, letting my eyes slip shut. Basking in our shared silence, I had time to let my mind roam forward.
Despite the efforts of many, this was not the end--not of our partnership, not even of the X-Files. I knew Mulder well enough to know that every file, every meaningless scrap of information once housed in our now-gutted office, had its own cadre of clones, secreted about here and there. A quick call to the Gunmen in the morning would begin the process of retrieval. And then? Our resignations from the FBI would mean certain official doors were closed to us forever...but also that certain others, still unknown to me, would swing wide. My spooky partner had his ways, and his sources; and I had all the faith in the world in them, and in him, and in myself as well. We were, indeed, quite a pair.
"Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
I could feel his breath on my lips, mingling with my own. I paused, considering all the questions I wanted to ask, all the possibilities before us; but in the end, I merely sighed and reached across him to thumb the TV's off button, leaving us in darkness.
"Never mind. It can wait till morning."
"In the morning," he echoed, drawing the worn sheet tightly up around us.
<>~<>~<>~<>~<>
And then he kissed me.
<>~<>~END~<>~<>
Mulder's poem is "Late Lament," written by Graeme Edge of the Moody Blues and recorded as a spoken bridge in the band's 1967 song "Nights In White Satin."