XF FIC: In This Dance
Title: In This Dance
Author: hummingfly67
Pairing/Character: Mulder, Scully
Word Count: 1661
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warning: Vague one for Milagro
Summary: Conversations by cell phone while Scully is away.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, Chris Carter and 1013 have that honor.
Secret Santa gift for octoberaine for xf_santa. I hope your holidays were wonderful.
A/N: Thank-you to hankmoodyblues for reading a very early draft of this and offering suggestions, and to memories_child for beta. Title courtesy of Pablo Neruda:
There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence, in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny.
***
This time his phone doesn't stop after a single ring. Mulder scoops it up, sees that it is Scully again and answers as he shifts into a seated position. "Hey, Scully." He wants to ask why she had called twice before without letting him pick up, but refrains.
“Hey, Mulder.”
Fluent in the subtle nuances of his partner, her voice is hesitant to his ears. Weary. He frowns, realizing the case she is consulting on must be exacting a heavy toll. The 48-hour consult that had become several days, with no clear date of return on the horizon.
"What's up?" he asks, grabbing for his TV remote to hit the mute button. He'll play it casual, see if he can draw her out.
There is a pause, followed by a muted sigh. "Nothing," she says at last. "I just... I just wanted to check in, see how the case is going."
"Your plate's a little full to be worrying about a nothing case that isn't going anywhere," he tells her, curious as to the real reason for her call. They are not ones for idle chitchat, and other than a few brief e-mails, the last of which was to advise him the consult had been extended again, they had not spoken since he had dropped her off at the airport almost a week ago.
She huffs. "A nothing case, huh? It's so nothing you were willing to sacrifice our first weekend off in a month for surveillance on your...prime suspect."
He winces. Had she seen through his obvious ploy to spend some downtime with her, under the guise of a case he knew had little or no merit? She didn't sound angry though. Perhaps even slightly amused.
His silence must have worried her, for her next words are, "I shouldn't have...I didn't mean to call this late. I'll let you go."
"No!" he says, more forcefully than he had intended. "No worries, Scully. You know me, night owl. It's not late." Now he is babbling.
"Oh." Voice soft. "What were you doing?"
"Just watching the sports update." His attention isn’t even on the muted TV; he glances at it and sees that they are re-capping the day's baseball games. "How about you?"
"Reviewing autopsy notes. Looking for comparisons." A harsh exhalation. "And not finding any." The last is said darkly, her frustration as evident as her exhaustion.
"Scully, don't burn too much of that midnight oil."
"I can handle it, Mulder."
A little testy, but at least she hadn't issued her standard 'I'm fine'.
She sighs again. "I'm sorry, Mulder, I didn't mean to jump on you like that. I know you're just..." her low voice trails off. She clears her throat and her voice is stronger when she continues with, "I shouldn't have called."
"No apology needed, Scully," he tells her quickly. They know each other too well, have weathered too many storms for him to take offense. "And I’m glad you called."
Another pause, where the only sound is her breathing, and then, “Me too.” He hears crackles and rustling, and imagines that she is getting herself more comfortable. He does the same, sinking lower into the familiar grooves of his couch.
“You okay?” he asks, after another, longer silence.
"I miss..." her voice hitches. "I miss home."
His heart skips a beat. She had meant to say 'you', he knows it. But she had lost her nerve. He smiles to himself. He is well-acquainted with that kind of nerve. "Home misses you too, Scully."
This time the silence is a comfortable one and he sits at ease, the receiver held loosely in his hand, listening to her soft exhalations. Several moments pass before a muffled yawn reaches his ear.
"Get some sleep, Scully," he says gently.
She clears her throat. "You too, Mulder."
She sounds marginally better. Still tired, but less stressed, he decides. "Call me tomorrow night," he tells her impulsively. "Doesn't matter what time."
"Okay."
That is definitely pleasure in her voice. He nods, even though she can't see him. "Okay."
They don't say goodbye, but he waits, listening to her breathing, until she finally disconnects. Tossing his phone onto the coffee table, he lies back down and grabs the remote to unmute the television.
He falls asleep to the sounds of the sports channel.
***
After securing the motel room door for the night, Scully kicks off her heels with a relieved sigh, inwardly shaking her head at herself. Woman, thy name is vanity.
Too weary to take her usual care, she leaves the shoes where they have fallen. Briefcase and keys are deposited on the excuse for a table and her cell phone placed on the nightstand next to her travel alarm clock.
She quickly strips and changes into her pajamas. Her clothing receives treatment similar to her shoes, as she settles for draping them over the small room’s only chair. She performs her nighttime routine on autopilot, and it is not long before the lights are out and she is snuggled under the blankets of the less than comfortable bed. She misses her own bed, her own pillow and her cozily soft sheets.
This is not all that she misses. She misses Mulder; has finally admitted it to herself. She knows she could phone right now, recalling his entreaty of the night before to call him no matter the time. And still she hesitates. She is tired, and morning will come far too quickly. She nestles deeper into the pillow as she scoffs at her own excuses. But sleep does not come and her mind is full of thoughts of Mulder.
Longing and need overrule exhaustion and reticence. Her cell phone is in hand before she is consciously aware of reaching for it, her index finger easily finding and pressing the speed dial even in the dark.
It only rings once before he answers with, “Hey, Scully.”
The familiar greeting is warmly spoken and she closes her eyes, fancifully imagining the words wrapping around her like a comforting blanket.
“Scully?” he repeats. “You there?”
Opening her eyes, Scully clears her throat, embarrassed. “Sorry, Mulder. Dry throat.”
The conversation that follows is light - he asks about the consult, she deflects away from her case and counters with a teasing query on his ‘nothing case’. He laughs and informs her Skinner has kept him busy with catching up on reports. He tells her that Frohike is pining for her and keeps e-mailing him to ask when she will be back and she only semi-reluctantly agrees to pay a visit to the odd trio when she is back in town.
Strange, muffled sounds fill her ear and she asks curiously, “Did I interrupt something, Mulder?”
“Just eating pizza.”
Her stomach, which has been out of sorts the last few days due to her long hours, chooses that moment to decide it would like a slice of pizza, and grumbles. “Oh,” she says.
“Whazzat, Scully?”
“I’m hungry,” she tells him plaintively.
“You skipping meals, Dr. Scully?” he asks intuitively, his concern clear.
“It’s fine, Mulder.”
"Scully," he chides. "You know you’d kick my ass from here to tomorrow about balanced meals and-"
“I know,” she interrupts, knowing the lecture is not unwarranted, and hoping she hadn’t sounded snappish. “But I’m too tired now.”
“And that’s my cue,” he says lightly. If she was snappish, he has let it go. “Time to get some sleep, Scully.”
She smiles, remembering a similar order from the night before. “Yes, Dr. Mulder,” she teases and smiles wider when she hears his chuff of laughter. Sobering, she says softly, “Thank-you, Mulder.”
“Any time, Scully. Any time.”
She waits for a moment, as she always does, before finally disconnecting. Returning her cell to the nightstand, she turns onto her other side and gets comfortable, a huge yawn overtaking her.
Sleep comes surprisingly fast.
***
Her motel room has become her prison, Scully thinks and then shakes her head at her own melodrama as she closes and locks the door behind herself. There is nothing preventing her from dining out, or spending some time with her colleagues. Nothing but her exhaustion and perhaps some latent anti-social tendencies. Loneliness is a choice; the echo of her own words is faint and she ignores it.
Security chain engaged, she doesn’t even bother putting her briefcase on the table, just lets it fall to the ground with a thump. Shoes off, keys dumped on the table, cell phone on the nightstand - she is a creature of habit no matter the locale. Though a few of those habits have fallen by the wayside these last few days, she admits, and only feels a tiny pang of guilt.
It is a nearly overwhelming temptation to drop on the bed fully clothed and drop straight into sleep, and she wavers in place, shoulders slumped. Weariness has sunk deep in her bones, permeated her very being. Once again she hadn’t been able to summon the energy to pick-up dinner on the way to the motel.
The ring of her cell phone is startlingly loud in the quiet of the room and she jumps slightly. With chagrin she retrieves the phone and answers, “Scully.”
“Hey, Scully,” is Mulder’s warm and welcomed greeting.
Her smile is the first genuine one in hours, and suddenly she feels lighter, the darkness and stress of her day fading into the background. “Hey, Mulder,” she greets him in return, aware that the smile is in her voice.
“You in your pajamas already?” he asks.
She blinks in surprise at the odd question. Though she really should be used to queries of any and all natures from Mulder, she thinks. “Not yet,” she replies slowly, and is then surprised by a knock at the door.
“Delivery,” Mulder’s voice says, and she hears the word in stereo.
The door receives a puzzled glance as she walks towards it. “Mulder?” she queries.
“Open up, Scully. Our dinner is getting cold.”
***
Fini
Author: hummingfly67
Pairing/Character: Mulder, Scully
Word Count: 1661
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warning: Vague one for Milagro
Summary: Conversations by cell phone while Scully is away.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, Chris Carter and 1013 have that honor.
Secret Santa gift for octoberaine for xf_santa. I hope your holidays were wonderful.
A/N: Thank-you to hankmoodyblues for reading a very early draft of this and offering suggestions, and to memories_child for beta. Title courtesy of Pablo Neruda:
There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence, in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny.
***
This time his phone doesn't stop after a single ring. Mulder scoops it up, sees that it is Scully again and answers as he shifts into a seated position. "Hey, Scully." He wants to ask why she had called twice before without letting him pick up, but refrains.
“Hey, Mulder.”
Fluent in the subtle nuances of his partner, her voice is hesitant to his ears. Weary. He frowns, realizing the case she is consulting on must be exacting a heavy toll. The 48-hour consult that had become several days, with no clear date of return on the horizon.
"What's up?" he asks, grabbing for his TV remote to hit the mute button. He'll play it casual, see if he can draw her out.
There is a pause, followed by a muted sigh. "Nothing," she says at last. "I just... I just wanted to check in, see how the case is going."
"Your plate's a little full to be worrying about a nothing case that isn't going anywhere," he tells her, curious as to the real reason for her call. They are not ones for idle chitchat, and other than a few brief e-mails, the last of which was to advise him the consult had been extended again, they had not spoken since he had dropped her off at the airport almost a week ago.
She huffs. "A nothing case, huh? It's so nothing you were willing to sacrifice our first weekend off in a month for surveillance on your...prime suspect."
He winces. Had she seen through his obvious ploy to spend some downtime with her, under the guise of a case he knew had little or no merit? She didn't sound angry though. Perhaps even slightly amused.
His silence must have worried her, for her next words are, "I shouldn't have...I didn't mean to call this late. I'll let you go."
"No!" he says, more forcefully than he had intended. "No worries, Scully. You know me, night owl. It's not late." Now he is babbling.
"Oh." Voice soft. "What were you doing?"
"Just watching the sports update." His attention isn’t even on the muted TV; he glances at it and sees that they are re-capping the day's baseball games. "How about you?"
"Reviewing autopsy notes. Looking for comparisons." A harsh exhalation. "And not finding any." The last is said darkly, her frustration as evident as her exhaustion.
"Scully, don't burn too much of that midnight oil."
"I can handle it, Mulder."
A little testy, but at least she hadn't issued her standard 'I'm fine'.
She sighs again. "I'm sorry, Mulder, I didn't mean to jump on you like that. I know you're just..." her low voice trails off. She clears her throat and her voice is stronger when she continues with, "I shouldn't have called."
"No apology needed, Scully," he tells her quickly. They know each other too well, have weathered too many storms for him to take offense. "And I’m glad you called."
Another pause, where the only sound is her breathing, and then, “Me too.” He hears crackles and rustling, and imagines that she is getting herself more comfortable. He does the same, sinking lower into the familiar grooves of his couch.
“You okay?” he asks, after another, longer silence.
"I miss..." her voice hitches. "I miss home."
His heart skips a beat. She had meant to say 'you', he knows it. But she had lost her nerve. He smiles to himself. He is well-acquainted with that kind of nerve. "Home misses you too, Scully."
This time the silence is a comfortable one and he sits at ease, the receiver held loosely in his hand, listening to her soft exhalations. Several moments pass before a muffled yawn reaches his ear.
"Get some sleep, Scully," he says gently.
She clears her throat. "You too, Mulder."
She sounds marginally better. Still tired, but less stressed, he decides. "Call me tomorrow night," he tells her impulsively. "Doesn't matter what time."
"Okay."
That is definitely pleasure in her voice. He nods, even though she can't see him. "Okay."
They don't say goodbye, but he waits, listening to her breathing, until she finally disconnects. Tossing his phone onto the coffee table, he lies back down and grabs the remote to unmute the television.
He falls asleep to the sounds of the sports channel.
***
After securing the motel room door for the night, Scully kicks off her heels with a relieved sigh, inwardly shaking her head at herself. Woman, thy name is vanity.
Too weary to take her usual care, she leaves the shoes where they have fallen. Briefcase and keys are deposited on the excuse for a table and her cell phone placed on the nightstand next to her travel alarm clock.
She quickly strips and changes into her pajamas. Her clothing receives treatment similar to her shoes, as she settles for draping them over the small room’s only chair. She performs her nighttime routine on autopilot, and it is not long before the lights are out and she is snuggled under the blankets of the less than comfortable bed. She misses her own bed, her own pillow and her cozily soft sheets.
This is not all that she misses. She misses Mulder; has finally admitted it to herself. She knows she could phone right now, recalling his entreaty of the night before to call him no matter the time. And still she hesitates. She is tired, and morning will come far too quickly. She nestles deeper into the pillow as she scoffs at her own excuses. But sleep does not come and her mind is full of thoughts of Mulder.
Longing and need overrule exhaustion and reticence. Her cell phone is in hand before she is consciously aware of reaching for it, her index finger easily finding and pressing the speed dial even in the dark.
It only rings once before he answers with, “Hey, Scully.”
The familiar greeting is warmly spoken and she closes her eyes, fancifully imagining the words wrapping around her like a comforting blanket.
“Scully?” he repeats. “You there?”
Opening her eyes, Scully clears her throat, embarrassed. “Sorry, Mulder. Dry throat.”
The conversation that follows is light - he asks about the consult, she deflects away from her case and counters with a teasing query on his ‘nothing case’. He laughs and informs her Skinner has kept him busy with catching up on reports. He tells her that Frohike is pining for her and keeps e-mailing him to ask when she will be back and she only semi-reluctantly agrees to pay a visit to the odd trio when she is back in town.
Strange, muffled sounds fill her ear and she asks curiously, “Did I interrupt something, Mulder?”
“Just eating pizza.”
Her stomach, which has been out of sorts the last few days due to her long hours, chooses that moment to decide it would like a slice of pizza, and grumbles. “Oh,” she says.
“Whazzat, Scully?”
“I’m hungry,” she tells him plaintively.
“You skipping meals, Dr. Scully?” he asks intuitively, his concern clear.
“It’s fine, Mulder.”
"Scully," he chides. "You know you’d kick my ass from here to tomorrow about balanced meals and-"
“I know,” she interrupts, knowing the lecture is not unwarranted, and hoping she hadn’t sounded snappish. “But I’m too tired now.”
“And that’s my cue,” he says lightly. If she was snappish, he has let it go. “Time to get some sleep, Scully.”
She smiles, remembering a similar order from the night before. “Yes, Dr. Mulder,” she teases and smiles wider when she hears his chuff of laughter. Sobering, she says softly, “Thank-you, Mulder.”
“Any time, Scully. Any time.”
She waits for a moment, as she always does, before finally disconnecting. Returning her cell to the nightstand, she turns onto her other side and gets comfortable, a huge yawn overtaking her.
Sleep comes surprisingly fast.
***
Her motel room has become her prison, Scully thinks and then shakes her head at her own melodrama as she closes and locks the door behind herself. There is nothing preventing her from dining out, or spending some time with her colleagues. Nothing but her exhaustion and perhaps some latent anti-social tendencies. Loneliness is a choice; the echo of her own words is faint and she ignores it.
Security chain engaged, she doesn’t even bother putting her briefcase on the table, just lets it fall to the ground with a thump. Shoes off, keys dumped on the table, cell phone on the nightstand - she is a creature of habit no matter the locale. Though a few of those habits have fallen by the wayside these last few days, she admits, and only feels a tiny pang of guilt.
It is a nearly overwhelming temptation to drop on the bed fully clothed and drop straight into sleep, and she wavers in place, shoulders slumped. Weariness has sunk deep in her bones, permeated her very being. Once again she hadn’t been able to summon the energy to pick-up dinner on the way to the motel.
The ring of her cell phone is startlingly loud in the quiet of the room and she jumps slightly. With chagrin she retrieves the phone and answers, “Scully.”
“Hey, Scully,” is Mulder’s warm and welcomed greeting.
Her smile is the first genuine one in hours, and suddenly she feels lighter, the darkness and stress of her day fading into the background. “Hey, Mulder,” she greets him in return, aware that the smile is in her voice.
“You in your pajamas already?” he asks.
She blinks in surprise at the odd question. Though she really should be used to queries of any and all natures from Mulder, she thinks. “Not yet,” she replies slowly, and is then surprised by a knock at the door.
“Delivery,” Mulder’s voice says, and she hears the word in stereo.
The door receives a puzzled glance as she walks towards it. “Mulder?” she queries.
“Open up, Scully. Our dinner is getting cold.”
***
Fini