coast
in
smilescully
(no subject)
15.
He has always teased her about her ability to fall asleep easily, citing natural disasters, the apocalypse; Scully would miss it all. And yet it is Mulder that is lost to the world, now; his bare arm hangs languidly off the side of the bed, the practical cotton sheet tangled around his calf. He breathes deeply and open-mouthed.
She doesn't mention it, but she relishes the feeling of looking at him now as the father of her child. He feels similarly, and is occasionally more vocal about it since saying yes. His hand in its usual place on her lower back sometimes snakes around to her belly, now, lingering for a moment. There is a dreamy look in his eyes; he tries not to seem too eager but fails miserably.
Scully never responds. She does not dare to hope too much, to bring bad luck to her greatest wish, but there are times when she cannot help it, and she hoards those doses of divine happiness in the deepest places inside of her, away from the wicked world.
Lying beside her, Mulder is made holy; he prays to any available god to bring restoration, to bring their child.
Theirs is an understated happiness that slips beneath the radar of the easily identifiable. The first time she asks him to stay the night-- the whole night-- it is a victory akin to the crumbling of the Berlin wall: slowly gained, dangerous, and a sure sign that times were changing. She even allows him to hold on to her now, after, his nose buried deep in the foxy down of her hair, his breath leaking hot onto the skin of her neck.
But then there is work to be done, again, and an amount of professionalism that she will not sacrifice, that she must not lose if this is going to last. All bodes well; she second guesses him and he pokes fun at her scientific rigidity. They just happen to spend most nights in the same bed now.
Padding across the room, she scratches the bottom of his foot with her fingernails, watching him squirm. When he makes no move to wake entirely, she gives him a tap and goes for the bathroom. "C'mon, Mulder, time to get up-- we've got a nine o'clock with Skinner and we were late for the last one."
She doesn't wait for him to respond, just closes the bathroom door and starts the shower.
***
They try to spend the weekends apart, to forge some semblance of separate existences, but inevitably one shows up at the other's door by Sunday night, bored and hungry for company. This week, Scully has brought her overnight bag, a flowery purple thing so unlike her that it makes Mulder laugh whenever he sees it.
He swings the door open to her smiling face and kisses her on the cheek before taking her bags: tomorrow's clothes, Chinese food, and a plastic pharmacy bag.
"Doctor Scully, I presume?"
He is in high spirits; there's a crinkle in his eye as he smiles at her. He sets her overnight bag on the couch and pads off to the kitchen, Chinese food in tow, clanging dishes and slamming cabinets.
Scully takes off her shoes by the front door and turns the padlock.
"I still don't know what you wanted with a disposable camera, Mulder," she calls to him from the living room. She clicks off the television. "We are not watching World's Best Explosions, by the way."
Mulder brings the plates and they eat in near silence, though it is a comfortable one. Scully clicks her teeth together and Mulder offers her a baby corn, which she takes off his fork with a swift bite. She doesn't offer her chow mein, but he guides her hand with its full fork to his own mouth and slurps the noodles up.
It is good to be together, performing this familiar dance.
After dinner, Scully turns the television back on and settles in with some poorly edited version of A Clockwork Orange. She pulls Mulder's discarded jacket from the back of the couch and covers herself with it, her stocking feet resting on his lap. He reads a book, The Legend of the Nova Scotia Werewolf, glasses on, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
After the credits begin to roll, he rises and disappears into the kitchen, and Scully hears ice dropping into a glass, the faucet being run, the shuffling of a plastic bag.
"Scully, come here a second, will you?" he calls to her from the kitchen.
She sighs, getting up from the couch. She stands on her toes for a moment, arms over her head in a deep stretch before yawning. "What is it?"
Walking into the kitchen, she sees Mulder standing there, disposable camera in hand and pointed directly at her.
"Mulder, come on, knock it off," she says, putting her hand over her face. Before she can get it there, the flash lights up the dim kitchen.
She looks at him sternly. "If I'd known this was what you were up to, I would have foregone the trip to Walgreen's." Her eyebrow is up, her lips pursed in annoyance.
He grins and snaps another picture of her, just like that.
"Come on, Scully. Say cheese!"
She grabs the camera from his hand before he can take another picture.
"I'd prefer not to, thanks."
And thus begins another dance; the smile on his face is contagious, and though she is vaguely annoyed, she does not pull away when he reaches for her waist, backing her against the counter. The looks they exchange are heady, full of unfettered longing that never ceases or decreases, no matter how often they are together. Mulder kisses her deeply and feels her moan softly against his mouth, her hands moving through his hair.
"Just one picture," he says. "Of us."
Scully seems to consider this for a moment, and then hands the camera back. He holds it out in front of them, pulling her back to his chest and his arm tightly around her middle. The camera clicks and flashes as they look straight ahead, unable to see one another's faces. They are both smiling, wildly and vividly, that faraway look in their eyes of hope, love, a whole genie's lamp full of wishes.
He puts his mouth to her ear.
"I want the baby to know how happy we are together," he says. "I want us to know, too."
He has always teased her about her ability to fall asleep easily, citing natural disasters, the apocalypse; Scully would miss it all. And yet it is Mulder that is lost to the world, now; his bare arm hangs languidly off the side of the bed, the practical cotton sheet tangled around his calf. He breathes deeply and open-mouthed.
She doesn't mention it, but she relishes the feeling of looking at him now as the father of her child. He feels similarly, and is occasionally more vocal about it since saying yes. His hand in its usual place on her lower back sometimes snakes around to her belly, now, lingering for a moment. There is a dreamy look in his eyes; he tries not to seem too eager but fails miserably.
Scully never responds. She does not dare to hope too much, to bring bad luck to her greatest wish, but there are times when she cannot help it, and she hoards those doses of divine happiness in the deepest places inside of her, away from the wicked world.
Lying beside her, Mulder is made holy; he prays to any available god to bring restoration, to bring their child.
Theirs is an understated happiness that slips beneath the radar of the easily identifiable. The first time she asks him to stay the night-- the whole night-- it is a victory akin to the crumbling of the Berlin wall: slowly gained, dangerous, and a sure sign that times were changing. She even allows him to hold on to her now, after, his nose buried deep in the foxy down of her hair, his breath leaking hot onto the skin of her neck.
But then there is work to be done, again, and an amount of professionalism that she will not sacrifice, that she must not lose if this is going to last. All bodes well; she second guesses him and he pokes fun at her scientific rigidity. They just happen to spend most nights in the same bed now.
Padding across the room, she scratches the bottom of his foot with her fingernails, watching him squirm. When he makes no move to wake entirely, she gives him a tap and goes for the bathroom. "C'mon, Mulder, time to get up-- we've got a nine o'clock with Skinner and we were late for the last one."
She doesn't wait for him to respond, just closes the bathroom door and starts the shower.
***
They try to spend the weekends apart, to forge some semblance of separate existences, but inevitably one shows up at the other's door by Sunday night, bored and hungry for company. This week, Scully has brought her overnight bag, a flowery purple thing so unlike her that it makes Mulder laugh whenever he sees it.
He swings the door open to her smiling face and kisses her on the cheek before taking her bags: tomorrow's clothes, Chinese food, and a plastic pharmacy bag.
"Doctor Scully, I presume?"
He is in high spirits; there's a crinkle in his eye as he smiles at her. He sets her overnight bag on the couch and pads off to the kitchen, Chinese food in tow, clanging dishes and slamming cabinets.
Scully takes off her shoes by the front door and turns the padlock.
"I still don't know what you wanted with a disposable camera, Mulder," she calls to him from the living room. She clicks off the television. "We are not watching World's Best Explosions, by the way."
Mulder brings the plates and they eat in near silence, though it is a comfortable one. Scully clicks her teeth together and Mulder offers her a baby corn, which she takes off his fork with a swift bite. She doesn't offer her chow mein, but he guides her hand with its full fork to his own mouth and slurps the noodles up.
It is good to be together, performing this familiar dance.
After dinner, Scully turns the television back on and settles in with some poorly edited version of A Clockwork Orange. She pulls Mulder's discarded jacket from the back of the couch and covers herself with it, her stocking feet resting on his lap. He reads a book, The Legend of the Nova Scotia Werewolf, glasses on, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
After the credits begin to roll, he rises and disappears into the kitchen, and Scully hears ice dropping into a glass, the faucet being run, the shuffling of a plastic bag.
"Scully, come here a second, will you?" he calls to her from the kitchen.
She sighs, getting up from the couch. She stands on her toes for a moment, arms over her head in a deep stretch before yawning. "What is it?"
Walking into the kitchen, she sees Mulder standing there, disposable camera in hand and pointed directly at her.
"Mulder, come on, knock it off," she says, putting her hand over her face. Before she can get it there, the flash lights up the dim kitchen.
She looks at him sternly. "If I'd known this was what you were up to, I would have foregone the trip to Walgreen's." Her eyebrow is up, her lips pursed in annoyance.
He grins and snaps another picture of her, just like that.
"Come on, Scully. Say cheese!"
She grabs the camera from his hand before he can take another picture.
"I'd prefer not to, thanks."
And thus begins another dance; the smile on his face is contagious, and though she is vaguely annoyed, she does not pull away when he reaches for her waist, backing her against the counter. The looks they exchange are heady, full of unfettered longing that never ceases or decreases, no matter how often they are together. Mulder kisses her deeply and feels her moan softly against his mouth, her hands moving through his hair.
"Just one picture," he says. "Of us."
Scully seems to consider this for a moment, and then hands the camera back. He holds it out in front of them, pulling her back to his chest and his arm tightly around her middle. The camera clicks and flashes as they look straight ahead, unable to see one another's faces. They are both smiling, wildly and vividly, that faraway look in their eyes of hope, love, a whole genie's lamp full of wishes.
He puts his mouth to her ear.
"I want the baby to know how happy we are together," he says. "I want us to know, too."