TXF: Scenes in Between

A/N: This episode aired after Terms of Endearment, but dialog within the ep places it “about six months” after Valentine’s Day. So we’re looking at Aug/Sep, which means that it’s actually either set way later in the season than the episodes that follow it, or it’s set between The Beginning and Drive. For the purposes of narrative consistency, I have chosen to interpret it as the latter. (They still have enough leeway from Kersh to get away with, say, investigating Daryl Mootz as a possible domestic terrorist, as long as Mulder was creatively vague on the case request form. It seems like there’s very little chance something like that would fly after Terms of Endearment.) This interpretation also gave me the opportunity to address a certain scene from Fight the Future that early Season 6 chooses to pretty aggressively ignore. ;)

“Well, who’s to say that it doesn’t work the other way around – that the way someone feels can affect the weather, that the weather is somehow an expression of Holman Hardt’s feelings? Or-or better still, the feelings that he’s not expressing.”

They go on for some time, working through their usual song and dance of Mulder spouting complete nonsense and Scully telling him, with varying degrees of bluntness, that he’s nuts. It’s been a long day, though, and the previous night’s excitement is catching up with them both; Scully soon gives up trying to cover her yawning and declares that, as long as Mulder makes it to the airport on time, she doesn’t care one way or the other if he wants to share his ridiculous theory with Holman in the morning.

“Maybe you’ll listen to him when he tells you that what you’re suggesting is completely impossible. But right now, I’m too tired to keep arguing about it. I’m getting ready for bed.”

She stands, stretching her back with a groan, and pulls her pajamas from a drawer before retreating to the bathroom to change.

It’s not ideal, sharing a room with Mulder, but it’s not as though they have a choice. And it’s not as though it’s a problem, either. She tells herself it’s just that she and Mulder have such different sleep habits. Specifically, Mulder doesn’t sleep much, period. In fact, it’s probably that very tendency that saved him from getting hurt a hell of a lot worse last night when that cow came through the ceiling at 3am; if he’d been asleep like a sensible person, he might have been crushed. So it’s not unreasonable for her to be somewhat wary of how this night might go, to wonder whether she’ll be kept up for hours by his restlessness.

In truth, though, that’s not all it is, and she knows it.

There’s been this slight but unacknowledged layer of tension between them since they got back from Antarctica. At least, she thinks there has been. It’s possible she’s just imagining it. He certainly doesn’t seem to be acting like anything’s changed. Then again, maybe that’s a conscious decision on his part, to ignore what happened right before Antarctica. Maybe he didn’t really mean what he said in the heat of the moment, when she told him she was quitting. Regrets it, even. Regrets telling her she saved him.

Regrets what (nearly) happened next.

She tried to bring it up, just once, repeating his own words back to him – “If we quit now, they win” – but he gave absolutely no indication that those words had any significance to him. So she dropped it. If he wants to pretend it never happened, she’s not going to push him. But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about it.

And thinking about it is exactly what complicates the very mundane situation of having to share a hotel room for the night. It wouldn’t have bothered her a few months ago, so there’s no reason for it to bother her now, not really. And yet…

She squares her shoulders, determined to just act normal. After all, they’re only sharing a room. It’s not as if they have to share a bed.

***

While Scully’s in the bathroom, Mulder goes about setting up the rollaway bed that the hotel manager brought in for him that afternoon with a shrug and a muttered, “This is the last one we’ve got. Got people crawlin’ out our ears for the reunion, y’know.”

The cot has certainly seen better days. Its hinges screech as he unfolds it, and he’s pretty sure there is a pin or something missing from one of the supports. There isn’t a ton of room between the bed and the dresser, so the rollaway ends up wedged in a way that requires some creative maneuvering to get the linens put on, but he manages. He’s just settled himself to lie on it – the damned thing is so short that his legs dangle off the end from halfway up his calves – when Scully emerges from the bathroom, stopping by his feet with a sigh.

His gaze lands first on her soft cotton pajama pants, and he is in no way prepared for what happens next. This is hardly the first time he’s seen Scully in her pajamas, so it’s more than a little surprising when his stomach flips and his breath catches in his throat. The sight feels somehow more intimate than it ever has – with the possible exception of their first case together, when she turned up at his hotel room door with terror in her eyes and mosquito bites on her back – and he suddenly feels, inexplicably, like he’s trespassing in her room, like he really shouldn’t be here. It makes absolutely no sense, and as he scrambles to recover from the mental whiplash, he tries not to let his eyes linger anywhere, skimming up past the arms crossed over the bundle of clothes against her chest, to the grimace on her freshly scrubbed face.

“Mulder, you can’t sleep on that. Take the bed.”

For a second he has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, but his brain finally catches up, and he is relieved that his voice sounds more or less normal when he responds. “No, Scully, this is your room. Seriously, I’ve slept on worse.” He rolls to his side, bending his knees to tuck his feet up. “See? I’ll be fine.”

Each movement, however, produces a cacophony of squeaks and squeals from the folding bed’s ancient springs. No sooner has the word “fine” left his mouth when, with a shuddering groan, the cot’s frame gives out completely at one end, sending the whole thing crashing to the floor. Scully jumps backward, her eyes widening in alarm and surprise, and Mulder can’t hold back a laugh. He was already off-balance, and now the situation has taken a turn for the absurd.

He recovers with a shrug, sitting up. “All right, so much for that plan. I’ll, uh, I’ll just put a blanket on the floor. No big deal.”

She shakes her head, sighing. “No, don’t be silly. The bed’s big enough for both of us.”

Once again, his brain takes a stutter-step. Both of them? In one double bed? It shouldn’t be a big deal, but at the moment it seems nearly unthinkable, even though he still couldn’t even begin to explain why.

“I don’t know–”

“Look.” She pivots away from him to pack her clothes back into her suitcase. “It’s late. Neither of us got much sleep last night, and it seems silly for you to sleep on the floor when there’s a perfectly serviceable bed here. That’s all. Obviously, if you’d rather not, that’s fine too. I’m just saying it’s not going to bother me. Either way, I’m going to bed.”

It’s a perfectly logical solution, and even though every instinct is screaming in opposition, he cannot come up with a reasonable objection. They are, after all, adults. And have been friends for a long time now. This should be a complete non-issue. He just needs to get a handle on whatever’s got his brain turned upside down.

“O-okay then. I’ll just…”

He awkwardly crawls off the collapsed cot and digs his jogging pants and toiletries out of his suitcase. Ordinarily, he would sleep in boxers, but at the moment, he is profoundly grateful that, even though he hasn’t managed to get a run in on this case, he brought his running clothes anyway. Shutting himself in the bathroom, he sets everything down and braces his hands on the counter, staring into the mirror and willing himself to get it together.

***

She stands there looking down at the broken cot, wondering if she somehow brought this on herself by daring to take solace in the fact that they only had to share a room, not a bed.

Famous. Last. Words.

And then she had been the one to suggest they share. But she couldn’t very well suggest otherwise, could she? If she is going to pretend that nothing is different between them, then she cannot give any indication that she wouldn’t be able to handle sleeping next to him. After all, why should it bother her, if they are nothing more than friends?

She groans, scrubbing her hands down her face.

Right. She can at least clear him some room on the floor, in case he does decide that he’d rather sleep there. She wrestles the collapsed bed back into its original folded configuration, scowling at its every grating squeak, and shoves it into the corner. With that out of the way, the ball is in his court, and she will just have to stand by her claim that she really doesn’t care one way or the other about what he decides.

The small comfort in all of this is that she really is quite tired. She truly doesn’t have to worry about any of this for very long, because she is going to read a few pages in her book and go to sleep.

Maybe, if she’s very lucky, she can even be asleep by the time he comes out of the bathroom.

***

It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly has got him so flustered. It’s only Scully. The same Scully he’s slept beside more times than he can count, on airplanes, on stakeouts, in hospital rooms and quarantine facilities. He’s slept with his head in her lap, for god’s sake, and mere weeks ago, he pulled her, naked, out of that frozen pod in Antarctica without batting an eye. But those had been times of crisis, his life or hers hanging in the balance. Sharing a motel bed, Scully in her pajamas beside him, somehow feels like something else altogether.

It occurs to him that here there is no danger, nothing to keep his mind from straying to the fact that he almost kissed her in the hallway outside his apartment (something they seem, by unspoken agreement, to have chosen to pretend never happened). This is a dangerous train of thought because more than anything else, Scully is his friend – his best friend, even – and even if some part of him still thinks about that hallway and her eyes locked with his and that goddamned bee, a much bigger part of him is terrified to do anything that might jeopardize the relationship between them.

He considers, but quickly rejects, the possibility of going outside to sleep in the rental car. No, that would cause more problems than it would solve, raising questions of why he’s apparently suddenly incapable of sleeping in close proximity to his partner. Even if she never asked them aloud, they would be there as surely as if she had.

He shakes his head firmly. He can do this. Of course he can do this. He just has to stop being ridiculous. He trades his jeans for the jogging pants and brushes his teeth.

***

Scully opens her book. Then she purses her lips because of course, of course the chapter opens with a love scene. It’s not as though she’s reading some trashy romance novel; this is historical fiction, and there are probably two such scenes in the whole 350 pages. Scully’s not a prude, and it’s not as though Mulder is going to read over her shoulder, nor would it be the first time she’s read something like this while sitting right next to him. Even so, it does feel a bit like Murphy’s Law coming into play.

(Mulder probably has some paranormal explanation for Murphy’s Law. If he thinks it’s possible for random weather events to be anything other than coincidental, maybe he thinks it’s also possible for someone’s emotions to be the root cause of rotten luck.)

She debates just putting the book away altogether. Except now it feels almost like a challenge. Like closing the book would be admitting defeat, admitting to herself that things have changed and she does look at Mulder differently. But if he doesn’t see her as anything but a friend that he accidentally almost kissed in the heat of the moment – she fights the heat that springs to her cheeks as she recalls doing nearly the exact same thing, with VanBlundht – then making such an admission will only lead to her getting hurt.

Stop overthinking everything and read the damned book.

With a determined set of her jaw, she turns her attention back to the words in front of her, willing herself to ignore both the sounds of her partner getting ready for bed and the fact that she is no longer especially sleepy.

***

When he finally exits the bathroom, his features carefully schooled into a mask of indifference, Scully is already sitting in bed, reading, the covers pulled up to her waist. With just a couple of minor adjustments, it’s an image he’s seen a million times, so why does he feel compelled to avert his eyes? What in the hell is his problem?

He goes to his suitcase to put his things away, then does his best to affect nonchalance as he walks around to the other side of the bed. Scully apparently folded the rollaway bed and stuck it back in the corner while he was in the bathroom, and he’s glad not to have to climb over it on his way. He sits gingerly on the bed, on top of the duvet, wondering what exactly he’s supposed to do next. He doesn’t have a book, and he’s already put away all of the material related to the case, and he’s going to start panicking again if he just has to lie here doing nothing.

“You, uh, mind if I watch the last half of the game?” It’s always a pretty safe assumption that there’s a game of some sort being broadcast on any given evening.

She passes him the remote without taking her eyes off her book. “Go for it. I’m not going to be up much longer, but as long as you keep the volume low, the TV won’t bother me.”

Cool as a cucumber, that woman. This whole situation doesn’t seem to be affecting her in the least. He, on the other hand, remains almost hyper-aware of her every breath and sigh as he flips through the channels looking for baseball, football, something to distract himself from the sudden realization that his partner probably isn’t wearing a bra. He lands at last on a Royals-Rockies game; they’re in the bottom of the 8th inning, but it’ll have to do.

He turns the volume low, nearly off, and his mind slowly quiets as well, as he falls into the rhythm of the game. Minutes pass as he’s drawn into analyzing the players and the action on screen, and the awkwardness of this situation with Scully begins to dissipate. After all, how many times have they sat just like this, on his couch (where, by the way, he also sleeps), a game on TV while they work on case reports? Is this really so different?

A crack of thunder rips through the air out of nowhere. The headboard thumps against the wall as he and Scully both jump, startled.

Mulder looks over to see Scully looking back at him with her eyebrows raised. “Let me guess. Holman?”

He sighs. “He has got to find a way to deal with whatever he’s feeling.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “I still don’t see how you can honestly believe that a person, an ordinary human being, could possibly be responsible for a thunderstorm.”

“Of course I don’t believe that. I think it’s pretty clear that Holman is not an ordinary human being, Scully. Need I remind you how many cases of anomalous physiology we’ve encountered over the years?”

There is another rumble of thunder, less intense this time, but the lamp and TV both flicker. Mulder holds his breath, exhaling with relief when both stay on. He is more relaxed than he was five minutes ago, but he’s not quite ready to be completely without distractions (and in the dark) just yet.

“Okay, say that were true.” Scully closes her book and sets it on her lap. “Say Holman Hardt is, by some bizarre physiological mechanism, affecting the weather, but it’s completely involuntary. What could you possibly suggest he do about it?”

“Isn’t it obvious? With the exception of the rose petal rain, what’s the common factor in all of the extreme weather events?” He watches her make a half-hearted effort to work it out before raising her eyebrows in question. “Why did Sheila think she was the one responsible? Because every event coincided with something significant in her life. Her wedding, her divorce, her engagement to Daryl… all occasions when, say, someone who’d harbored feelings for her since high school might be dealing with some pretty extreme emotions.”

“So your theory is that these emotions Holman has for Sheila are so intense as to summon up tornadoes or snow or, or to keep rain at bay? You do realize how crazy that sounds, right?”

“It’s not… look, it only sounds crazy until you consider that it perfectly explains why Kroner could be such an extreme statistical outlier, meteorologically speaking.”

She still looks unconvinced. “And you think, what, that by confessing his feelings to Sheila…”

“Everything should work itself out, yeah. No more drought, no more tornadoes or freak hail storms or snow on the fourth of July.”

“Mulder–” She shakes her head, smiling. “–this is still Kansas. There will always be tornadoes.” (Well, okay, she has a point, there.) “And besides, what if he’s already told her how he feels, and those feelings simply aren’t reciprocated? What then?”

“Well, then he’s going to have to get some therapy or something. Find some sort of a constructive outlet for his emotions.”

“I see.” She smirks. “So, in short, Kroner’s future weather stability depends entirely upon the local meteorologist either declaring his undying love or finding himself a hobby.”

“Yes!” He furrows his brow. “Even though it sounds silly when you put it like that.”

“That’s because it is inherently silly, Mulder.”

Another quiet roll of thunder pre-empts any retort he could make, so he raises his eyebrows at her instead. It would be exasperating that she still won’t see the logic in his explanation, but she’s laughing now, and he’s truly at ease for the first time in nearly an hour, so he has a hard time getting too upset about it.

***

When they’re laughing, the banter coming as easily as it ever did, it’s not hard to relax back into their old patterns, to actually just be friends, first and foremost.

Okay, yes, she still kind of wants to kiss him, but not here, not now. Not only are the circumstances wildly inappropriate (they are still on assignment, for crying out loud), but it is obvious that, regardless of what may or may not have happened in his hallway, Mulder doesn’t see her as anything more than his friend and partner. As far as he is concerned, there isn’t a single thing odd about the two of them casually discussing a case in their pajamas, inches apart from each other on a motel room bed, and no way is she going to be the one to make things weird. If he wants to pretend the hallway didn’t happen, then she can honor that.

It’s one of the best things about their friendship, really – the ability to read each other well enough to avoid unnecessarily uncomfortable interactions. (More often than not, anyway.) He doesn’t need to gently let her down, explain that he acted impulsively in an emotional situation, because she knows him well enough to let his actions and demeanor speak for him. Any regret she may or may not feel about that doesn’t have to sting as badly as it might if they actually worked through everything aloud. It’s a win-win, really.

And it’s less complicated this way, too. They can simply proceed as they always have, their easy partnership unthreatened by the turbulence of the sorts of emotions that accompany increased intimacy.

She yawns, finally relaxed enough to feel sleepy again. “Well, regardless of the cause, I hope the weather stays calmer tonight than last night. I’m going to sleep.” She puts her book on the nightstand and switches off the lamp. “Goodnight, Mulder.”

“Night, Scully. You, uh, sure the TV won’t bother you?”

“Positive.”

Once she’s settled on her side with her eyes closed, Mulder’s warmth seeping through the blankets behind her, sleep descends upon her quickly, and all of her trepidation about the situation melts away as fully as if it had never been there at all.

***

He turns the volume all the way to mute. The game looks like it might go into extra innings, but he may shut it off soon anyway. Whatever was going on with him earlier, he seems to have worked through it, more or less. He no longer feels the desperate need for distraction, even with Scully shutting the lamp off and settling down to sleep less than a foot away from him.

He’s still aware of her there, but the somersaulting of his stomach has quieted, to his great relief. At the end of the day, they are still the same people they’ve always been, and friends above all else. Maybe someday they can be more, when they’re both ready, if they ever are. He’s a little startled to realize it’s become impossible for him to imagine that anyone else will ever be, could ever be, quite as right for him as Scully is. He’s not sure when that happened, but it’s a realization, he is pleased to note, he can examine with something approaching scientific detachment, now that the tension from earlier has broken.

It is merely a fact, an indisputable truth. And ultimately, it doesn’t actually change anything. If she only ever sees him as a friend, that’s okay. At least she’s still in his life; he still gets to smile and laugh with her almost every day.

And he wouldn’t give that up for anything.

He shuts off the TV and stretches out flat on his back, hands tucked underneath his head atop the pillow. He lets his eyes fall closed, and somehow he gets the feeling he’s going to sleep better tonight than he has in a while.