Chapter Text
Scully wakes up on hotel-crisp sheets after not nearly long enough. Her mind is racing but her body tells her it’s not morning yet. The clock is showing 11:15pm and she’s only been asleep for around four hours, the remains of a room-service salad drying out on the desk. Stella Gibson, with her brusquely dismissive, “You’ve been up at least 36 hours. Check yourself in, the Bureau will cover the bill, and we’ll discuss what happens next in the morning,” is staying two floors up.
The end of the afternoon had passed in a hurry of meetings and memorandums, an updated file arriving from the morgue complete with forms declaring that Scully’s late night examination had been totally by-the-book defusing Stanning’s fury from apoplectic to merely seething. He was biding his time, Scully could tell; smarting because Blanche Dubois had refused to speak to him when she’d finished with the sketch artist, affronted when Stella had gone straight to AD Gilmore to request approval to involve the Miami field office in their hunt for Jane Doe, his macho bravado growing louder with every small step the women of the taskforce took forward without his input. And it wasn’t that they sought to exclude him, Scully had realised as the day wore on, it was quite simply that he wasn’t willing to listen or participate until it suited his purpose.
When the police artist had come into the situation room with an e-fit sketch from Blanche’s description, Stanning had stood right next to them as Stella listed the databases she wanted it run against, he was well within earshot of Scully’s suggestion that they also check it against hospital staff records in the cities of interest. Short of profound deafness, there was no way he could have missed Scully’s subsequent explanation that most intravenous drugs capable of killing with the required speed and subtlety are controlled substances. and that access to such drugs makes it possible their perp is a medical professional of some sort. Scully could even have sworn that Agent Stanning had nodded his approval to extend their search parameters, but by the time they reached the last meeting of the day, Scully’s reiteration of those same suggestions to the gathered taskforce had been met with a unsubtle, definitely not under-the-breath, “Would be great if your little consultant would run this stuff past me before sharing with the room,” to Gibson, standing stonily at his side.
Scully suspects that Stanning’s hostility towards her has a lot more to do with Stella Gibson than Scully herself, but she hasn’t had a chance to ask what might be at the root of it. Things between her and the British detective have thawed as the day has worn on, the previous night’s unpleasantness put aside for now in the interest of furthering the case. Blanche’s clear preference for Scully has changed the landscape and they are both still adapting, Stella making space for Scully’s ideas and investigative victories despite her instinct to hold all the cards. It’s imperfect but it is working.
Tomorrow will be another rebalancing, and in the honesty of midnight darkness Scully prays that she will be asked to stay, that Stella’s initial promise of partnership will be renewed and the day will carry her to the morgue to assist with processing, or to a crime scene, anywhere where she can work, help and be useful in the search for the truth. This case has burrowed its way into her mind and she feels that familiar itch of unfinished business, of injustice, her mind rejecting sleep in favour of going over the evidence. After all, the structure and strictures of investigation, of neatly typed reports and linked evidence is a much kinder and more familiar cause for insomnia than the choking misery of Mulder’s absence which has become her frequent bedfellow these last few months.
Trying not to count back the nights where she’s reached for him and found only a cold pillow, Scully flicks on the TV, hoping for some numbing background noise. Instead, she finds her own face.
The photograph is old, maybe as much as a decade. She vaguely remembers having it taken for a hospital ID on a day when her hair was at an awkward in-between stage after being on the run, and next to Stella’s pristine police portrait she looks like the scruffy younger sister. Clicking on the sound, she catches the end of a report identifying her as a possible consultant and speculating as to what could have brought two women from such wildly different backgrounds on to the suspected serial case. When they cut back to the anchor, Scully recognises one of the men from from outside the station, and she realises that, in absence of any official statement to the press, she and Stella are likely the closest thing anyone has to a story. She only hopes that- and then in a flash Mulder’s face is on screen, and it’s too late, the potted official history of their partnership laid out for the late-night news audience with the standard side order of ridicule and sensationalism. She feels a pang then, for the old days where they’d have laughed off the bad press over bad coffee, the marks on each of their bodies reassuring them that the truth they sought was valid and important, their scars an armour of proof that only the other could see or understand. It’s a fond memory, and it gives Scully the excuse she has been pretending not to be waiting for. If her involvement has made the news, there is a chance it will make it to Mulder. She has to call. She pretends her heart isn’t racing at the thought of hearing his voice.
Scully calls their landline on autopilot. It’s the closest phone to Mulder’s desk and she knows that is likely where he will be. Late night calls are a staple of their relationship, or at least they had been back when they still talked, miles of telephone wire condensing to nothing under the magnetism of their connection, his voice in her ear more intimate than the touch of any man who had come before him. Even at the beginning, his sincerity, his fervour had stripped away her cynicism, if not her scepticism, and left her open and vulnerable to everything he was, everything that they became… everything they have lost.
He picks up on an inhale but says nothing, forcing her to break the silence. Again.
‘Mulder, it’s me.’
And she wishes she could see his face, because his ‘Scully?’ is a question she doesn’t know how to answer. It’s not a ‘Where the hell are you and why have you got my phone?’ It’s not a ‘Why haven’t you come home?’ It’s ‘Why are you calling me Scully?’ and she doesn’t know how to answer him.
She’d planned to tell him that she was assisting the FBI, not to worry and sorry she’d snuck out but he seemed busy. She’d thought perhaps she’d tempt him into the case, saying, ‘Please if you have any “Mulder hunches” call me because this guy is a sick fuck and I want to catch him’ and meaning, ‘I miss you. I miss us.’ But now frustration and loss and rage are fighting in her throat and, ‘Mulder I love you; why don’t you see me slipping away?’ is tangled up in, ‘Did you even notice I was gone?’ and ‘Why the hell haven’t you checked your phone in two days? I could have been dead in a ditch and you wouldn’t know, wouldn’t even care, you self-involved bastard!’
In the end, nothing comes out. And that’s what she tells him.
‘It’s nothing Mulder. I’m fine, I was just… Don’t worry.’
And he tells her goodbye and puts the phone down and Scully feels, just for a second, like she is nothing. That it has all been for nothing.
Mulder’s phone is heavy in her hand, one more thing of his he seems content to live without, and Scully lets it drop to the bed and get lost in the dark. He’d sworn they wouldn’t get lost in the dark, but it’s not the first promise he’s broken.
Determinedly swinging her legs out of bed, Scully drags workout clothes out of her luggage and pulls them on, transplanting the energy of her anger, the tension of her hurt into her muscles and as soon as her sneakers are laced she’s out of the door and headed for the health club. She skips the elevator, jogs down the ten flights of stairs and thanks God and whoever signs off Stella Gibson’s expenses for the Hilton and their 24/7 fitness centre.
The gym is empty and the music is off, but that suits Scully fine. She picks a treadmill by the window overlooking the pool for the distracting chlorine-fuelled fractals the water casts on the walls and ups the incline until she can feel her thighs start to burn. Mulder likes to run outside, to escape, but for Scully running has always been a form of punishment, penitence for that extra dinner roll, her legs pounding Hail Marys into the conveyor until her lungs burn and her mind empties. It’s not about getting anywhere or away from anything, it’s about staying the course. Tonight she will run until she forgets to feel hurt by what she’s left behind, until she forgets to be afraid of what comes next.
Ten minutes in and movement below catches the edge of her consciousness, figures intruding on the edge of her pool-rippled blank space. She keeps running, keeps gazing but they do not retreat, and Scully finds herself leaning in, observing the people below from her vantage point as if through a microscope.
There’s a familiarity to the arch of the woman’s back as she slips into the spa tub in a seal-black line. There’s a recognisable arrogance to the way she rises up on her knees and leans into her companion, to her dedication to her own pleasure as she slips the straps of her bathing suit down her shoulders in a public area, not caring who might be watching the sensuous skid of fingers down her now naked back. It’s not until the woman throws her head back, her lips tight with pleasure, that Scully realises why the stranger seems so familiar.
It’s Stella, her hair slicked back and dark from the pool. She seems as confident here, half naked and straddling someone in an empty jacuzzi, as she had in the boardroom. Scully hits the emergency stop on the treadmill, meaning to rush away, ashamed of her accidental voyeurism but as she is about to step back the scene below her changes. Stella rolls away from her partner to recline against the edge of the pool, and as she settles in a languid pose, somehow both soft and hard in one liquid pose, she looks up and notices her audience.
Scully freezes, still poised to run but now there’s a dare in Stella’s eyes, a wicked invitation to stay a little longer, to see how far things go, and Scully finds herself starting the treadmill again, a low setting, no incline, a feeble excuse to spectate Stella’s conquest.
Without relinquishing eye contact, Stella slides over to reclaim her partner, pulling them into her lap and arching her neck to give them access to the ivory swoop of her skin. A slight smile curves her lips when Scully eventually realises the body draped over her colleague is that of another woman. Scully is not surprised, there have been moments where Stella’s glance has skirted the edges of seductive, and remembering them now, wondering if she encouraged them, pins Scully more firmly in the sweet place between fight and flight. She runs harder, looking for another explanation for the heat rising in her cheeks and settling in places she will not acknowledge when Stella’s fingers dip playfully under the edges of the other woman’s bikini. She should leave. She doesn’t want this. Does she? Scully has never been a voyeur but the adrenaline coursing through her body from the exercise and the taboo of what she is watching is intoxicating. And so she keeps jogging, keeps making excuses and chalking up her shortness of breath to exertion.
A quarter mile later and the dark haired woman’s hands have vanished from view, the unfocused blue of Stella’s gaze giving Scully a pretty good idea of what they might be doing, though from her vantage point all she can see is bubbles. For a mad moment she considers going downstairs, some insidious voice in the back of her mind telling Scully that Stella wouldn’t mind, but even this much, even dragging her own lower lip into her mouth as Stella’s eyes finally snap shut and biting down to feel the corresponding tightness in her nipples and between her legs feels sinful. It’s a mix of sexy and sordid that without Stella’s gaze to hold her in place feels overwhelming, and as reason crashes in on this early hours insanity, Scully leaves. She doesn’t glance back to where deft fingers have now vanished inside bikini bottoms and definitely doesn’t acknowledge the ache between her own legs until she has reached the safety of her room.
Locking the door and dimming all the lights, as if that can hide the shameful desperation of her desire, Scully strips off and lets the shower head and her fingers finish what started ten floors down. It’s a technique she’s perfected in the months spent waiting for Mulder, a quick release so she can go to bed satisfied if not sated.
She remembers the first time, she’d put it off for weeks, unwilling to accept that yet another of their connections had failed, until her body was screaming to be touched, and then finally, desperately, Scully had crawled onto Mulder’s side of the bed, head deep in his pillow, and she’d touched herself pretending it was him. Afterwards she cried herself to sleep with loneliness of it, waking up alone with the evidence, before relocating to the shower where at least it felt more like an emotional ablution than a last resort. She tells herself the same thing now, that it’s a natural urge, a hormonal release, and has absolutely nothing to do with whatever devilish desire had kept her watching downstairs, and that the uncharacteristic act of watching has nothing to do with what is missing at home. Scully’s almost convinced herself of both lies by the time she crawls back into bed, and she drifts off to dreams of running, of following Mulder down a dark and endless tunnel, calling out for him to wait and then looking back to see Stella Gibson chasing behind, face bright with freedom and laughing as the gap begins to close.