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The late afternoon sun beat mercilessly on the windshield as Mulder adjusted his sunglasses, already regretting the long-sleeved suit. The air in the car felt thick with humidity and something unspoken. The AC coughed with futility.
"You ever notice how funerals always happen on the hottest damn days?" Mulder muttered.
Scully didn’t look up from the funeral program she’d been thumbing through. “Maybe the universe wants to make us sweat for our decency.”
"Speaking of," Mulder said, slouching further into his seat, "if I die before you—and I realize that's statistically likely—will you give the eulogy?"
Scully blinked. “Are you serious?”
Mulder shrugged one shoulder, eyes on the road. “Just curious. What would you say?”
She turned to look at him, skeptical. “I’d say we shouldn’t be joking about this.”
He smirked, a flicker of mischief dancing at the corner of his mouth.
Scully gave him a long side-eye. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
He snorted. “Morbid, Scully. I never knew you were so dark.”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her. She smiled.
They pulled up outside the cemetery, a modest patch of green surrounded by chain link and sorrow. Mulder popped the door open and stepped into the heat.
Scully spotted Skinner near the front, already engaged in quiet conversation. She made her way toward him, graceful even in the oppressive air, her black capped-sleeve dress swaying just below the knee. Modest. Respectful. Still, Mulder couldn't help but notice the way every male head—and probably a few female ones—turned slightly as she passed. She, of course, noticed none of it.
Mulder kept a calculated distance, mostly because he still hadn’t turned in that budget report and Skinner had the memory of an elephant. He was mid-regret when a woman approached him, tall, polished, heels sinking into the soft grass.
“You with the Bureau?” she asked, voice silky.
Mulder nodded politely. “Yeah. We were on the last case together. Didn’t know him well. Bright kid. Seemed like he had potential.”
“I’m Bryce’s cousin,” she said, placing a soft hand on his arm. “It means a lot that people from the Bureau showed up.”
She had long dark hair, big almond eyes, and absolutely zero effect on him. Still, she lingered, her touch a beat too long.
He shifted slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice dipping lower. “It’s been hard.”
Across the lawn, Scully glanced back, catching sight of the woman's hand on Mulder’s sleeve. Her eyes narrowed. She turned sharply and began walking toward the casket, her heels biting the grass. She didn’t need to look again—she’d already memorized the posture, the smile. She told herself she was annoyed at Mulder’s lack of professionalism.
But the truth?
Jealousy.
God, she hated herself for it.
Then her heel slipped—gravel or a root—her body tipping backward.
But he was already there.
Strong hands caught her arms, steadying her. He pulled her upright with ease.
“You okay?” he murmured, closer than necessary.
Her cheeks flamed. She looked anywhere but at him. “Are you okay?”
He smiled, crooked and impossibly warm. “Good thing I never keep you out of my sight.”
Damn him. He always knew exactly what to say.
The service ended with somber murmurs and reluctant goodbyes. As Mulder gently guided Scully back toward the car with a hand on the small of her back, the Cousin reappeared.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said, breathy, dropping a small slip of paper into his hand before slinking off.
Scully's eye-roll could’ve powered the Hoover Dam.
Back in the car, Mulder started the engine. “So… Chinese or Thai?”
Scully stared out the window. She told herself to let it go. “Maybe you should call your friend from the funeral and see what she wants.”
He laughed, deep and delighted. “Whatever do you mean, Scully?”
“I saw her pass you her number.”
Mulder pulled a tiny crumpled note from between two fingers and, without ceremony, flicked it onto the street. “Yeah. She’s not my type.”
They drove in silence for a moment, the tension still hanging like a storm cloud.
Once inside her apartment building, they entered the elevator in silence. Scully held her keys like they were a shield.
“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” she said quietly.
“By what?”
“She just seemed like your type. Tall. Leggy. Brunette. Bountiful.” God. Bountiful? What the hell, Dana.
Mulder chuckled. “I mean… Phoebe. Diana. I see your point. But you know, Scully—types change.”
She gave him a look.
“There’s a psychological study out of Stanford,” he added, shifting into Professor Mulder mode, “that suggests prolonged exposure to a certain archetype can change one’s baseline of attraction. It’s all neurological imprinting.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Especially when the archetype is brilliant. And beautiful. And constantly challenges you to be better.”
They stepped into her apartment. She headed for the kitchen. He went for the glasses.
He poured them both a glass of red—something he didn’t usually drink, but it was what she kept around, and he’d grown to like it because it reminded him of her.
He stepped up behind her, lips just grazing her ear. “For the record… my interests lie entirely in flame-haired pathologists with a penchant for skepticism and second-guessing my every move.”
Heat bloomed up her neck. She tried to keep her tone cool. “If you’re so interested, Mulder, why don’t you ever act on those interests?”
His hands slipped around her waist. His voice dropped. “Because if I do… I might mess everything up. You’re everything to me, Scully. I can’t lose you.”
She turned to him slowly, heart thudding.
“You’re so short,” he said suddenly, as if his brain had short-circuited.
She burst out laughing. It was perfect. And it gave her the courage to reach up, cup his jaw in both hands.
“Mulder,” she said softly.
But the word said so much more: Take me. I’m yours.
He lifted her onto the counter, strong hands gripping her waist, eyes locked on hers.
“What are we doing, Scully?” he asked, breathless.
She answered him not with words—but with a kiss. Fierce. Hungry. Long overdue.
He responded with every ounce of emotion he'd held back for years, his lips devouring hers, his body pressing into hers, solid and needing. She could feel every inch of him, and he made no effort to hide what he wanted.
The paper, the funeral, the rest of the world faded. Right now, there was only this—Scully's legs wrapped tightly around his waist, anchoring him to her. Mulder's mouth moved hungrily over hers, the years of restraint unraveling in every urgent kiss. His hand slid eagerly up the smooth curve of her thigh, lifting her dress inch by aching inch, fingertips grazing bare skin like he was discovering something sacred. She gasped against his lips, arching into him with a desperation that made him groan. Her fingers clawed into the back of his hair, needing him closer, deeper, needing everything. The unspoken was no longer hidden; it poured out of them in breathless whispers, in the way her hips tilted to meet his hand, in the way he touched her like he’d been starving for her—and finally, finally allowed to feast.