Chapter Four

"Good morning, Mulder," Scully said, as she swung their office door shut and walked towards her table.

"You're late," Mulder responded tersely.

Scully glanced at her watch before depositing her personal items on the table. "By whose watch, Mulder?"

When he didn't respond she looked up at him. He was perched behind his desk, armed folded across his chest, and wearing an unreadable expression.

"I'm five minutes early," she said, as she pulled her chair in and sat down. "Just not fifteen."

"What was the hold up?" he asked still unmoving.

It didn't appear that his computer was on: there was no reflection of light from the screen on his countenance. There were no files open on his desk either. There were, however, a scattering of pencils strewn across the top of his desk and she noted that the trashcan at his feet was overturned, almost as if he had thrown a temper tantrum before she'd arrived. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You okay, Mulder?"

Maybe he'd already gotten part deux of his dressing down from Skinner, although it would surprise her to find out that such an incident would lead to the knocking over of pencil cups and the kicking of trashcans. An unpleasant mood perhaps, but Mulder was fully accustomed to being lectured—it didn't normally call for such antics.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

Scully shook her head. "I don't know. Bad morning?" she inquired opening her laptop and pressing the power button.

"What gives you that impression?" he asked stonily.

She sighed. He was really going to make this a disagreeable day apparently.

"When is your meeting with Skinner?" she asked, as she typed in her log-in information.

"I haven't the foggiest."

So, he hadn't had a run in with Skinner already. Something else had set him off. It could be a myriad of things, and she wasn't in the mood to play guessing games. She had done her best to put aside the events of the previous day, but Mulder's moodiness was threatening the measure of calm she had regained. It also reminded her that she was right: she knew Mulder better than Melinda Jones—the man could be impossible.

"How was your evening?" he asked in the same accusatory tone that had permeated everything he had said to her thus far.

"Relaxing," she replied. "I needed to decompress." An honest avowal.

"And what exactly does that entail?" he pressed.

"Why? You want to fantasize about me in a tub, Mulder?" she teased trying to shake him from his funk.

The attempt seemingly fell flat as he turned in his chair towards the blank computer screen and scowled.

"You want to tell me what happened to your desk area over there?" she asked.

He continued to silently glower at his computer monitor.

"Fine," she said with a sigh. "If you want to be impossible, be impossible. Just don't knock any of my things over," she groused as she reached across the table for her bag.

In her frustration she overreached and knocked the table lamp just enough to swing the arm around and send a stack of papers flying off the table in a flurry of white sheets.

"Damn," she cursed standing up.

She crouched down and began to gather up the scattered sheets. She heard Mulder's chair scrape along the floor and she saw his shoes approach her. He kneeled down with her and began to help her pick up the mess.

"Looks like you didn't need my help knocking things over," he said in an apologetic tone.

"No, guess not," she said as she tapped the stack she'd recreated on the floor to straighten them out.

He handed her a fistful of papers and she looked up at him. He was no more than six inches from her face and he looked deadly serious. The anger was gone, and another emotion had replaced it on his face, except she couldn't quite read what it was. For a half beat as she watched him, she felt her pulse begin to quicken: she had an unnerving feeling that Mulder was about to do something that fell well outside of her boundaries. She willed herself to stand up, but he held her gaze, preventing her from moving despite her unease.

"Are you seeing someone?" he asked calmly.

That wasn't what she was anticipating.

Her heart began to thunder more loudly, so that she worried Mulder could actually hear it. Why would he ask her something like that? What exactly was he getting at?

Then it occurred to her. She had said as much yesterday to Melinda Jones. Did office gossip work that efficiently? Was Mulder actually that plugged into office gossip?

She sat back on her heels, recovering some distance from him. She crossed her arms. "No," she stated firmly.

Mulder had watched the myriad of emotions flit behind Scully's perfect mask that she donned every day when she walked through the doors of the Hoover Building. It should be an easy question to answer. Either she was dating someone or she wasn't. The fact that the question caused her distress didn't make him feel confident in her response.

He stood up slowly, still holding her gaze. She remained crouched on the floor with her arms folded across her chest, as if this position would protect her from his personal questions. He held his hand out to her and she slowly unfolded her arms and took his hand so he could pull her up.

"You sure about that?" he pressed, as she stood and he continued to grip her hand in his.

She pursed her lips and tilted her head at him—the quintessential Scully posturing that was meant to convey 'you have got to be kidding me.' But he wasn't. He wished he was. He wished the idea had never crossed his mind that Scully might be seeing someone. That perhaps it was serious. That she might leave him. Because, ultimately, it always came down to how it would affect him: he was well-aware of his crippling self-centeredness when it came to his petite partner. Otherwise, he would have shown her the door for her own good years ago. It was his neediness that kept her in his toxic orbit.

"You don't believe me?" she finally responded.

He let her hand slip. He didn't want to physically overpower her; even when it came to just holding her hand. Scully didn't respond well to such tactics. She wanted to be treated as an equal and even his ability to loom over her did not sit well with her.

"I guess I'm confused," he admitted as he moved behind his desk once more.

Awkwardly standing behind his desk, he watched her as she slid into her chair, biting her lip and shuffling through the papers they'd collected off the floor. It seemed as if she had determined for the both of them that their conversation was over.

"Would you tell me if you were?" he asked. "Seeing someone," he clarified, when she failed to respond.

She looked up from her pile of papers, blinking. "We don't usually discuss our private lives, Mulder."

He snorted, "What private lives?"

"Is that funny to you?" she asked, her cheeks beginning to betray some color.

He flopped into his chair. "Trust me, no." He began to gather up the pencils that were scattered on his desk. "And I don't think you want me to thrash out my personal feelings."

He glanced up at her; she was still busying herself with the papers and studiously avoiding his gaze. No, the last thing Scully wanted to do was quiz him on his feelings.

"If you're not seeing anyone, you should know that I was told differently today." He dropped the pencils with a clatter back into the pencil cup. "There is someone here who is telling tales."

"Melinda Jones?" Scully asked pointedly.

"Yes." He watched her with some interest as she angrily continued to pointlessly move papers around on her desk. Something in her tone of voice and her crisp movements seemed off to him. "So, you did speak with her yesterday?"

"Yes, I did. She's interested in you, Mulder. Don't be dense."

Mulder smiled and grabbed his wastepaper basket, righting it. "I picked up on that. I'm not hopeless, you know."

"Could have fooled me," she responded frostily.

"Why do you think she'd make up a lie about you like that?" Mulder mused leaning on his hand and rubbing his chin.

Scully shot him a look as she straightened her laptop and desk lamp in turn. "She didn't…exactly."

Mulder reclined in his desk chair. "Care to expand on that, Agent Scully?" he asked drumming his fingers on the armrests of his chair.

Scully grabbed her glasses and slipped them on, peering at her computer screen with evident rapt attention. "I may have told her I was seeing someone."

"Really? Why would you do that?"

"I don't know, Mulder," Scully said, turning towards him in exasperation. "She'd cornered me. She insinuated that…"

"What?" he asked leaning forward once more in anticipation of her response.

"She thought we were…involved."

"Ah," Mulder said with a nod.

"I corrected her. She stated her interest in you. She asked my permission, if you get my drift."

Mulder couldn't help but smile. "Yes, I do."

"Wipe that smile off your face, Mulder."

"Sorry," he said trying to regain his composure.

"I told her I was seeing someone. I don't care to be thought of as the woman who pines for her much sought-after partner," she affirmed pulling off her glasses with a sigh.

"Much sought-after, Scully?" he asked, his brows arched in disbelief.

"Calm down. I meant, in Melinda Jones' warped worldview."

"Right. Okay. Because, I don't want you getting hung up on that incident with Sheila Fontaine," he teased.

"I lay awake at night, Mulder," Scully deadpanned.

"So do I. Give me a call sometime."

Scully rolled her eyes.

Mulder grabbed a pen and began to fiddle with it. "So, Miss Jones is a bit of a crazy. Hmm?"

"You think?" Scully asked nonchalantly.

"Well, overly eager perhaps."

"Perhaps."

"So, I'm not going call her."

Scully looked over her laptop at him, "Mulder, you never do." He could see just the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, as if she knew him so well.

"That's not true," he said knitting his brows together and examining the workings of the pen he'd been playing with.

"No? You have a private life?" she asked gamely.

"No, I don't. But I do call. I call you."

THE END