TITLE: Friday Nights
AUTHOR: arcadianfalls
FEEDBACK: arcadianfalls@yahoo.com.au
RATING: G
SPOILERS: Nothing specific
CLASSIFICATION: MSR/MSF
SUMMARY: How do Mulder and Scully finish off a week?
Yes to Ephemeral, any other archives :)
http://www.geocities.com/arcadianfalls


Friday Nights
by arcadianfalls@yahoo.com.au


Friday nights have become the time to unwind. Who knows when it
started. In the beginning, he feels bad about dragging her on a wild
goose chase all week and turns up at the door with takeaway and a
sheepish apologetic grin. Or else after a hard day with a little more
heartbreak than usual and she knows he needs the company. 

As natural as the evolution of every other facet of their relationship,
they develop the routines and habits, learn what pizza toppings and
conversation topics to avoid. 

Beer and pizza at his place. He likes to watch her sit there, dangling
the bottle contemplatively, mulling over something aloud. Matters of
life or death, faith, hope. He likes the way her brow furrows in
concentration, then she shrugs it off, smiles that smile that says I
know I need to let go, it's weekend, but -
He knows his goal is to get her to relax. He looks for the signs. Shoes
off? Starting to smile? Starting to laugh at his bad jokes? She get
pizza sauce on her chin and he wipes it off - that earns him a smile.
She starts telling him stories about her dad. Funny stories from her
childhood, stories Captain Scully brought home from across the seas.
That's when he knows he's got her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes
sparkle. On cold nights she wraps herself in his old Navajo rug and
after she's gone it's still warm and holds her perfume.

Wine and takeaway pasta at her place. Classical music and maybe
candles. Not because she's trying to make it romantic or because she
thinks much of all that new age stuff, but because it helps her feel at
home, and there's just something about the way he looks at her in their
soft glow. She likes how at ease he is in her home, the way he'll
stretch out those long legs and prod her with his socked toes as he
talks. She doesn't mind if he gets nostalgic or if she loses him for a
few moments in his recollections - sometimes they'll go for half an
hour without speaking, just listening to the music, watching the
flickering candles, listening to each other's breathing with the
familiarity of lovers in a bed. Then the conversation will pick up as
though it never paused. He'll relate obscure facts and stories, tell
her stories of Oxford, his early FBI days, his sister. 

Away on a case. Not the ideal way to spend a weekend, but an
unravelling mystery won't wait. Another unfamiliar town, camped out
amidst a sea of autopsy photos and interview notes in his or her motel
room, or else in another dingy bar or diner, tucked away in a booth
away from the locals with a jug between them and some chili fries. He
slouches comfortably, rumpled suit pants and rolled up sleeves, tie
long abandoned. She smiles, amused, but never as eager as him to
abandon the work attire. He likes knowing that she'll sleep that night
just through the wall, but he misses her perfume on that rug, and her
warm glowing living room.

Sometimes Friday night is the time to cry. She's good at holding things
in. He knows that tiredness, that slight tremor in her voice and
inability to meet his eye. Gently, gingerly, he talks, asks, knowing
that extracting such truths from his partner requires careful steps,
aware that often enough he is part the problem, though equally often
not. She hates to cry, and he knows it. He lets her brush away the
tears in that swift blink-and-you'll-miss-it way she's near perfected,
and then he opens his arms to her to feel her tight grip round him and
her face against his chest wetting his shirt. Sometimes afterwards they
talk, othertimes they just sit. She lets him keep his arm around her, a
reassurance that the grip will never be too tight and the shirt can end
up sodden for all he cares.

Sometimes it's him. He paces. Agitated, sometimes knowing the reason
why but othertimes knowing only that sense of sinking into quicksand,
into that blackness of anger and tired surrender. He'll talk in spurts,
or if the helplessness is too strong, just sit with head in his hands,
waiting for her to come, draw him against her breast and let him listen
to her heart beat. At times he wonders if she can understand his
torment, the angry ghosts whose shouts deafen him, but then he
remembers her sister, her illness, her traumas and losses and grieving,
and his arms slip round her waist. He'll be right as long as she can
hold onto her. 

Fatigue, sometimes. Almost always, she falls asleep first. He can tell
when it's coming. She's usually curled up by this point, feet tucked
under, watching him with shiny sleepy eyes that keep fluttering closed.
She'll struggle to keep them open, then let them shut, no doubt telling
herself that she'll just rest for a moment. Her words slow, then trail
off. A few seconds later, a murmur and a sigh as she slips into sleep.
She won't wake again. Her place or his, she's home. 

Once or twice, he's sick or injured. Sleepy as he might be, he still
holds onto her, a child stalling before bed. She'll check the wound
dressing or lay a hand on his forehead, unable to resist brushing the
wayward hair from his eyes and half-smile as she does so. Relief that
he'll be spending the night in his own bed, not one surrounded by
life-supporting machines, after the latest scrape. 

Sometimes, a case is solved, and the buoyancy of success overtakes the
exhaustion of a busy week. His comments are always on the edge of
innuendo, but at times she can be equally flirtatious, knowing that she
can trust him. They tease, the playful retorts fly back and forth,
touch becomes more familiar. They revel in the ease and fluidity of the
partnership. No doubt in these moments of the strength of the
relationship. What if, should we, but only whimsical wonder, there's no
pressure to act, no rush.

On rare occasions, something interrupts. Her mother organises a family
dinner. He gets called away by himself on a case. It's an oddly lonely
end to the week, until, inevitably, a phone call on some pretext. It
can be eleven or past twelve, but there's always time to compare
evenings, ponder questions. She'll start to yawn, her voice gets
muffled, and oftentimes he'll end up listening to her sleeping a
thousand miles away. He doesn't mind. The bureau will foot the phone
bill, and these are some of his best nights' sleep.

One night, she's got a touch of the flu, but insisted on seeing out the
working week. He's brought over dinner, she's yawning already, flushed
cheeks as she opens the door for him. He sends her to bed and takes it
in to her. She's not hungry, but he prods her into eating, knowing
she'd do the same to him. He likes these rare opportunities to be the
doctoring one. 
She manages a little before pushing it away, apologetic. He climbs up
beside her, slides an arm around her shoulders and lets her wriggle in
against him, knowing that a heavy head and tired body need only the
simplest comfort. She sinks against him, thankful that there's no need
to ask or explain.
Scratchy stubble as he drops a kiss on her forehead. Another minute til
she's out like a light. Doesn't matter. There'll be plenty more
opportunities for this. His place, hers, away, it's all the same so
long as they're both there, and he gets to coax her into unwinding, she
gets to relax knowing she's safe. Plenty more Friday nights. 




fin.



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The Lord is my light and my salvation - whom shall I fear?
- Psalm 27:1