I'm a big fan of the sexual tension in X-Files, and I enjoy its persistent ambiguity. However, it has led to the temtation to create anecdotes recounting how the tension finally cracks. This is one of those invented anectodes. It's not the longest I have, but I decided to publish it today because I was just rewatching Pusher - one of my favorite episodes.
Disclaimer: Again,...it's 2011...I'm still hung up on my favorite TV-show which ceased airing nine years ago...don't sue the sad fan...
The flash of the tiny red fire alarm in the mirror was still burning in her brain. As was the slow motion memory of her partner whipping about to discharge his weapon at Pusher.
The alarm blared and the swat team rushed about them, but it seemed like she and Mulder were frozen in time. She was slumped against the cold plaster wall behind her. He was standing with his gun still drawn, clicking impotently. His arms were rigid. Sweat was cascading down his face. His index finger kept mechanically pulling the trigger, eyes fixed on Modell's limp body. Scully's vision grew cluttered with the darting bodies of EMTs and police jackets. A woman leaned in to feel her pulse, and proceeded with routine medical check-up. Scully was mumbling out reassuring answers, struggling out of her vest. The siren was still screaming. She saw Mulder over the woman's shoulder. He had tossed down his gun and was spastically removing all electronics from his body as he pushed past a throng of officials. He slipped through the crowd toward the exit. Scully darted after him.
Outside, the squad cars formed a miniature maze. Mulder had dodged the men attempting to address him and veered out of sight behind an adjoining wing of the hospital.
She was moving after him. 'Agent Scully!' she was stopped, 'What's going on?'
'Everything's alright,' she muttered trying to get around the agent, 'Modell is in custody. I suggest you see to the recovery of your equipment – the team is appraising the scene as we speak...'
The agent took off.
Scully walked around the corner where her partner secluded himself. Between two five-story structures 40 feet apart, the sound of the siren was deafened. Mulder was sitting on the ground, face buried.
'Mulder?' She called. Her shoes clicked along the pavement. 'Mulder?' She finally squatted over him. He didn't lift his head.
'Mulder, it's alright,' she was trying to be as gentle as possible. 'It's all over now.'
She placed her hand on his back. He flinched and tensed under the touch.
'Why did you go after me?' he cried suddenly lifting his face. 'Why didn't you stay put?'
She faltered, drawing back. '...What?'
'You should've stayed where you were! I said I wanted to go in alone!'
Scully jumped up. 'Are you serious right now, Mulder? I'm your partner! What was I supposed to do when I saw that lunatic point a gun at your face? Get some pop-corn?' The little black and white surveillance screen flashed through her mind - Modell's maddened eyes, and the connection cutting off into static.
Mulder had staggered up slowly without looking at her. 'Chamber number three,...' he breathed wincing.
She was trying to understand. 'Mulder, that wasn't a slot machine – it's not like you would have won if I wasn't there... We were...Modell's a psychopath...' She didn't know how to calm him down.
He peered at her for a long time, then turned around and headed back for the crowd. She followed, trying to soothe him, but there was no talking to Mulder. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he shoved an officer aside, got into his car and promptly drove away.
Scully stood quietly watching the car disappear in the distance. She felt abandoned and hurt. It wasn't a fair feeling. She forced on a calm expression and hitched a ride with another agent to the Bureau headquarters. Mulder wasn't there. The paper-work was, though. Scully sighed, and sat down behind the desk.
How dare he? finally screamed a voice in her head. How dare he yell at her for trying to save his life, and then ditch her...
Scully paused. Deep down she knew what was wrong with Mulder. She recalled the horror in his eyes when he pointed the gun at her. There was a depth to that horror. It wasn't just the fear of Modell's power or the potential fatality of the situation. No, the horror was rooted well further down. She knew he still blamed himself for her abduction, and other near-death experiences. He was afraid of her becoming a casualty of his crusade. The metaphor of directly pointing a gun at her may have simply been the last straw...
Scully rose from her chair, and scooted the rest of the folders into her briefcase. She slid into her car and glanced at her cell-phone. She deliberated about calling Mulder. Screw it, she finally decided, whatever issues he's having, he's going to have to figure out how to deal with them on his own. She started the engine and headed home.
She walked up the stairwell and down the hallway, drawing out her keys. The lock clicked open and the door popped forward. Suddenly somebody grabbed her from the back and pushed her into the darkness of her apartment. Scully jerked and grabbed her gun, but then recognized Mulder's familiar scent. He pressed her against the wall, kicking the door shut behind him.
Darkness swallowed them. Scully was trying to recover from the surprise.
'Mulder, what -...'
He was hot and shaking. He smelled strongly of whiskey. 'I can't...' he whispered hoarsely, 'I can't lose you...You have no idea – I...'
His arms were pinning her on either side and he was breathing heavily into her hair. He dropped his face to her neck. The only warning was a gush of hot breath before wet lips caught hold of the skin under her ear. Scully let out an involuntary gasp and tried to utter some protest, but couldn't find the breath. He pressed harder against her, digging her into the wall. She knew she had to stop him; he was drunk. Yet, the feeling of pleasure was so over-whelming, she could feel the blood pounding in her head. She moved to push him away with limp arms, and was reprimanded with a pinching bite. She whimpered weakly, her legs tingling. Her moan was met with a possessive grunt of approval from Mulder. His one hand holding her firmly to the wall, he ran the other down the front of her dress-shirt. He was now moving with a calm authoritative tempo. Having adjusted a bit to the darkness, Scully dared a look at his face. Even in the indiscernible shadows she could read his dark eyes. They bore into hers, as his fingers latched onto the top button, prying it free. His hand proceeded down systematically, with an almost detached rhythm, violently unclasping the tiny obstacles. Scully's heart was racing out of control. She thought to lift her hands and stop him, but they hung feebly, drunk on their own throbbing pulse. His body was radiating heat, and her slowly exposed bare chest began to glisten with beads of sweat.
Mulder's working fingers were almost finished when, succumbing to the pulse and fever, Scully flickered one of her hands up and ran it timidly along the wet shirt clinging to his stomach. Her fingertip slid into a stop at the belt-buckle. Mulder froze. Encouraged, she twisted the cloth between her fingers and tugged at it gently until it tore free, allowing access to skin. He still had not moved. All of his beastly bravado was suddenly restrained into an incredulous observation of the transpiring events. Fully surrendering to the indulgence, Scully slipped her hand under his shirt and sharply dug her nails into the flesh above his navel. He shuddered and fell forward slightly.
What followed was a blur of hands, lips and teeth – a battle against pointy furniture edges and the entrapment of clothing, all staged to the rising symphony of gasps, moans and incoherent whispers. Vases and picture frames fell victim to the wreckage, as the agents stumbled into the depths of the apartment, lit now by the faint glimmer of a rising crescent moon...
Scully opened her eyes and turned her head. The red electric numbers read 4:02 am. She looked back at Mulder's figure slumped next to her, arm thrown over her stomach. He was breathing steadily, in deep sleep. His dark hair stuck out in tufts. Scully wondered how awkward the morning would be. She sighed and moved to get off the bed. Mulder's arm tightened instantly, drawing her close to him. Without fully waking he pressed his lips to her head and mumbled something incoherent, his rigid grip around her waist never laxing.
She smiled and drifted back into sleep.