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At the moment, Dana Scully’s life was scans and doctors and sympathy cards. It was also file folders and boarding passes and unexplained phenomena. And at the center of everything was one other person.
She reasoned with herself that this was the reason she was standing outside of apartment number 42, considering whether or not to knock on his door at half past midnight. She could hear the faint droning of the TV beyond the door. She wasn’t certain it meant he was still awake, but it was a comfort knowing he was there.
Scully took a breath, straightened her back, and knocked. She had, after all, driven all the way out here. Within seconds, the door was open and Mulder was filling the doorframe. His hair was ruffled, and he was only wearing basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. The big coats looked good on him, but a girl could forget the muscular arms that hid underneath them—she didn’t mind the t-shirt.
She didn’t voice that thought.
“Hey,” Mulder said. “It’s late.”
“I know. Were you sleeping?”
“No. You know me. Uh, come in,” Mulder said, clearing his throat and stepping out of her way. Scully stepped over the threshold into his apartment and Mulder quickly moved some things out of her way. Mulder’s place almost felt like a reflection of himself; it was cluttered and a little dysfunctional, but it also contained way more than a reasonable person would expect. And it smelled like him, too.
“Can I get you anything?” Mulder asked, scratching at the back of his arm.
“No, that’s alright.” Scully glanced up at the TV, glowing in the low light. “What are you watching?”
Mulder looked over at the screen. “Meet Me In St. Louis,” he said. “Kind of festive for this time of year, but you can’t really complain about late night TV movies. And I always had a crush on Judy Garland, anyways. I mean, who didn’t?”
Scully raised her eyebrows. Mulder changed the subject. “You can sit, if you want.” He gestured towards his couch. Scully shrugged off her coat, draping it over the coffee table before sitting down. Mulder poured himself a glass of water before taking a respectful amount of time to sit down next to her.
They were no strangers to sitting together in silence, that was half their job. However, it was probably a little strange to show up to your partner’s house unannounced just to sit in silence.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she tried. Because of the meds. Because of you-know-what. Because everything is so awful right now. So I came here, for some reason.
“Welcome to the club, sister.” Mulder gave her halfhearted laugh. Scully gave him a pity smile. (Okay, maybe it was a genuine smile, but he didn’t need to know that).
She wasn’t sure what made her come here. Mulder spent enough time with her during work hours. And all the overtime. And the non-sanctioned investigatory periods, too.
But really, what did she have to lose?
“Hey Scully, you’ve got a...” Mulder trailed off, gesturing to her face. She lifted a hand to her nose, pulling away a spot of blood.
“Damn,” she said, quietly, moving to get up.
“Here, you stay,” Mulder said, putting an arm across her body. He stood up. “I’ll grab you some tissues.”
Scully didn’t like to be waited on, but she didn’t have the energy to object, either. Mulder came back with a box of tissues and a glass of water. She wiped her face and sipped at the water. They both politely pretended nothing was the matter.
“Hey, do you get Letterman on this thing?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Mulder said, flipping the channel to CBS. “Yeah.”
They watched the Late Show and the Late Late Show together, commenting on the stale jokes and the state of the world every so often. Scully barely paid attention, but it was way better than her silent apartment. Eventually she realized that their arms and thighs were touching on the couch, and that probably broke a dozen or so FBI rules, but she didn’t really care.
Eventually Scully did fall asleep, drifting off to the muffled sounds of the TV and the rise and fall of her partner’s breath. As she dozed off, she vaguely sensed a blanket being pulled over her shoulders. It smelled like Mulder.
In the morning, they would drive to work in separate cars. They wouldn’t discuss it, they would just do it. That was how they operated—words were unnecessary. They were both worried about the same things. They both knew what was going on. At least, Scully thought they did.