This Moment

By She's a Star

Disclaimer: X-Files belongs to Chris Carter. Who, strangely enough, isn't me.

Author's Note: I lost my heart to this show after seeing only two episodes – Scully sang Mulder Joy to the World and I knew there was no hope for me. I was gone. Lost. Thoroughly obsessed with no hope for the slightest bit of recovery. So here I am, a few months and three complete season DVD sets later, finally attempting fanfiction. I'm quite apprehensive about posting this, simply because I have no idea if either of them are in-character or whether it's completely ridiculous or not and . . . ahem. Yes. Writing new fandoms always scares me to death. Just ignore my insecure babbling.

Anyhoo, this takes place during all things – post-episode but pre-teaser.

She wakes abruptly: eyes fluttering open, heart pounding, and the first thing that crosses her mind is that this is not her bed. The second is that what woke her is a noise; a creaking almost cliché in its quintessential horror-film creepiness, and it seems typical. After a day of spiritual epiphanies and the digging up of past experiences she'd have rather left forgotten, sleeping had been a welcomed peace.

Which pretty much proves how long peace tends to surface in her life.

And then she's struck with a series of realizations: the noise is the doorknob twisting, this is Mulder's bedroom, and therefore it is most likely Mulder opening the door. And she, meanwhile, seems to be turning into a paranoid idiot.

Swell.

Mulder sticks his head in almost timidly, and she's oddly overcome with the urge to giggle.

Giggle.

Oh, God.

As soon as he spots that she's awake, his face assumes its signature wryly amused expression. "Hey, sleeping beauty," he says quietly.

"Hello," she returns, feeling oddly awkward. The sheets smell like him, and she's overcome with the jarring sense that maybe she can't be this close.

Don't be an idiot; he's all the way across the room.

One thing's for sure—spiritual epiphanies have a knack for inspiring extreme overreactions.

"Comfy?" he asks, smiling crookedly at her.

"More than you are, I'd imagine," she returns, sitting up and absently attempting to smooth her hair. "You sleeping on the couch?"

"Not really sleeping," he replies. "You seemed pretty far gone – I figured I'd move you in here and catch some late night TV."

"Please," she says, all too aware of his choice in television, "don't expound."

"Wasn't gonna," he responds easily and comes inside, sitting at the foot of the bed. Her pulse seems to race, and she's annoyed by the ridiculousness of the situation. For Christ's sake. It's just Mulder.

"So," he says, seeming completely unaware of her unease. She thanks God for small mercies. "Sleep well?"

"I was," she replies pointedly, unable to resist.

"Sorry," he says, and it looks like he actually means it. "I just thought I'd check up on you— seems like you had a rough day, and--"

"Mulder, I'm kidding," she cuts in. "It's fine."

He looks slightly chagrined for a moment before shrugging nonchalantly. "I knew you were."

"Did you?" she asks skeptically. "'Cause you seemed pretty sincere with the apologies—"

"Scully, go back to sleep," he orders. "I think you're delusional."

"I wouldn't be suffering these . . . 'delusions' . . . if you hadn't woken me up in the first place."

"If I called you something that isn't universally construed as nice right now, do you think you'd remember it in the morning?" he asks innocently.

She rolls her eyes. "Depends on how colorful you're planning to get."

He feigns contemplation for a moment. "Better not risk it, then," he finally concludes.

She allows herself an indulgent smile and hugs a pillow to her chest.

"Seriously, though," he says after a moment, a little bit hesitant. His hair falls into his eyes a little as he leans closer to her, and she's struck by how vulnerable he looks. Like a little boy. "Are you okay?"

She's about to automatically assure him that she is, but something in his eyes stops her. Instead, she finds herself genuinely considering it. She's overwhelmed. Sickened, almost. She hates this sudden crystalline realization that life is so fragile. She's always known it, of course, but suddenly it just seems to overpower everything else.

"I'll be fine," she finally answers, delicately. Truthfully.

He looks at her – no, doesn't just look at her. Studies her, like he's trying to find every visible clue that she isn't lying. She doesn't look away.

He nods; takes her hand and squeezes it lightly. "Okay."

His thumb massages her skin. It's nothing – a friendly gesture. It's Mulder, and she's held his hand a hundred times before. Only now something about the way it feels makes her think of Daniel in that hospital bed, and how many choices would it have taken, how many different paths, to rob her of this moment?

Just one.

It's so strange.

"Mulder," she says softly, not knowing why. She's just filled with a sudden need to be close to him. A little nagging voice in the back of her head reminds her that no good can come of this.

It probably has a point.

"Yeah?" he asks, quiet, concern lighting his eyes.

And somehow, she realizes, he's almost become her whole life. Which is, conveniently, not the sort of thing that you can just come out and say.

But somehow, it feels necessary to tell him.

She stumbles over sentences in her brain, each growing steadily more ridiculous, and she finally opts for simplicity.

"I'm glad I'm here," she tells him. "With you."

He stares at her for a moment, and not intense, soul-searching staring. Nope, this is the kind of staring she'd get if she'd just nonchalantly informed him that Michael Jackson was she and Donald Trump's love child. Like she's gone off the deep end and he's not quite sure how he's supposed to reply to that kind of madness.

She wonders if she can somehow manage to kick herself.

And then he smiles.

"Me too," he says, and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

The moment seems to last forever, his hand brushing the side of her face, and she comes to a decision. It's not logical, she knows that. It could cause a million complications, not to mention that it would shoot the whole strictly professional relationship concept to hell. Permanently.

But they haven't been strictly professional for a long time now; it dawns on her. She recalls burying her face into his chest the day after they'd met, overcome with mingled terror and relief, and he's always meant so much to her.

He begins to pull his hand away.

She catches it; guides it gently back to rest on her cheek. His eyes meet hers, surprised.

"I love you," she says, and is a little shaken by her tone. She can't remember the last time she sounded so young.

"Oh brother," he manages wryly, but there's no questioning the faintly shocked expression on his face.

She laughs a little, suddenly swept up by the absurdity of this situation. The nagging voice feels compelled to surface again, singing out 'I told you so's.

But then he kisses her, and it's silenced surprisingly effectively.

And part of her can't help but think that maybe all things have led to this.