Chapter Text
Arriving at the summer house of his parents felt like stepping through a window in time. Nothing changed. The gravel driveway crunched under his shoes, the house was dark as expected, but not abandoned. Mom came once a month to clean up and air out the rooms in hope he might someday want to come back, and she was right, in a way. Here they were, surrounded by the sound of invisible seabirds and waves, breathing in the salty scent of ocean and nights of peace. It wasn't the house from which Sam was taken, so it wasn't tainted with too many bad memories, the worst being how they in time stopped coming here as a family, too little space for that much grief.
Stretching and breathing deeply he looked around, while Scully, reached back inside the car to pop the trunk. Mulder tapped the rooftop twice and tossed her the keys to the front door with a smile, then took the groceries from the back seat and bags from the trunk. They didn't need much, just some coffee and breakfast food, other than that they could eat in town; tourists they were. He smuggled a few books and case files inside his bag, but given their silent agreement, Scully didn't mind.
The house was cleaned, beds made with fresh sheets, said a note from his mother waiting on the kitchen counter, and he chuckled reading it. Scully caught up to him and looked over his shoulder, curious to see what amused him. Teena thought he was bringing a lover. Scully chuckled, rolling her eyes and went for the patio doors to let in some of the sweet night air.
No mom, not a lover, someone who's much more than that. He left the food on the counter, putting the note in his pocket and followed. The night was young, not even 9pm, but after a week they had, he wanted to show Scully around first, in case she wanted to turn in early.
One hand on her shoulder to catch her attention, she turned and smiled at him, uncrossing her arms as they went back inside. Mulder showed her the first floor bathroom, cabinets where his mom kept towels, then opened the doors to the bedrooms, letting her pick whichever she wanted. Be it intuition or psychic ability, she chose Samantha's old room and he quietly sighed with relief. He never liked to sleep in that room, to many memories, even if all the walls were repainted and the furniture was different. He set down her suitcase in her room and left her to make herself comfortable.
The night was young so he found glasses and poured the wine.
Breeze from the ocean did wonders for Mulder’s sleeping habits. Scully found him half an hour later, asleep in a deck chair, half empty wine glass on the floor, arms folded around himself for warmth. A blanket waited on her chair, but she wasn’t that cold, so she drapped it over him and pulled the sweater tighter around herself. Picking up the glass he poured for her, she settled in, listening to Mulder’s low snore mingled with waves and birds and calm night she rarely found in D.C.
A candle, she found in the kitchen, burned almost half way down before he woke up with a start, disoriented, searching around, frantic. Scully rested one hand on his shoulder and he finally focused on her, calming down, he even remained silent, settling for a sleepy smile. Candle light quivered, painting eerie shadows over the small round coffee table between them, the lights inside the house were dark. He wanted to ask for time, but let it go, untangling himself from the blanket.
It felt simple to be together; leaving words and their proffesional selves at the office, few hours ago. Scully felt less like a doctor and an agent, and more like a friend, when she watched him struggle, hiding her smile behind the edge of her glass.
A few tugs and pulls later, Mulder prevailed and draped the still warm fabric over her, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, quick and playful, paired with a flirty grin.
He did that, she was used to it, well not really, but that's what she told herself, because at the moment, it was easier than figuring out why she liked it. Setting her glass on the table, she scooted down to see the sky, hoping to catch a falling star. She could see the light in the bathroom turn on, heard the shower start through the open window, and because there was no rule against it, Mulder began singing in the shower, shamelessly on-key.
They went to bed sometime later, a nod of goodnight as she clutched a copy of Moby Dick she found in living room bookcase. She read with the windows open, thinking about Mulder and his outrageous paperbacks. He recently developed a taste for stories about sea monsters, and she saw him read those in airport lounges and on planes, promising bodily harm if he wouldn't stop reading excerpts to her out loud.
Slowly, time lost it’s meaning, her head touched the starched linen pillowcase, grateful it wasn't another ratty motel. Waves crashed against the shore, rocking her to sleep as they did when she was a kid. She dreamt of her father that night, and it was a good dream, a first in over a week of recurring nightmare, one she feared to even voice out loud, for the horror was still too fresh, the images too vivid in her mind.
It wasn't dawn that woke her up with a start sometime later, it was a shout. A frightened scream on the other side of the wall. On her feet in a second, gun in hand, she listened intently. No sounds of struggle, Mulder screamed again, a little unnatural, and her three seconds for assessment were up. She cracked the door open, looking out for signs of struggle, saw none. The door to Mulder's room was closed. Moonshine that traveled around the house and now peeked inside through the window at the end of the hall, gave her only light to go by. Hand on the doorknob, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Nothing. No one there but Mulder, sheets tangled around him like vines, as he tossed in his sleep.
"Scully RUN!" He gasped, jaw clenched in an expression of pain and fear, and the sight broke her heart all over again. She lowered her gun and left it on the dresser against the far wall from the bed, as far away from his reach as possible, then circled the bed and laid down next to him. Mulder whimpered, whispering her name again.
This is what they tried to escape, that's why they vowed to stay silent. Words almost killed them both that day. They needed peace and quiet, they needed silence. Scully rested one open palm on his chest, pressing gently enough to wake, but not startle. Still he gasped and his hand grabbed hers, expecting danger, but finding shelter. He saw her in the dim light and breathed out a heavy sigh, holding on to her hand like it was a lifeline.
She could feel his heart racing, racing, slowing, growing calm. His t-shirt felt damp, body feverishly hot, but he didn't let go. Tears rolled from the corner of his eye, and he wiped at them, angrily. He didn't speak, just held on to her hand.
Scully moved closer, sharing the warmth and silent reassurance, until gradually his grip loosened, simply covering her hand with his, keeping it on his chest, rising and falling rhythmically. Every other wave outside brought his inhale.
The horizon paled on the other side of the house while they fell asleep again, waiting for words to become safe again.