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One Tuesday evening, they’re in their basement office, trying to produce a report from their latest outing. It was an uninspiring case in rural Pennsylvania that turned out to be nothing more than unauthorised use of untested pesticides. There’s been something so hideously lacking in their recent cases. The mundanity is dragging him down, making him forget why he is wasting what might be his best years in this gloomy den. He sees Scully sigh heavily, and unconsciously her lips form themselves into a perfect pout. He feels something stirring inside him, something like a pull, something he is both used to and will never be used to. He knows why he stays, cooped up down here, just the two of them against the world. Scully, he wants to say. Scully, you are burning lamp to me. You are a flame the wind cannot blow out.
He settles for something more prosaic, “Hey Scully, did you watch the Knicks game last night?” She looks up at him, brows furrowed, slight confusion written on her face, hands still hovering over the keyboard.
“No, Mulder, I did not,” she replies dryly. “Why?”
“Um, no reason,” he grins at her reassuringly, glad to have her attention. “Hey, now that we’re taking a break in this goddamned report, what do you know about asteroids? From a practical rather than theoretical point of view?”
The furrows in her brow deepen and she cocks her head to one side slightly. “Is there something in particular you need to know? That’s a… complex topic. And I must add that astrophysics is not exactly my area of expertise.”
“I know it is, I know,” he ascents, nodding his head. He wonders if she knows he still has her senior thesis tucked away in one of these drawers. “I was just thinking about hard lumps of rock hurtling through space and wishing – is that too strong a word? – just maybe imagining one landing on this building, in the early hours of the morning when absolutely no one is around, and giving us a reason to get out of doing this report.”
She smirks at him, perhaps number three on his list of favourite Scully smiles. “So were you wanting to know if there are any reported asteroids heading our way, or were you thinking more about how to summon one? Because if it’s the latter, just warn me so I can clear out my drawer. I wouldn’t want to lose my favourite pen.” With that, she picks up the pen lying nearest her computer and taps the notepad on her desk for emphasis.
“I’ll get you another pen, Scully.” He plunges on, wanting to confirm a notion that’s been swirling around in his brain for a while. “What can you tell me about the YORP Effect? I have this idea that it’s something to do with radiation from the sun changing the asteroid’s energy, and causing a mutation in its orbit. Is that right?”
“More or less,” she purses her lips a little, getting the words right as she clarifies. “The YORP Effect is an explanation for how, over time, solar radiation essentially shaves off photons from asteroids, affecting their mass and therefore their orbital rotation. The idea proposes that eventually, small astronomical bodies will be reduced to dust.”
So it’s true: I am a heliocentric lump of space junk, he thinks, and the light from my Scully-sun will one day burn me up. But instead he says, “Good to know. I like to keep up with these ideas. You never know when there’s some sexy lady out there, waiting to be impressed by theoretical physics.”
But Scully isn’t finished with her explanation. She glances at him and then away towards the window, although darkness has fallen and there is nothing to see out there. “The YORP Effect is also thought to be responsible for the creation of binary asteroid systems.” She looks back at him meaningfully, one eyebrow arched infinitesimally. I see you and I raise you, the eyebrow seems to say. “One object of smaller mass will join the orbit of a larger object as they circle their shared centre of mass, thus creating a binary asteroid system, until they both crumble down into nothingness.”
Not for the first time, he feels that invisible string of knowledge – of knowing – stretch tight between them. I desire my dust to be mingled with yours forever and forever and forever, he transmits with his eyes. With his mouth, he says, “Wow, this is all getting a bit hot and heavy. I think we’ll all float on okay, don’t you, Scully?”
The moment is broken, and he can see her retreating. “I think it’s time to call it a night, actually,” she replies as she turns off her computer and begins packing away her things. “Truth be told, I don’t think I can write another sensible word this evening.”
He watches her, noting how carefully she places each item into its spot on her desk, or away in her bag to be taken home. As if she can feel his eyes, she squares her shoulders slightly and snaps her bag shut before turning to face him. Her half-smile (number five on his list of Scully smiles) dipped in fondness, her chin set just so.
“Goodnight, Mulder. Don’t stay any longer than you need, just in case that asteroid is on its way to destroy these hallowed halls.” He gives her a mock salute as she walks out the door, one last bob of her head his way. The room seems to dull immediately without her there.
He doesn’t leave. Not then, not for a long time afterwards. Instead, he takes the favourite pen from her desk and he writes, willing the words to be a balm to his stormy soul, choosing each word as if his life depends on it (perhaps it does). He would give away anything, all clumsy metaphors and cliches, for one word, drawn out of his chest like a rib; one word which contains everything he feels and means and wants.
Scully,
I have just realised that I have never actually written you a letter, have I?
Lots of quick notes, some emails, the occasional hurried text message.
Of all the ways we communicate, the words themselves have never been that important.
Voluminous though my feelings may be, it’s possible I have never clearly conveyed them.
Evidently, this has to change.
You don’t need to write back to me, Scully, or even say anything, if you don’t want to.
Only know that these feelings are the truth I have been seeking.
Unconventionally, unconditionally, unalterably yours,
Mulder x
He stares at the page in front of him before it starts swimming, blurring what has taken so long to become clear. It seems impossible that he can have written this letter, that he could have laid himself so bare in less than 100 words. But then – she is a second skin to him already, a warmth and protection he is never without. He folds his letter up, writes her name on the top of the paper, and shoves it deep into his top drawer. He is content in the knowledge that he exists, even though no one else but him will ever see it. Dragging himself out of his chair, soul weary, he trudges out of the office, his feet and then his car taking him towards his apartment. It doesn’t matter how far you’ve come, you’ve always got further to go.
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The next day they spend what must surely be, in Mulder’s estimation, an interminable amount of time in their departmental meeting with Skinner, and two other barely distinguishable agents. The seconds stretch on and the only way he can endure it is to try to catch Scully’s eye, subtly conveying to her his plan for self-defenestration if they are not emancipated soon. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head that says If I have to do this, so do you, she turns back to Agent Mariano – a new agent from the finance department – and clarifies something about their recent expenses. In response, Mariano accidentally refers to her as Agent Mulder before Skinner corrects him with an embarrassed little cough. Mulder knows she is avoiding him, stifling a little Scully sneer, which only makes him stare harder. She glances his way, unable to stop herself, and the exquisiteness of her face catches him off guard, insistent and irrepressible.
When they are finally released they fall into their office, Mulder slouching back in his chair and Scully leaning on the desk, letting her shoulders slump down and her eyes roll upwards extravagantly. He is reminded of how rarely she lets her composure slip in front of others. Even for something as breathtakingly insignificant as a fucking departmental meeting, she will maintain her poise and her professionalism. He is grateful, blessed, touched that in front of him she allows herself the freedom of disassembling. He wants to wrap himself around her, feel the small bones in her spine turn to nothing as she melts into him. Rest on me now, he invites her.
She cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, faux accusingly. “Were you paying any attention at all in that meeting?”
“Well no, not to the content, of course not,” he replies with a grin. “I was too busy thinking about our next case.”
She furrows her brow, waiting for more information. “Have we been assigned a new one?”
“Not yet,” he shakes his head, “but one has presented itself to me in the wild, you might say. We need to investigate the black hole that seems to open up in Skinner’s office every third Wednesday afternoon. As soon as we step inside for that damn meeting I feel I am being spaghettified.” She smiles wryly as he stretches an imaginary string between his fingers, pulling it his entire arm span apart.
“You know, Mulder, if you really were sucked into a black hole, from your perspective, you would be in free fall with no resistance and, depending on the size of the black hole, you would probably feel nothing.”
“So you think I should just give in, accept that Skinner’s threshold is the ultimate event horizon, and let myself go?”
“Only if you have no desire to see Scream 3. It’s opening weekend in a few days and I know how you feel about horror movies.”
“Fuck me,” he groans, leaning even further back in his chair, covering his face with his hands. “Just elongate my atoms out now and let time take me.”
“Time can’t take you, Mulder,” she explains in her patient scientist voice, the one that sometimes narrates his dreams. “It doesn’t exist in the way most people understand it to. It is not changing or flowing, it is only perceived as a sequence of events occurring within space because we experience change. Time itself is not a dimension or an actor, but a measure of change within space.”
“Why does it feel like this day has accelerated my fall towards death?”
Scully looks concerned, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Are you all right, Mulder? You seem a little more… fatalistic than usual.” Fatalistic, he thinks. Fate. Fatal. Funny how the etymology of fate ties it up inextricably with death. The romantic in him rejects this, sees beyond death to different endpoint, albeit no less permanent. On the good days her very existence has him praising the fates, and on the bad days, the rope between them tugs painfully, reminding him that the price he pays for her is his freedom.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just those meetings, and the last few cases we’ve had, everything between… Maybe you’re right and there’s no such thing as time. Maybe we’re just stuck here, moored and unmoving, forever.”
“I think you misunderstood my definition of time. I was merely pointing out – ”
“Don’t you ever feel stuck, Scully? Like you can see exactly where you want to go but for whatever reason, the forces necessary to take you there are thwarted?”
There’s a beat while she stares at him, knitting her brows together, not wanting to follow the path he’s laying out. She purses her lips. “You’ve been saying some odder things than usual recently. I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”
His eyes bore into her.
She doesn’t look away and he can see a faint flush creep up her neck. “I can’t read your mind, Mulder.”
He continues to look at her, unblinking. You and I both know that’s not true. I think you’re just scared to.
And what are you going to do about it? she challenges, her eyes widening, her pupils dilated.
He is about to tell her about a Persian phrase he learnt, years ago, from another student at Oxford. A young woman from Iran who’d appeared and then disappeared several months later, called home by a dying mother and a complicated country. Briefly, they’d studied poetry together, and she’d explained, with a pride undiminished by decades of oppression, that no one understood the human heart better than Iranians. “Del be del rah dareh,” she’d told him, “means ‘from heart to heart there is a way’. It is about telepathy between the hearts. That is,” she’d corrected herself, “between some hearts.”
Scully, my heart –
His phone rings, sneaking like a draught through the insulation of their office. It is Skinner, admonishing Mulder for his attitude during the meeting, and informing them that they have a new case and will fly to Lexington, Kentucky, the next day. Scully is already packing her things by the time he hangs up, conspicuously turned away from him, more hurried than she normally is.
“You’re going?” he asks, trying to keep his tone even. “Home?”
“Yes, I’m going home, as you should too. You look – well, you look wrecked, frankly. I hope you can get some sleep tonight.” As she opens the door to walk out, she turns back to him, chewing her lip as if she’s about to say something. There is that rope again, pulling tight around his insides. “Good night, Mulder. See you tomorrow.”
He takes that favourite pen from her desk again, and sits down once more to write, hoping by externalising the feelings, they will stop suffocating him so completely.
Scully,
Believe it or not, I’m writing you another letter.
Earlier, I said you didn’t have to respond to me, but my need has become more acute.
Maybe it’s something I can only really say when we’re apart, so here goes:
I need your quiet heart to sooth the storm inside of me.
Nothing about this, surely, should come as a surprise to you at this point.
Earnestly, exclusively, endlessly yours,
Mulder x
He searches in the filing cabinet for an envelope. When he finds one, he puts this note along with the one from yesterday inside it, and writes her name on the front. He holds it for a minute, staring down at this one word that simultaneously carries such weight and lightness. He feels better for having written, and relieved to have a tangible place for the feelings, without having to take them anywhere else. He sits there for a few minutes before he gets a call on his cell phone. It is Langly, inviting him over for one of those convoluted games those three seem addicted to. After explaining the ridiculously intricate rules in unnecessary detail, Langly breezily adds, “You can bring Scully. Just warn her that costumes are mandatory.”
When he finishes the call, Mulder gets up. He is still tired, but the waves inside him are calmer now, and he hopes he will have a more peaceful night tonight without them churning and crashing. On his way to his parked car, he sees a flash of movement in the sky out of the corner of his eye. I wish… he lets it go without finishing the thought. He knows the universe already understands. It is only as he turns back to walk towards his car he realises that it was, in fact, a satellite up there, blinking away in the darkness, and not a shooting star. Is it wrong to wish upon space hardware? He doesn’t know whether it’s his faith in Scully, or in humanity’s power to explore the skies, but somehow he feels buoyed by the sight of the satellite.
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She is almost late for the plane, rushing in and muttering something about having had to go to the office before the airport to retrieve the phone she’d left there the previous night. She seems ruffled, flustered in a way she rarely is, pink cheeked and wet eyed. He tells her a long, drawn-out joke with a punch line that she appreciates less for its humour (admittedly: pretty weak) and more because it signals the end of the story, but at least she appears calmer. They are not assigned seats next to each other, and he takes surreptitious glances at her, three rows behind, throughout the flight. She looks like she is reading the same page for most of the time, occasionally making notes on her notepad, or staring almost sightlessly out of the window.
It's the same old story when they get to Lexington: a series of deaths, the suggestion of the paranormal, but upon closer inspection is really just a twisted man with a proclivity for the occult and a special hatred for young women. Scully only has to conduct two autopsies to determine enough information to add to Mulder’s profile, and they are done by 9 pm. They are dropped off at their motel by the local sheriff, and after a quick handshake, they are alone.
Scully looks up at him, an unformulated question in her eyes, her face a little grimy and crumpled, her hair starting to frizz at the ends.
“What do you say, Scully? Should I order a pizza and we can eat it out here?” he gestures to the small table and chairs set up outside his room, identical sets in front of all the rooms. “It’s not as freezing as it could be, and I don’t know about you, but I need some fresh air after today.” Her mouth quirks into a small smile, at once grateful and slightly wary.
“Sure. Can you order while I jump in the shower? I want to smell a bit less like death, if it’s all right with you.” He nods and she calls out over her shoulder for extra mushrooms on her half before disappearing into the room next to his.
When she emerges she is dressed in clean pale blue sweater and some light sweat pants, her damp hair falling onto her shoulders. His breath almost catches at her loveliness. It is deeply visceral, his response to her. He is sitting on one of the hard little chairs, the unopened pizza box on the table. She walks over to him purposefully and sits down in the other chair. There is something about her expression, one he’s not sure he’s ever seen before, that immediately dispels any desire for the pizza. He can feel the internal rope tighten as his heart begins to throb a little. She licks her lips before speaking, staring at him intently with her huge, luminescent eyes.
“Mulder, I – I am scared.” The thrum that begins within him is immediate and agonisingly exquisite. Scully, my Scully. He sits up straighter in his chair and reaches a hand out to take hers as it rests on the table between them.
“You don’t have to be,” he rubs a thumb across the top of her knuckles, willing her to feel how true this is. “You know I’d rather spend eternity in Skinner’s black hole of an office than hurt you for a single second.”
She swallows and looks away from him. “But what if –“
“What if what? You planning on breaking my heart, Scully?”
“No,” she says with a tiny choke in her voice, shaking her and looking back at him, her eyes wet. “You know I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”
Mulder sees another flash of light in the sky just like the night before – the red blinking of a satellite above their heads as it orbits the earth, this man-made asteroid tied forever to this beautiful, problematic planet. It gives him hope, spurs him onwards in the exploration of his own universe. He stands up and moves the two feet between them before kneeling down in front of her. He takes her other hand, so he’s holding both of hers in both of his. The satellite has given him a sense of calm at odds with the wild drumming of his heart.
“Okay, I’m aware you think of me as a suave Casanova type who exudes confidence and an unparallel sexual charm and always knows exactly what to say or do to get the girls, but uh – can I… Can I kiss you?” Her eyes widen and he sees her lips part subconsciously. He takes a shaky breath in which she must surely notice because she looks at him curiously.
“You’re nervous, Mulder?” she whispers as she brings a hand up to place on his heart. He almost laughs – or he would, if he weren’t concentrating a hundred percent of his energy and focus on those perfect lips, so close to him now he can practically taste them.
“Uh, yeah. I have the insanely beautiful woman of my dreams at my fingertips. I’m really just clenching my whole body in the hopes of keeping it together and not fucking it up.”
“Shhhh. Relax,” gently, so gently, she places her hands on the sides of his face and pulls him towards her, closing the distance between them in less than a second – or is it years? He can’t even tell anymore as she presses her lips on his and the feeling of perfect bliss eclipses everything else. She moves one hand to the back of his head and tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling him ever closer and he leans into her, hoping she can feel everything he wants her to.
They finally break apart and he rests his forehead on hers, breathing identical deep breaths. He places soft kisses all over her face and then buries his head in the crook of her neck, half laughing. Muffled, he tells her “I – I mean… I’ve been waiting for this… forever.”
“Me too,” she replies, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls back and realises how uncomfortable this position is for him, crouching down while she sits in the white metal chair the little motel porch. He grabs his own chair closer and sits down in it again so their knees are touching and keeps hold of both her hands. Her face is flushed, her lips puffy, and he doesn’t think, in the universe, there has ever been a lovelier sight.
“I made a wish last night, you know, Scully. I assumed perhaps it would be invalid given I mistook a satellite for a shooting star.” He lifts one of her hands towards his mouth and kisses it softly. “Seems I underestimated the magic of Russian state sponsored surveillance.”
“Not to burst the bubble of Soviet spacecraft’s previously unknown powers of wish granting,” she replies with a squeeze of her hand, “but there’s a slightly more prosaic explanation.”
“Of course there is.”
For a second, Scully looks unsure, nervous and perhaps embarrassed. But she visibly steels herself. “I told you that I left my cell phone in the office last night. This morning I went to pick it up before meeting you for our flight and I noticed – I couldn’t help but noticing – an envelope on your desk with my name on it. I assumed it was for me so I opened it without thinking.”
“Oh Jesus,” he feels his face flame, realising in that second he'd forgotten to put it back in his desk, hidden away forever. "You read those letters? Is my macho persona dead forever in your eyes?”
She lets go of one of his hands and fishes in her pocket. She brings out a folded up piece of paper and hands it to him, her own face pink. She can’t look at him while he reads it.
Mulder,
At first, I didn’t know quite what to make of your letters.
Luckily, over the years, I have learnt very well how to interpret your communication.
Whatever you feel, know that I feel it too.
All of it.
You are mine, and I am -
Simply yours,
Scully x
The feeling inside him – like everything he has ever lost has been found – overtakes him fully.
“Scully, you mean this?” she raises her eyes to look at him, and her face breaks into the widest, most goddamn beautiful smile he has ever seen, brighter than every star in the universe, and even though he is smiling back too, there are tears falling down his face. He can’t help it, he can never help it, and he pulls her into him, her body as always fitting perfectly into his. The distance, the difference, between their hearts is nothing, and the rope around them no longer feels like a chain, but a bridge, a secret tunnel. Always.