You awoke to the fragrance of Lucifer’s shampoo around you, but only remnants of it. The demon himself was nowhere to be seen, his side of the bed vacant and cold to touch. You’d planned to give him your thanks first thing in the morning, but it appeared that he wasn’t giving you the opportunity.
It took you a few more minutes of tossing and rolling to sit up and turn off the alarm, like a stubborn child who wouldn’t let go of their favorite toy.
You rubbed the sleep away from your eyes, slowly coming to your senses. You’d slept in the same bed as Lucifer, though you recalled almost none of it but for the vague memory of him calling out for you in the dark. You’d brushed it off as a hallucination.
You looked around his vast room and locked eyes with something familiar on the nightstand. Rolling over, you realized that it was Lucifer’s half of your matching bracelets. He must’ve forgotten to put it back on after waking up, you told yourself.
Something else caught your eye. A memo with Lucifer’s cursive handwriting on it stared back at you. An instinct deep within your stomach told you to stay away, but your hand was already reaching out for it.
Despite it being the afternoon already, you were still curled up in bed. Had it not been for Lucifer’s booming voice from outside, you would’ve stayed under the blanket for a few more hours.
“MAMMONNNNNNNN!”
The very moment you opened your door, a familiar ball of white hair flashed before your eyes. Mammon made a U-turn and halted outside your room, “Help me, MC!”
“What did you do?” You asked. Before he had the time to answer, he looked to the right and yelped, already breaking into a sprint down the halls.
You stuck your head out and found Lucifer storming down with a dangerous glint in his eyes, though the drawings that were still stuck on his face made him look a lot less threatening. You put two pieces together and figured out what was going on.
“Morning, Lucifer.” You called out. He turned to you, and slowly let the scowl fade away.
“Morning. Pardon me for greeting you in this state,” he gestured vaguely at his face.
“It’s fine. I’ve already seen it.”
You bit down on your lip as you watched his reaction. “You’ve already… Did you do this?”
“Of course not! Who do you take me for?” You rolled your eyes, nudging your door open. “But I can tell you it’s not Mammon. Care to come in? I’ll get it off for you.”
Sophia Wallace is convinced her life is over when her high school cuts the journalism program. Without the elective, she loses her chance to intern with the biggest newspaper company in the county, and why? All because the baseball team needs more funding.
To make matters worse, her boyfriend publicly dumps her at a party, which is mortifying. But the icing on the cake is when the captain of the baseball team and the most popular guy at Bayview High, Walsh Hunter, decides to be chivalrous. He jumps in, throws his arm around Sophia, and declares his undying love for her. In front of everyone.
Suddenly, Sophia is thrown into a world of fake relationships and undercover journalism, and she realizes she’s way, way out of her league.
Good thing she’s got the team captain to teach her how to play.
But faced with choosing between saving her journalism class or her newfound feelings for Walsh, will she strike out or hit a home run?
If you’re interested in YA Fake Relationship/Enemies to Lovers Romances, this may be the book for you! I’ll leave a link if you’d like to check it out!
Story Summary: Down on his luck John Watson answers an advert for a paid role in an experimental play. Enter William Scott with a most unusual proposition: help him test run a two person immersive experience, oh and by the way there is sex and romance involved.
An update on progress: It’s been three and a half months since beginning to post this story. The word and chapter count are so much more than I ever would have imagined when I started this tale. Right now, I’m halfway through a climactic chapter - 23 - and the serious sh*t that all of Brook’s smug little grins promise is about to come true. Then, there will be something like nine chapters following that to answer the threat and bring our boys to a very well deserved happy ending. Everything is outlined and ready to be written, my momentum is good - despite injury and illness that tripped me up - and I feel good about bringing the story to completion.
The words are difficult for Lan Wangji to say. But they must be said, and more importantly, not saying them is even more unbearable.
“I … what?” Wei Ying is a few steps behind him, too close still. Lan Wangji wants to put an ocean between them.
“You can go,” he repeats, glad his voice is always cold, glad no one save his brother can read his emotions. “We’ve achieved the purpose of this arrangement. There is no need for you to pretend further.”
It’s the logical step. Their aim was to repel the advances of a certain persistent sect leader’s equally persistent daughter, and at last she has left Cloud Recesses in a storm of anger and informed her father that no, she very well will not be marrying that. Lan Wangji regrets not being able to reject her through more conventional means, but she really was quite persistent.
Thus, there is no reason why Wei Ying should stay. He’s complained often of staying in Cloud Recesses, so this release will be a great comfort to him. Lan Wangji focuses on that as much as he can manage. It keeps his mind off the painful twinge in his chest and the feeling that he’s sending the sunlight away.
“So what, just like that? It’s over?” Wei Ying’s voice is strained with incredulity. It must be the suddenness of it all that shocks him. “I’ve done you the favor, so now scram back to Yunmeng?”
So he’s decided to make this as difficult for Lan Wangji as possible. This is not entirely surprising. “I did not say ‘scram,’” he clarifies. “I thank you for your help, but it is no longer needed, so please feel free to return home.”
He can’t turn to face him. It takes restraint just to stand here and say the words. If he turns, he fears what he might do.
“Oh, I see.” Wei Ying’s voice is loud behind him, frustration behind the words. “I’m no longer needed, huh? Well, that’s just fine with me. I’ll head home then. See if I ever come back here again.”
“Why are you angry?” Lan Wangji asks.
“No reason! I have no reason to be angry! I’m going home like you told me to.” Wei Ying pauses. “Seriously, you are so sick of me that you can’t even look at me, Lan Zhan? I thought we were at least friends. Has it been that intolerable, then, standing close to me, putting your arms around me? Do I have terrible breath, that you can’t even look at me and say goodbye?”
It hasn’t been intolerable. Not in the slightest.
Lan Wangji shuts his eyes tight, mustering up the last of his courage. He turns.
Wei Ying’s face is illuminated by the faraway sunset. Dark shadows and golden edges. His hair dances in the mountain breeze. Lan Wangji wants him so badly it’s hard to breathe. “Is this better?” he manages to say.
Wei Ying frowns. “I suppose,” he says coldly. “Well, I’ll go get my things and head out, then.” He turns on his heel and stomps away several paces. Lan Wangji watches him go and feels the world grow cold.
No more, he thinks as Wei Ying retreats. No more of a lanky arm interlinked with his, no more of the sunny smile aimed at him. No more embracing Wei Ying and feeling all that warmth seep into him like a sunrise. And the kiss that Lan Wangji had to remind himself over and over was intended for one woman’s eyes, but that had felt real in every possible way – he will never have that again.
He lifts his hand. Wei Ying’s name starts to rise in his throat.
Wei Ying turns before he can say anything.
“You know what, Lan Zhan? I’m not done with you,” Wei Ying declares, stomping back to him with determination etched on his face. “I know the face you put on, you know. I know how you try to be ice-cold. But you don’t fool me one bit.”
He closes the gap between them, points a finger, and pokes Lan Wangji in the chest. “You had fun,” he declares. “You were having the time of your life, parading me around like your favorite trophy of war. Putting your arms around me. You liked that. Even if it was just because you were getting away with fooling someone, you had a good time.”
Lan Wangji’s reflex is to say, ridiculous. He can say no such thing now. He stares, holding himself stiffly to keep from doing something he’ll surely regret.
Wei Ying’s face is still shadowed from the backlight, but Lan Wangji can see the rose tint rise in his cheeks. “You at least owe me a drink. And an explanation.”
“Explanation of what?” He can barely spit out the words. His hands itch to clench into fists.
Wei Ying hesitates, just for a moment, and he averts his eyes. Lan Wangji watches the resolution build in his features. When he turns back, his glare is sharper than a blade.
“Explain,” he says in a low, measured voice, “why it didn’t feel like you were pretending.”
He might as well have impaled Lan Wangji on the point of a sword. He had prepared for every contingency, but it never occurred to him that Wei Ying would be able to read him so well. He takes in a sharp breath.
“You felt something,” Wei Ying goes on. “You felt something when you held me. When you kissed me, Lan Zhan! I was there. I know what I felt.” He searches Lan Wangji’s face. “You have feelings for me. I know you do.” The determination on his face fades, almost imperceptibly, but Lan Wangji is conscious of every minuscule movement of his face. "You have to.“
His face, in the shifting shadows, is pleading. There’s uncertainty in his eyes. Lan Wangji watches them waver, still frozen to the spot. He doesn’t dare believe the implications of what he’s hearing.
Wei Ying averts his eyes. "Or maybe I just made a huge fool of myself,” he mumbles. “Lan Zhan, it’s getting late. Can I stay one more night before I set out? I won’t be a bother.”
The doubt on his face crushes Lan Wangji’s resolve. Even if Wei Ying isn’t saying what he hopes he’s saying, he can’t stand still a moment longer. His entire body rebels against him, and he’s leaning forward before he can think to stop it. His hands rise of their own accord. He has no control of them, watching like a voyeur as they reach out and settle firmly on Wei Ying’s jaw and the nape of his neck, cradling him, tilting his head upward.
Wei Ying blinks. Lan Wangji can see his own name forming on Wei Ying’s lips. A question, in Wei Ying’s eyes. Lan Wangji is powerless not to answer.
Hand tightening on the back of Wei Ying’s neck, he pulls sharply and crushes their mouths together.
A second of confusion, a moment of dread in Lan Wangji’s wildly spinning mind, and then he hears a groan in Wei Ying’s voice, registers the feel of his fingers clutching at Lan Wangji’s arms. Wei Ying is kissing back – oh, how well he’s kissing back – and if Lan Wangji is to believe his senses, he means it. Joy diffuses through him like mist, all at once in his every cell, in his blood and skin and everywhere.
Wei Ying’s lips leave his too quickly. Lan Wangji chases them, but Wei Ying is too fast, pulling away and staring up at him with an effervescent grin.
“I knew it,” he says.
“Wei Ying is very perceptive.” Lan Wangji recognizes a softness in his own voice. He’s used this tone for purposes of the ruse, but this time, it’s just for Wei Ying.
“I knew it!” Wei Ying repeats. He throws his arms around Lan Wangji, hugging him tight. He’s strong. Lan Wangji will feel a pain in his ribs tomorrow. He doesn’t mind in the slightest. “Lan Zhan, you’re a sly bastard. You pretend to be all cool and reserved, but I knew you felt something. Oh, I’m so damn glad I didn’t imagine it.” He sighs melodramatically and squeezes Lan Wangji again.
He steps back. “So I suppose I don’t have to go back to Yunmeng quite yet?”
“No.” Lan Wangji finds one of Wei Ying’s hands, clasps it in his own. “Stay.”
Wei Ying’s smile is incandescent.
They walk back through the walkways and gardens hand in hand, Wei Ying keeping up a constant litany of chatter as they go. Through the gate, past the garden, up the steps and inside, every step like a dream with Wei Ying next to him. When the doors are at last closed, Lan Wangji draws him close again, and this time he doesn’t let Wei Ying pull away. Wei Ying will stay with him, and nothing they do for each other will be a ruse anymore.
He needs a wife. She needs a miracle. Let the Pleasure Wars begin …
Just so it’s clear, I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps around. And I’m especially not the kind of woman who’d ever sell her body for money. At least—that’s not who I used to be. Now, I’m getting on my hands and knees at the orders of the stranger I suddenly call, husband. I’m ashamed of what I’m doing. It’s dirty. Wrong.…
Summary:Mulder has gotten himself into a real pickle this time. And what does that mean? That Scully is deep in the pickle with him. Our two favorite FBI agents are stuck in an airport due to a snowstorm, on their way back to DC after a case and Mulder bumps into someone from his past. Someone he might have told a tiny lie to. Will Scully help him keep up the ruse?
~~
Chapter 4
Tiffany serves everyone their drink of choice, placing them on coasters on the low table. The glass of white wine, beading condensation in her manicured hand, kept for herself. She takes a sip, closing her eyes. “Oh, that hits the spot.” Swiping the corners of her mouth with a finger, she collects a few stray smudges of lipstick. “We shouldn’t be having these,” she confesses in a hushed voice, glancing at Brendan. “We could get a page any minute.”
“Well, you only live once, am I right?” Brendan replies, picking up his beverage and downing almost half of it.
Scully and Mulder collect their tumblers, other hands still connected, and join in the drinking.
.
“So, I didn’t ask. What brings you here at this godforsaken time of year? A case?” Tiffany queries.
Mulder clears his throat, Scully watching him. “Crime scene,” he answers quickly. “We, we… well, I had to pick up a body, actually. To take back so, um, someone can perform an autopsy on it.” He turns his face toward Scully, though his eyes flick quickly away, back to Tiffany.
“Oh. Was there a wedding on here too?” Brendan asks, clearly a little confused, most likely because it’s a weekday.
“No. I just like to tag along, to be with him whenever I can.” Scully curls her arm around Mulder’s, feeling her cheeks pink over the hopelessly devoted treacle spilling from her lips. “And he’s FBI,” she says emphatically. “Brilliant at his job,” she adds, returning her glass to the table to rub her palm up and down his bicep. Mulder reacts, flinches at first, and then leans into her touch, Scully turning to look at him. He regards her too. Sucks his bottom lip between his teeth momentarily before releasing it, moist and plump. Looking at her as he does it, up so, so close. She can feel her pulse in her throat, which is bone dry, and she finds it hard to swallow. Has to look away. Thankfully Brendan speaks.
“Oh, look at you, all proud of your man,” he coos.
Scully paints on a broad smile, releasing Mulder’s arm and patting his thigh.
“Thanks, Honey,” Mulder adds, quickly placing a peck on her cheek.
A reflex, Scully places her fingers over the place he kissed, then finds his eyes again. “Anytime, Babe,” she says.
Babe. It had been so cringy when Charlie’s girlfriend used to say it. But now, saying to Mulder? Hmmm. Perhaps it’s the look he’s giving her in reply. A tiny smirk and that twinkle in his eye he gets, whenever something fascinates him.
.
Regardless of their terms of endearment back and forth, Scully feels awkward. Once, she had one line in her eighth-grade play—the sum total of her acting career to date—and the physiological effect of standing in front of the whole school auditorium and pretending to be someone else, reciting those nine words, was nigh on debilitating. Reminiscent of how she feels right now. Over the top, out of her body, free falling.
But, she can do this, she tells herself. Pushes on for Mulder.
.
“I sure am,” she affirms, folding her palm over his toned quad and squeezing.
She can’t help but feel silly. Knows that if she and Mulder actually were a couple, this is not how she would behave. Though she does agree with the sentiment, he is brilliant, and she is proud of him.
One thing she begins to realize, though, is that it doesn’t feel strange touching him. No, it doesn’t. Not. At. All. Quite the opposite. A drink and a half in, and she lets herself indulge, enjoying her temporary permission to hold him. Lifting her arm, she stretches it around his shoulders, as far as she can reach. Embraces him, and his scent engulfs her. Intoxicating—his familiar cologne, sweet fresh sweat—heady and exhilarating.
.
“So, are you both working the same flight tonight?” Mulder directs at Tiffany and Brendan as he slouches his hips down the couch cushion, lowering his body, resulting in Scully’s arm draping more snugly around him.
“Yeah,” Tiffany pipes up, beginning to smile. “Heading to Honolulu. I can’t wait. We have three days off there.” She looks across at Brendan and reaches out, and grabs his arm. “So looking forward to getting away from this diabolical cold.”
“It’ll be hella fabulous. And warm,” Brendan adds, clapping his hands excitedly.
“Plus, you know Tiff wrote a book?”
“Ah, yeah,” Mulder replies.
“Well, Brendan’s been writing ideas for one of his own,” Tiffany says, taking over. “So, we’re going to use the time to workshop it.”
“So excited!” Brendan says, clapping again.
“What’s it about?” Scully queries.
“Well, I was thinking of writing about the mile-high club,” Brendan explains, with a glint in his eye. “But then I realized that might be just one chapter in a bigger book. So, now it’ll be a group of anecdotes from my time as a steward. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Ooo, maybe that could somehow be incorporated into the name?” he says, turning to Tiffany, who nods.
“Give us a mile high story,” Mulder prompts as a shiver runs up his spine. A reaction to the sensation of Scully playing with his collar, her fingers slipping underneath it and brushing against his bare flesh.
“Oh, okay,” Brendan starts, shifting forward in his seat, his face cracking into a cheeky grin. “I once found two people literally stuck together.”
Tiffany laughs, and Mulder can’t help joining in.
“The guy threw his back out,” Brendan continues, “mid-thrust.”
Scully laughs then, too—Mulder feels her body reverberate alongside him, and it does something to him, somewhere deep and hidden. It lights a fire, that laugh. That seldom heard laugh with the power of a thousand suns. Mulder wishes that there weren’t two witnesses opposite them, so he might sit and indulge in her loveliness. Bask in Scully, raw and real. He swallows a breath to simmer down, focusing on Brendan’s story again. Perhaps not the best subject matter when trying to extinguish arousal, though.
“And Tiff had to get me to help, like, pull him back, like out of his girlfriend, so she could maneuver her foot off the sink.”
“God, it was hilarious.”
They’re all laughing now, and Mulder grins as he watches Scully enjoy the moment.
“So, are you members?” Scully pipes up, to Mulder’s surprise.
“Of the club?” Tiffany clarifies, and Scully nods. “Well, yeah. I mean, it wasn’t in the toilets, but I think it still counts.”
“Spill,” Brendan prods.
“Cockpit. With the pilot. No pun intended.”
“Simon?”
Tiffany nods in confirmation, a little something more behind her eyes.
“Oh shit! Cockpit. Argh! Is he the one in your book whose penis … goes like this?” Brendan almost screams, hooking his index finger into a curve in demonstration.”
“I’ll never tell,“ Tiffany smirks, though she nods in affirmation.
“Fuck me, I’m not going to rest until I know the secret identity of every man in that book, Tiff. You know that, right?” Brendan laughs.
“What about you?” Scully asks, grinning at Brendan.
“No,” he says decidedly and then adds, “unless a handjob from a coworker counts.”
They all laugh.
“Who?” Tiffany presses, eyes wide.
“Michael.”
“Really?” Tiffany drawls, clearly titillated.
Brendan mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key, and Tiffany copies him with a nod.
“And have you two?” Brendan invites, directing his attention to Mulder and Scully.
They both turn toward one another, share a look, and Mulder can’t help picturing it. With her. An erotic image of fucking Scully from behind in a cramped airplane bathroom, her hooded eyes looking back at him in the mirror, flashes across his mind. A surge of lust pulses through him, and he sees her cheeks flush, sure then that she must be picturing something similar.
“No,” he says, then adds, “maybe someday,” never losing her gaze.
He feels her inhale beside him. Her whole body quiver.
“I mean, I have,” Scully says, biting on her bottom lip, sucking it between her lips, and looking at Mulder in a way that he knows she’s telling the truth. He has questions.
“Oh, oh, oh,’ Brendan sounds. “Obviously not with Fox!”
“Not yet,” Scully adds, and Mulder feels himself swell in his pants. His body not conceiving this is make-believe and responding to the word yet.
“I did not know that,” Mulder says, truly astonished, eyeing her and shaking his head.
“Damn, girl!” Brendan almost screams. “Details.”
“Yes, details,” Mulder echoes, including Brendan’s inflection.
“All I’ll say is that, as much as Mulder sometimes teases me about my lack of stature, it sure came in handy,” she finished by suggestively swiping her tongue at the corner of her mouth.
“Whoa, girl!” Brendan hoots, clapping, and he and Tiffany laugh, Scully, looking pleased with herself as Mulder fears his zipper might burst open.
.
Their shared laughter disappears into their glasses as they sip and settle down. The crowd around them is loud, swallowing the raucous sounds.
At this point, Scully is absently running her fingers through the scrap of hair at the nape of Mulder’s neck, and she can feel him leaning into her. An almost undetectable noise escapes as a low sound in his throat. Pleasure, she decerns. It thunders through her, initiating an involuntary physical response. Nipples tighten, alive to the feel of the delicate lace of her bra as her breath heaves—the side of her breast crushed against Mulder’s firm bicep. The tight seam of her new jeans presses up against her, most intimately. Tilting her pelvis just so, she grinds the rigid denim against the aching throb between her legs, seeking momentary relief.
“So, what other stories will be in the book?” Mulder asks, returning his glass to the coaster and then collecting Scully’s hand in his. He begins rubbing his thumb over her skin, electricity radiating from where they touch.
“So, there will be a chapter about the assholes. Maybe two chapters.”
“Or three,” Tiff adds, with a chuckle.
“Right? Anyway, this one guy I was helping with was in the middle of a full-on medical emergency. A doctor was working on him. Like, he would have fully died had that doctor not been on the flight. And he was laid out in the middle of the aisle, and I was running to them with the defib when the passenger, who was had the seat next to the poor guy, flags me over. I’m thinking—they know him or have important info, but they ask me to get them a diet coke!”
“Oh, that’s fucked up,” Mulder injects.
“Ah huh,” Tiffany adds. “You would not believe the shit we see.”
"Unbelievable,” Mulder confirms.
"I know! But, for all the bad stories, there are good ones too,” she says.
“Like what?” Scully asks.
“I have one,” Brendan starts. “There was this fraught mother, baby howling. You’ll get it when you have kids,” he adds, looking at Scully, and she feels something drop in her stomach. Just a small weight, depositing there.
“Mostly, passengers do not want to be seated next to babies. Anywhere near babies,” Tiffany interjects.
“Well, the kid just would not stop crying. And I see this older woman. She looks kind of severe—scary, really—and I see her heading over to the mom and baby, and I am just waiting for her to go off, right?”
Scully nods along, sure she detects Mulder’s grip on her hand grow a little tighter.
“So, she surprises me and the mom and offers to take the baby.” Both Tiffany and Brendan share looks of delight at the recalled gesture, then Brendan continues. “And then she tells the mom she’s doing a great job. So, she picks up the little thing, bounces it, and takes it back to her seat, and it quiets down and eventually goes to sleep. And this mom was so, so grateful. It was really beautiful, actually.” Brendan says sincerely.
“That’s a nice ending, but babies on flights make for a hard shift,” Tiffany tells them with a laugh and a shake of her head. “After being an air hostess, I’m not sure if I want kids.”
“I hear you,” Brendan agrees.
“You want them?” Tiffany directs at Scully as she drains the last of her drink.
Scully feels herself get hot. Her hand suddenly sticky and constricted in Mulder’s. She hasn’t been asked this question before, but the answer is there, raw and devastating, under a very thin layer of skin, encapsulating her always.
Mulder raises her hand to his lips and kisses it, looking across at her. He tethers her, a calm sea from a tempest, with those hazel eyes, and she replies.
Summary:Mulder has gotten himself into a real pickle this time. And what does that mean? That Scully is deep in the pickle with him. Our two favorite FBI agents are stuck in an airport due to a snowstorm, on their way back to DC after a case and Mulder bumps into someone from his past. Someone he might have told a tiny lie to. Will Scully help him keep up the ruse?
~~
Chapter3
Mulder’s throat is dry, arid with chagrin. Scully, close, radiates heat, both warming and burning him—a metaphor for their entire relationship. She is angled toward him, surely to better deliver some manifestation of her ‘what the fuck?’ look. He isn’t making eye contact. Is having trouble concentrating as her thigh is pressed intimately against his own.
He inhales deeply, then looks at her; a classic double brow raise there to greet him. Mulder isn’t sure how much time he has to bring her up to speed before Tiffany returns. Or how up to speed he wishes her to be, for that matter.
He owes her the CliffsNotes, at the very least.
“Shit.” Shit, shit, shit. “I’m sorry, um….”
Seizing his drink, he downs the fiery liquid in one gulp, the ice rattling in the glass as he returns it to the coaster. Hands sweaty, he drops his gaze as he rubs his palms back and forth along the tops of his thighs. She is silent beside him. Waiting. Sadly, no bullshit story pops into his head to rescue him. To give a reasonable explanation to her valid question: what gives? God knows she deserves the truth, no matter how stupid.
The whisky is doing its desired job—bones slacken, tongue loosens, nerves begin to resolve.
“So, I bumped into Tiffany a few months back, in that coffee shop on M. You know the one?”
“Yeah.”
“And um … I hadn’t seen her since we dated, and, ah—” he stops, takes a swig from his alcohol-void tumbler, and sucks a piece of ice into his mouth. Buying time, he masticates with a crunch. Tries to calculate how to tell her what ensued and keep some semblance of her respect.
Scully swallows audibly beside him, tense. Shifts in her seat and then she speaks instead. “And … you want her back?”
“What?”
Lifting his head, he takes her in; a staunch look holds her beautiful face captive. The expression in her ocean eyes he cannot instantly interpret, and his endeavor to analyze her is interrupted as she continues.
“So, you made up a girlfriend to make her jealous? So she’d realized she wants you back too?” Scully conjectures, filling in the pieces with quick on-the-spot detective work.
She could not be more wrong.
“What? No.”
“You don’t want her back?”
She sounds doubtful, and he rushes to convince her. “Scully, no. I mean, it was never serious between us. I don’t want her.” Mulder shakes his head.
“You don’t want her,” Scully repeats.
“No.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, and Mulder is sure he detects her softening beside him. “Then, I don’t understand.”
Mulder sucks his bottom lip into his mouth before exhaling, long and deep. Then he speaks once more. Dives in. “When I saw her, she um, she … teased me.”
“Teased you?”
Mulder winces at her echo of his justification. Almost timidly, he ventures a glance at her before retreating. She has that look she sometimes gets—a unique combination of I’m listening, and are you kidding?
Mulder feels like a little kid.
“Yeah.”
“What about?”
“About being … clingy. Back when we went out.”
Mulder hasn’t thought about that time in a very long while. Not even when he chanced upon Tiffany—he’d forgotten that brief encounter almost the moment he left the cafe. But the time they happened to date was a period in his life he’d rather forget.
“I’m sorry. I—” The words choke in his throat, and his thoughts momentarily pull him back to that difficult time.
“Mulder, you okay?”
He pauses. Concentrates on his hands that are wildly twisting together in his lap. Scully reaches out and halts them with a steadying palm, ducks her head, catching his gaze.
“I guess I came across as clingy,” he says, voice small. “I was not in a good place,” he adds.
“Okay.” She says it almost as a question, the inflection in her voice leading him.
“Yeah. Things were a bit messed up in my life. Some stuff had been stirred up—my memories … of Samantha’s abduction. And I’d been—” he turns his hand over, under hers, palm-to-palm, and continues. “Anyway, that’s when I met Tiff, and she kind of witnessed it. From the sideline. Sometimes she’d tease me, rib me a little bit, about being a big baby. I mean, I’m sure she was just trying to break the tension.”
Mulder looks at her then. At Tiffany. She is toward the front of the bar in animated conversation with a man dressed in a similar uniform to her own. As he watches, Scully begins to caress her thumb soothingly back and forth over the back of his hand. He is thankful for it. For her. For the immediate reaction his whole body has to her touch, however small. A familiar—though somewhat distant—feeling, under the careful Scully watch, of being held. Of being whole.
“So, when we saw each other, and she made an off-handed comment, reminding me about what I was like, those feelings came back. And I was embarrassed.” Almost as embarrassed as he is right now, recounting the tale to Scully. Involving her in this ridiculous subterfuge. He shrugs self-consciously. “It was stupid.”
“And so, you told her you had a girlfriend—” Mulder could tell just from Scully’s voice that she didn’t understand.
“I told her that I had a girlfriend who was clingy and that I loved that about her.”
“Oh,” Scully drawls as understanding settles. “Muldeerr,” she adds, brow furrowed in gentle admonishment.
“I know. I know. I was trying to save face. I didn’t think, just… blurted it out.” He huffs a laugh. “Sorry for dragging you into it. I never expected to see her again. And I guess because we spend so much time together that when she asked for particulars about the girlfriend, I just found myself describing you.” Even as the explanation tumbles out of his mouth, he doubts his own rationale, knowing there is a much simpler, though he hopes not more obvious, reason Scully was the girlfriend he detailed.
There is silence between them for a beat. The low melody from unseen speakers wrapping them together as they stare, eyes locked. Scully gently squeezes his hand, his heart thrumming in his ears in competition with the music.
“Well, I’m sorry you went through that, whatever was going on back then, without someone who … gets you.”
.
Mulder shouldn’t be stunned. That she isn’t chastising him but consoling him, as it happens every time he thinks he knows her well enough to predict her behavior; she confounds and surprises him.
Also, he can’t help but note her use of the present – ‘someone who gets you.’
“Hey,” Tiffany’s voice ruptures the air between them. They both turn, and she swiftly glances down at their hands, tangled in Mulder’s lap.
“A work friend is going to join us,” she says. “He’s getting a round of drinks but, you know, I didn’t want to order for you.” She laughs as she adds the barb at Mulder. “So, what are you both having?”
“You don’t have to buy us drinks,” Mulder tells her.
“It’s okay; we know the manager, they’re on the house.”
“A gin and tonic and scotch on the rocks, please,” Scully pipes up.
“Got it,” Tiffany replies tightly, turning toward Mulder, who is suppressing a smirk. She pivots on her heel and makes for the bar.
Scully looks at Mulder, and his grin unleashes, and she returns his expression.
“Well, she might not want to order for you, but your clingy girlfriend sure can.”
Mulder lifts his chin regarding her, eyes shining. “Scully, you know,” he begins, awash with gratitude, though still embarrassed at the situation, “—you don’t have to do this.”
Scully rubs her lips together. “No. No, it’s alright,” she says, “I owe you, remember?”
.
Late afternoon rolls into evening, and the music gets louder, the lights lower. The tavern has slowly filled up as the storm rages on outside—the airport and its bars and restaurant continuing to collect wayward travelers.
Looking about the room, Scully notices that the overwrought parents are now holding hands, the children coveting enormous ice cream sundaes. The businessmen drink on, jackets adorning the backs of their chairs, shirt sleeves rolled up, empty beer glasses gathering in assembled little groups. From where Scully is sitting, she can hear them; a little drunker, a lot rowdier.
The raised area where they are seated at the back of the establishment has a few more patrons dotted about too. The champagne couple is still entwined, only now she is sitting on his lap, their lips locked together in a succession of passionate kisses. Scully is transfixed for a moment. A sudden volt of frisson flares inside, ignited by the thought of what it would be like to kiss Mulder like that. Reinforced by the fact that they are holding hands, the soft pads of Mulder’s thumbs caress the back of her hand. It’s overwhelming. Her palm feels sticky, and she senses a shift in her vitals. Temperature increasing, heart rate accelerating, pupils dilating. She can feel it—her body throbbing and surging; the physiology of arousal.
.
Tiffany returns with her friend, and Scully diverts her attention to them. He is tall, attractive, and tanned, holding a tray of drinks and with a head of blond hair that looks like it should come with a ‘highly flammable’ warning label.
Expertly, he delivers the drinks tray to the table, side-eyeing Mulder. As he straightens up, they both stand to greet him, coupled hands dropping away.
Brendan, pointing a finger at them, traces their outlines in the air. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Fox… and his girlfriend Dana,” Tiffany explains, gesturing to each of them like Vanna White. “And this is my friend Brendan,” she adds, giving the man a tight one-armed squeeze around his waist.
“Hey,” Mulder says, extending his hand, which Brendan accepts and holds onto for what might be considered longer than the average handshake.
“Oh, aren’t you just a gorgeous couple,” Brendan says. Then addressing Scully adds, eyes wide, “And you, Miss Thing, is that your real color?”
“Um, I … ” Scully stammers.
“It’s okay; you don’t have to answer that,” he states with a wink.
Tiffany takes her seat then, and Brendan follows suit, plonking himself down in the other armchair.
In synchronicity, Scully and Mulder return to their shared couch, almost on top of one another, closer than before. Biting her lip, Scully reaches for Mulder’s hand and drags it into her lap, continuing to dutifully play her role. He immediately compels his fingers between hers and hangs on.
Summary:Mulder has gotten himself into a real pickle this time. And what does that mean? That Scully is deep in the pickle with him. Our two favorite FBI agents are stuck in an airport due to a snowstorm, on their way back to DC after a case and Mulder bumps into someone from his past. Someone he might have told a tiny lie to. Will Scully help him keep up the ruse?
~~
Chapter2
“…and this is Dana Scully.”
Fuck, fuck, fucketty, fuck.
Mulder does his level best to conceal a look of panic with a well-practiced calm exterior as he eyes the two women before him.
Scully, her hand clasped in Tiffany’s, flicks him a glance. Via a tight smile and, to the untrained eye, infinitesimal arch of her right brow, he catches her what-the-actual-fuck-Mulder-I-borrowed-a-fucking-Tshirt-I-didn’t-sign-up-to-be-your-fake-girlfriend look.
Fuck.
.
The moment he had walked away from Tiffany following their chance reunion in a coffee shop downtown a few months back, he’d berated himself for telling such a stupid lie.
They had dated only briefly, and if he’d had any sensibility at the time, he would have understood what was going on. That Tiffany was the hapless fool he rebounded into after ricocheting off a cluster of events that left him raw and inside out. A Pandora’s Box of his buried past had been busted open in a whirlwind of regression hypnosis and co-dependency that saw him spiral, like Alice, down a seemingly bottomless rabbit hole of desperate pursuit and obsession.
Tiffany had happened upon him in a dive bar not long after, and one or other of them picked the other up. And for a short time, it worked; FBI Agent, consumed by his work, has fly-in, fly-out girlfriend. A person to fall into on occasion - someone he did not need to think about when she wasn’t right in front of him. When she was in town, he clung to her like a poor, unwitting life raft. For it hadn’t only been lost memories that resurfaced during the excavation of his mind, it had brought out the demons too. Demons that had broken him open and left him in free fall, spilling lost secrets and absurd theories as he held on for dear life. Maybe he had told Tiffany a little too much, come across as a little too crazy. Maybe he had scared her off with his revelations. Maybe he had meant to.
So, when he’d run into her, and she began to jibe and joke about their past, about how clingy he was when they dated that time, he got protective of his former damaged self—blurted out that he liked clingy. That, in fact, his current girlfriend was over the top clingy, and it was one of the things he loved about her.
Unfortunately, that piqued Tiffany’s interest, and when he couldn’t avoid her probing pop quiz about who the ‘lucky’ woman was—mainly, what she looked like—it was Scully he described.
.
Please, Mulder mouths silently at Scully in appeal, pressing his palms together. Glints of lamplight reflect off the deep Aegean blue of her eyes as she drills a look back at him. Fuck. God, does he ever wish he could read her mind. She’s probably judging him for not telling her of his past, for dating an air hostess. For putting her in the position of play-acting that she’s in love with him or wondering why the fuck he described her to his ex-girlfriend. And so, he pouts, out of the line of Tiffany’s sight, gifts her his best puppy dog look.
And then, and then, she acquiesces, nods and mouths okay just as Tiffany releases her hand. Mulder exhales, and the nervous grip on his gut discharges and uncoils as Scully’s features change again. A microexpression telling him she thinks he’s an idiot but that he’s her idiot.
“Can I join you,” Tiffany says, at the same time as she sits, not waiting for a response before she joins them.
“Of course.” Mulder hears himself, his voice overenthusiastic, and he cringes a little inside.
.
Tiffany plonks herself down in the single chair Mulder has just vacated, placing her handbag on her lap and rummaging through it before pulling out a compact. As she reapplies the lipstick that she left on Mulder’s face, Scully sits back in her seat.
His chair now occupied, Mulder sits next to her, almost on top of her—thigh glued to thigh. Chancing a look at him, she finds his face incredibly close. He enunciates without noise a reminder; clingy and a devilish smirk shrewdly embellishes his sublime features.
Oh, what the fuck has he got her into?
She moves her hand a few inches from where it rests on her knee across to Mulder’s, replaying his earlier words over and over in her head. Clingy. Really, really clingy... Breath catching, she slides her palm over the downy fabric of his winter suit pants and gives his leg a squeeze between her thumb and fingers. Fucking clingy. She slowly exhales and continues to clamp down, applying more pressure right there on the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve. A reflex point that can be excruciatingly painful if done just right. Scully does it just right, and Mulder lets out a little yep, grimaces, and then he expertly morphs it into a smile as he grabs her hand, swiftly pulling it off his thigh and bringing it to his lips, placing kisses along the back of her hand. Holding it there.
His lips are warm and soft, breath hot on her skin as his mouth lingers. Something stirs in her belly. An altogether familiar sensation that rises whenever he is close - his scent assaulting her. Or at night in the twilight of her room, when her thoughts turn to him as she twists in her bedsheets, her hands becoming his as they drag over her fevered skin.
Tiffany’s gaze burns into her, intense and somewhat intimidating, and she pulls Mulder’s hand into her lap.
How did she fit into Mulder’s past? For as much time as they’ve spent together, it’s disconcerting to suddenly be confronted with how little she knows about his past love life. Scully doesn’t want to think of herself as judgmental, but she just can’t join the dots. Tiffany is beautiful. Glamorous - dark hair and warm brown eyes. But, an air hostess? Really?
Scully admonishes herself for being so critical, but even as she does so, she has to be honest with herself - she’s always managed to find something within the confines of her mind to trash and tear down any woman that Mulder has shown a passing interest in.
And she doesn’t like the idea of Mulder with anybody. Anybody but—
“You’ve been single since us, right?” Tiffany asks Mulder, and then as a seeming afterthought, adds, “until now, of course.” He tells her yes with a nod. “Well, I’m so pleased you finally found someone, Fox.” Turning her attention toward Scully, she smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And it’s so nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Scully manages.
“So, tell me - how long have you two been dating?”
“Um—” Scully was pleased the X-Files hadn’t thus far included any undercover assignments; she wasn’t quick on her feet at improvisation.
“Not long.” Mulder’s answers for them. “But we’ve known each other a long time.” He squeezes her hand as he replies.
“Oh,” Tiffany seems taken aback at this. “Well, that’s nice you … finally got there.”
Scully hears an air of condescension, and she is irrationally pissed at Mulder. Upset that what he said makes her sound like a consolation prize. That they’ve been friends for years and then realized there was no one else, so they might as well be with each other. Like they had an ‘if we’re not married by 35’ pact.
She swallows her disgruntlement and reminds herself this is all fake.
“So, Mulder just told me you two dated,” Scully stammers, subtly trying to find out more.
Tiffany purses her lips, and Scully realizes she’s offended her. Likely because Mulder hadn’t bothered to mention her before now, and she feels a grain of self-satisfaction, even though the slight wasn’t deliberate.
Then a smile curls at the other woman’s lips. “Mulder? You call him Mulder?” She sounds smugly amused. “He tried to get me to call him that, didn’t you, Fox.” Tiffany reaches out over the low table between them, brushes Mulder’s knee as she speaks, and pats him somewhat patronizingly.
“Well,” Mulder pipes up, “Scully’s sweet like that.” He strokes the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. It feels incredibly intimate. And though she knows he is doing it for show, that it’s fake, the electricity dancing up her arm, branching out through her body, is real.
“Scully ?” Tiffany says with a further air of glee. Almost a scoff. “That’s what he calls you? Oh, how precious.”
“Um, yeah. Well, I thought it might bring us closer. You know, if we had the same kind of pet name for each other,” Scully forces, holding Mulder’s hand a little tighter.
“So, how long ago did you two date?”
Mulder and Tiffany lock eyes. Both frown in thought together, and it makes Scully uneasy.
“Um, six, seven years ago?” Mulder ventures.
“'Bout that,” Tiffany agrees. “But, with flight schedules and Fox’s – let’s say other obsessions … it was doomed from the start, really.” It’s a throwaway line, said with a slight smirk. A little too forced, Scully surmises, like she’s trying too hard to sound as though it didn’t mean anything. Scully’s chest squeezes tight.
“And um, who broke it off?” she interrogates. Trying, though sure she is failing, to sound casual. Like she’s asking about what might be good on the menu.
“I did,” Tiffany confirms. “He was a little too intense for me. Weren’t you Fox?”
Mulder shrugs beside her, and Scully can feel his entire body radiating discomfort. “I guess.”
Tiffany seems to pick up on something, too, backing off. “And, I was wanting something a little more casual. Back then.”
Scully zeros in on her prevarication. Back then? What about now? If Tiffany hadn’t broken it off, would they still be together?
“Well,” Scully says, forcing herself to continue the ruse, “lucky for me.” She nudges herself into Mulder, her counterfeit boyfriend, who smells faintly of fresh sweat, faded cologne, and warm skin. Of home.
“Of course,” Tiffany throws away as she starts looking through her handbag again.
Mulder leans over to Scully, his hot breath on her neck as he whispers, “You’re good at this.” A compliment. Mistaking her genuine jealousy for an award-winning clingy girlfriend act.
And she is jealous. Does he want to go out with Tiffany again? Is she unwittingly positioned as his wingman right now? The horrifying thought makes Scully feel ill, juxtaposed with a warm fire sparking low in her belly from his proximity.
She can feel Tiffany’s eyes on her, and Scully has conducted enough interviews to know a look from someone who doesn’t believe what’s in front of their face.
.
Charlie had a girlfriend back in college who was most definitely clingy. Bill dubbed her a ‘stage five clinger,’ which everyone took delight in teasing him about. She would follow him everywhere, call him Babe, even in front of their parents, which made Scully cringe. She was over the top complimentary, would fuss over him and adjust his clothes. But most of all, she couldn’t keep her hands off him. Some part of her was always touching, or stoking, or fondling Charlie. Always.
.
Scully nuzzles herself into Mulder. Begins to stroke his forearm, hears him hitch a breath at her touch. Feels little goosebumps fan out across his skin.
“Did you ever finish that book?” Mulder asks, snatching up an awkward silence before it can take root.
“Yeah, I’m shopping around for a publisher at the moment.”
“Really? Well, I’m impressed.”
Scully watches them reminiscing, continues the slow mapping of Mulder’s arm, and feels him melt a little into her as she does so.
“Um, what’s your book about,” Scully asks.
“Well, it’s about an air hostess,” she nods as she says this, “—who has a lover in every port, so to speak.” She looks nervous, though pushes on. “It’s about her journey to find love, across the globe, in and out of bed, when ultimately, she ends up finding herself.”
“Oh, interesting,” Scully replies. Beauty and brains. Bile rises up the back of her throat.
“Well,” Tiffany admits, cheeks pinking a little, “I guess it is somewhat autobiographical. And what do you do?” she immediately asks.
The question throws Scully off, and she hesitates.
“She’s a … a photographer,” Mulder pipes up as Scully goes to open her mouth and explain that she is a doctor, recalling her FBI undercover training to cement fabrication in as much truth as possible.
“Oh, crime scene?” Tiffany asks.
Scully is about to jump on that one to confirm yes, she works in law enforcement. That is until Mulder pipes up with his own pretend career for her.
“No, wedding.”
“Oh, well, I was going to say, I hope you’re not dating someone you work with. We know how that ends up, don’t we?” Tiffany inserts, fixing Mulder with a look that Scully feels like she doesn’t have the information to interpret.
“So, wedding photographer? You must love, love.” Tiffany teases.
“Yep, sure do love, love,” Scully says through tight lips and a contrived smile.
“So, why are you here? With Fox?”
“Um—, you know. I just like to be near him. All the time. And I mostly work weekends, so…”
“Oh, you two are cute.”
.
Tiffany leans forward and collects a menu from the table. “I’m going to eat. You guys ordering something?”
Mulder grabs the menu. “Hey Scully, they have goats-cheese balls.”
“Oh no. Don’t tell me he orders for you,” Tiffany addresses Scully, a smirk to her lips. “He used to do that to me,” she adds with an eye roll.
“I did once. Twice.” Mulder says in defense.
“You can’t do that, Fox. It’s the 90s.”
“You were getting in late, and I had no way of knowing you were allergic.”
There is a somewhat strained silence, and Mulder fidgets beside her, his discomfort obvious. Scully’s hackles rise; she doesn’t like the way this woman is speaking to him.
“Oh, I don’t mind it,” she says sweetly to Tiffany. Although she’s never actually thought about it before, now that she does, she finds she really doesn’t mind - Mulder has, at times, ordered for her, and she for him. It just works with the nature of their working hours that they necessarily offload certain tasks to each other. They’re partners, after all.
She rests her palm over his knee, drawing it higher on his thigh. For a second, she feels him flex at her touch before relaxing under her hand.
As Tiffany peruses the menu, Mulder turns toward Scully and mouths, thank you. He is so close that the barely whispered words caress her face in a warm puff of breath, causing the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. Placing his hand over the top of hers, he pressed down.
“Tiff! Tiff!”
.
All three turn toward the voice.
“Oh, hey!” Tiffany calls down to the person yelling her name from the front of the establishment. Then she addresses Scully and Mulder, “I’ll be back in a sec.” And with that, she heads off, leaving her handbag on the table.
As soon as she is out of earshot, Scully pulls her hand out from under Mulder’s and whips her head around to face him, twisting in her seat.
Summary: Mulder has gotten himself into a real pickle this time. And what does that mean? That Scully is deep in the pickle with him. Our two favorite FBI agents are stuck in an airport due to a snowstorm, on their way back to DC after a case and Mulder bumps into someone from his past. Someone he might have told a tiny lie to. Will Scully help him keep up the ruse?
~~
Chapter 1
If he’s trying to hide his reaction, he’s doing a dismal job; awe on full display across his handsome face as the object of his attention strides toward him.
“Scully,” he says, voice breathy, heavy with wonderment. With titillation. “This is a good look for you. I mean, a really good look.”
“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully admonishes, though a blush hues the apples of her cheeks.
Overtly, he looks her up and down. Can’t help it. From the tips of her boots, his gaze journeys up shapely legs, clad in snug dark denim. Up, over a tight white Tee and a cropped black cardigan, two buttons fastened at her breast. Hanging perfectly off straight shoulders, her trench coat drapes – the loose belt cinched behind her. She looks stunning.
“It was either The GAP—” she gestures down her body at the outfit she’s dressed in. “—or, blowing this month’s salary on a suit from Calvin Klein.” She quirks a smile at Mulder as he scrunches his nose, shaking his head, no, in agreement.
“Slim pickings?”
Scully nods. “Or, I could have stayed in my scrubs, of course.”
“I mean, the scrubs were a cute look.”
“Cute, Mulder?”
“Yeah, cute,” he confirms with a grin.
She bites the beginnings of a smirk from her lips before changing the subject. “And, I didn’t want to miss our flight, so… Although—” Pausing, she looks over at the vast windows of the quickly crowding airport they’re in. “It is looking less and less likely that we’ll be taking off anytime soon.”
“True that. I checked when you were in the store, and we’re delayed.”
She grimaces slightly, pout twisting to the side. Reaching inside her jacket pocket, she collects her cell. “I’ll call Skinner.”
.
Outside it’s snowing. Condensation creeping toward the center of each of the substantial airport windows. A wild wind whips and nudges the wings of the stagnant aircraft. The late afternoon sky is as dark as midnight for the combination of an early winter sunset and the murky gray snow clouds.
.
“Okay, Sir. Yes. Thank you.” Finishing her call, she gives Mulder a familiar resolute smile and returns her phone to her inner pocket.
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing we can do. Autopsy will just have to wait. I mean, the body’s on the plane we’re on, so it’s not like anyone else can do it if we get stuck here.”
“Well, if you’re worried about it thawing out, we could always stick it on the tarmac.”
She huffs a laugh, rewarding him with a grin.
“Why don’t we go find somewhere in here to wait it out,” he suggests, doing a quick spin and scanning his surroundings.
“Sure.”
They begin in the direction of the few bars and restaurants.
“Maybe even a drink?” He eyes her, expectantly.
Scully looks at her watch, “yeah, I guess.”
.
Their trip had been a quick two-day assignment; just an overnight stay. They’d come to gather evidence at a possible crime scene and examine the body of a man who witnesses say had suddenly burst into flames while he was road raging at a young woman. Earlier today, Scully performed an autopsy, however, she organized to have the body shipped to Quantico for further analysis.
.
Weaving together, they walk through the thickening crowd—busy for a Thursday early evening, as more and more people amass on time for flights that are going nowhere. Scully leads the way, as she often does and Mulder lets her, aware that she’s more particular about food choices than he. She sidesteps tourists and disgruntled businessmen, carry-on wheeling behind her, evidence kit sitting on top, expertly shucking her jacket as she moves and throwing it over a forearm.
They have been close of late, Mulder muses as he allows himself to take her in, walking a pace behind. His gaze lands on her ass in those figure-hugging jeans. Good lord, why did so many of her outfits hide that view from the world?
Mulder likes airports—likes the ebb and flow of these liminal spaces where tension is magnified by abrupt silences; where candor or flirtation can swell in the privacy of a car, or bloom in the necessity to lean in close to be heard over the sounds of the jet engines on a flight.
Right now, they are the latter: relaxed and in sync. Scully’s cancer is gone, and the monsters they chase are actual more than figurative. Each weekend they usually find one excuse or another to see each other. And recently, when Scully had left for a weekend away, of sorts, Mulder had to admit to himself how much he struggled with her so far away.
He is happy with the status quo. But, something has been niggling at him. A thought that spins and dances at the edges of his mind.
About her. About them. About where they are headed.
.
Scully stops outside a tavern that looks out of place inside another building, as so many of them do in airports. As if the shop front should open onto a busy downtown street, giving explanation to the shutters and awnings; redundant lest one of the overhead sprinklers go off.
Standing at the door, Scully looks around, searching for a comfortable, out-of-the-way spot for them to settle in. There are a dozen or so tables up front, a few spilling ‘outside’. A place you’d sit if you were stopping to grab lunch or a quick bite before a flight. Toward the back of the establishment, the walls are painted dark, contrasting the sunset orange close to the entrance. Sumptuous curtains cover phantom windows and lampshades are slung low over tables. The bar runs along one length of the room and the couches in the back hug low coffee tables on a raised floor that overlooks the rest of the venue.
Deciding on the comfort of the couches, Scully points and leads the way once again. The storm might not let up for a while and Scully is tired, so a cozy spot fits the bill. She’s also looking forward to relaxing and having a drink with Mulder. She’s sensed an intimacy between them, over the last several months since her remission, though work has been busy and has given them little downtime (unless plane rides and car drives counted). But they have found time of late to watch the odd move together. Grab takeout on a Saturday night.
.
Scully plonks herself down onto a velvet upholstered two-seater and tucks her luggage beside. Mulder deposits his bags and announces he’s going to the bar to grab a couple of menus and some drinks.
Nestling herself in the seat and adjusting an oversized cushion behind her, she looks around the bar. At a table in the front sit a family, two kids on Gameboys, the kind Charlie’s boys have. Their parents are trying hard to give off vibes that they aren’t in the middle of an argument. A tall, slender woman—from her attire, an air hostess—enters the tavern and begins chatting to the maître d. A few tables closer toward the back sit a trio of older men in suits, all with beers in hand and jovial expressions on their faces. To Scully’s left, on one of the secluded lounges, sit a couple, a young man and woman, snuggled up and kissing. An upside-down champagne bottle pokes out of an ice bucket and two half-empty flutes sit on a low table in front of them. The woman is laughing as the man nuzzles into her neck. Scully enjoys the freedom they display, not hiding their affection with one another. Even in relationships, that had not been something she had ever been particularly comfortable with.
Scully’s people-watching is brought to an abrupt halt as Mulder delivers two lowball glasses, one with clear and the other with amber liquid, both clinking with ice, onto the table. He quickly sits down adjacent in a high wing-back chair. Scully smiles at what she knows is a gin and tonic placed on the coaster in front of her. As she reaches to collect it, Mulder retakes her attention, talking in a low tone.
“See that woman?”
He turns to the front of the establishment.
Scully follows his gaze to the doorway where the air hostess is still in discussion with the maitre d. “At the door? Tall, pretty brunette?”
“Yeah. Listen, if she… oh shit.” Mulder looks a little more than freaked out when the air hostess turns and sees him. A look of recognition sweeps across her face, and she gives Mulder a quick wave.
“She’s seen me,” he chokes out of the corner of his mouth.
Scully watches, perplexed, as Mulder raises his brows and adorns a fake grin, returning the wave back to her. The woman holds up a finger as if telling him she’ll be just a second.
“You know her?”
“Scully,” he says, looking her dead in the eye. “You know last night when you asked me for a favor? And then said, you owed me one?”
.
The previous evening…
In a waft of steam, Scully emerged from the bathroom into the small, ill-adorned hotel room. Not the worst they’d ever stayed in. Not the best either. Combing her kelpy hair, she hauled her small suitcase onto the bed with her free hand and unzipped it.
.
“Motherfu….” Scully muttered, as she looked into her luggage. Tentatively she picked up her satin pajama top, before quickly dropping it and wiping her hand over the towel she had wrapped around her body. “Ah shit,” she remarked, looking down her body; a smudge of dark gray smeared in the wake of her palm.
Peering back into her bag, it was very apparent that something had spilled. All of her clothing, of which there was very little, was covered in a fine dark graphite powder. Her pajamas, underwear, blouse for the following day—everything.
“Fuck,” she said under her breath as she headed back to the bathroom to look for a robe, to no avail. It was at that moment she wished more of the lodgings she and Mulder stayed in had adjoining doors.
Tightening her towel around herself, she headed to the phone by the bed and picked up the receiver, hit star 14.
“Hello,” came Mulder’s voice down the line.
“Hey, can you please do me a favor?”
“Shoot,” he said, and Scully pictured him half-listening whilst watching a sports game on the television, which she vaguely heard in the background.
“Do you have a spare T-shirt or something I can borrow to sleep in? Something spilled in my bag, and … I have nothing to wear.”
“Um, yeah. I’ll be right there.”
.
Mulder hung up and ran the towel he was holding roughly through his hair. Dropping it to the bed, he rifled through his open suitcase and grabbed the sweats he had just gone for a run in, before his shower.
Dressed in boxers and a Knicks T-shirt, he grabbed the fabric at his shoulder and pulled the shirt up over his back, over his head, and off. Then he quickly dressed in his running attire and headed over to Scully’s room.
.
On the first knock, she cracked the door open, and once she saw it was Mulder, only opened it enough for his slender frame to fit through, then closed it behind him. He looked her up and down as he entered the room, and she instinctively looked down at herself.
“I know.”
“What is it?”
“Graphite powder. I knew my fingerprint kit was getting low, so I just tossed an extra in my suitcase. Lid must have been loose.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, it got everywhere,” she said in a whine.
Spying the shirt in his possession, she held out her hand.
Mulder hesitated.
“What?”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“You’ll get this one back, I promise,” she vowed; a bemused grin on her lips which she quickly swallowed.
“You have about a 50 percent return rate, Scully,” he teased as he handed it over.
“It’s warm,” Scully remarked, taking it from him and resisting the urge to bring the fabric to her face and smell.
He shrugged, turned, and stepped up to her suitcase, gingerly picking up a corner of her previously cream-colored blouse.
“What will you wear tomorrow? I mean, you got that soot all over you today.”
“Oh, shit,” she said, recalling the moment earlier that day when she’d opened the body bag. Cursing herself for only donning gloves and not changing out of her civvies first.
Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked down at the mess that was her bag, her clothes, and her towel, and realized that she had no idea what she would wear.
“What if … why don’t I head into the morgue early and grab you some scrubs?” Mulder offered, stepping into her and placing a warm hand on her bare shoulder. A shiver ran up her spine and she looked up at him, his eyes warm and caring. His shower-fresh scent invaded her senses. “I’ll bring them back here for you?”
“Really? Okay. That would be perfect. Thank you.”
Mulder smiled and let her go, turned, and made for the door. “Night, Scully.”
“Night, Mulder. And thanks, I really owe you one.”
“See you in the morning. I’ll bring the scrubs.”
With that, he shut the door. After it clicked and she heard his footfall fading, she brought the T-shirt to her nose and took a deep breath, eyes fading closed as the corners of her mouth drew into a contented smile.
.
Present…
“Yeah, I remember. It was last night, Mulder,” Scully replies slowly.
“Well, I’m cashing in.”
“… on the favor?”
Mulder nods fervently. “That lady at the counter, I used to date her, like a thousand years ago. For a month or two, and recently I ran into her and—” he’s speaking rapidly, a frenetic vibration about him.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, um…” He looks somewhat sheepish, and Scully has to get a grip on the green-eyed monster that evidently sits in wait for whenever another woman might be connected to Mulder in a romantic way.
“Well, I mean, there’s no reason I would know your whole dating past, Mulder,” Scully explains, assuming he’s worried about the fact that he hasn’t mentioned this person before.
“What?” Mulder says. It’s obvious, as he continues his surveillance of the front entrance, that he hasn’t listened to what she’s just said.
“Nothing. What about her?”
Twisting back to face Scully, he hastily returns to his explanation, of sorts. “So, I kind of lied and told her I had a girlfriend.”
“What? Why?”
“Um, gee, um, I’m not sure but—”
“She’s heading over here,” Scully says, looking past him and nodding at the supermodel heading straight for them.
“What? Shit!” He quickly glances over his shoulder and just as fast swings his attention back to Scully.
“So, I told her I had a girlfriend.”
“Yes, you said that.”
“A clingy girlfriend.”
“Okay?” Scully replies, slightly confused. Was Mulder trying to win that woman back? By provoking her jealousy? Telling her he had—
“A really, really, clingy girlfriend.” Mulder says this and then regards Scully expectantly.
“Okay,” she repeats, this time drawing the word out suspiciously.
“So?” He fixes her with a look of urgent anticipation.
“Oh, the favor. Of course, I won’t divulge the truth. It’s okay,” Scully reassures him quickly.
“No, Scully. I mean….”
“Fox?”
Mulder turns from Scully, his face twisting into an unnaturally large smile, as he stands and greets the woman.
“Tiffany, hi,” Mulder says as the attractive woman leans in to kiss him the cheek. Scully feels a pang of jealousy rip through her, eying them both closely.
The woman squeezes Mulder’s upper arms and presses her overlined lips to the side of his face, leaving a smudge of Rogue Allure in her wake. She lingers there for a little while, and Scully notices Mulder flex, attempting to disengage before she releases him.
Finally, the woman, Tiffany, draws herself back from him and turns her attention to Scully. “And this must be her.”
Scully cocks her head and then realizes Tiffany must assume she’s Mulder’s fake girlfriend.
“Oh, I’m n—” Scully begins, shooting a reassuring sideways glance at Mulder to let him know she isn’t going to give him up—before Tiffany cuts her off.
“She is stunning,” Tiffany directs at Mulder, and Scully finds it hard to distinguish whether her tone is surprised or begrudging.
Her focus lands on Scully once again, and Scully smiles politely at the woman and is just about to correct her mistake when she thrusts out a perfectly manicured hand.
