#I dO nOt GaZe At ScUlLaY

[lepus-arcticus]

Touch

Inbox prompts “touch” and “puppy”, from @xf-fan1993 and @xfilesobsession​ - thank you for the words, lovelies! 

–

In her dream, the pounding is thousands upon thousands of hooves, sending dust clouds swirling around her so that she’s gasping and retching and clutching her throat. And the pounding is a drum, rippling dark and deep in the pulse of her blood. And the pounding is the rhythmic, cyclical birth and death and rebirth of the universe, and the pounding is in her ears, and the pounding is a fist against her apartment door. 

Even before she’s fully awake, Scully knows that it’s Mulder. 

He does this sometimes, and she pretends that she minds it more than she does. He’s a creature of the night, after all, and she’s been becoming one for years. 

She rolls out of bed, blindly reaching for her robe and pulling it over her rather skimpy summer pajamas. The silk is cool against her skin, sending a crescendo of goosebumps along her arms and the back of her neck, pebbling her nipples. 

The pounding persists, and now that she’s truly awake, she can hear the unmistakable tone of his voice - dogged, determined, and, she’s beginning to suspect, quite drunk. “Scullaaay - Scullaayopenthedoor, Scullay, s’me -”

Well, yeah, who the hell else would it be? She finds herself thinking, a little irritated at the unnecessary noise he’s making. He’s got a goddamned key, why doesn’t he just use it? 

She opens the door just as she hears his key scrape against the doorknob, missing the slot completely, and he tumbles in, steadying himself by clapping a large, heavy hand on each of her shoulders. “Mulder, shut up, for the love of God,” she hisses. 

“Oh, sorry… hi,” he offers a boyish half-grin. In the wan light of the hall, she notices that he’s got a black eye brewing, dried blood on his cheek. 

“Mulder, what did you do? What the hell happened to you?” 

“You should see the other guy,” he chuffs, leaning back against the open door, causing it to slam shut with a bang. “Whooaah, hah.” Scully cringes at the sound, and reaches past him to refasten the tidy row of locks. How she hasn’t been kicked out of the building by now is completely beyond her. 

“Kitchen. Now. And keep it down.” It’s like babysitting, is what it is. Babysitting a scrappy, naughty, 6-foot tall puppy with a gun strapped to his ankle.

Resigned, he follows her, pulls a chair from the kitchen table practically into the middle of the room, and slumps into it. Scully flicks on the kitchen light to get a better look at him, gingerly stepping between his long, splayed legs. The skin on his cheekbone is broken, and that eye’s gonna be swollen shut tomorrow. She explores his face with gentle fingers, turning it side to side, looking for more lesions. He’s pliant under her hands, obedient as a guilty dog. 

“What… where were you tonight? How…”

“Gunmen. College kids at the Bear n’ Kilt. Some guy wouldn’t leave this girl alone. Told ‘im to stoppit. Yadda, yadda, yadda, boom.” He mimics a right hook, brushing his knuckles against Scully’s cheek. A shiver trickles down her spine at his touch. “Givvit to me straight, doc, mm’I gonna live?”

She softens, warming to him. What a dumbass. A valiant, sweet, heroic one, but still a dumbass. “Oh Mulder,” she sighs, and out of habit, runs her hands through his hair, petting him tenderly. It’s soft and thick, his scalp warm. “You don’t always have to be everyone’s knight in shining armour, you know. Give yourself a night off of saving the world now and then.” 

He gazes up at her, lips parted, something unfamiliar and wonderful burning in his eyes. It’s only then that she notices his hands smoothing lightly over the curves of her hips, the silk of her robe bunching over his fingers. 

“I’m… going to go get the first aid kit -” she begins, her tone measured, careful, a warning. She removes her hands, but he captures one of her wrists, violently, pulling her forward so that they’re dangerously close, even for them. His eyes are dark and aggressive as they drop to her lips, the unmistakable, familiar weight of desire hanging in the air between them. 

The pounding has returned, and it’s the thump of her heart against her ribs, frantically redirecting all of her blood into her core, preparing her body for something her heart isn’t ready for.

“Why do you touch me like you do, Scully?” The sharp, amber smell of whiskey on his breath. The faint, bread-like musk of his sweat. The dizzying sight of the clench of his jaw. She starts to lie, starts to form her deflection - like what? I don’t know what you’re talking about - but there’s something about the raw hunger in his eyes that makes her honest. 

“I should ask you the same question.” 

He tightens his grip on her wrist, rubbing his thumb along the delicate bone there, his other hand roughly kneading the bit of flesh on her hip. 

“Mulder, let me go. You’re drunk.” She tries to hide her breathlessness, tries to sound firm, clinical, professional. 

“No.” He lifts his chin, searching her eyes, fierce and powerful. She could do it. She knows they both want it. She could give in, and it would be… it would be incredible. She knows it would. She could let him claim her, ravage her, let him sheath himself in her body, let him brand her with his teeth and his hands, let him make her come - but then what? What happens after it’s all over? If they finally strike the match, will her whole world go up in flames? 

“MULDER.” She wrenches out of his grip. “Stop it.” She turns away, her cheeks and neck burning. She remembers the first aid kit, and stalks away to rummage in her cupboards. 

She hears the chair scrape against the floor as he gets up, and whirls around, humiliated and half-raging. At herself, at him, at Blevins, for damning her to a life of shadows and self-denial. 

“Mulder, sit down. You need medical attention.” 

“It’s a black eye, Scully, an excuse. I don’t need shit.” 

He won’t meet her eyes. “Sit. Down.” She reaches for his arm, but when her fingers brush his elbow, he rips it away. 

“Coming here was a mistake.” He storms back into the living room, fumbling with the locks on her door. 

“At least let me call you a cab, Mulder, Jesus -” 

“I’ll walk.” 

He slams the door shut behind him, and then the pounding is her upstairs neighbour, knocking their disapproval from the ceiling.

#txf fic #the x files fic #txf fanfic #the x files fanfic #msr #msr fic #msr fanfic #prompt